Of Bravery and Bluster

by Scott Kelemen

  Garam would find her choice to begin this whole endeavor hilarious and advise her to stay true to her original purpose. ‘Figure out the minimum burst you will need to correct your course, then drift the rest of the way. Near-perfect is still pretty-damn good, Johanna!’

  Makaio would be stubborn. Of course. ‘Are you going to drift into space? No? Well, stick it out then! You’ll touch down fifty meters down the hull and walk to the airlock. Better to say you flew the whole way without power. That’s saying something!’

  Dianne was never passive. Once one thing was done, she was off to the next like a fireball. ‘You tried. Didn’t work out. Just clearing the ring is a thing of beauty. Now kick into high thrust and burn home like mad!’

  Ever the tactician, Sam might suggest coming at the whole thing from a different angle. ‘Could always open a circuit to the transport’s bridge. Maybe their flight crew would see the poetry of a straight flight. A touch on their own thrusters would line you up again. If you asked them really nicely.’

  Each of the ideas had merit. Each of them meant she would have to sacrifice a little of what she had been trying to accomplish. For Johanna, this was not a mark of pride. It was not a stunt. She wasn’t trying to prove her expertise. She had simply been in search of a beautiful moment.

  In that, she had succeeded. Would it irk her that she had not achieved the perfection she sought? Perhaps. Perhaps that was an indication she was not as centered as she should be. She’d have to meditate on that.

  For now, it was enough that she had made the attempt. Experienced the calm and peace of space. Yes, that was enough. There was no need to be obsessed with it. Especially since it was already lost. Refocus. Be in the moment.

  Filled with a new resolve, she made her decision. With a few blinks of her eye, she scanned through her HUD and activated her thrusters. She didn’t punch into a high burn, but accelerated along a smooth trajectory that would have her to her airlock in a reasonable time without over-stressing her body. She carried out even that simple plan with an elegance most of her classmates would envy. She only touched her thrusters twice, once to accelerate, and once to turn and decelerate until she could reach out and perch softly on the lip of the airlock’s landing pad.

  Magnetic boots now active, she walked through the entry gate, cycled the air, and entered the dressing room beyond.

  Here she continued the intentionally mirrored process. Where before she had stripped, depressurized, launched and passed the Gate, now she landed, pressurized into the room, and found the single uniform still hanging from a rack. The rest had all been claimed by her more eager classmates. This one was tailored for her, and only her. It was waiting for her to claim it and the life it represented.

  First, she donned the lighter blue trousers, a black stripe outlining the hem down the outer leg. Then, the white under-shirt that would be visible around the edges of the tunic. She quick-sealed it up the front, including the high collar around her slim neck. She sat to slide on the oiled-leather black boots. They were neither oiled nor made of true leather, but the shine had been well replicated from the traditions of the past. Lastly, she pulled on the darker-blue tunic with silver buttons, the cut crafted to accent her shoulders and trim, athletic waist.

  Johanna was not one to regret loss, especially a loss that filled a purpose. Some of her classmates would regret the loss of the symbols that had crowned their Academy tunics, showcasing their victories over the last four years. Now, the blue tunic looked comparatively empty. On her left sleeve, there was a small circle with an empty center to represent the Gate she had just passed through. Some officers were commissioned from the ranks, and others were given a pass on the Academy while being trained on other worlds for specialist tasks. That Gate was all that remained to credit her for the experiences of the last four years. Above that circle were the slashes that marked her four years of service, time that would not be forgotten. On her shoulders, where the waving lines of cadet year rankings had stood, there was now only a single dot to mark her as a midshipman. Technically, not even yet commissioned as an officer. She was still the larval form of an officer, about to enter the cocoon that would be her first ship and transform herself into a true member of the Navy’s leadership. The only other break to the dark blue tunic was a simple black name tag, declaring her identity to any who chose to read it. Summer.

  Hers. She had earned it. They all had, in their own ways.

