Ghost Fleet

by D. A. Boulter

  SPACEDOCK BRAVO II

  Commodore Taglini stared at Britlot in astonishment.

  “Lieutenant-Commander, you wish to take a fully crewed and equipped scout out to hell and gone to check out this will o’ the wisp in the Sivon Sector?”

  “Yes, sir,” Britlot replied, voice steady and strong.

  Incredible.

  “You have read the scientific reports, have you not?”

  “Yes, sir, I have. With respect, sir, I believe them in error.”

  “You do?” Full captains had quailed before that question delivered in that tone of voice. Britlot, however, maintained his composure. Taglini had no illusions. Britlot did not excel in toughness, he knew; rather he, himself, no longer presented the imposing figure of only a decade past. Another sign he should retire.

  “Yes, sir, I do. Certainly their conclusions fall within the realm of possibility, but I have reports of sightings in widely separated areas under too many different conditions to ascribe them all to signals out of time tossed out by a black hole—or whatever.” He paused and, for the first time, Taglini noted a slight nervousness in the officer. “If you wish, sir, I have documentation of twenty-eight reports over the last two hundred years.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard of this.” Britlot’s obsession with the Vandoo had become a running joke in the wardroom. Britlot flushed slightly.

  “I’m sure you have, sir.”

  Insolence? Or merely bitterness over the lack of weight the others gave to his pet theories? Taglini decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Yes, I have, Lieutenant-Commander. I dabble in history, myself, and your report,” he indicated the stick on the table in front of him, “and request don’t stand up. No command officer would grant your request, given this.”

  Britlot looked like he’d taken a broadside from one of the ‘Ghost Ships’ he’d been searching for. “So, Lieutenant-Commander Britlot, I’ll have to deny it.”

  Britlot’s expression didn’t change, but Taglini had occupied this position often enough to recognize the disappointment. He cursed silently and opened Britlot’s file. Martok should have stomped on this right back in the beginning. Now it became his duty to notate Britlot’s record. A shame the young man couldn’t have let it alone. He looked back to Britlot’s face and stiffened as he realized Britlot was about to make another attempt. Dear Gods, how did one fight such fanaticism? Were it not misplaced, he would admire the determination. The certainty in Britlot’s expression shook him.

  “Unless,” he was as big a fool as the Lieutenant-Commander, “unless there’s more. Something which you may have failed to include in your request.

  “Let’s cut through the smoke, Britlot. What about the 22nd and the Émigrés has you so fired up?” Foolishness, giving the man another chance; Taglini allowed himself the whim. “You have one minute. Make it good.”

  Britlot stared at the Commodore, probably wondering if he meant it. The Commodore wondered the same. Britlot took the plunge.

  “You say you dabble in history, sir. Then you’ve heard of Begoine.”

  “Of course. The only vessel of the 22nd to escape the Phenomenon.” Taglini stopped short. “Lieutenant Britlot, of course.”

  “Yes, sir, I trace my line directly back to Begoine. And now, I’m the last of that line.”

  “The last?”

  “Restovine.”

  It took only the one word. Britlot hurried on, perhaps afraid that Taglini would cut him off. Taglini had no such notion. Begoine.

  “Lieutenant Mart Britlot of the Begoine—my parents named me after him—survived five years after his escape from the Phenomenon. He married the only other long-term survivor, Ciely Jan, Spacer, 2nd class, and had a son before the sickness carried him off. His diary passed down his line for the last two hundred and ninety-one years. Each successive possessor took a required oath of silence.”

  Taglini’s felt the hunger within. Diaries from a member of the 22nd. A naval historian, he had studied the battles of the 22nd. No other fleet had amassed such a record. No defeats. No retreats. When they went into battle, they won. Their commanders, backed by the Adians of Lormar, argued longest and most bitterly against the Tlartox treaty. The mere thought of a diary existing from that period and those people made him salivate.

  “You have this diary?”

  “Yes, sir. I do.”

  “And you think that there is something in it that will bear on my decision?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’d have to see it for myself, you know.”

