Double Spiral War Trilogy

by Warren Norwood

  Hew Rochmon stood in the shower, letting the sharp sprays of water rinse the sweat from his body, and shook his head. It amazed him when he admitted to himself how much he wanted Mica, how much he needed her, and how much she had become a fixation he couldn’t shake. But what he didn’t know was whether or not he loved her. He wanted to love her. He wanted to allow himself that emotion again. He wanted to let his feelings for her blossom with the wild abandon of unrestrained love. He wanted that and more.

  Yet he couldn’t get any of it. Something inside held him back. The barriers from failed loves and failed marriages kept him constantly in check. The defenses erected after other emotional failures refused to yield simply because he wanted them to. It would take something greater than lust and desire and a need to love and be loved for him to break through those barriers. It would take something far more passionate than that.

  “And the irony is, stupid,” he said aloud as he carefully rinsed the cleanser off his body, “the one thing your defenses will never allow is passion. Too dangerous. Too threatening. Hell, too damn frightening. Might as well save the passion for Cryptography and get Mica out of your mind.”

  In the bedroom his milcom began clinging insistently. Rochmon shut off the water, grabbed a towel, and answered the milcom as quickly as he could. “Rochmon,” he said curtly.

  “Two things, Hew,” Admiral Gilbert’s voice said. “First is that I would like to have you share a drink with me before the ceremony this evening. Second is that I think you should be warned that afterward Stonefield may want to talk to you about Bock. Can you come for the drink?”

  Bock? A drink? “Uh, certainly, sir,” Rochmon finally managed to say. “Will an hour be soon enough?”

  “Fine. See you in one hour in the HQ Senior Wardroom.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Rochmon shut off the milcom and began drying himself automatically. Why would Stonefield want to talk to him about Bock? He hadn’t seen her in over a year, and as much as Cryptography missed her brilliant services, part of him was relieved that he no longer had to endure her acerbic presence. The goldsleeves had never found any evidence to charge her with, and she had quickly found a job with Scientific-Security where at least her talents were being used to some degree. Those two things combined to relieve any lingering guilt he felt for not having defended her more vigorously.

  “Guilty until proven innocent,” he reminded himself as he began to dress. “Both of us, I guess. So what does Stonefield want to talk about?”

  Could they have found some evidence? He doubted it. He had enough contacts in enough places to have gotten at least a whiff of such a discovery. No, it must be something else, but what?

  An hour later, as he joined Admiral Gilbert in the Senior Wardroom, Rochmon had pushed that question temporarily out of his mind and tried to put himself in a brighter mood. After all, it wasn’t every day that he got promoted to Quarter-Admiral.

  “New uniform, Hew?”

  “No, sir,” Rochmon said, accepting the drink Gilbert handed him. “There’s still a materials shortage, so I had the best of my old ones altered. I seem to have lost some weight lately.”

  “Well you certainly look fit enough. Gilbert meant what he said. He was as proud of Hew Rochmon as if he had been his son instead of just his protégé. “Shall we drink to victory?”

  “To victory, sir.” They touched glasses, and Rochmon took a slow sip of the smoke-flavored liquor. Very nice, Sir, he said after the last of the sip dissolved on the back of his tongue. “Very, very nice. What in the galaxy is it?”

  “It’s called Aquamarie. Mica sent me a liter of it from Sutton and she told me to expect only trinkets from her for the next few years because it was so expensive.”

  Mica again. Always Mica. “Maybe I should just soak my tongue in it and absorb it by osmosis.” Rochmon said, swirling the Aquamarie in the glass. “Or maybe just take it in by fumes.”

  Gilbert laughed. “I’m not going to be that stingy with it, Hew. Drink it as you see fit and I’ll gladly pour you another.” Rochmon nodded and emptied the glass into his mouth, letting the delicious flavor soak every taste bud as the exotic fumes filled the back of his nose. Then he slowly swallowed the Aquamarie with a pleased sigh and held out his empty glass.

