Katja felt a sudden wave of weariness as she looked around at the familiar hangar, and had no interest in schmoozing with Fleet personnel. The first thing she had to do, she knew, was find out what was happening with Rapier’s crew.
Jack limped down the ramp and stopped next to her. “We have gravity.”
“Yeah, it’s standard for invasion ships, even in wartime. It’s so the regiment can keep the right muscles in shape,” she explained. “No good invading a planet if you’ve been floating in zero-g for weeks.”
“But these ships show up like small planets in the Bulk.”
She understood his point, and nodded—AG meant danger in anti-stealth warfare.
A short warning klaxon interrupted her thoughts. Looking up, she saw the airlock hatch open in the deckhead thirty meters above, to admit another small vessel. At first it was hard to see from her angle, but as the platform lowered she saw that it wasn’t another Hawk, or a strike fighter. Then she recognized the familiar nose and jet-black color and realized that it was a fast-attack craft.
She cast a glance down the hangar and confirmed that both of Normandy’s FACs were parked in place. So this had to be a ship that had been reassigned to Normandy. Maybe one that had escaped Gallipoli or Sicily before they were destroyed.
Wherever it came from, it had taken a beating. Both forward turrets were mangled, and impact marks punctured the hull. Judging from the sound, only one engine was operating. All four morningstars had been expended, and both strike pods were missing. The port wing seemed to droop slightly. As the platform dropped to the deck and the FAC rolled slowly off, she strained to read the name.
Then she gasped.
RAPIER TFA 09
“Yes!” Sudden joy filled her heart. Through the warped windows of the cockpit she caught a glimpse of a lone figure at the controls and she didn’t have to see his face to know who it was.
“Holy shit,” she heard Jack say. “I thought she went down!”
“He had a plan,” Katja said. “That son of a bitch said he had a plan. I didn’t believe him, but he had a fucking plan!”
Rapier had rolled past them and picked up speed for the taxi to the far end of the hangar. Infused with new energy, Katja jogged to catch up. Over the whirring of her suit and the clanking of her footfalls she barely heard the cheer that went up from the gathered crowd. The battered little ship moved into her usual spot, rotated smoothly, and came to rest. The onlookers closed in to block the nose, waving and cheering.
Katja thumped up to them and pressed against the rearmost rank, straining to see over the raised arms. She heard Rapier’s lone engine power down, and thought she heard the hiss of the brow ramp opening in the ship’s belly.
A moment later, a huge, roaring cheer went up, followed by applause and whistles. Katja strained to see, but in vain. Jack appeared next to her, puffing.
“Is it your captain?”
She tried desperately to catch a glimpse. “I think so!”
Then the crowd was moving, shifting to one side. It rippled toward the nearest set of doors. Katja moved quickly to try and get around them. She managed to get a view of the doors just as a tall, familiar form in a spacesuit passed through, followed closely by someone in another suit.
She looked back at Rapier. The dented, slashed and seared hull. The mangled turrets and broken port wing. The vessel that had brought Thomas home.
It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
27
To feel gravity again. That was the icing on the cake.
Thomas took slow, steady breaths as he strode along the bright, warm passageways of Normandy, reveling in the strain his legs felt as they propelled him forward. He could tell by the rate at which he was passed by busy crewmembers that he was lacking his usual pace, but after two weeks in zero-g and nearly two days without food, he was thankful he could still stand.
The crowd who had greeted him had been too much. Thank goodness Breeze had been there to get him away. She’d led him to his cabin and told him to rest, but duty had to take precedence. So a shower and change of clothes later, Thomas was dragging himself up into flag country.
The door to the captain’s—commodore’s cabin opened at Thomas’s buzz. He stepped through and found himself in a pleasant living area filled with standard-issue furniture and a backdrop of the stars visible through the broad window on the outboard side. A small dining table with four chairs occupied the closest end of the cabin, giving way to a pair of couches and an armchair placed around a high coffee table.
