by B. V. Larson
Once these nine had received their floggings, they were taken to the habitat’s tiny hospital and given minimal treatment—disinfectants and antibiotics only, no pain medications. As soon as possible, they’d be released to positions in Straker’s Breakers as common soldiers, remaining under strict military discipline until the chain of command determined they could be trusted.
Three others, in addition to being flogged, were sentenced to periods of hard labor ranging from one to six years. They would work out their punishments in the mines or the farm fields, giving something back to the community as scant recompense for the misery they’d inflicted.
Of the two remaining, one had been acquitted. The other had been stubbornly contemptuous of those who judged him. He’d been sentenced to hang.
The hanging ended the day. The miscreant was not given any final words or any particular dignity.
Once the man had stopped dancing in the air, Straker stood, reciting a short speech he’d memorized. “Let this criminal’s body be tossed into underspace, there to drift forever, forgotten by all, remembered by none, with nothing to mark his grave or his passing. So shall be the fate of all who commit capital crimes here on Freiheit or anywhere I command.” He picked up the gavel in front of him and struck it on the handmade wooden table. “These trials are adjourned for the day. We resume at noon tomorrow.”
Chapter 45
Aboard Freiheit.
Three days later, after all the trials were done and justice dispensed, Straker met with his inner circle. This group consisted of the leaders and key personnel from among his subordinates. Fresh bread and butter, cheese and fruit adorned the conference room table, along with hot caff. It wasn’t the exquisite cuisine he remembered from his Hundred Worlds days, but it sure beat shipboard nutrition paste.
Once everyone had a chance to stuff some food in their faces and gulp caff, Straker rapped his knuckles on the table.
“Thanks for coming,” he boomed, “and thanks for all your hard work so far. Report around the room. Afterward, we can work on solutions to whatever issues arise.”
“Sure, Commodore Straker,” Loco said with a grin. Straker noted with irritation his boots were already on the table. “Congrats on your promotion. Now I can be a captain, maybe even a commander?”
“Changing ranks to fit our new situation…” Straker said. “Not a bad proposal.”
Loco looked startled. “It wasn’t my idea. I thought—”
“No need to be bashful about it,” Straker said loudly. Some in the group laughed, as Loco had never been bashful a moment in his life. Straker looked at Engels, who shrugged.
“Might as well make it official,” she said. “With this many people, we need an expanded chain of command with enough room for many levels of officers. All in favor of officially making Straker a commodore?”
Everyone in the room spoke in assent, and applause broke out.
“Thanks, all,” Straker said. “Loco, Engels, Gibson, you’re getting new ranks as well. Zaxby and Loco are lieutenants, naval-style. Engels and Gibson are commanders. I always thought having one structure for Fleet and one for ground forces was stupid anyway.”
Loco perked up immediately. “What’s my new pay scale? Do I get my own concubine issued?”
Straker glared. “No concubines. If you can’t get enough action with your boyish charm, tough shit.”
Loco pouted ostentatiously.
Straker pulled out his handtab and looked at his notes. “Enlisted ranks will be based on ground troop conventions, as follows: Private, Corporal, Sergeant, Master Sergeant, with the courtesy titles of Spear and Chief, depending on position. Officers will be naval: Ensign, Lieutenant, Commander, and Commodore, with the courtesy title of Captain for ship bosses. Anyone got a problem with that?”
No one spoke up against the decree.
“Loco, since you opened your mouth first, you get to start the reports.”
Loco nodded and sat forward. “I’ve organized the ground forces into a regiment, with companies, platoons and squads. I’ve requisitioned a couple of warehouses as barracks for the single soldiers, and there are empty residences where paired couples can live among the civilians. I’m working with the mayor to find jobs for the rank and file when they’re not performing military duties. Only the noncoms and officers will be full-time. The rest will be a semi-militia, highly trained and well equipped, to be mobilized as needed. That’s as far as I’ve gotten.”