  “This is not a problem sir.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “No, sir, I have it here on the station. It will be a simple matter to go and ...” Suddenly Britlot understood. “Ah, I see. I received the diary with my parents’ effects. I’d not seen it before and swore no such oath, though I’ve since discovered that all others of my line had.”

  Commodore Taglini felt his face soften. An oath-breaker he would not have countenanced. “Good. Well, Lieutenant-Commander, why are you still here? Go get the diary.”

  “Aye, aye, sir!”

  LORM, LORMAR

  “Come in, come in.”

  Jol Drendol obeyed and walked into the plant manager’s office, wondering again at the huge desk behind which the bald man sat. Did he really find it necessary? “What is it, Trel? One of the boys been playing the fool on the factory floor?” Trel never called him in unless he had a complaint. If it were about something else, Trel would go out to find him. This time, however, Trel merely smiled.

  “Nothing like that, Jol. I hurt my leg on the weekend. Can’t go running off after someone like you. You’re too tall, and walk too fast.”

  Jol grinned, his eyes now less wary. The thought of the short, overweight man trying to chase him down amused him. “Not serious, I hope?”

  “No. A few days rest, the doctor told me, then suggested an exercise regime.” The bald man sighed and wiped some imagined sweat from his brow. “I suppose I’d better do it this time.”

  That would be the day. “Sometimes the docs know what they’re talking about ...”

  “And sometimes they talk to hear their own voices,” Trel completed for him. “To business, though. Fleet has upped the order by twenty percent.”

  Jol whistled. That meant a lot of torpedo guidance heads. He did the calculations. “Overtime?”

  Trel grinned. “Well, we want to stay away from that. Your union made that perfectly clear in the last contract negotiations. For the moment, the company wants to approach some who’ve recently retired. See if they want a little part-time work for a month or two. And I’d like you to put out the word to the part-time workers that some temporary full-time is available.”

  Jol nodded. “That might work. If it doesn’t?”

  “Then we ask teams to volunteer for an hour’s overtime.”

  “Sounds right, Trel. I don’t think you’ll get much argument. There are always some who’ll trade time for extra cash.” Trel remained silent. Jol liked that about the man. He didn’t talk for the sake of talking. Not like his predecessor, the one who had nearly caused a strike. “I’ll put out the word.”

  “Thanks Jol. Oh, and how’s the little one?”

  Jol smiled, the action softening his formidable features. “Back at school. Just a virus, I guess. Thanks.” No, Trel was nothing like his predecessor. Trel actually did care about his people. Jol exited the office and headed for the factory floor, his thoughts on the order. Twenty percent more guidance heads. It appeared Fleet had finally decided to get serious about the Combine.

  CHAPTER 4

  SPACEDOCK BRAVO II

  “Twelfth day, sixth month, Confederation year 682,” the blond young man in the dark blue, double breasted uniform jacket of the old Confederation Navy intoned seriously.

  “Father was furious. Said if that was what they taught in the Lorm Fleet Naval Academy, I’d’ve been better off going into the merchant marine. Sometimes I don’t understand him. Rather, most of
the time I don’t understand him.

  “Surely the Veryt Convention serves us all. No doubt but that it has saved the lives of many crews on crippled vessels. Professor Croenot says that it is tantamount to murder to fire on vessels which have no defenses left. The spacers aboard should have the right to declare their ships ‘out-of-action’ and be given time to take to the lifeboats. I agree with him. What good to kill defenseless men and women? Prisoners can always be exchanged. Father, naturally, doesn’t agree. He can be very contrary.

  “Father says that war is murder and agreeing to rules and conventions simply makes it into a high-stakes game. War, he says, is uncivilized and should be recognized as such. If we agree that necessity exists, we should fight with all means at our disposal, as ruthlessly as possible, to convince the enemy that it does not pay to continue, thus ending it in the shortest possible time.