  “Second and last drink,” Gilbert said as he refilled Rochmon’s glass from the quaint blue bottle. “You’re feeling too good already for any more than that.”

  “I’m trying, sir,” Rochmon said without thinking as he took the refilled glass.

  “Trying? Is there something wrong, Hew?”

  “Not exactly, sir. That is, nothing out of the ordinary. The Ukes have started using their Q-3 code for all their major transmissions, and even though we know how they put their Q-codes together, we’re having a tough time breaking this one.

  Gilbert watched Rochmon’s face. “There’s something else. What is it? Anything I can help with?”

  “Well, sir…” Rochmon hesitated, and then decided that if Gilbert couldn’t help him, no one could. “It’s about Mica, sir. You know how I feel about her – how much I care about her, I mean, and I just wish she were back here, that’s all. Now don’t get me wrong, sir. I’m not suggesting that you call her back or anything like that. It’s just that–“

  “Wouldn’t do any good.” Gilbert laughed, but behind the laugh he felt an uneasiness about what Rochmon had said. “She’s determined to stay out there come hell or black holes.” A soft chime sounded in the Senior Wardroom. “We only have a few minutes left. Shall we finish this drink and go down to get you your gold sleeves?”

  Rochmon sighed, then quickly smiled and lifted his glass. “To Mica, sir.”

  “To Mica,” Gilbert responded. As he downed his Aquamarie, his eyes began to water. Strong stuff, he thought, yet he knew that was only part of the reason for the wetness in his eyes.

  As soon as they finished their drinks, they walked down the ladders of the Hall of Flags. To Rochmon’s surprise, the hall was crowded with senior and junior officers, many of whom signaled thumbs-up as he made his way to the platform.

  The ceremony itself was handled quickly and efficiently by Admiral Stonefield’s staff. First the new officers were awarded their commissions, then the junior officers were given their promotions, then Admiral Stonefield pinned on the ceremonial gold sleeves and the two space-blackened stars that denoted Rochmon’s new rank of Quarter-Admiral.

  The reception following took much longer than the ceremonies themselves. Liquor flowed freely from the bars along the side of the hall, but Rochmon was careful to drink very little.

  After a respectable period of time that allowed Rochmon to accept a series of congratulations, Admiral Stonefield crossed the hall and said, “Admiral Rochmon, may I have a few minutes alone with you?”

  “Of course, sir.” Rochmon followed Stonefield through a side door and into a small, richly furnished meeting room.

  “Please, Hew, sit down,” Stonefield said.

  Rochmon settled himself in one of the padded leather chairs beside a small table in the corner, and held his drink in his lap with both hands. Stonefield remained standing.

  “I won’t beat around the stern tubes, Hew. I’ve been reading your latest reports very carefully, and it seems to me that you’re going to have to break that Q-3 code if we’re going to stay ahead of the Ukes.

  With a nod of his head Rochmon said, “I agree, sir. It’s already becoming their major code.” He hadn’t been prepared to talk about the code, but he was more than willing to agree.

  “Then I think we should recall that Bock person who helped break the Q-Two.”

  “What, sir? I thought – I mean – I’m not sure I understand, sir. You want to bring Bock back to Cryptography?”

  Stonefield stared at him with no emotion showing in his cold, dark eyes. “That’s what I want, Rochmon. You’ll have to keep tight security on her, but I’ve checked around. She’s the best. And Sondak needs her.”

  ”Doe
s that mean you’ve cleared her of the spying charge?”

  “No Rochmon, it doesn’t. As far as I’m concerned, she’s a threat, but if she’s as good as everyone claims then use her.”

  Rochmon stood up slowly. He didn’t know if he liked this or not, but from the angry undertone in Stonefield’s voice and the look on his face, Rochmon knew better than to pursue the subject any further. “I’ll make good use of her, Sir” he said quietly.

  “You do that, Admiral. You do that. Now, go enjoy the reception.”

  Rochmon left the room and rejoined the reception, but after all that had happened that day, there was no way for him to really enjoy it.