“What about equipment?” Straker asked.
“Mostly just small arms,” Loco replied. “We’re short of grenades, crew-served weapons, rocket launchers, battlesuits, and we have no armored vehicles. If not for the Sledgehammer and the Foehammer, we’d be completely sucking wind.”
“Thanks. Mayor Weinberg?”
The mayor looked over the top of her reading glasses. “I’ve reconstituted the community council and I’ve promised elections within a year. We’ll have to figure out a system of money and taxation, job and work allocation, and a number of revisions to laws. Fortunately, as WG604 we were already fairly autonomous. Since being, um, liberated… and then liberated again into Freiheit Station, we have been winging it, but I’m confident things will shake out.” She cocked her head with a wry expression.
“Great…” Straker said, looking around at the rest of them. “Zaxby?”
“My young fellow Ruxins are enjoying their R&R. They are not used to so much freedom from crowding or such a pleasant aquatic recreational area. Did you know that over the two centuries this habitat has been in existence, the lake has developed its own ecosystem, and one of the species of freshwater mollusks there is quite tasty? I have had to insist they do not overindulge. Also—”
“Uh yeah, Zaxby…” Straker said. “How about a status report? Any engineering issues? Anything practical, anyway?”
“Always focusing on the practical, Commodore Straker… Can’t you simply enjoy life as it comes?”
Straker narrowed his eyes. “Not with so much to do and so many to mourn, no.”
Zaxby made a sighing noise. “Very well. The vessel will need a thorough refit in dry dock. We did the best we could in the original refurbishment, but many parts are old and need to be renewed completely. We expended most of the fusion warheads, and fissionables to trigger the detonations were in short supply among my people when we left. You will have to insist on prioritization of finding and processing uranium isotopes, or we will have an Archer without enough float mines. Once these issues are handled, Revenge should be combat-effective again.”
Straker stroked his chin. “How about the possibility of building more sneaky ships, or heavier warships? Corvettes, maybe?”
“My people’s industrial capacity is not infinite. War materiel is expensive and does not make for good long-term economic policy. Premier Freenix was just beginning to build and colonize more asteroid habitats. This is the work of years, and she will not want to divert resources for further battles.”
Straker nodded. “Fair enough. I’ll twist her arm—or, tentacle—as much as I can, but we might have to find ships elsewhere.”
Loco laughed. “So we’ll be freebooters after all.”
“Maybe so. Now, Zaxby, what about Freiheit?”
Murdock stage-coughed, and Zaxby slid his eyes to him. “I will defer to my supervisor on that issue,” he said.
“You guys getting along now?” Straker asked.
The human and the Ruxin eyed one another. “We’re working together okay,” Murdock admitted. “But I spend more time reining in the Ruxins than getting them moving, unlike the rest of my people,” he said. “They want to tinker with everything.”
“We’ve improved the efficiency of many systems,” Zaxby said sharply.
“By using nonstandard methods and techniques I can’t replicate or maintain,” Murdock replied. “But… as long as we can keep some of the Ruxins here as civil engineers, we’ll do all right.”
“Aha!” Zaxby exclaimed. “So, you admit the value
of the Ruxin contribution?”
“Sure, if you’ll admit you’d rather live among humans than go back to being a neutered drone in your overcrowded squid-pile.”
Zaxby squirmed. “I cede your point, and I hope Commodore Straker will argue for keeping me and my fellows here to assist you.”
“You just don’t want to go back to being a small fish in a big pond!” Loco crowed. “You like being a big shot.”
“Of course, Lieutenant Paloco. Which reminds me, Commodore. What about my promotion? Have I not earned an increase in status?”
Straker smiled. “You have, Lieutenant Zaxby. You’re junior to Loco, though, and don’t let it go to your big fat head. I can always demote you, remember.”
“I could hardly forget. My memory, like the rest of my physiology, is excellent.”
“Moving on…” Engels said.
