War & Space: Recent Combat

by Ken MacLeod

  Petoskey continued to stare into the scope. “Shit. There’s nothing out here.”

  Gordet cleared his throat. “It’s million of kilometers out, sir. Still too far away for a clear visual.”

  “No! I mean there’s nothing out here. This system won’t hold their attention for long. It’s only a matter of time before they find the opened holes to Adares and home.” He paused. “Do that and they’ll close our route back.”

  Indeed. Max had a strong urge to pace. If he started bouncing off the walls, he was certain Petoskey would order him off the bridge, so tried to float with purpose. Burdick, the third member of the Intelligence team, paused in the hatch, carrying a large box. He nodded to Lukinov and Reedy, who followed him forward toward the secure radio room. Max wondered briefly why Burdick had left his post.

  “The intercept makes things easier for us,” Petoskey concluded aloud. “Calculate the soonest opportunity to engage without warning. With any luck, the missing ship will be counted as a wormhole mishap.” Absorbed by the sponge.

  Elefteriou turned and spoke to Rucker, the First Lieutenant, who spoke to Gordet, who said, “Sir, radio transmissions from the ship appear to be directed at another ship in the vicinity of the jump. If we take out this one, then the other dives and lives to witness.”

  “Just one other ship?”

  “No way of telling this far out without the active sensors.” Which they couldn’t use without showing up like a solar flare.

  “The order stands,” said Petoskey. “Also, Commander, loose cargo in the corridors impeded my progress to the bridge. This is a contraindication of ship readiness.”

  Gordet stiffened, as crushed by this criticism as he’d been puffed up by the praise. “It’ll be taken care of, sir!”

  “See to it. Where’s Chevrier?” Arkady Chevrier was the Chief Engineer. He came from a family of industrialists that contributed heavily to the Revolution. His uncle headed the Department of Finance, and his father was a General. Mallove, Max’s boss in Political Education, had warned him not to antagonize Chevrier.

  “In the engine room, sir,” answered Gordet. “He thought that the sudden unscheduled shutdown of main power resulted in a drain on the main battery arrays. I sent him to fix it.”

  “Raise Engineering on the com.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Gordet. “Raise Engineering.”

  Lefty punched his console, listened to his earphones, shook his head.

  Petoskey shifted the plug of tobacco in his mouth. “When I tried to contact the bridge from quarters, the com was down. If I have to choose between ship communications and life support, in the presence of a possible enemy vessel, I want communications first. Get a status report from Engineering, and give me a com link to all essential parts of the ship within the next fifteen minutes if you have to do it with tin cans and string. Is that clear?”

  Sweat beaded on Gordet’s forehead. His jowls quivered as he answered, “Yessir!”

  Gordet did not divide his attention well, Max noted. The Commander had been so absorbed with the other ship, he had not yet noticed the ship communications problem. Several past errors in judgment featured prominently in his permanent file. He seemed unaware that this was the reason he’d been passed over for ship command of his own. But he was steady, and more or less politically sound.

  He could also be a vindictive S.O.B. Max watched him turn on his subordinates. “Corporal Elefteriou,” Gordet shouted. “I want a full report on com status. Five minutes ago is not soon enough! Lieutenant Rucker!”

  “Sir!”

  “Get your ass to Engineering. I want to receive Chevrier’s verbal report on this com here!” He punched it with his fist for emphasis. “If it doesn’t come in fifteen minutes, you can hold your breath while the rest of us put on space gear.”

  The First Lieutenant set off for Engineering. Petoskey cleared his throat. “Commander, one other thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “We’ll switch to two shifts now, six hours on, six off. All crew.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Petoskey gestured for Max to come beside him.

  “So now we wait around for three days to intercept,” Petoskey said in a low voice. “You look like a damn monkey floating there, Nikomedes. We could surgi-tape your boots to the deck.”

  “That’s not necessary.” Petoskey wasn’t the only captain in the fleet who’d tie his political officer down to one spot if he could. Max needed to be free to move around to catch his traitor.

  “If you were qualified for any systems, I’d put you to work.”

  An excellent reason to remain unqualified. “And what would you have me do?”