“Rapier reporting, sir,” he said.
Commodore Chandler was all smiles as he rose from the armchair, strode over, and shook Thomas’s hand.
“You look like shit, boy,” he said. Then he returned to his chair and stood beside it. “Take a seat.” Thomas followed and gratefully sat down, trying not to flop too much.
“When did you last eat?” the commodore continued.
“A while ago, sir. Some time since I last slept.”
“Well, none of us have been getting much sleep lately,” Chandler said. He pressed a button next to his chair. “Steward, coffee and sandwiches for two, please.”
“Yes, sir,” came the reply.
Chandler sat back. Thomas forced himself to meet the older man’s gaze. Even after all these years, he had trouble figuring out what was going on behind those eyes.
“First off, Thomas, I want to congratulate you on a very bold maneuver—one which probably saved this ship. I’m going to be recommending you for commendation.”
Maybe it was the fatigue, but Thomas didn’t feel moved by the statement. He dropped his gaze to his hands.
“That’s not necessary, sir,” he said. “Every other ship in the EF took more of a beating than Rapier. We were only engaged for a few moments.”
“Do you think we give out medals for suffering?”
The harsh tone took Thomas by surprise. He looked up.
“We’re soldiers, Thomas,” Chandler continued, “and we’re supposed to take a beating. That’s our job. In your ‘few moments’ you did more than just take some shots—you saved Normandy and everyone in her. And it very nearly cost you your own ship.”
The steward entered with a tray of coffee and sandwiches cut into quarters. He laid everything out with precision, and poured two cups before retreating once again.
Chandler poured some cream in his coffee.
“And if it had been one of the cruisers who fended off that attack, I wouldn’t be recommending any medals. It’s a cruiser’s job to protect the main body.” He sat back and took a sip. “On the other hand, it’s not the job of a fast-attack craft. That’s what makes your action notable.”
Thomas reached absently for a sandwich, and his mind drifted back. All he could picture were the flames enveloping Rapier’s cockpit, the awful shuddering as the single surviving engine struggled to pull up, and the ominous creak of straining bulkheads.
Somehow, “heroic” wasn’t the word that came to mind.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“How’s your ship?”
Thomas shook off the hellish images of the Laikan atmosphere and recalled what had happened afterward. He’d cleared the Laikan gravity well on the night side, pushing the overwrought engine to continue climbing in order to avoid the bottomless pit of Anubis’s pull. There had been a terrifying rush of air as the ship’s atmosphere leaked out into space, leaving only his suit’s internal supply.
He had shut down every system he could in order to keep his one engine going, all the while searching the skies for Centauri craft. Just getting clear of Laikan space had drained most of the reserve power, and by the time he’d exited the Anubian ecliptic his own suit had been running low.
Only the crew cafeteria had remained pressurized, and by opening the hatch wide enough to scramble through, he’d let most of the air escape. Locating an emergency breathing device, he’d switched to a spare suit, getting pressurized again before his blood vessels bu
rst in the vapor-thin air.
Finding the remains of the Expeditionary Force had been a challenge, as it had gone beacon-silent. Twelve hours of fruitless radio searches had drained his battery power to dangerous levels. In the end, he had activated his own beacon in the hope that he would be found. A warning call from one of the EF ships, telling him to douse his beacon, had revealed their location and enabled him to find his way home.
“Thomas?”
He looked up with a start. “Sir?”
“How is your ship?” Chandler said again. He was frowning. Thomas quickly swallowed the last of the sandwich that had found its way into his mouth.
“One engine is functioning at emergency levels,” he replied. “No weapons systems. Hull integrity compromised in every compartment. No strike capability. No boarding capability. I recommend that she be grounded for repairs, sir.”
Chandler nodded, sipping his coffee.
Thomas helped himself to another sandwich. That gave him a moment to recall Breeze’s quick report on the status of the crew. He was pleasantly surprised that she had taken responsibility in his absence.
