The Fleet05 Total War

by David Drake (ed)

  Melton started toward the table and then turned to face Rykker.

  “How would you like to be really wealthy? I mean richer than even level-five executives?” Melton stood, arms casually folded, looking at Rykker, waiting for a reply.

  “Forget it, geek. Just give me the briefcase.” Rykker motioned toward the table with his Navy Colt.

  “I take it, then, that your answer is no.” Melton sounded faintly bemused. “Too bad, you’ll have to die.”

  Rykker was about to tell Melton to shut up when the unmistakable aroma found his nostrils. The Thalmud was halfway across the room when Rykker fired, his first shot taking the alien high in the right shoulder. The impact of the slug caused the Thalmud to stagger as he was hit, and Rykker’s second shot missed by inches, smashing into the far wall. Rykker thumbed back the hammer and squeezed off the third shot, which slammed into the alien’s stomach and stopped it just long enough for Rykker to put one more round into its chest. The Thalmud ran another few feet and then collapsed at Rykker’s bleeding feet.

  Melton had made it to the table and gotten as far as pulling his needler from his briefcase by the time Rykker turned and, brigning up his Navy Colt, took deliberate aim and snapped off his last shot.

  As the hammer of Rykker’s pistol hit the back of the cylinder it completed the electrical circuit that detonated the remaining charge in the Navy Colt. The electronic discharge also energized the gold foil wrapped around a ball of Codex-3 explosive. At 650 feet per second, the explosive round crossed the twenty feet separating the two men in milliseconds. The sound of Melton’s face exploding was inseparable from the report of Rykker’s weapon.

  Later, after he had put Melton and the Thalmud in the disposer unit in the galley, Rykker enjoyed a long shower. He toweled off and, in a pair of Melton’s lightweights, sat down to inspect the contents of the briefcase. Glancing over the documents inside, two things became clear: first, Melton had been waiting for a Syndicate ship to take him to the cluster, and second, no one in the Syndicate had ever seen Melton.

  He finished Melton’s drink and then climbed into Melton’s life suit, tugging on the self-cleaning boots over his tender feet. Finally, before heading out to the waiting Syndicate shuttlecraft, he tossed the Navy Colt into the briefcase.

  THE BASIC FORMS of the Alliance culture were derived from a wide range of traditional institutions. This was because the lesser level of destruction suffered by the early Alliance meant that there was still a measure of continuity from the Empire and before. In the Syndicate cluster the much higher level of cultural collapse meant that most of this prior culture was lost. Further, the families’ struggle to overcome the warlords permanently disaffected them regarding the only other remaining body of tradition that had survived intact, those of the military. As a result the titles and structure of Syndicate culture were derived from the only two institutions they retained knowledge of, business and the family. Most titles in the Syndicate refer to one of these. Further complicating the nomenclature was the fact that all business was controlled by members of an extended family. The head of a family was the Father. His immediate family were referred to as the heirs or sons (even when female). The leadership of any organization was the management. A military officer was a combat manager. Space-force ranks included vice presidents for weapons, transport, and the like, assistant managers, associate V.P.s, and even field managers. Foremen were the equivalent of sergeants. There were no diplomats or ambassadors, but instead liaison managers.

  Superimposed over everything were the complicated designations of family relationship. These reflected not only relationships based upon birth, but often changed as a family member grew in importance. A second cousin, a level barely recognized as a family member at all, could rise through ability until he or she himself became a son and potential heir to the Fathership. The reverse could also occur. In all cases there was no way that any nonfamily member could ever hope to gain status equal to even a mere cousin.

  A subtler implication of the Syndicate’s cultural heritage was that all aspects of life were treated as being part of a business. Every citizen on a family world was judged almost entirely on their ability to contribute to the family’s welfare. The military was viewed not only as a cost center, but also as a profit generator. Every mission was analyzed not only for its military necessity, but also if the risk could be justified by the potential gain. A gain that was often not only measured in military advantage, but in increased family assets as well.