  A comm system opened with a soft chime, and an unknown woman’s voice reached out into the space. “Midshipman Summer, this is Lieutenant Cravette.” There was only amusement in her voice, perhaps remembering fondly her own first donning of the service uniform. “Your presence would be appreciated in the briefing room. The transport will be jumping soon, and the class needs to be given their assignments and safety briefing.”

  Johanna smiled. After all the pageantry of Academy ceremonies, she was honestly surprised by how pure and uncomplicated the graduation had been. A hand-shake to the Commandant-Superior. A loss of one uniform. The Gate. The gaining of a new one. And it was over.

  “I’ll be right out, Lieutenant. I wouldn’t want to hold anyone up any longer.” Enough tradition for now. It was time to embrace the future and whatever might come. She had a feeling it would not disappoint.

  Chapter 23

  Master Rating Travic Simmons dropped off the shuttle ramp to the flight deck, not quite believing he had just scored a few extra hours of liberty. He noticed his friend walking in to prep his own shuttle for the next delivery run. “Jorge, didn’t they tell you? They just cancelled my last run over to the auxiliary transport hub.”

  His friend was confused. “What? When?”

  Simmons shrugged, “Not sure when they decided, but they only told me a few minutes ago. I was most of the way through my system checks and my pilot was in the ready room getting our final flight briefing, but they shut us down.”

  Jorge still looked uncertain. “Are you sure? I saw a clearance message for a transport to approach the Aux-Hub ten minutes ago.”

  Simmons nodded. “Yeah, a bunch of middies from the Academy were just brought in. They got in just under the wire. Everything else docking at the hub was re-directed.”

  “With no reason why?”

  Simmons shrugged again. “Who knows? Maybe one of their traffic control directors got sick at the last minute and they couldn’t put a watch together? They sounded worried about something. Too busy to do anything but tell me to keep clear. All I know is they cancelled my last flight, which means I get off work three hours early. Guess what? It also means night flights are cancelled so you get to blow off your whole shift. Want to hit the café for a few rounds?” His attention was called away by an unfamiliar face in a Navy pilot uniform. This was a small supply station, and he knew all the local pilots well. “Umm, hey, who are you?”

  Glen Sanders didn’t bother to argue with him. He had caught their conversation. Unlike them, he knew why those flights had been cancelled. He was out of time. Twin flashes of his pistol sent two non-lethal RVN rounds into them, and they were incapacitated. It was not mercy. Blood would cause an immediate panic, while missing persons took time to gain traction.

  Before anyone else happened by, he hauled them both into Simmons’ shuttle. It was still mostly warm from its previous flights. Leaving them tied up and locked in a cabinet, Glen started killing the identification systems and automatic control links that would let the station flight controllers override and stop his progress.

  He knew they would be screaming at him the second he fired up his engines. But by the time anyone scrambled to intercept him, he’d be at the aux-hub and already vanished into the station. If the Trinitian Agent’s plan didn’t kill them all before questions could be asked, the station authorities could interpret his concealed face, the stolen shuttle and unconscious men any way they wanted.

  Settling in behind the pilot console, he brought the engines up to full heat and nudged the thrusters into life to ease the shutt
le out of the hangar. He needed to get over to that station before all hell broke loose.

  He might already be too late.

  ***

  Midshipman Garam Anton paused in conversation with his friends to take a good, long look around. He leaned back in his chair with a certain satisfaction. Life was good.

  True, he had been in more extravagant drinking holes in his life. Even the gunrooms back on Sanctuary put this, the officer’s wardroom in Proxima V’s auxiliary orbital docking Station, to shame. Certainly, it was no match for the posh clubs on the core Alliance worlds, nor the elegant style of the central officer’s mess at Alliance Central Military Headquarters on the planet below. Here, the simple furniture and austere decor was meant to serve the modest day to day recreational needs of a small station’s officer corps and not much else.

