A Call to Arms

by David Weber

  Because there were certainly plenty of those, too. Distantly, he wondered if they would now be making a concerted effort to get out of the Service. “Yes, Sir,” he said aloud.

  “And I’m not including the loafers you’re always writing up,” Heissman continued. “That really bothers you, doesn’t it? People who don’t follow proper procedure?”

  “Procedures are there for a purpose, Sir.”

  “Even when you can’t see that purpose?”

  “There’s always a purpose, Sir,” Travis said, a little stiffly. “Even if it isn’t obvious.”

  “I appreciate your optimism in such things,” Heissman said. “But I have to say it makes you something of an anomaly. Typically, someone as solid as you are on following procedure is mentally rigid in all other aspects of life. You, on the other hand, not only can think outside the lines, but sometimes draw your own.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” Travis said, wondering if that boiled down to a compliment or an indictment. “But I really didn’t do anything all that extraordinary.”

  “People with a talent for something never think it’s a big deal,” Heissman said dryly. “The point I was going to make was that both of those characteristics are going to make you unpopular in certain circles. But you will be noticed, and appreciated, by the people who matter. For whatever that’s worth.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” Travis said. “Please understand in turn that I didn’t join the Navy for glory or recognition. I joined to help protect the Star Kingdom.” He hesitated. “And if necessary, to die for it.”

  “I know,” Heissman said, his voice going a little darker. “Unfortunately, that’s going to make you unpopular in certain quarters, too. Genuine, unashamed patriots are an embarrassment to the cynical and manipulative.”

  Some of the lines in his face smoothed out. “Which leads me to my final question. This whole travesty of this, travesty of that sarcastic catchphrase that seems to follow you around. What’s all that about, anyway?”

  Travis sighed. “It started back in high school,” he said reluctantly. “One of the teachers fancied himself a scholar and a wit, and liked to give his students nicknames. I was Travis Uriah Long, or Travis U. Long, which he thought sounded like Travis Oolong, and oolong was a type of Old Earth tea. Hence, Travis Tea.”

  “Travesty,” Heissman said with a nod, a small smile playing across his face. “And with your penchant for enforcing even minor regulations, the sarcastic direction was probably inevitable.”

  “Yes, Sir.” Travis braced himself. “I’d appreciate it, Sir, if you didn’t…pass it around too much.”

  “Not a problem,” Heissman said. “Well. I’ve just been informed that Casey’s going to be another month in dock, so everyone’s leave’s been extended. But you may be called up for more testimony at any time, so don’t stray too far from Landing City.”

  And then, to Travis’s surprise, he rose to his feet. “Well done, Travis,” the commodore said as they exchanged salutes. “I look forward to returning to Casey with you. And as soon as possible.”

  His eyes went a little distant. “Because I have a feeling Manticore’s about to lose the nice, peaceful backwater status we’ve enjoyed for so long. I don’t know how or why. I don’t think anyone does. But I can guarantee this much: as of two weeks ago the RMN is no longer a joke and a political football. Someone out there has us in their sights.”

  His expression tightened. “You said you were willing to die for the Star Kingdom. You may very well get that chance.”

  * * *

  “Well, damn it all,” Breakwater growled, peering at his tablet. “They’ve denied him.”

  Winterfall frowned up at him. “Who’s denied what to whom?”

  “The Navy has denied your brother a Conspicuous Gallantry Medal,” Breakwater said. “I suppose you’ll have to drop that part from your speech now.”

  “That’s all right,” Winterfall said, scrolling back to the relevant section of his upcoming speech. It would have been nice to include that tribute to his brother, a tribute which, as Breakwater had pointed out earlier, would also have subtly raised Winterfall’s own prestige.

  But he could get by without it. Besides, the heroism and accomplishments of the two MPARS corvettes were more important to his side of the argument, and that wasn’t something Locatelli and the Navy could take away.

  He was deleting the reference to his brother when an odd thought abruptly hit him.

  Could it be that the Navy was refusing Travis a medal because of him?

  Even worse, it suddenly occurred to him that the first thing he’d focused on when he’d heard the news was how it would affect his own political advances.

  Was that right? Because it sure didn’t seem right.

  He looked up again at Breakwater. The Chancellor was talking quietly with Baroness Tweenriver and Earl Chillon about the upcoming debate on additional MPARS funding, the minor tweak of Lieutenant Travis Uriah Long’s medal or lack of it clearly already forgotten.

  What the hell was Winterfall doing, anyway?

  He looked down at his tablet. What he was doing was protecting the lives, freedom, and security of the Star Kingdom of Manticore, in the best way he knew how. The freshly-awarded Manticore Cross gleaming on Admiral Locatelli’s chest was driving public acclaim and momentum, and Winterfall knew full well that Dapplelake and Cazenestro would be hurrying to parley that acclaim into more money and manpower.

  But that would be a mistake. Dapplelake’s dream Navy, bigger and stronger than ever, wouldn’t make the Star Kingdom more secure. On the contrary, it would make Manticore look more and more to their neighbors like a threat.