“Yes,” said Straker. “Continue, Mister Murdock.”
“Sidespace systems are fragile. Wherever we emerge, that’s where we’ll be for a while. More critically, we need power generators, or we need a star nearby. Without power, we can’t repair as much, mine as much, build as much. Or grow as much, for that matter. We need to be able to run the luminary generators at least eight hours per day or the crops won’t yield properly. That’s my number one issue.”
“I’ll make that my number one issue with Freenix, then,” said Straker. “Heiser?”
The big noncom stood. “With Lieutenant Paloco’s guidance, I’ve appointed noncommissioned officers and drafted a tentative training plan. We could use a lot more equipment, but for now, we’ll make do. You will be there at tomorrow’s memorial service, sir? I’m setting up an honor guard.”
Straker nodded. “Of course I’ll be there.”
Heiser let out his breath. “Thank you, sir. The Ritter brothers would especially appreciate it.”
Straker raised an eyebrow. “Really? Why?”
“Ah, well, given that Bernhard didn’t make it…”
“What? What happened?” asked Straker.
“Two Unmutuals hiding in the tunnels. They shot and killed him. His men returned the favor, but...”
“Damn. I hadn’t heard. And after the real fighting was over. What a waste.”
Engels leaned forward and interrupted harshly, “You didn’t just say that, Commodore Straker.”
Straker stared at her, lifting his eyebrows. “What? No?”
She shook her head. “No, you didn’t say anything about his honorable sacrifice being a waste. Understand, sir?”
“I only meant—”
Engels spoke slowly, her words heavy with meaning. “I know what you meant, sir, but it’s critical that the commander-in-chief makes it clear that every death has meaning and purpose, that it serves the greater good. People don’t want to believe their comrades and friends died for nothing.”
Straker held up a hand. “Got it, got it. Thank you, Commander Engels. And all of you, never be afraid to tell me something I need to hear, like that.” He tapped his handtab. “I guess I need to work on my eulogy.” He turned his eyes to the next man at the table. “Commander Gibson?”
“Lockstep is fine, my crew is fine. Giving assistance where we can, mostly repairing Liberator,” Gibson said. “We’ll hold up our end and do what needs doing, but now that we’ve had a chance to breathe, my people are already asking me about when we can go rescue our families.”
“As soon as we can, Commander Gibson,” said Straker. “You have my word. But you have to know, given the paranoid nature of Mutualist society, they might already have been sent to re-education camps.”
“Or worse.” Gibson, middle-aged and weary, looked positively bleak. “We knew that might happen when we killed the Lazarus. I killed him, I mean… but we’d long ago agreed that if we had a chance to defect to some better society, we would.”
“And we’re damn glad you did.” Straker waited a moment, and when Gibson gestured toward Engels, he shifted his eyes. “Commander?”
Engels laced her fingers in front of her and hunched her shoulders. “We came through the battle as well as could be expected. No deaths, several injuries. And I really think we need to get some research going on this Hok biotech. If we could adapt it, get only certain benefits, like the strength and fast healing, it would help a lot.” She rubbed her face. “And lose the effect on skin.”
Zaxby waved a tentacle. “I suggest looking to my people for this possibility. Premier Freenix might grasp at the chance of acquiring such knowledge, and she likely has many skilled biologists available. But Commodore Straker needs to raise the issue, not me. I am viewed as tainted by my long association with humans.”
“Bummer, dude,” Loco said. “Maybe when we liberate your homeworld they’ll see you as a hero.”
“I’m not holding my breath. Not that I need to hold my breath, as I have both gills and lungs, but—”
Engels interrupted, “I’ve identified seven humans as attack ship pilots or pilot-candidates. We can’t afford to leave firepower parked in the hangar. And speaking of firepower, we need to up-gun those things. They have single-shot missile tubes but no missiles, and they can handle a larger beam weapon than they currently have. I’ve got a few ideas for improving Liberator as well.”