  LOCATED ONLY four light-years from Target, the small, verdant world was code-named Brown. No one was sure if this designation was the name of its discoverer or the color of its shallow, muddy seas. The planet was best described as pleasant, having a generally mild climate and friendly natives. Except for two recent developments the world would have held no interest for anyone, let alone a full admiral. The first of these was Happy Town. This was a Fleet Class II R&R station that had already grown by the addition of several hundred unapproved “recreational facilities.” These were built mostly by enterprising businessmen, primarily employing business girls and boys of an amazing variety. Occasionally this monotony was broken by the still-unlit neon lights of an only mildly dishonest gambling club. Once Duane’s fleet completed its current training maneuver and began sending transports full of spacemen and Marines to Brown on leave, fortunes would be made literally overnight.

  Abe Meier stood staring in awe at his first view of the planet’s other claim to distinction. If somewhere in Africa was an elephants’ graveyard, like that made famous by the revered writings of Kipling, this was truly its technological equivalent. Spread for miles across the valley they had just entered were the hulks of hundreds of Khalian spaceships. Some were visibly gutted, others had portions of their hulls missing; all were severely damaged in some way. The entire scene was a mute testimony to the effectiveness of Fleet weaponry.

  Auro LeBaric watched his superior’s reaction as the O. D., a Lieutenant Bromley, explained the sight. He couldn’t help but notice that even in the ornate uniform that went with his new rank, Meier still managed to look rumpled.

  “Admiral,” the lieutenant began, clearly enjoying having the complete attention of the only admiral in a four lightyear radius, “for longer than we had guessed, the Syndicate used this planet as a dumping ground, a graveyard for all the wrecks that they felt were beyond the ability of the Khalia to salvage.”

  He paused as Meier turned to look once more at the valley spread out below them. The lieutenant had taken a devious route to this point so as to preserve the dramatic effect of the view. This graveyard of ships was filled with examples of every type of vessel the Khalia had used and a few that had to be captured Alliance hulls. Incongruously growing around and occasionally through the ships was a carpet of the waist-high yellow-green “grass” that covered most of this continent. A few saplings had even pushed up through those hulls left here the longest, their branches emerging from portholes and ruptures in the still-glistening sides of the fallen warships. Standing slightly off to one side, Auro also noticed dozens of small shapes moving purposely among the wreckage. Their guide resumed talking, quickly as if he had memorized the speech and was afraid of having his concentration broken. It probably wasn’t very often that an admiral and war hero visited this outpost on official business, and he wanted to make the best impression possible.

  “Intelligence says they were afraid to leave these cripples on Target or Khalia for fear some bright Weas . . . er, Khalian would take something apart and figure out how it worked. They appear to have been recently training a few thousand Brownians on how to dismantle or even repair some of the equipment, but hardly made a dent before they had to evacuate.”

  “I thought the Brownians were not a technological culture?” Auro interjected, unable to resist checking if the O. D. would fluster easily. He did it also because the newly promoted captain was just beginning to realize he outranked the o
ther man, even though he was almost a decade younger. Besides, the lieutenant had been ignoring him.

  Bromley was plainly annoyed at having his carefully thought-out spiel for the visiting admiral interrupted. Auro wasn’t yet twenty and looked as young as he was, but now he sported the insignia of a captain. This promotion was a belated reward for being Meier’s second in command during their intervention in the battle above Target almost a year earlier.

  Eyeing the two clusters of valor metals and battle honors on the youth’s chest, the lieutenant chose discretion and directed his reply to both of the visiting officers.

  “Those are just some elves. We call the Brownians ‘elves.’ The locals are actually quite competent technically. They already had some knowledge of electricity and even atomic theory before the Khalia conquered them,” he explained. “And they seem to learn our procedures quickly, if they are a little slow on theory.”

