by Peter Grant
“I take your point as far as your crew is concerned, but you’re going to be a part of the delegation’s work, aren’t you? You must know more about it than that.”
“I’m going to assist in a technical investigation related to its task, but that’s not the same as being part of its diplomatic efforts. I’ll merely observe and report, and leave it up to the envoy and her staff to use my input as they see fit. I doubt very much that I’ll be actively involved in their negotiations.” He glanced at the Plot display. “Forgive me, but I’ll have to devote my attention to the ship for a while. It’s almost time for us to make our first jump.”
“All right. Thank you.”
Steve suppressed a sigh of relief as he turned back to his duties. He could see he’d have to be very careful in talking to this woman… in fact, it might be best to plead the excuse of shipboard duties, to avoid lengthy discussions with her. He’d have to pass the word to his crew through the First Lieutenant and Chief of the Ship as well, to be doubly on their guard.
“Command to Plot. Time to system boundary?” he asked.
“Plot to Command, five minutes and seven seconds, sir.”
“Thank you. Command to all consoles, report readiness in sequence.”
The replies came in a rapid-fire sequence. “Navigation to Command, course calculated and entered, sir.”
“Communications to Command, departure signal ready for dispatch, sir.”
“Plot to Command, scan clear of all targets in short and medium range, sir. Hyper-jump path is not obstructed.”
“Very good. Break.” Steve pressed an intercom switch. “Command to Engineering, report status, over.”
From far behind them in the hull, he heard Warrant Officer Laninga’s voice over the circuit. The Engineer Officer, like himself, preferred to be on duty at the start and end of a voyage. “Engineering to Command, all circuits green, power levels calculated and set, ready to hyper-jump, sir.”
“Command to Engineering, very good, stand by. Break. Command to Communications. Sound the jump alarm, then send our departure signal to System Control.”
Almost immediately he heard the triple aaa-OOO-gah! of the klaxon alarm tone, blurting out in every compartment. It was jarring, guaranteed to wake those in even the deepest slumber – an important precaution, because they had to make sure that shock webbing was secured over their bunks in case of unexpected maneuvers. Hazards might await a ship emerging from a hyper-jump, such as another vessel nearby, or an asteroid, or a rogue planet. Such dangers were vanishingly rare; but if they were encountered, anyone not braced for sudden emergency maneuvers to avoid them could be flung from one side of a compartment to the other with no warning at all.
The klaxon cut off, to be replaced by a recorded announcement. “Five-minute warning to hyper-jump. Five-minute warning to hyper-jump. Secure all compartments, gear and personnel.”
While the final minutes ticked off, Steve brought up the Navigator’s calculations on his console and ran them through his own computer terminal, checking and double-checking all the parameters. He found no issues, but then he hadn’t expected any. This was just one of the routine precautions that kept space flight as safe as possible. You can’t be too careful when there’s a universe full of vacuum all around you, he reminded himself, as he did several times every trip.
The klaxon sounded again. “One-minute warning to hyper-jump. One-minute warning to hyper-jump. All personnel, take your places and strap in.”
He glanced over his shoulder. The journalist was looking around, her eyes alight with interest, but she hadn’t fastened the four-point harness attached to her chair. “Miss Soldahl, you’ll need to strap in, please,” he reminded her.
“Oh! Sorry. I’ve never had to do that on commercial spaceships,” she replied as she reached for the harness.
“Commercial spaceships jump at much lower speeds than we do, and they aren’t capable of the sort of high-g evasive maneuvers we may use if necessary.”
“I see.” She clicked the shoulder straps into the chest buckle, then linked it to the abdominal clasp securing her lap belts. “Is that right?” She grimaced as the automatic tensioners pulled the straps tight. “Oof! That’s not very comfortable.”
“Yes, that’ll do. It’s only for a few moments, until we give the all-clear after the jump.”