“We’ll do the best we can, but resources will be tight for a while,” Straker said.
He turned to the last person at the table, Chief Gurung, who said, “Sir, I am working on a naval crew training regimen. We have many volunteers. Perhaps they see the positions as more desirable than infantry.”
“Anything’s better than being a grunt,” Loco mumbled.
“For the individual, maybe,” Straker said, “but we need grunts too. What else?”
“That’s all I have,” Gurung said.
Straker stood. “Anything more for me? If not, carry on. I have an appointment.” He left quickly, allowing his subordinates to remain to coordinate among themselves. He’d found that if he stuck around too long, he impeded them in their work rather than helping. Besides, he had something important to do.
At the tiny habitat hospital he visited the wounded and sick. Some kind of flu seemed to be going around, no doubt a product of mixing humans from several different sources. Medic First Class Campos, the closest thing to a doctor they had, assured him various minor diseases should run their courses over time, finding new hosts and stabilizing as the populace built immunities.
Once done with the visiting duties, he slipped into the room with the autodoc. Campos followed him in and sat at a small desk that held the machine’s detachable control panel. One of Murdock’s technicians closed up an access port and began putting away her tools.
“Is it ready?” Straker asked.
“Yes, sir,” Campos said, repeatedly smoothing her hair behind her ears.
“Nervous?”
“A little, sir.”
“What could go wrong?” Straker demanded. “It’s not like it’ll chop my arm off… right?”
“Oh, no, sir! The worst that could happen is failure… and some pain.”
Straker smiled. “Good. Let’s give it a try.”
“Get in, then, sir,” she said, opening the coffin-like machine’s clear crysglass lid. “You’ll have to take off your, ah, trousers. We’ll try a patch of your left leg first, if that’s all right with you.”
When he came out of the autodoc two hours later, the skin on his leg hurt like hell. The machine turned off his nerves with an electronic field while he was inside, but he’d refused painkillers afterward, reserving the scarce medicine for people who really needed it.
The results seemed promising, though, and he felt happy. Why this one small victory should cheer him up so much in the face of so much death and disruption, he had no idea, but it did.
“We’ll make adjustments and try it again later today, if you please, sir,” said Campos.
“I’ll come by after lunch. You keep working. Great job.”
Campos face lit up. She was a plain-l
ooking girl when working earnestly, but when she smiled like that, she became quite attractive. Straker hoped Loco treated her well. In fact, he made a note to himself to give Loco a stern warning. It wouldn’t do for one of the senior officers to play the field and break hearts all over the tiny community. He needed to set a good example.
Then Straker laughed. You’re turning into quite the patriarch, he said to himself, shaking your finger and telling everyone to stay in line or else. But the alternative was letting things slowly drift and fall apart, maybe even turn rotten like Ramirez’s command had. Once corruption set in, it would be hard to root out. Better to start firm and loosen later.
He grabbed a quick lunch and took a walk around the circumference of the hab’s interior along one of the crosswise paths. He still couldn’t get used to the fact that he could start at one place and walk in one direction until he returned, less than a kilometer later, to the exact same spot.
By the time he returned to the hospital and Campos examined his leg, it showed much smoother to the eye and the touch.
“The mottling and roughness disfiguring that patch of skin are much reduced,” Campos said. “It will be a slow, steady process, though, to avoid scarring. We’ll let the ’doc scan you and we’ll revise the protocol even more.” She clapped the machine with her palm. “Hop in again, sir.”
Two more sessions improved the procedure enough that Straker was confident it could be tried on someone else. When he went home that evening to Carla, he could hardly contain his good cheer, but refused to tell her why he was so happy, even after she laughingly demanded the information after a bout of athletic lovemaking—in the dark, he insisted, to hide the autodoc’s work.
The next morning he led her by the hand to the hospital and, in the bright light of the autodoc chamber, showed her his left leg, now looking like ordinary human skin. The difference was dramatic alongside his untreated right leg.