“Sir, if my crew can help out elsewhere while the ship is out of action, they’re yours.”
“I’ve already attached your XO, Brisebois, to my staff. She’s pretty sharp.”
Thomas nodded. The fact that Breeze wasn’t actually his XO didn’t seem worth mentioning. “And I’m sure Lieutenant Emmes will be welcome back in her regiment.”
“Yes, once Brisebois finishes the investigation.”
He looked up. “What investigation?”
Chandler put down his coffee cup, placed two sandwich quarters on a plate, and leaned back again. “Thomas, what orders did you give when you told your crew to abandon ship?”
“I told them to get to safety,” he said, then added, “and that I had a plan to save the ship.”
“What kind of plan required you to get rid of your crew?”
More images. The cockpit windows started to warp under the pressure and heat. The engine was already on maximum climb. The ship was pulling up, but not fast enough. There was a double thump as the strike pods jettisoned. He’d shut his faceplate. Then the flames had started to fade, and the ship had gained altitude.
“I knew we couldn’t pull out of the dive unless we shed mass. With the crew clear, Rapier was light enough to pull out on one engine.”
The coffee was cool, but he drained the cup, then bit into another sandwich.
“Thomas, that was brilliant.”
The coffee was turning his stomach. He dropped the half-eaten sandwich to his plate.
“My first priority was saving my crew, sir,” he said. “I told them to abandon ship. I trusted my officers to choose the best options after that.” Then he remembered Chandler’s words. “What happened after they left the ship?”
“We’re not exactly sure,” the commodore replied. “Brisebois has been taking statements from the survivors, but right now it looks like Emmes might have lost it.”
“What?” Thomas was too tired to show his shock, but he felt it.
“Apparently, Emmes insisted that the pods rendezvous in low orbit. She forced all the troopers into one pod and the crewmen into the other. Brisebois tried to talk to her, but got hit in the face and threatened.” Chandler shook his head. “Brisebois took her pod and headed straight for Normandy. We recovered the other one an hour or two later, but with only four people aboard.”
“Emmes?”
“She wasn’t with them. We thought she was dead, but from what I’ve been told, one of the Hawks picked her up in space just a few hours ago. Unconscious but alive.” He paused, then continued. “I’m a little concerned about this young strike officer of yours. She fucked up that raid on Cerberus, and now she went crazy during a battle.”
Thomas rubbed his eyes, struggling to think clearly. “What did her troopers say happened?”
“Brisebois is still questioning them. She says they’re pretty messed up, and are still talking about gun battles.”
“What did their helmet recorders reveal?”
Chandler paused. Then his expression hardened. “I don’t know all the details. I have a war to fight, and I don’t have time to watch helmet-cam recordings. The investigation is underway.” The tone of his voice indicated that the discussion was at an end.
“Yes, sir.”
The door buzzed. Chandler signaled for it to open.
Thomas turned his head to greet the visitor, and struggled to rise as he recognized Colonel Korolev. The acting brigade commander ignored him completely.
“Commodore,” Korolev said, “we’ve learned how the Centauri battle cruiser got knocked out of action.”
Thomas felt a hand at his elbow. It was Chandler.
“Mr. Kane,” he said, “it’s good to have you back. Get some rest.”
“Yes, sir,” Thomas responded. He knew a dismissal when he heard one. He headed for the door.
Suddenly Korolev seemed to notice him. “Kane of the Rapier?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have a remarkable crew. I think you should stay and watch this.” The colonel’s eyes bore into his with an intent he couldn’t begin to fathom. He held up a tiny recording device.
“What do you have?” Chandler asked.
“The helmet recording of one Sergeant Suleiman Chang.”
* * *
It was another hour before Thomas finally returned to his cabin, but despite the fatigue he couldn’t even think about sleep. As he flopped down in an armchair, his mind was filled with images of savage violence. Not even Commodore Chandler had had much to say, once the recording had completed its run.