The final seconds ticked down in silence. The computers were in control now, and would send the necessary commands when the time came. Steve unconsciously braced himself upright, pressing back into his seat, hands pushing down on the padded arms of his command chair.
The countdown clock flickered to zero. Relays closed, and a massive charge of electricity was dumped instantaneously from the capacitor ring into the gravitic drive unit. Unseen, a toroidal field of gravitic energy flashed into being just ahead of the ship, pulling the vessel into it. In a flicker of light and shadow she vanished from the Lancaster system, reappearing a split-second later twenty light-years downrange in deep space.
Steve waited until the reports from all consoles indicated that they’d completed the hyper-jump successfully. The klaxon sounded for a third time. “Hyper-jump completed. Hyper-jump completed. Return ship to normal routine.”
He pressed the release on his harness and stood, stretching. At the Navigation console, Senior Lieutenant Giunta did likewise.
“Lieutenant Giunta, I understand you have the watch until twenty-four?”
“Aye aye, sir.” He walked over to the command console.
“Then please take over.” Steve ran through the course and other relevant information.
“Understood, sir.” Giunta snapped to attention and saluted formally. “I relieve you, sir.”
Steve returned his salute solemnly. “I stand relieved, sir.” He turned to the journalist. “May I escort you back to the passenger quarters, Miss Soldahl?”
“Why, thank you, Commander.”
“This way, please.”
He ushered her out of the Operations Center ahead of him. The last thing he wanted was to leave so inquisitive a journalist in so critical an area without his direct and immediate supervision.
—————
Back in her cabin, Solveig carefully opened a button on her blouse, unscrewed the top, and took out a micro-miniaturized recording device. She placed it on top of an induction reader pad and transferred its audio and video files to her database, then returned it to its button. She glanced in satisfaction at the clothes hanging in her closet and folded on its shelves. Many of them were similarly equipped.
Sitting down at the tiny desk in her small cabin, she activated a microphone. “First impressions of Lieutenant-Commander Maxwell,” she said thoughtfully. “He’s smart as a whip, and clearly isn’t scared of my reputation. I’m sure he’s been warned about me, but he seems confident he can handle anything I throw at him.” She smiled to herself. “Of course, that remains to be seen… but he does have a hell of a track record. This is his second command: the first was a heavy patrol craft when he was a Senior Lieutenant. Most officers of his rank and seniority are still working towards their first command. He’s got plenty of medals, but he wears only the ribbons of the most senior awards on his working uniform. That’s authorized under Fleet regulations, but it’s also unusual. He clearly doesn’t feel that he has to impress people with a big splash of color on his chest.
“I’m sure he’s going to try to obey his orders to put me off the ship at Athi.” Another small, secretive smile. “If I can persuade Marisela to help, that might not be as easy as he thinks.”
November 18 2851 GSC
The faint rumble of massed reaction thrusters grew louder as Brooks joined the Battalion S-2 at the field kitchen’s serving counter. The intelligence officer nodded mutely at him, sipping a cup of black coffee, his face drawn and tired in the harsh glare of the light over the counter. Brooks took a disposable cup from a stack of them and helped himself from the urn, adding creamer and sweetener as the first shuttle landed heavily,
bouncing on its gel-filled tires. Its reaction thrusters shut down and withdrew into their housings as the electric motors on each wheel whined into life, propelling the hulking mass of battle steel clear of the landing ground, making room for those following it.
The shuttle pulled over next to the field kitchen and its rear ramp folded down. Weary Marines clambered out, beam rifles clipped to the chest harness of their armor, taking off their faceless helmets lined with sensor arrays on all sides, letting them dangling from straps as they turned their sweat-soaked faces to the cool morning air, breathing deeply of its freshness. Their officer muttered something to them quietly, then turned them loose to get coffee. Brooks and the S-2 moved to one side to let the eager Marines help themselves.
The officer approached them and began to come to attention, but Brooks waved his hand. “Forget the formalities, Captain Targe. Your signal said you’d accomplished your mission, for which our thanks and congratulations. I’ll leave you to make your report in the usual form, but was there anything special or out of the ordinary?”