  “I didn’t notice any cities from orbit?” Also newly promoted, Admiral Abraham Meier ended the statement with the rising in tone that indicated an explanation was expected. He had noticed their guide was ignoring his young aide and was enjoying his discomfort. Abe had come to like this boy who had come to him as a spoiled cadet almost eighteen months ago, and felt such slights personally. As an admiral he had pulled rank to gain the privilege of watching the main screen as they approached Brown. Their entry had been somewhat rushed as the planet’s moons were the planet’s only drawback as a resort world. These moons had so far failed to coalesce into any body larger than twenty miles on a side. But what they lacked in size was made up in number. Several thousand moonlets followed irregular orbits around the world, virtually encompassing the planet in a thin, but dangerous sheath of stellar debris. Most were now marked with beacons and easily avoided, but dodging through them in a gig had entailed a bumpy ride.

  “There aren’t any,” Bromley answered, glad he didn’t have to correct an admiral. “Not above ground anyhow. The elves live underground. Some of their warrens extend for miles. No one knows how many or where. The Brownians themselves aren’t much for organization. No government or anything, just leaders who seem to appoint themselves when something needs to get done. Sociologists are having a ball trying to figure them out. Most elves love gadgets and are glad to work or be interviewed in exchange for vouchers that we honor at the PX.”

  At this point a party of Brownians was passing nearby. They were carrying a section of hull plate. Meier suspected it was on its way to becoming the roof of some brothel. But that wasn’t really a problem yet. There was enough scrap metal out there to build a city full of brothels. He had been sent to assess what value the Fleet could gain from all these wrecks. His briefing had told him that many were known to contain salvageable modules, even working drives and power units. It was already apparent the graveyard was going to be of immense value to the war effort. Abe’s subconscious was already churning away at a plan to salvage the working parts from those hundreds of ships in the valley below. He had to admit to himself that obtaining working Cooper FTL drive or shield units that only cost a few vouchers for paying the local laborers appealed to him. It certainly would make the budget bashers back on Port happy.

  “You over there,” their lieutenant bellowed at the natives, who halted instantly. Carefully, they set down the hull plate and walked purposely toward the Fleet officers.

  “Can I be of service?” one asked as they approached. His Standard was almost without accent. Auro had to agree that he did seem eager to please.

  “They learn quickly, mostly by rote,” Bromley explained, noting the surprised expression on the faces of his two charges. “Great way to learn a language. Just don’t ask them to conjugate a verb. Like I said, lousy at theory and great at following orders. The sociology types say they can adopt minor behaviors easily, but are much more driven by instinct than most races. Can’t change the basics or look beyond the surface. It took them thousands of years of observation to get their science to where it was at.”

  It was readily apparent why the Brownians were nicknamed elves. Slightly smaller than Auro, they had large pointed ears, green skin, and tufts of flesh that resembled nothing so much as a beard and mustache. The illusion was completed by immense golden eyes, slitted like a cat’s, but horizontally. Most wore clothing made from cloth imported by the humans—much of it suspiciously like that issued for the repair of uniforms.

  Before either visitor had a chance to say anything the com unit in their grav car bleeped urgently three times. Auro and Abe recognized the code: urgent transmission waiting. Lieutenant Bromley looked surprised and hurried over to the vehicle. After a short exchange that neither Abe nor Auro could hear, he turned to them and spoke even more rapidly than before.

  “I have to take you back to the command center, now.” The words were clipped and Bromley started climbing into the driver’s seat before he had even finished them.

  As they climbed in beside him Auro noticed that the man’s face had lost all of its color. Only awareness of his newfound rank kept the captain from quizzing Bromley on the short flight back to the metal dome that housed the command center. It constituted the Fleet’s only nonrecreational facility on the planet.

  Their route back took them directly over the valley. To Auro’s surprise Meier seemed too fascinated by the wrecks they flew over to show any other emotion. The new captain tried to relax then, emulating his superior, almost assured that if Abe wasn’t worried, he shouldn’t be. What could be wrong on a world whose only purpose was rest and relaxation?