Alone in his cabin, Thomas couldn’t help but shake his head in wonder. What had apparently been the beginnings of a court-martial investigation was probably going to turn into a Cross of Valor. Nine troopers had boarded—boarded!—one of the jewels in the crown of the Centauri fleet.
Sitting in the dim light, Thomas rubbed weary hands over his eyes.
According to Breeze, word was spreading that Rapier had saved Normandy, and Chandler himself had said as much. In Thomas’s opinion, the whole thing was overblown. If the laws of physics had been working slightly differently that day, neither Thomas nor his ship would have survived to tell the tale.
You always wanted to be a hero, he said to himself. Well, here you go, hero.
There had been no plan—he’d just wanted to get his crew to safety. It never even occurred to him that ejecting the strike pods might save Rapier. With his ship—his command—burning up in atmo, and the EF being decimated above him, he had thought it best to cut his losses.
His last words to Katja had been a bluff, something quick to get her to abandon ship along with everyone else. After twenty years in uniform, he’d learned how to lie convincingly.
He’d almost found his peace, almost been ready to die, when he noticed that Rapier was gaining altitude. It had been with wide-eyed disbelief, not cool calculation, that he had checked the readouts. Most of the ship’s air had escaped before he implemented damage control. One way or another, he must’ve been determined to get himself killed that day.
Now he was a hero, because he’d let Chandler—and everyone else—believe that he’d had a cunning plan. He tried to laugh, but the sound was little more than a scoff.
On the forward bulkhead he’d hung his professional certificates—his commission, basic line certificate, anti-vessel warfare qualification, basic strike certificate, fast-attack qualification, command certificate. An impressive list for an officer so young, but all the checks required for promotion.
Next step, command of a destroyer. After that, for a streamer like him, perhaps a battleship. And then into the admiralty, one day to be Fleet Marshal, commanding the entire Astral Force. A meteoric rise through the ranks, yet so little time spent in each position that he really didn’t know what the fuck he was doing.
Commander Avernell had advised against the Free Lh
asa rescue, and Thomas had gone over her head. Chandler had his own aspirations, and getting promoted in peacetime was such a slow process.
So here they were. Chandler had his field-promotion, and Thomas was a hero.
He let out a weary sigh and looked over at the familiar image, taken on Olympus Mons. Soma, his beloved fiancée—she was part of the plan, too: beauty, poise, an excellent pedigree—she would make a fine Fleet Marshal’s consort. Mixed-race marriages were very much in vogue these days. Even better if they spanned two worlds in the Terran system.
Thomas had no illusions, though. Soma had her own agenda. As part of the Jovian elite, she was thrilled to be marrying a rising star in the Astral Force—one from Earth, no less. That would sit well with the nouveaux riches of the outer planets.
He leaned his head back to gaze at the overhead light. No doubt his parents were proud of him. They would have told their friends exaggerated stories about his space adventures every month at the booster clinic. The number of giddy messages he’d received from Mom about the wedding plans reassured him that they approved of the match.
At least they’d be happy.
But sitting alone in his dim cabin aboard the invasion ship Normandy, somewhere in the deep blackness near the star Sirius, Thomas Kane concluded that his entire life was a sham.
He peered over at his mini-fridge, wishing that regulations permitted alcohol in the cabins. He needed a drink, and debated if he had enough energy to walk to the star lounge.
The door buzzer startled him. He blinked heavily, shaking off the mental cobwebs.
“Come in,” he said.
The door slid open. Katja peered in. “Hello?”
His attempt to rise melted into a long stretch.
“Hey, OpsO,” he said, stifling a yawn. “Come on in.” She stepped into the cabin just enough for the door to close behind her.
“Sorry, sir,” she said. “I should have known you’d be asleep. I can come back.”
Virtues of War Page 21