  “Professor Croenot teaches that if the enemy have no hope of surrender and mercy at our hands, they will fight more desperately and to the death, causing us more casualties. Father, of course, argues the point. He feels that if an enemy’s forces know that every fight will be a fight to the death, they will be reluctant to engage in the first place and their commanders will be more reluctant to send them into battle—lest they revolt. To fight efficiently a soldier must either believe totally in the cause, ready to lay down his life for it or, failing that, must at least believe he will survive. ‘No quarter’ battles teach the reluctant soldier that there is no hope and that, therefore, he should not engage our forces to begin with.

  “I find that I agree with both of them. Is it possible that they are both right?

  “When I use Professor Croenot’s points, Father’s face turns red and I fear that he’ll have an attack. But I didn’t back down this time and, much to my surprise, after we’d finished, Father told me that he was proud of me. Said that it was okay to have a different opinion, but that I’d better make sure I believe it worth fighting for. Sometimes I just have to shake my head.” Britlot made that very motion and sighed.

  “It’s tough. Father knows so much and I’m just learning. He says if it weren’t for the 22nd Fleet, we would have lost this war six years ago. Says that the 22nd alone knows how to fight a war.”

  Britlot’s expression cleared. “Only six months until I graduate and, as a citizen of Adia, I can either stipulate that I wish to join Adia’s fleet or place myself in the general pool and be assigned where needed. Naturally I’ll join the 22nd. It is our fleet.”

  “An interesting perspective,” Commodore Taglini commented, squeezing the soft ball that usually adorned his desk. Britlot had wondered about its purpose. “I’ll assume that you have a reason for marking that particular section.”

  “Yes, sir. I’d appreciate it if we could go through the rest before explaining.” Lieutenant-Commander Britlot spun the archaic disc ahead to the next mark at Taglini’s nod.

  The Commodore’s semi-darkened office hid Britlot’s anxiousness—he hoped. Taglini appeared interested enough and had given orders that no one disturb them.

  Britlot rehearsed in his mind how he’d tie the threads together. He hoped he had picked the right segments to interest the Commodore in the Adians and the history available in the disk. But would Midshipman Britlot carry the day where his descendant might fail? Britlot took the risk.

  “Twenty-third day, third month, Confederation Year 684.”

  Midshipman Britlot appeared exhausted. Large sweat circles stained the armpits of his uniform and his face dripped perspiration.

  “We won. I think we won. But the cost. Cartene is gone. Blasted out of space. Newest battleship in the fleet. We thought she was unstoppable. The Tlartox stopped her, but they paid.” Pride straightened the midshipman’s tired body. “She didn’t stop firing until they destroyed her last gun and then she tried to ram, even on one engine.

  “Tlartox fleet must have thought her gone mad. They turned every gun they had on her and that gave the rest of us our chance. We took it and took no prisoners. It’ll take them a long time to recover from this one.

  “The planet Tlenfro lies naked beneath us. Perhaps now the Tlartox will understand what it means to wage war against the 22nd.”

  Britlot spun the disc ahead again.

  “Eighth day, sixth month, Confederation Year 684.”

  Britlot now wore the rank of a sub-lieutenant on his sleeve.

  “The war is over and Father is incensed. He says the Confederation betrayed our sacrifice at Tlenfro. ‘The lesson has not yet been learned,’ he rages. Adia argued bitterly against this treaty but we lost the vote. Anger grows at home and in the 22nd. We had them on the run, and now the Confederation has taken our victory from us. We paid the price to take Tlenfro, and now we simply give it back? There will be hell to pay.”

  “Fourteenth day, eighth month, Confederation Year 684.”

  “Anger has reached a muted crescendo. The treaty calls for disarmament. The 22nd has received orders to disband, to take our ships to the scrapyards. Adia is in near rebellion. Father talks about leaving the Confederation. Where would we go?”

  “First day, first month, Confederation Year 687, Adian Year One.” Britlot now wore a Lieutenant’s uniform.

  “It is fortunate Adia has always been a great trading nation. Every ship in our merchant fleet, every great liner, every old scow, every ship we could buy or trade for, we have assembled during the last two years. Lormar lies beneath us, but no Adian citizens remain.