  “At this point?” Petoskey shrugged. Then he frowned, and jerked his head toward the Intelligence team’s radio room. “Was that true? About . . . ?”

  “This is not the place,” Max said firmly. Illusion was not reality; the crew pretended not to hear Petoskey speak, but they’d repeat every word that came from his mouth.

  “I hate the Adareans, I want you to know that,” Petoskey said. “Anything to do with the Adareans, I hate, and I’ll have none of it aboard my ship. So if there’s any danger, even from one of the intelligence men—”

  “There will be no danger,” Max asserted firmly. “It is my job to make certain of that.”

  “See to it, Lieutenant.”

  “I will.” Max was surprised. That was the most direct command any Captain had given him during his tenure as a political officer.

  Petoskey returned an almost respectful nod. Max was about to suggest a later discussion when Lukinov shouted from the hatch.

  “Captain. You might want to listen to this. We tried to raise you on the com, but it’s not working.”

  Petoskey slipped his feet free and followed the Intelligence officer. Max invited himself and swam along.

  Inside the listening room, Reedy sat at a long desk, wearing a pair of headphones, making notes on the translation in her palm-pad. Burdick had a truck battery surgi-taped to a table wedged in the tiny room’s rounded corner. Wires ran from it to an open panel on the main concomsole, and Burdick connected others. He looked up from his work and grinned as they came into the hatch. “Gotta love the electrician’s mates,” he said. “They’ve got everything.”

  Lukinov laughed and handed a pair of headphones to Petoskey. “Wait until you hear this.”

  Petoskey slipped the earpieces into place. “I don’t understand Chinese,” he said after a minute. “Always sounds like an out-of-tune guitar to me.”

  Lukinov’s smile widened. “But it’s voices, not code, don’t you see? The level of encryption was like cheap glue.” He made a knife-opening-a-letter gesture with his hands.

  “Good work. What have you learned so far?”

  Lukinov leaned over Reedy’s shoulder to look at the palm-pad. “Corporate security research ship. Spongedivers.”

  Petoskey nodded. “Bunch of scientists and part-time soldiers. Soft, but great tech. Way beyond ours. It’s a safe bet their battery arrays don’t go down when they fly mute. Lefty says there’s another one parked out by the wormhole.”

  Lukinov confirmed this. “We know it because the radio tech is talking to his girlfriend over on the other ship.”

  Burdick snickered, and Petoskey muttered “Mixed crews” with all the venom of a curse. He glared at Reedy so hard his eyes must have burned a hole in the ensign’s head. The young woman looked up from her pad. “Yes, sir?” she asked.

  “I didn’t speak to you,” Petoskey snapped.

  Mixed crews were part of the Revolution, a way to double manpower—so to speak—in the military forces and give Jesusalem a chance to catch up. So far it was only in the officer corps, and even there it hadn’t been received well. Some men, like Vance at the Academy, tried to openly discourage it despite the government’s commitment.

  Lukinov held the back of Reedy’s seat to keep from drifting toward the ceiling. “The inbound ship’s called the Deng Xiaopeng. Why does tha
t name sound familiar?”

  Petoskey shrugged. “Means nothing to me.”

  If they didn’t know, then Max would give them an answer. He cleared his throat. “I believe that Deng Xiaopeng was one of Napoleon’s generals.”

  Lukinov curled his mouth skeptically.

  “That doesn’t sound right,” said Petoskey.

  “I’m quite certain of it,” said Max, bracing himself between the wall and floor at angle sideways to the others. “Confusion to the enemy.”

  “Always,” replied Petoskey, apparently happy to find something he could agree with. “Always.”

  When Max’s mind became restless, so did he. Two days after the spongedivers were sighted, his thoughts still careened weightlessly off the small walls. The presence of the ship from Outback complicated the ship’s mission and his. Meanwhile, he was cut off from all his superiors, unable to guess which goal they wanted him to pursue right now. Or goals, as the case more likely was. So he was on his own again. Forced to decide for himself.

  Nothing new about that, he thought ruefully.

  He released the straps, and pushed off for the door to take a tour of the ship. He still had his traitor to catch.

  When he opened the door, he saw another one cracked open down the corridor. Lieutenant Rucker peeked out and gestured for Max to come inside. Max checked to see that no one was in the hall and slipped into the room.

