Double Spiral War Trilogy

by Warren Norwood

  Rochmon wondered why he bothered with ephemera at all, and why he didn’t buy ones that lasted longer. The answer had something to do with shame and confusion, anger and lust, all mixed with an alien image so erotic even after all these years that it always caused a physical stirring in his loins.

  The light in the room faded to reflections of reds and purples before the insistent dinging of his milcom pulled Rochmon from his reverie. He hated that thing, hated his agreement to having it installed, and hated the war that made it necessary for him to be always within reach of headquarters – his headquarters. With a sigh he stood up and moved to the back wall of the room where the milcom rested beside the bed.

  “Rochmon,” he said firmly, after he keyed the transmitter.

  “Captain Gilbert, Commander. Your pardon, sir, for bothering you at home, but Admiral Stonefield said –“

  “No apology necessary, Mica. Stony told you to contact me immediately, which means that you’ve agreed to join my staff.”

  “Yes, sir. Right on both counts.”

  “So now what are you going to do?”

  Mica thought she detected a sarcastic note in his voice, but dismissed it as caused by the communications equipment. “I don’t know exactly what you mean, sir?”

  “I mean, Captain Gilbert, are you going down to headquarters and hang around like some fleety on first duty, or are you coming here so that we can celebrate?”

  “Uh, sir, I – well, I’m already at headquarters.”

  Rochmon laughed. “Doesn’t surprise me. You get a driver to bring you over here topspeed, and I’ll gather some of my off-duty staff at the Officer’s Center.”

  “But sir, I thought – “

  “This is your first official order, Captain. You wouldn’t want to start off with the wrong wing forward, would you?”

  “I’m on my way, sir.”

  “Good,” Rochmon broke the connection and immediately questioned his motives. Never before had he welcomed an addition to his staff with any kind of reception, informal or otherwise. Why had he decided to make an exception in Mica’s case? Because it’s Mica, he thought as he stepped into his shower. Just because it is Mica.

  As Mica waited for the driver to bring her skimmer around, she was full of her own questions. As much as she liked Rochmon and was pleased to be assigned to his staff, she did not like the underlying tone in Rochmon’s voice as he ordered her to the OC. There had been something unprofessional about it, something she had no way of evaluating, but something her instincts told her was dangerous.

  Rochmon dangerous? That was stupid. Admiral Stonefield’s demand that she become an honor trustee must have worked deeper into her thoughts than she realized.

  The skimmer pulled up, and her concentration was broken for the moment. As she strapped herself in, she tried to dismiss all the questions. Rochmon was an old friend of her father, a friend who had a special interest in her for that reason, and that reason only. There was nothing wrong with his wanting to celebrate. It would be rude of her to spoil a gathering in her honor with groundless worrying about tone of voice or anything else so insignificant.

  At least that is what she told herself over and over again as the skimmer hummed through the dark on the way to the Officer’s Center…what she tried to make herself believe.

  When Rochmon greeted her at the door with a glass of wine and a wrong-handed salute, she almost did believe that nothing was wrong. After a dozen introductions and several more glasses of what turned out to be very strong wine, Mica realized she was slipping back into her old attitude toward Rochmon, the one she had carried with her since girlhood. He was wonderful. He had always been wonderful. But if he was so damned wonderful, why couldn’t she let the nagging, annoying feelings go by the board?

  “And last, but by no means least,” Rochmon said as he pulled a woman of indeterminate age in front of Mica, “this vision of stern beauty is Jectiverdifiaad Barrabockerman Montivillieo Questen Pasqualini.”

  “He’s the only one at HQ who can remember that much of my name,” the woman said with a tight smile and extended hand. “You can call me Bock.”

  “Bock, the civilian rock of cryptography,” Rochmon said.

  “Pleased to meet you, Bock,” Mica said.

  “Of course you’re pleased to meet her. Now you two talk. I have some subordinates to dress down.” Rochmon’s eyes twinkled as he turned and left them.