  LERI GISH GERIL RECOILED HER BODY to the proper formal height for receiving visitors and waited for Glights the Castorian to come to her chambers. Ever since the execution of Exeter and the other Castorian criminals, Leri had been very cautious in her dealings with Glights. Despite that caution, she had come to like him, and that made her angry. She had liked Exeter, too, and he had responded by drugging her and taking her aboard his spaceship so that he could eat her.

  4

  She shivered at the memory and coiled her body tighter that memory of Exeter’s treachery would serve as a constant reminder never to trust any Castorian, regardless of how friendly and likable one might appear to be.

  With a sigh of frustration she spat a fireball across the chamber. Leri was tired, tired of being Proctor of Cloise, tired of having to deal with aliens-especially the humans and the impertinent Oinaise-and tired of Weecs. Oh, Weecs was an excellent lover, with a superior mind and an eager body – and she was not yet tired of that long, sleek body with its red-and-yellow scales still bright with the color of youth and always tinged with the scent of his lust for her. But she was tired of Weecs pressuring her to make personal decisions. She was under enough strain and pressure without his contribution.

  A lover was supposed to refresh, not tire. A lover was supposed to provide relief from problems, not new problems to be coped with. Maybe that was why she had refused to totally renounce Ranas. Maybe in some deep way she understood that a long-standing Mate like Ranas offered something more stable and basic that she needed even more than she wanted Weecs’s passion.

  Leri sighed again. Hundreds of seasons ago she had been blessed with dreams that developed into a clear vision of the future. She had dreamed of a path through the mists, a way to lead her people away from the Sondak humans who robbed Cloise of its methane. But season after season humans and Castorians and Oinaise had come to Cloise and dragged her and her people deeper and deeper into the galaxy’s conflicts. And season after season her vision had become more confusing and muddled. Now when it came to her, It brought little she could understand.

  When she had gone to the Confidante, it had asked her a series of questions in its usual way that had only led her back to where she had started. She had no choice but to trust what little of the vision she did understand and to usher instincts to follow it to the best of her ability. But what if the Confidante – Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Ranas and Glights.

  “Greetings Proctor,” Ranas said formally as he slithered up beside her.

  “Greetings, Mighty Proctor, “Glights said through his translator pack while he clacked his claws high over his carapace. “I am honored that you have chosen to receive me.”

  “Greetings,” Leri said curtly. “What do you and our other soulless allies want of me this season?”

  “Pardon my contentiousness, Proctor, but I must remind you that we Castorians do have souls and your references to us as soulless only adds to the friction of –“

  “Very well,” Leri said, cutting the crab off, “Castorians have souls. “Glights did like to prattle on. About his soul and she constantly had to remind herself that if she didn’t want to hear about his soul, she shouldn’t provoke him. “So tell me what it is you want of me.”

  “We must speak again about the festbid, Proctor.”

  “Why? I thought you and the Oinaise had settled on how to handle that abominable problem.” Beside her Len could smell Ranas’s disapproval and tried to tell herself to speak more politely to Glights. Courtesy was cheap enough. .

  “Unfortunately, Proctor, “That abominable problem will not be settled until the festbid is completed-and perhaps not even then. The Oinaise spokesmouth – Delightful Childe I believe is called – has suggested some alternatives for our consideration.”

  “Alternatives?” Leri spat a fireball over Glights’s head knowing that its only effect would be to demonstrate her anger. Surely your original proposal is sufficient. Outbid the humans and destroy the blasphemous weapon!”

  “Ah, well, yes, Proctor, that would seem the best plan.”

  “However, this Delightful Childe has suggested that if we do indeed; obtain the weapon, Sondak and the U.C.S. might not believe we‘d destroyed it and then they’d both turn against us in order to take it back.”

  “Then destroy it in front of their fecal faces!”

  Glights clacked something his translator pack couldn’t find a Cloisean equivalent for, and then said, “Quite impossible. The broker who is conducting this festbid has made it clear that he has established double-blind safeguards to ensure that the party who wins the bid can safely acquire the weapon.”