  The blonde young man closed the door too fast and it slammed shut. “Didn’t know if you were ever going to come out,” Rucker said, producing an envelope. “This is from Gordet.”

  Max took the multi-tool from his pocket, and flicked the miniature vibra-knife on to slice open the seal. He studied the sheet inside. Commander Gordet had written down the codes for the safe that held the Captain’s secret orders. Interesting. Max wondered if Rucker had made a copy for himself. “Did Gordet say anything specific?”

  “He said to tell you that if we were to engage the Outback ship in combat and anything unfortunate were to happen to the Captain, you would have his full cooperation and support.”

  “So what did he tell the Captain?”

  Rucker looked at the wall, opened his mouth, closed it again. He was not a quick liar.

  Max gave him an avuncular clap on the shoulder. “You can tell me, Lieutenant. I’ll find out anyway.”

  Rucker gulped, still refusing to meet Max’s eyes. “He told the Captain that, um, if we were to engage the other ship in combat, and anything unfortunate were to happen to you, he’d make sure it was all clear in the records.”

  So Gordet was indecisive, trying to play both sides at once. That was a hard game. The Commander had no gift for it either. “What’s your opinion of Gordet?” probed Max.

  “He’s a good officer. I’m proud to serve under him.”

  Rather standard response, deserving of Max’s withering stare. This time Rucker’s eyes did meet his.

  “But, um, he’s still mad about losing his cabin to you, sir. He doesn’t like bunking with the junior officers.”

  “He’ll get over it,” said Max. “Just remind him that Lukinov is bunking with Burdick, eh?” He gestured at Rucker to open the door. Rucker looked both ways down the corridor, motioned that it was clear, and Max went on his way.

  He headed topside, pulling himself hand over hand up the narrow shaft. When he exited the tube he found Kulakov conducting an emergency training drill in the forward compartments. Stick-its were hung up everywhere, indicating the type and extent of combat damage. Crews in full space gear performed “repairs” while the Chief Petty Officer graded their performance.

  “You’re dead,” shouted Kulakov, grabbing a man by his collar and pulling him out of the exercise. “You forgot that you’re a vacuum cleaner!”

  “But sir, I’m suited up properly.” His voice sounded injured, even distorted slightly by the microphone.

  “But you’re not plugged in,” Kulakov said, tapping the stick-it on the wall. “That’s open to the outside, and without your tether you’re nothing more now than a very small meteor moving away from the ship! What are the rest of you looking at?”

  He glanced over his shoulder, saw Max, and froze. The crews stopped their exercise.

  “You just spaced another crewman,” said Max, tilting his head toward a man who’d backed into the wall. “Carry on.”

  He turned away without waiting for Kulakov’s salute. He didn’t know why he had such an effect on that man, but now he was thinking he should look into it.

  He proceeded through several twisting corridors, designed to slow and confuse boarding parties headed for the bridge, and passed the gym. He needed exercise. The weightlessness was already starting to get to him. But he decided to worry about that later.

  He paused when he came to the missile room.

  The Black Forest.

  That was the crew’s nickname for it. Four polished black columns rose four uninterrupted stories—tubes for nuclear missiles, back when this ship was intended to fight the same kind of dirty war waged by the Adareans. It was the largest open space in the entire ship. When the grav was on, the men exercised by running laps, up one set of stairs, across the catwalk, down the other, around the tubes, and up again.

  Max went out onto the catwalk, climbed up on the railing, and jumped.

  If one could truly jump in zero-gee, that was. He pushed himself towards the floor, and prayed that the grav didn’t come on unexpectedly. On the way down he noticed someone who feared just that possibility making their way up the stairs.

  Max did a somersault, extending his legs to change his momentum and direction, pushed off one of the tubes, and bounced over to see who it was. He immediately regretted doing so. It was Sergeant Simco, commander of the combat troops.

  Every captain personally commanded a detachment of ground troops. It could be as big as a battalion in some cases, but for this voyage, with an entire crew of only 141, the number was limited to ten. Officially, they were along to repel boarders and provide combat assistance if needed. Unofficially, they were called troubleshooters. If crewmen gave the Captain any trouble, it was the troopers’ job to shoot them.