“Yes, sir, there was.” The Captain accepted a cup of coffee from the S-2, added creamer and sweetener and gulped it down gratefully. “The intel was good. We disrupted a meeting of Kotai regional leaders. We killed at least three of them, possibly as many as five – some of the bodies haven’t yet been identified; it’ll take DNA tests on what’s left of them to do that. Got most of their bodyguards, too. Trouble is, the survivors are too damn cocky for my liking. We took two of the leaders alive. One of them spat in my medics’ faces as they were treating him. He called us ‘heathen’ and ‘unbelievers’, and promised that we’re all going to die soon in what he called ‘the revelation of our God’s power’. We asked him what that meant, and he clammed up – just smiled at us, as if he knew a secret and we didn’t.”
“That ties in with what a couple of other sources have been telling us,” Brooks observed, frowning. “It’s only the leaders who are saying it, and not many of them. I wish we could use truth-testers to ask more questions. Even a refusal to answer can’t mask brain wave activity, and that’d give us a clue as to what was going on inside their heads. A skilled operator can follow those leads to pin down something the subject doesn’t even know he’s given away.”
“Perhaps we should ask Mission HQ for permission once more, sir?” the S-2 suggested.
“Won’t help. They’re under orders from the UP,” Brooks grumbled.
An orderly hurried up. “Private signal for you, sir.” He handed a message form to Brooks, who scanned it.
“Ha! I’ve got a visitor! My buddy’s ship has just arrived at the system boundary. He says he’s got a present for the battalion, so I’m to have a work party waiting when he arrives. He’s also brought a package from my wife.”
“I hope she’s sent something edible, sir,” the Captain grinned. Treats from home were usually shared.
“I’m sure at least some of it will be.” Brooks stuffed the message form into his pocket. “I’ll invite him to supper at Battalion HQ. This is the best news I’ve had since I got here!”
—————
Brooks was waiting at the head of the landing field. Steve saw him peering beneath an upraised hand as the cutter landed, dust blowing furiously under the downblast of its reaction thrusters. Even before the rear ramp whined down, he was hurrying towards the craft.
“You look well, buddy,” Steve said through a beaming smile as he bear-hugged his best friend. “Active service agrees with you.”
“And command seems to agree with you,” Brooks retorted, his grin stretching from ear to ear. “What the hell brings you out here to the back of beyond? I didn’t think I’d see you again until we got home next year.”
“I’m carrying a diplomatic delegation to Devakai, to discuss the situation here and what they can do about it. We came via Athi to pick up the latest intelligence. The delegation’s meeting General Attenborough in Karaidi this evening. They took my gig, but we’ve still got a cutter, so I was able to come down too. I’m under strict orders from Carol to personally deliver a care package to you.” He indicated a large box waiting at the top of the ramp.
“Thanks a bunch! She’ll have packed it with all sorts of goodies.” Brooks’ mouth was watering in anticipation. “What’s the rest of your cargo? You’ve got a lot more boxes under that cover.”
“That’s why I asked you to have a work party waiting. I visited Marine Corps HQ before we left. The Sergeant-Major of the Corps told me your people had been complaining that the local brew isn’t very good, so he had a word with the Marine Corps Association. They’ve sent you enough Lancastrian beer to issue half a dozen cans apiece to the whole battalion.”
“God bless our veterans!” Brooks turned to the burly NCO behind him. “You heard that, Staff Sergeant Ramos?”
“You bet I did, sir!” Behind him, his work party were all smiles.
“Get to loading it aboard the transporters, then, and don’t have too many ‘accidents’ while you’re doing it. I don’t mind a small loss in transit, but if it’s too big the rest of the battalion will be hunting you down with blood in their eyes – and I’ll help them! Put my box in my utility vehicle first, please.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Laughing, the Marines got to work.