  Leri sighed. There was no sense in arguing with him. Glights had leaned back on his carapace, and she knew he would just persist until she let him have his way. After dealing with male Castorians, Oinaise, humans, and, of course, those of her own race, she had decided this characteristic of relentless persistence was one of the few universals they shared. Males just had to have their say, one way or the other regardless of whether anyone wanted to listen to them or not. “All right. All right. Tell me their new proposals. But do it quickly.”

  “As you wish, Proctor. The first is that one of Oina’s representatives attempts to steal the weapon before the festbid. The second is that the alliance back the U.C.S.’s bid in exchange for their promise-”

  “Madness!” Leri hissed. “Steal the weapon? Back the humans? What is wrong with the Oinaise? What is wrong with you? I refuse to hear any more of this. Go away. Now.”

  “...But, Proctor Leri, it is necessary for you –“

  “Nothing is necessary for me, you soulless crab! Leave me. Go back to your ship and protect Cloise as you agreed. And tell the soulless Oinaise that I will have nothing to do with their insane proposals.”

  Before Glights could answer, Leri buried her head in the center of her coil. She heard him leave but refused to acknowledge his departure. Only when Ranas stroked her, smoothing her flared scales, did she finally pull her head back up and let herself relax a little.

  “You are rude, my Proctor,” he said softly as he continued to stroke her, “but you are right.”

  “Of course I am right. What is wrong with them, Ranas? What is wrong with us?”

  “Questions I cannot answer, Proctor. How can I understand an alien mind? How can we make sense of what they do? We can only cope with them according to our own understanding and –“

  “I know. I know. Leave me now, Ranas, and send in the lsthian. I am tired and in great need of exchange.”

  Moments after Ranas left Leri heard the Isthian scramble unseen into the chamber and felt it climb gently on her back. Without hesitation it began suckling the nipple on her neck, drawing its nourishment from her blood while replacing her vital antibodies. The more it suckled, the more her body relaxed, and Leri let herself slip into the dreamy prelude to sleep. But deep in a hidden grotto of her mind she knew that her escape from the problems she faced was only temporary.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  “That is only the preliminary plan, of course,” General Schopper said. “The final details are still in the process.”

  “May I say somethin’, sir?” Rasha’kean asked.

  “Certainly, Ingrivia. That’s why I brought you here.”

  Rasha’kean ignored that comment. She had br
ought herself to Nordeen – and not for this. But if she had to buy herself a combat command with work on logistics, then so be it – just as long as she got her command.

  “I ken that you’ve attacked the logistics part of this plan from the wrong direction. If we’re goin’ to attack our way system by system into the U. C. S., we cannot afford the extended supply routes you got here. Let the Ukes cut even one of those routes, and they could isolate whatever system we were currently engaged in.”

  “But how else can we–“

  “Excuse me, sir, but there are double-other ways. Ar’not there uninhabited systems close to your proposed route of attack where we could stockpile supplies?”

  “I’m sure there are, Ingrivia, but that seems like an even more dangerous plan to me.”

  “I d’not think so, sir. Find me five, six uninhabited systems close to the route and I’ll set you up a plan for supply caches that’ll eliminate some of your logistic vulnerability.”

  “Why do you have to have systems? Why not just pick some place in space?

  Rasha’kean laughed, tossing her blond hair as she did so. The scowl on Shopper’s face made her stop. “Sorry, sir, I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughin’ ‘because that’s the same question every new logistics officer asks. We have to use systems because they’re easy to find. A good ship’s navigator can get you to most any star in the galaxy, but only one in a thousand can get you to within a parsec of some random point in space away from any star system.”

  “I see,” Schopper said, his tone implying more humility than his face showed. “All right, then. We get Space Force to locate suitable systems for us. Then what?”

  Then we assign each system to one step in your attack plan and sneak in as many supply ships as we can into those systems ahead of the attacks themselves. Then they only have to make a short hop to keep you supplied and fueled.”