  “He’s had a little too much to drink,” Bock said quietly. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him drink this much.”

  “My fault,” Mica blurted without thinking.

  “How so, Captain? Have you been using your charms on our handsome commander?”

  Mica felt the cutting edge under Bock’s words and caught herself before she responded. “Certainly not. Have you?”

  Bock laughed oddly. “Fair shot. I’ve tried,” she said with a quick glance across the room where Rochmon was talking earnestly with one of his officers. “Several times, as a matter of fact. But…I don’t think I’m his type.”

  After waiting for Bock to add something, Mica finally said, “He’s one of my father’s old protégés.”

  “And now you’re one of his.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Mica said as the anger flushed her cheeks, “but if you have some reason to say these things, then I suggest you get them out in the open right now. I do not see what right you have –“

  “Don’t get defensive, Captain. Rule number one: Keep others on the defensive, but never become defensive yourself. May I find you some more wine?”

  “You may not,” Mica said firmly. This woman with her finely etched skin and odd sense of humor needed to be avoided. “But I thank you just the same. Now I think it is time for me to leave. If you’ll excuse me?”

  “Absolutely. You are a very excusable woman.”

  Before Mica could respond, Bock turned, slipped past two people who had been standing behind her, and was gone. Mica did want another glass of wine, if only to wash the sour taste out of her mouth. But the way her nose tingled told her she had already had more than enough to drink.

  As gracefully as she could, she made her way across the room to Rochmon’s side. For a moment he did not seem to notice her. Then he stopped in the middle of a sentence and looked into her eyes for a brief, piercing moment.

  “We’ll finish this discussion tomorrow, Lajardy,” he said to the young officer. Then he turned back to Mica. “You are getting ready to leave, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “Yes, Commander. I think I’ve had enough to drink.”

  “Bock didn’t bite you, did she?”

  “Of course not. She’s a, hmm, very interesting woman.”

  “She’s a cryptographical genius whose gonads have gone berserk. Did she tell you she’d seduced half the people in this room? Male and female? And a dozen or so aliens, just that we know about?” Rochmon laughed. “And you think I’ve had enough to drink.”

  Mica returned his gaze, but refused to answer. This all seemed like a terribly wrong way to begin her new assignment.

  “Actually, Mica, I’ve only had one drink all day, and that one was before you called. The rest has been, shall we say, a slight act for the sake of these nice people who came on short notice during their off-hours to meet you.”

  Confusion encompassed her fully now. All this made very little sense, but she knew that if she did not leave immediately, she would be in trouble. “I really do have to go, sir.”

  “Of course you do. But first there’s something I have to show you. Follow me, please.”

  The sudden change in his tone startled her again. She followed him quickly through a door, down a short hall, and over to a slide chute. Moments later, they dropped through a tunnel in the cliff and came to a gentle rest at the door to Rochmon’s quarters. He opened the door to the dimly lit room and Mica stepped in without hesitation. A pleasantly musky male odor mixed with a scent she couldn’t identify gave her a slight shiver of fear.

&
nbsp; Rochmon stepped past her and sat in one of the chairs in front of the window which looked out over the ocean. “Sit down, Mica,” he said with a wave toward the other chairs.

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t stay, sir, I mean, how would it look, sir, to your –“

  “How would it look to have my new communications officer turn out to be an honor trustee?”

  Mica sucked in her breath. “You know, sir?”

  Rochmon laughed bitterly. “Found out right after I talked to you. Hard to keep secrets around my people.”

  Mica nodded in the direction of the OC. “You mean they all…?”

  “No. Just Bock and me. Now sit down, Mica. There are some things I need to know about this.”

  “I’ll have to report this conversation, sir,” Mica said as she sat in one of the chairs facing him.