  More could be said for the view. Floor to ceiling windows lined one entire wall in a way no warship would ever allow. The panoramic view showed the sun just dipping under the planet’s horizon. A few more seconds of pure, undiluted light streaked in to wash over Garam’s face. No doubt it made the transport station’s hull glow as it hung in its orbit, suspended in hard vacuum several dozen kilometers above the surface of the world below. That gave a small element of romance to what was otherwise a purely utilitarian facility. The secondary docking port was otherwise a minor hub set in a low orbit above the central headquarters, a minor cog in this star system’s grander machine.

  Not far off as orbital distances went, the planet’s colossal main space dock completed the view. Trapped in its own orbit only a few hundred kilometers away, the central station’s sheer scale was a tribute to humankind’s engineering capabilities. Equally impressive were the hundreds of flitting motes of light marking the arrival and departure of starships spanning from modest transports to the immense power of modern battleships.

  All of it was impressive, but the view was not the main cause of his good mood. They had graduated. They were off that cramped transport. They were only hours away from being given their first assignment on a Navy starship. This was easily the best excuse for a party he had ever had.

  The final night before shipping out was a long-standing tradition, and any of the normal discipline for the midshipmen was forgotten. They were still in space, so getting fully and completely drunk wasn’t smart, but a few in the wardroom were coming awfully close to that line as they bid their friends from the Academy a fond farewell.

  Garam wasn’t tired in the least. It was partly excitement. It was also partly jump-lag. Their transport had been on a reversed cycle from the station. The nearly-hundred midshipmen had only woken up a few hours ago, and they were all fresh and in high spirits. Fortunately, the local band had been summoned, and they were enthusiastically entertaining the restless cadets on their last night.

  From the corner of his eye, Garam caught sight of their haggard waiter leaving the main bar, arms laden with drinks. Dancing past several elbows and legs that were determined to trip him up, the waiter arrived with only a shred of his poise intact. Garam reached out to steady him a little, and the harried man returned a smile of appreciation. He deposited their various drinks about the table and rushed off to his next customers.

  Dianne let out a sigh. “Well, here we are. I figure a toast might be warranted, but I feel a little bad making a toast about leaving Havoc when my parents are still back there. On a midshipman’s pay, it’s going to be months before I can afford a personal FTL transmission back home to the folks.”

  “They’d understand, Dianne. They are both part of the life. They’d want you to be looking forward, not backward.”

  Makaio raised his stein. “If we’re giving thanks, then here’s to the ones who have decided to trust us on their ships.” His booming voice cut clearly over the music. “Ladies and Gentlemen! I give you the Alliance!”

  The traditional loyalty toast echoed over the nearby tables, too. It was nearly two dozen voices that responded along with his three attentive friends, “The Alliance!”

  Garam let out a bright cheer as the echo faded. The band, long used to similar shows of exuberance from Navy officers, played on and ignored the interruption.

  The exuberant cheer did manage to disrupt Johanna’s focus on the music, bringing her back into the present. She glanced around with a quizzical look, as if finding the entire ceremony mildly odd.

  Dianne caught the look. “Love a duck, Jo, you’ve been at the academy for as long as the rest of us. Surely a little of the spirit wore off on you.”

  Johanna gestured at the stage. “They interrupted the music. That’s a little rude, isn’t it?”

  Makaio snickered, and stood up next to Garam, eyes on Johanna, “I’m sure they don’t mind. Since we kicked it off, we might as well go the whole way. How is it the next part goes, Garam?”

  Garam reached up and tapped Makaio’s mug with his, then called out to the room, “To the Navy!”

  “The Alliance’s shield!” The response was even louder, taking in even more of the surrounding tables that had perked up at the traditional toast following on the loyal one.

  Johanna took a pensive sip of her mixed juice as she watched in the ritual. She spoke softly to Sam, the interest and mild surprise evident in her tone, “We’ve done this at formal mess dinners, true. Why here?” She idly scratched at her arm above where her tracking implant from the Academy had been inserted. She had considered on several occasions to have it removed, but it had never been a high priority. That it would itch now didn’t make any sense. It hadn’t bothered her in three years since having it implanted. She shrugged it aside, focusing on Sam.