  “The decision to leave a unanimous one. All ten million of us. And, of course, the 22nd. The council has found a planet for us—beyond the Confederation.

  “The mighty Restigouche has already entered hyperspace, along with escorts and the first of the liners. Begoine will scout to the rear, ensuring no Confederation ship follows.

  “And they call us traitors. I’ve heard it myself. Yet it was they who betrayed us with that damned Tlartox treaty.” Britlot sneered at the lens. “Down below, the money hungry bastards rush to take what we built. We should have scorched everything before leaving.

  “Time to go on duty. I’ll complete this later.”

  “Fascinating, watching how the man changed,” Taglini commented as he stood and poured himself a glass of water. He offered the pitcher to Britlot, who declined. His stomach wouldn’t take anything at this point, not even water.

  “Still, though fascinating, you’ve shown me nothing exceptional, Lieutenant-Commander.” Commodore Taglini smiled tolerantly. “I’m not unaware that you want me to see that man as a reliable witness, Britlot. Consider your mission accomplished. Now show me what you have.”

  “Aye, sir.” Britlot silently thanked his ancestor. “Just one more section, sir.”

  Taglini squeezed his ball, moving it from one hand to the other. “Very well.”

  “Twenty-fourth day, tenth month, Confederation year 692.”

  A pale Britlot stood dressed in a robe. Hair gone, he stood stooped, crippled. His voice never rose above a hoarse whisper and he seemed to slip in and out of reality, eyes focusing then glazing over.

  “Last entry, I think. Too much pain.

  “Surviving the Phenomenon didn’t help me much. Still, Ciely lives and is healthy, as is little Zent. We had hoped for so much more. It all seems a nightmare now. I dream it every night. The Phenomenon. All those good ships and people. All those good ships and people.”

  A grin twisted his mouth, then he coughed, a wracking heaving cough. Finally it stopped. “Should I tell?” His voice barely discernable, cracked from a dry throat. “All those good ships and people.” His focus went and he stared blankly. Slowly he returned, and looked into the recorder. His eyes focused. “No, mustn’t tell. No one here must know.” He breathed out long sigh that ended in another harsh wracking cough.

  He shook his head slowly. “All those good ships and people.” A strange light came into his eyes. “But not all the good ships and people.” He bent over coughing, looked up into the recorder once more, and the
corners of his mouth turned up slightly. “Never tell. Swear them to silence.” His eyes went blank again.

  The diary ended.

  “What did he mean, there at the last?” Commodore Taglini leaned forward, staring at the blank screen.

  “Sir, I believe he meant that, though he mourned the ships and people who had died at the Phenomenon, not all the ships and people died. Recordings from Begoine show only three vessels destroyed and sound-only recordings of distress calls suggest that at least another five or six were involved.

  “Begoine trailed the fleet. She dropped last, no doubt about that, and the experts believe that she caught only the end of a great destruction. Reports from Begoine’s survivors told of no comm contact with other vessels, and no other vessels picked up by detectors. We’ve always assumed complete destruction of convoy and fleet.”

  “But you no longer believe this.” Taglini rubbed his chin.

  “No, sir, I don’t. Not after seeing this diary and not after all the sightings.” He paused. “And now Cariel has reported that her comm went out even though all telltales showed green. They couldn’t contact anyone from where they dropped, yet after returning to our sector of space their comm worked perfectly.” He left that for the Commodore to interpret as he would. Taglini would resent being taken for a simpleton.

  “Sir, the 22nd still exists. I know it does. Adia still exists—somewhere.

  “As Rear Admiral Knerden stated, we need every hull we can get. If we can enlist the 22nd in the upcoming war, we’ll be far ahead.”

  “Son, those old ships would be more a liability than an asset.”

  “Three hundred years have passed, sir. A military nation such as Adia would surely have made advances. My studies suggest that they would never scrap their ships. Like us, they would mothball some and use others as training vessels. Those training vessels are the ones which have been spotted.”

  “An interesting viewpoint. And, given they exist—and that they’d come back and aid us—their tradition would make them formidable warriors. I see your point, Britlot.”