  “That is your duty. But you are my subordinate, and at the moment, I don’t care what you report to the Joint Chiefs. The only thing I care about is what they instructed you to do.” He paused and let his body relax slightly in the chair. Despite his reasons for having her brought her here, Rochmon liked having Mica in his quarters.

  Mica felt strangely calm. Whatever else happened, at least all this would be out in the open between them. “I was told that you were above suspicion, sir, if that’s what has you concerned. I was also told that you were absolutely the only one I should consider above suspicion.”

  Rochmon snorted. “Until I do something you not understand. If I am above suspicion, why didn’t they tell me about you? Answer me that one, Captain.”

  “You’ve answered it yourself, sir. Someone obviously did tell you, maybe in the only way they could –“ Mica stopped in a sudden suspicion of her own. Then she added, “Because they were so far away.” She looked steadily at Rochmon in the dim light for signs of reaction. Rochmon returned her gaze, then sighed softly and seemed to struggle momentarily with something in himself.

  “Your father,” he said finally. “How’d you guess?”

  “I didn’t. You just told me. I just suspected that he was the only one who would do it this way.” But how? She wondered. There had been so little time.

  “He’s still a tough old bird. Told me to grill you if necessary.” Rochmon smiled.

  Mica returned his smile, but had to force it at the edges. A tense awareness pushed past the alcohol in her system and demanded her attention. She had missed some signal from Rochmon, and she did not want to miss it again. “That’s all right, sir. He told me to kick back if you got too rough,” she said.

  “Which leaves us with you as an honor trustee spying on my staff whether I like it or not.”

  “Nobody asked me if I liked the idea, sir. They just told me to do it.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Twenty tiny ships drifted into the fringes of the Matthews system, braked almost imperceptibly, then settled into their designated observation points. Each ship carried one crew member who had volunteered for a mission which meant certain death. If they were discovered, they would almost certainly be blasted from space. If they were not discovered, they would die with their ships, ships incapable of getting them across the Matthews system, much less back to UCS space.

  There was no rescue planned for these observers. The mother ship which had launched them had only paused long enough to spit them out and disappear back into the void of subspace. They were expendable from the moment they volunteered, and they knew it.

  None of the crew members cared about that. Each had personal reasons for being there, reasons that could all be summed up in one word: revenge. Their lives were of little importance in comparison to the greater goal of wreaking havoc on the Matthews system and establishing a base of operations from which the UCS could bring its full fury against Sondak’s heart.

  Only Frye Charltos and a few select members of his command knew about their existence and their mission. He alone knew they served a dual purpose. If they failed in their secondary mission, only he would know. If they succeeded, their names would be added to the long list of those who made the ultimate sacrifice for the United Central Systems and a for a greater cause of peace in the galaxy.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Post Admiral Pajandcan bounced neatly off the walls of her office in an impressive low gravity release of high controlled frustration.

  “How in the name of anything holy” – pause-bounce – “am I supposed to defend Reckynop” – pause-bounce – “much less the whole of the Matthews system” –pause-bounce – “with the mite-poor ships, troops” – pause-bounce-bounce – “and supplies you’ve allocated us?” she asked her visitor in a surprisingly even tone of voice.

  Her visitor was too busy ducking to answer.

  “Who do you think we are fooling” – pause-bounce – “by shuttling all those empty ships through the system?” She flipped over once, landed in her chair, and stared calmly at her nervous visitor. “Well, dirtsider? You have answers to those questions? Of course you don’t, Mister Dawson,” she said before he could respond, “cause there aren’t any. Not a damn one. So why’d they send you out here?”

  “With the admiral’s permission,” Dawson said as firmly as he could, “I am to be your new defense coordinator.”

  Pajandcan cursed softly. “A blinking civilian dirtsider is supposed to help me defend this whole poked-up system? Drone ships I could have used. Rim satellites I could have used. Old, spaceworn battle cruisers I could have used. But how am I supposed to make use of you, Mr. Dawson? And how are you going to help us? How?” She stared at him with unveiled disgust.