  Sam laughed softly, shaking his head, “All part of the fun, Jo. It’s part of who we are now, isn’t it? Part of what makes us Navy. We’re declaring our loyalty for our own sake. For our own comradery. Because this is something we share, even if we shared nothing else.” He gestured across the room, where Tanner Mathem had also raised his glass. “See?” Deciding to involve her, Sam recalled her always accurate time-sense and used it, “Do you remember the third part of the ritual? The toast of the day? What’s the day on Proxima?”

  “Fifth day, near the end. We were twelve hours ahead on the transport.” She rattled off the conversion as if surprised he was not keeping accurate track of time in his own head.

  “What’s the older equivalent? HQ uses the old designations and keeps a seven-day work week to honor the lost home world. Got to love good ole’ fashioned, stubborn, Navy tradition.”

  “Oh. Day of Freya.” She was uncertain why the old homeworld had decided to name its days after even older gods and goddesses from ancient myth, but she was quite sure she was right. Her words drifted off a little as she answered. In a crowd like this, the sensory inputs were a deluge. Her inquisitive mind tried to skim over the wavetops and not get dragged down, but she couldn’t help occasionally getting sidetracked. Before, it had been the jazz music, which she had never heard before. This time, a station officer in the uniform and coat of a medical technician had just entered the wardroom. Her eyes caught the telltale sign of crimson on his shirt cuff. He was trying to cover it up, but had let the red stain slip into plain view for a few seconds. It was odd to see any medical staff sloppy enough to leave blood stains on his tunic. At worst, it risked biohazard contamination. At best, it was unclean and hardly hygienic.

  Sam didn’t notice. Instead, he stood up to stand next to Makaio. Freya’s Day happened to be one of his favorite toasts of the day, even though peace had reigned in the Alliance for over three centuries. He raised his glass, and called out with his well cultured voice, “To a Willing Foe!”

  The ceremonial toasts of the day had survived the exodus from the old world, and not a single officer in the Alliance Navy seemed inclined to let them fade from memory. They had been changed and modernized, but lost none of their original enthusiasm. The chorus of the reply now rang back from every corner of the room, “And the deep space to fight them in!”

  The band, havi
ng fought valiantly until that moment, finally lost its rhythm against the hundred voices. They joined in the reply with good spirit, then immediately struck up their tune again.

  Johanna was called back to the moment by the fierce shout. She flinched a little at the cascade of sound crashing over her senses, hesitating slightly as she raised her drink to the toast.

  Reclaiming his seat along with his friends, Garam gestured at Johanna’s juice glass. “At least you aren’t toasting with water. This is the last night, Jo. Tonight, if it never happens again, it wouldn’t kill you to have a little drink!”

  Makaio had always been the first to defend her. “Hasn’t happened in four years, Garam. Think she’ll give in tonight?” Then, he turned her way. “Then again, it really wouldn’t kill you, right? Or is there something we should know? I mean, if it will kill you, we’ll stop bothering you!”

  Her four friends shared a light laugh while Johanna suffered their good humor bred from the drinks they’d already had. One Academy tradition Johanna had come to know intimately well was the long-standing habit of friends razzing their own friends. Against outsiders, they would defend each other like lions, but within the circle every foible was fair game. She had never felt the need to instigate nor to fight back, but she had learned to accept the jibes without hard feelings.

  Behind them, the band finished its latest song. The friends all joined the clapping from around the room. Makaio complained, “These guys are so much better than that lame excuse for a band that played for the departure party. I hope the instructors put the screws to the junior fourth years who were responsible for that fiasco. It was painful.”

  Garam was standing on his seat as he applauded the band which had just announced they were taking a small break. As ever, he seemed impervious to the introverted stereotype which clung to those who found engines and circuit boards as endlessly fascinating as he did. As he climbed down off his seat, he added, “Maybe. But that was nowhere near as painful as that last hyper-jump. They stretched that jump right to the limit. It definitely should have been broken into two legs, so we didn’t get our guts twisted so much.”