  On the far side of the graveyard was another valley containing a shallow lake on whose shore was located the official R&R center. Pastel buildings had been skillfully designed to fit in to their pastoral surroundings. The complex had been completed only a few days before; one of Meier’s scheduled activities was to officially open it. Skill games blinked and bonged appealingly, ice was made and melted in sinks behind half a dozen bars, all awaiting only the staff and customers to appear. Dozens of construction engineers, reluctant to finish a job so preferable to their normal, hazardous spaceborne duties, still lingered among its buildings, adding final touches and enjoying the facility’s best.

  To one side of the complex was located the utilitarian shape of the command dome. At first glance, the spaceport beyond this appeared busy. Its ferro-concrete surface was dotted with dozens of small shapes. One or two were always lifting or landing. This had surprised Auro when they had first landed, but exiting the gig he had realized these were yachts belonging to the local entrepreneurs. All were unarmed and incapable of FTL flight. Many could barely make it into a stable orbit. A few were visibly overengined and likely destined to participate in races once there were spacemen here to bet on them. All of these ships had been ferried here in the holds of larger transports alongside supplies of such necessities as liquor and gambling equipment. Several of the more gaudily painted, he suspected, were outfitted for recreational use by those who preferred their entertainment in zero g.

  Auro’s fantasies of orbital love were immediately grounded by the look on the face of the captain commanding the construction unit as he ran toward their landing grav car. The man had been all smiles an hour earlier; now tension pinched his features. The man dashed across the parking area and was nearly crushed by the descending grav car.

  Without even bothering to salute, the engineer poured out the details of their predicament: a message torp had just arrived. It was from Target. A Syndicate force of almost thirty ships had appeared off that planet. With most of the Fleet ships off on maneuvers, those remaining had been barely able to fight them off. When the Syndicate ships had turned and run they had continued in pursuit. During that pursuit an unknown number of the enemy vessels had split off from the main body. Projections of their turning arc indicated that they were headed for Brown.

  Everyone quickly realized that the Syndicate was about to rectify their oversight in leaving so many hulls t
o be salvaged. The Fleet commander, an Admiral Nortin, had not felt his force was strong enough to send any ships after those that had split off. His first concern, the message had justified the action by saying, had to be to protect the vital port facilities on Target, He had sent a message torp to Duane, but they could expect reinforcements no sooner than a week after receiving this message.

  The eight to ten Syndicate ships should arrive at Brown in approximately two more days. After appointing Abe Meier, as ranking officer present, to command the defense of the entire planet, Nortin ended by wishing them all luck.

  * * *

  An hour later Admiral Abraham Meier followed a long and hallowed naval tradition and held a staff meeting. Its intended purpose was to organize the defense of Brown. Abe wasn’t about to give up such a rich prize as this graveyard without a fight. After the first few minutes of discussion, the quartermaster was beginning to share the construction officer’s panic.

  Their situation wasn’t just hopeless. It was light-years, parsecs beyond hopeless. The total armament of all Fleet personnel on Brown consisted of seven laser rifles and four slug-throwing pistols carried by a unit of shore police. If every engineer on the work force worked without sleeping, there was a chance they could cobble together as many as half a dozen laser cannon from the wrecks. Of course this was less than were mounted on the smallest ship coming at them, and his cannon would be unable to move after firing. Once they opened fire, the location of each of these weapons would be known, and seconds later they would be destroyed by an overwhelming number of Syndicate missiles and laser beams.

  Nor could they even expect to do any damage. The Syndicate ships needed only to establish themselves in a stationary orbit and then casually beam or bomb every wreck in the graveyard to useless slag. In orbit their screens could operate and would deflect anything the defenders could juryrig. Being planetbound, Meier’s forces couldn’t even activate any screens they might salvage from the wrecks. The screen was a beneficial side effect of a ship’s Cooper drive, but the result of engaging any FTL drive or screen within a few kilometers of even a small asteroid was a most spectacular explosion. Starting such a drive in the command dome would turn the entire seven-mile-long valley around it into a neatly scooped hole several hundred meters deep.