  “I don’t know that yet, Admiral. I’ve done preliminary analysis, but until I get more detailed information locally, I won’t be able to –“

  “You won’t be able to defend beggars from children. Admit it, Dawson, you’re just one more ruse they’re throwing out here to keep me from deserting my post and taking everyone with me.”

  Dawson opened his mouth, then shut it quickly.

  “What experience do you have, Dawson?”

  “I was war-games coordinator for the last two full-fleet exercises,” he said quickly.

  “Oh, well, drip on my deck, then,” Pajandcan said. “You’re a blinking expert then, aren’t you? What was the last real war you were in? You do know what a real war is, don’t you, Mr. Dawson?”

  “The Salimar Rebellion, twenty-five through twenty-seven.”

  “And what were your rank and duties there?”

  “Defense coordinator for the Gyle Coalition.”

  Pajandcan kept the surprise off her face. “How old were you then, Dawson, fifteen?”

  “Forty-eight, Admiral,” he said with a slight smile, “that is forty-eight of Salimar’s years which would be about sixty-some odd universal years.”

  Again Pajandcan held her surprise in check, but she looked at Dawson with the beginnings of new respect. It was hard to believe that he was as old as he claimed, but it had been just as hard to believe that the Gyle Coalition had agreed to a truce. Their defense had been more than adequate in the three systems they had controlled, but the truce had been an economic necessity for their continued survival.

  “I suppose all that is here in your records,” she said quietly, “and if I hadn’t been so angry, I might have read that before letting go at you?”

  The question was rhetorical, and Dawson had the good sense not to respond to it.

  “Very well then, Mr. Dawson, perhaps we should discuss the possibility of your becoming defense coordinator. Then we might talk about what exactly you need to know. But, before we do that, I want you to go eat a solid meal and let the medlab give you the standard checkup. I don’t want you getting sick on me in the middle of my defenses.”

  “As you wish, Admiral. When shall I report back to you?”

  “I’ll call for you, Dawson. I’ll call for you.”

  As soon as he left her office, she picked up his file and broke the seal. After skimming the usual transmittal forms, she plugged Dawson’s datacard into t
he slot at the base of her screen and watched the first bank of information roll into place.

  Pajandcan whistled through her pointed teeth. Dawson was homo communis, ninety-three universal years old, born on Salimar III (Croate), educated there, etcetera, etcetera. The next bank told the part of the story she was interested in.

  Not only had Dawson organized and directed the overall defense plan for the Gyle Coalition, he had also commanded the task force which had defeated Admiral Y’Ott’s final attack on Granser’s planet.

  I’m losing my edge out here, she thought. Too many years stuck in the middle of nowhere. She read on.

  Dawson was under special contract to Sondak’s Joint Military Command, a paid consultant for spitting in space! But he’d done everything he’d told her he’d done and more – much more.

  Pajandcan turned off the viewer and yanked Dawson’s card out of the slot. What did Sondak need her for if they had this genius dirtsider to coordinate her defenses? Maybe she should apply for a fleet job commanding a bucket somewhere. Might have enough of her reflexes left to be a pipe jockey. At least then she might see some action and take her chances on going out with style instead of…instead of what?

  With a grim smile she twisted her limber body, pulled her feet behind her head, and leaned back in her chair in a position only she would have thought of as comfortable. What would Josiah Gilbert say if he could hear me thinking like this? She wondered. The old toad is just as isolated as I am, commanding a haphazard assembly of scrounged-up ships that they dare to call Polar Fleet. But he would still probably give her his usual lecture on duty, service and honor if he knew what she was thinking.

  But he didn’t know. And if she ever saw him again, she wouldn’t tell him. If she ever saw him again, there were too many things she wanted to tell him, like what a bastard he was, and how she hated his guts, and how much she respected him as a man of integrity.

  And how much she had loved him once?