“You got time for supper, buddy?” Brooks asked as they walked towards his vehicle. “It’s only field rations, but the HQ Mess Sergeant does a pretty fair job with them.”
“Sure, I can spare an hour. I want to know how things are going here – your personal perspective, I mean, not just the official line. I’m going to be involved in some of the military analysis at Devakai, and I want to know what to look for.”
“It’s going OK, but it’s not all good.” Brooks’ face set in hard lines as they got into his vehicle and he set it in motion. “These Kotai are fanatical, tough, and bloody-minded. They don’t mind dying – they see death in combat as automatic martyrdom, guaranteeing them rebirth in a higher caste than their present one. They regard us as unbelievers and heathen for daring to oppose the will of their God. They attack us at the drop of a hat, and drop it themselves if we won’t.
“We’ve managed to contain them in these hills, but it’s a big area with plenty of places to hide. They’re also getting more and more confident. We know they’ve been receiving supplies from off-world, including more advanced weapons, and they’re clearly coordinating their actions with something going on somewhere else – probably Devakai, since that’s where most of them come from. Our most recent captures are openly defiant. They tell us that in a short while we’re going to be ‘overwhelmed by the power of God’, as they put it. We’re all going to die.”
“Huh! I reckon your Marines might have something to say about that.”
“We sure will! Still, I wish I knew what the hell they meant. They won’t tell us, and we’re not allowed to use truth-testers when we interrogate them. It’s as if the United Planets is tying our hands deliberately – and it’s costing us good Marines, killed and wounded.”
Steve made a wry face. “Isn’t that always how it is? The politicians and diplomats want to do everything in their nice tidy way, all gift-wrapped and tied up with a pretty ribbon; but we pay the price for those trimmings in our blood.”
“You damn nearly did at Eskishi a couple of years ago,” Brooks agreed, “thanks to that bloody fool of a State Department bureaucrat. Your Marine sidekick paid the price for both of you, I guess. I suppose it’s my turn now on this assignment. Oh, well, it’s been that way for thousands of years, and it’ll probably stay that way until the heat death of the universe.”
Brooks pulled the vehicle into the battalion’s Headquarters compound and parked. He put Carol’s package in a small trailer parked beside the Operations tent. “This is my humble abode. I’ll open the parcel later, when I have privacy and time to enjoy it. Come over to the mess tent and we’ll grab a quick meal before you head back up to orbit.”
They took trays of fo
od to a table in the corner of the tent and sat down. As he added condiments, Steve asked, “What’s your biggest headache as far as Devakai is concerned?”
“It’s someplace called the Kalla Orbital Shipyard. Several of our prisoners admitted getting aboard transports there, and we’ve found some weapons containers with labels showing they passed through it. Some recent captures have boasted with shit-eating grins that Kalla’s preparing ‘something special’ for us, something to do with this ‘power of God’ that they say is going to ‘overwhelm’ us soon. I’ve no idea what that is, though.”
Steve frowned. “Can’t be any sort of advanced warship – Devakai doesn’t have the technology base to support it. I’m told that even their orbital and asteroid mining operations still use mostly human rather than robotic labor. It costs them a lot of lives, too – after all, those are the most hazardous work environments in the settled galaxy – but they seem to have lives to spare, and they hold ’em cheap, so they carry right on in the old-fashioned way. It’d never be allowed in a more modern society, but they’re still pretty primitive in many ways, from what I’ve read.”
Brooks nodded as he chewed and swallowed a mouthful of food. “Yeah, the ones we’ve captured here are all like that. Athi was settled from Devakai, but the people here have been much more open to modern concepts, and their society has developed much faster. The Kotai fanatics scorn them. They reckon they’ve gone soft, and abandoned the ‘strong old ways’, as they call it.”
“Not surprising. Anyone with the guts and gumption to throw over their old life and risk everything on starting a new one has got to be open to new things, otherwise they’re just not going to make it at all. That sort of flexibility is the opposite of older, more hidebound ways.”