  And that was absolutely the wrong path for the Star Kingdom to take. Haven and the distant Solarian League were the big dogs on the street, and they would not look with favor on a star nation that was building up its collection of force-projection ships.

  Maybe Dapplelake hadn’t read the history of Gustav Anderman. But Winterfall had. After conquering Kuan Yin and reorganizing it as Potsdam, Anderman had proceeded to take over five other systems, at least three of them merely because he deemed them to be a threat to his new empire.

  Manticore was a long way from Potsdam, and Anderman was getting on in years. But the self-styled Emperor was also at least half crazy. Who knew what he might deem to be a threat?

  And it was painfully clear that if Anderman came calling any time soon, the RMN wouldn’t have a hope in hell of stopping him.

  Dapplelake might not be able to add up all of those numbers. King Edward, as former Navy himself, might not be able to see the bigger picture. That task fell to Breakwater and his allies.

  Including Winterfall.

  It was an incredibly petty move to punish Travis for the activities of his half-brother. But Winterfall couldn’t allow guilt or outrange to dissuade or distract him. He was a member of the House of Lords, and his responsibility was to the entire Star Kingdom.

  He’d taken an oath to defend his nation. So had Travis. Both of them had to serve now as they saw fit.

  Scrolling to the bottom of the page, Winterfall got back to work on his speech.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “I was starting to think they weren’t going to let you go at all,” Lisa said as she waved Travis in through her open door.

  “They almost didn’t,” Travis said, taking in her smile and her grace with the hunger of a starving man. After two solid days of testimony before Parliamentary committees, he’d had more than his fill of dour faces and half-hidden verbal knives. A nice smile and no ulterior motivations were a welcome change of pace. “I hope I’m not too late.”

  “No problem—spaghetti sauce is very forgiving,” Lisa assured him. “Let me take your coat.”

  Travis’s first impulse was to say no, that he could hang up his dress jacket himself. “Thanks,” he said instead, taking it off and handing it to her. She was trying to do him a favor, and he needed to make himself let her.

  “They only
had me on the stand for about three hours,” she commented over her shoulder as she crossed to a small closet and carefully slipped the jacket onto a hanger. For a moment, as she hung it on the rod, Travis thought he saw her eyeing the paltry single new ribbon, his Royal Unit Citation, on the upper right chest.

  But if she was wondering at the lack of anything more prestigious, she made no comment. “And that was more than enough,” she added, heading toward an archway leading from the foyer. “I can’t imagine what you had to go through. Come on—we can talk while I put the pasta on. I’ll let you do the French bread, if you don’t mind.”

  “French bread is one of my specialties,” Travis assured her, determined to keep the mood light. Along with the dour expressions over the past two days, he’d also had his fill of weightiness. “You want something cut in half, put on a tray, and tossed into an oven, I’m your man.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Lisa said. “My skill set only extends to dumping spoonfuls of Italian spices into a saucepan. In here.”

  “How are you and Damocles doing?” Travis asked, looking around curiously as he walked under the archway into the kitchen. It was the first time he’d been in her apartment, and he was struck by the fact that the décor exuded the same sense as he’d gotten in his brief visit to her quarters back on Vanguard. Lisa Donnelly was a comfortable mix of strength and softness, a woman who knew her abilities and neither downplayed nor flaunted them.

  As Damocles’s tactical officer, she’d proven those abilities three weeks ago in what was now officially designated the Battle of Manticore. It was only a matter of time, he knew, before she would be given her own ship and the coveted gold star of a starship commander. The only real questions were when, and which ship.

  Travis hoped it was a battlecruiser. Lisa would be awesome with a battlecruiser.

  “There’s the bread,” she said pointing. “I’m doing fine—a few bruises, but nothing serious. Damocles, not so much. What exactly have you heard?”

  “Not much,” he said. “There was some vague statement about her being towed back to Manticore, but I wasn’t able to get any details.”

  “That’s because no one wanted to give them out,” Lisa said dryly. “When we tried firing a missile from our dorsal launcher, the end exploded and nearly took a chunk of our hull along with it.”

  Travis whistled softly. He’d heard rumors that Damocles’s problem had been severe, but he’d had no idea it was that bad. “What happened?”

  “Officially, it failed because of undetected structural fatigue,” Lisa said. “Unofficially—and this is why no one’s talking about it—one of the techs accidentally left an entire hydraulic repressurizing rig attached to the inside.”

  “Ouch,” Travis said, wincing. “And when the missile tried to get out…?”

  “It was slowed down just enough that the booster fired too close to the tube,” Lisa confirmed. “The shockwave knocked out the whole amidships electrical system, including the bridge and CIC. We were basically helpless for the next half hour, until the techs could get the backups up and running.”

  “You’re lucky the whole ship wasn’t wrecked,” Travis said.

  “Don’t we know it,” Lisa said soberly. “The most embarrassing part is that I’d seen the report that one of the hydraulic rigs had gone AWOL, but didn’t put it together with the work that had been done a week earlier until it was too late.”

  “Not exactly your problem.”

  “Technically, no. But I’m the TO. I should be on top of everything that has to do with the ship’s weapons.”