  Simco would enjoy doing it too. He had more muscles than brains. But then nobody had that many brains.

  “Hello, Sergeant,” Max called.

  “Sir, that was nicely done.”

  “I didn’t have you pegged for the cautious type.”

  Simco shook his head. “I don’t like freefall unless I’ve got a parachute strapped to my back.”

  Typical groundhog response. “Are your men ready to board and take that Outback ship, Sergeant?”

  “Sir, I could do it all by myself. They’re women.”

  They both laughed, Simco snapped a perfect salute, and Max pushed off from the railing. When he landed on the bottom, he saw placards marked “Killshot” hanging on each of the four tubes. That meant that were loaded with live missiles, ready to launch. Something new, since the last time he’d passed through the Black Forest. He saw handwriting scrawled across the bottom of the placards, and went up close to read it. A. G. W.

  Under the old government, the hastily thrown together Department of War had been called the Ministry of A Just God’s Wrath. Considering the success of the Adareans, the joke had been that the name was a typo and should have been called Adjust God’s Wrath. Some devout crewman still had the same goal.

  On the lower level, Max continued to the aftmost portion of the ship, off-limits to all crew except for Engineering and Senior officers. Only one sealed hatch allowed direct entrance to this section. Max found an off-duty electrician’s mate sitting there, watching a pocketvid. The faint sound of someone dying came from the tiny speaker.

  Max stopped in front of the crewman. “What are you watching?”

  The crewman looked up, startled. DePuy, that was his name. He jumped to his feet and went all the way to the ceiling. He saluted with one hand, while the thumb of the other flicked to the pause button. “It’s A Fire On The La
nd, sir. It’s about the Adarean nuking of New Nazareth.”

  “I’m familiar with it,” Max replied. Political Education approved all videos, and practically ran the video business. “The bombing and the vid. Move aside and let me pass.”

  “Sorry, sir, the Chief Engineer said . . . ”

  Max turned as cold as deep space. He reached under DePuy to open the hatch. “Move aside, crewman.”

  “The Chief Engineer gave me a direct order, sir!”

  “And I am giving you another direct order right now.” Damn it, thought Max, the man still hesitated. “Rejecting an order from your Political Officer is mutiny, Mr. DePuy. A year is a very long time to spend in the ship’s brig waiting for trial.”

  “Sir! A year is a very long time to serve under a chief officer who holds grudges, sir!”

  “If I have to repeat my order a third time, you will go to the brig.”

  DePuy saluted and pushed off from the wall. Though he seemed to seriously consider, for a split second, whether he wouldn’t rather be locked up than face Chevrier’s temper.

  Max went down the corridor and paused outside the starboard Battery Room. The hatch stood open on the two-story space. One of the battery arrays was completely disassembled and diagrammed on the wall, with the key processing chips circled in red. A small group of men, most of them stripped to their waists, crowded into the soft-walled clean room in the corner. A large duct ran up from it toward the ceiling, the motor struggling to draw air. A crewman looked up and tapped the Chief Engineer on the shoulder.

  “You!” Chevrier shouted as soon as he saw Max. “This is a restricted area! I want you out of my section right now!”

  “Nothing is off-limits to me,” Max replied.

  “Fuck your mother!” Chevrier thundered, shooting across the room and getting right in Max’s face. Chevrier’s eyes had dark circles around them like storm clouds, and red lines in the whites like tiny bolts of lightning. He probably hadn’t slept since the spongediver was spotted; no doubt he was also pumped up on Nova or its more legal equivalent from the dispensary. That would explain his heavy sweating. It couldn’t drip off him in the weightlessness, but had simply accumulated in a pool about a half inch deep that sloshed freely in the vicinity of his breastbone. Max noticed that the comet insignia was branded on Chevrier’s bare chest. The Revolutionary government had banned that tradition, but the branding irons were still floating around some ships in the service. Chevrier was the type who had probably heated it up with a hand welder and branded himself. He jabbed a finger in the direction of the empty spot on Max’s left breast pocket. “You haven’t qualified for a single ship’s system,” he said, “and you sure as hell aren’t reactor qualified. Now get out of my section!”