  “Mm,” Travis said, not agreeing but recognizing that it wasn’t something he wanted to argue with her about. “I presume a court-martial is in the works for whoever left it there?”

  “I doubt it,” Lisa said. She held out a piece of uncooked spaghetti to Travis and raised her eyebrows in silent question. He shook his head; taking it back, she bit off a piece with a crunch that set Travis’s teeth on edge. “It’s the usual story: the petty officer who screwed up is related to one of the Cabinet ministers. Someone both sides of the RMN debate are courting, moreover, which means no one wants to see him embarrassed.”

  Travis made a face, his frustrations with Ensign Locatelli flooding back.

  But he wouldn’t voice them. Speak no ill of the dead and all that aside, the report on what the ensign and Chief Osterman had accomplished had clearly shown that there had been more to the young man than Travis had realized.

  Or maybe just more than he’d been willing to acknowledge.

  “We were just lucky that Aries was able to get one of the bandits,” Lisa went on, taking another bite of the raw pasta. “Then the battle ended, and we could take our time and bring our systems back up carefully.”

  “Lucky, yes,” Travis murmured. He’d heard all about the ploy that had cost the invaders that destroyer, and how it had come about.

  Especially the small but important role played by one Missile Tech First Charles “Chomps” Townsend.

  Who had been aboard the MPARS corvette Aries because he, Travis, had filed the report that had gotten him kicked out of the RMN and sent there.

  Of course, he didn’t know for sure that Chomps’s demotion was his fault. Such things weren’t mentioned in the public portion of Navy records. But he knew that Chomps had been disciplined for hacking into Phoenix’s computer files, and he also knew that no one would ever have caught him if Travis hadn’t insisted on following the rules.

  On the other hand, Travis’s action and its consequences had put Chomps into a position where he’d helped win the battle. Did that make it all right?

  Or was that just more rationalization?

  “Did you know that former RMN Missile Tech Charles Townsend came up with a nice little tweak on that?” Lisa asked, her back to Travis as she loaded pasta into a cooker. “He was one of your classmates at Casey-Rosewood, wasn’t he?”

  Travis took a deep breath. Keep it light, he reminded himself. And that included not tearing scabs off old wounds in front of others. “Yes, he was,” he confirmed. “We had many long and healthful twenty-five-klick hikes together.”

  “Ah, yes—the good old days,” Lisa said. “It’s good to have memories.” She smiled briefly at him over her shoulder. “Better to have friends. When you finish the bread, can you pull out the salad? It’s already mixed.”

  “Sure,” Travis said, opening the oven and sliding the bread pan onto the rack. Yes, friends were what was important. Not medals. Not public recognition. Not rank. Friends.

  The trouble was that Travis was showing an ominous talent for losing those friends. Friends, and everyone he’d learned to care for.

  His old drill instructor, Jonny Funk: dead. His former Phoenix cabinmate and friend, Brad Fornier: dead. His shipmates aboard Vanguard: dispersed and effectively lost track of. His brother, Baron Winterfall: never much more than a stranger to begin with. His mother: same thing.

  And now Chomps Townsend, who would probably never speak to him again.

  In fact, now that he thought about it, the only real friend he truly had left was Lisa Donnelly.

  How long, he wondered, before he somehow drove her away, too?

  Probably not long. Probably not long at all.

  * * *

  One of the great truisms of modern life, Chomps had long since learned, was that it was the task of the small fish to hurry up and wait for the big fish. He’d experienced it with the RMN brass, with the MPARS brass, and most of all with the Lords.

  It was a shock, then, when he was barely inside the door of Countess Calvingdell’s outer office when the receptionist waved him through.

  The first time Chomps had been in Calvingdell’s office her desk had been a hodgepodge of military items, mementos or reminders of her then-status as Defense Minister. The second time he’d been here, after the Cascan incident, most of those items had been sent away as she was transitioned out of the cabinet and Dapplelake transitioned back in.

  Now, the thir
d time, the desk was almost bare.

  But at least it was neat. Chomps didn’t know a lot about Calvingdell, but he did know that she liked having things neat.

  Which was ironic, really, given her current situation.

  “Townsend,” she greeted him briefly as he walked toward the desk, her eyes still on her tablet. “How was your stint in MPARS?”

  “It was different, My Lady,” Chomps said, choosing the most diplomatic of all the possible answers.

  “Different how?”

  Well, she’d asked for it. “Less disciplined,” he said. “Not as well equipped. Fewer gaps in the organizational structure. Less training for the officers and crews. More arrogance and animosity to the regular Navy people.” He felt a smile tug at his lips. “But very comparable fighting spirit.”

  At that last one, she finally looked up. “Comparable?”

  “Certainly in my experience,” Chomps said. “So am I going back? Or am I being reinstated in the RMN?”

  Calvingdell favored him with a smile. It was a thin, cynical smile, one that left everything above her lips wooden and unreadable. “Neither,” she said softly. “Not you.”

  She turned her tablet around so that he could see it. “But before we get into that,” she continued, tapping the tablet’s edge for emphasis, “I have a question. Tell me everything you know about this man.

  “Tell me about Travis Uriah Long.”