Ghost Fleet

by D. A. Boulter

  Mart Britlot sighed gently. “Aye, Tremm, I believe I do. Adia has no cause to love the Confederation. We pulled them out of a war which we, thanks mainly to the 22nd, were just starting to win. It must have been a tremendous blow to the pride of Adia to ...” Mart Britlot stopped at the sudden pain on the statesman’s face.

  “I’ve seen your ancestor’s—our ancestor’s—diary, son. You’ve misinterpreted it. Young Mart Britlot was trained in Fleet Schools. It tainted his view considerably.”

  “I’m not sure what you are getting at.” He’d studied the diary at great length, knew almost every word.

  “Tell me, Mart, in your decades-long battle with this Combine of yours, how many ships have you lost? Forty years at, say, ten ships a year, minimum, that’s 400 ships. Am I close?”

  Mart wondered what the man was getting at. The change in subject threw him. Surely Tremm wasn’t asking for confidential information. He considered. Any citizen of the Confederation would be able to make a count, based on news reports. He could afford to say something on the matter.

  “I think that might be a conservative estimate, sir.” He felt the subject had veered out of the personal. For this sort of conversation he’d better stick to ‘sir’ and not ‘Tremm’.

  The older Britlot smiled slightly. “I suspected as much. Anyway, 400 is a nice round number. Let’s stick with it. That equivalent to losing four entire fleets, isn’t it? Yes, I thought so. I suppose the Combine has lost a comparable number of ships during the war.”

  Where was this leading? Nowhere good, Mart thought.

  “How do your shipyards manage?” Tremm Britlot asked.

  “Replacing the ships isn’t a great problem,” Mart replied. It wasn’t.

  “Probably barely even cutting into peacetime civilian production, eh, Mart? Same as back during the great Tlartox War. We lost some ten to thirty ships per year for one hundred years, Mart. You are fighting the same war all over again with this Combine. How close are you to defeating them?”

  Mart Britlot found himself on the defensive. “Our objective is to drive them...”

  “Yes, yes,” Tremm nodded impatiently. “How close are you to achieving your objective, then?”

  Mart was flustered. He hadn’t exactly thought like that before.

  “Will it be another five years? Ten? One hundred? Another thousand ships, Mart?”

  “I don’t know.” The conversation upset him. He clenched and unclenched his fists under the table.

  “Tell me, Mart. What would happen if your Confederation lost four hundred ships in a single battle?”

  Four hundred ships in one battle? Gods above! How could the man even think like that? Almost half the fleet? There would be panic, anger. Who knew what would happen? He looked up and to catch Tremm’s coldly piercing eyes on him.

  “Don’t you think such a loss would encourage people on both sides to look for peace?” Tremm’s voice gentled now. “Wouldn’t it have been worth it in the beginning to have lost four hundred ships and have had peace rather than losing the four hundred—a conservative estimate, you said—and looking to lose the same again before the war ends?”

  “It wasn’t victory you were looking for?” The words from the diary niggled at him, but this made no sense.

  “Victory, yes, but not as you know it. You can’t see it yet, but I think you are closer.”

  “But we’ve been at peace with the Tlartox Empire for three hundred years,” Mart objected.

  “And forty years ago you began the whole thing all over again with the Combine. The lesson wasn’t learned. Now your actions—the Confederation’s actions—threaten to pull us back into a war we don’t want.” Tremm Britlot stood up and Mart rose with him and walked him to the door.

  The statesman turned before leaving. “Mart. You’re Adian. You could stay here. This could be your home. A home without war. Something you’ve never known. Think about it: there isn’t a young Confederation citizen alive who has known peace. You could be the first.”

  Tremm Britlot opened the door and slipped out before Mart could make an answer, even if he knew what that would be. Home. The word floated before him. It felt so right. If he weren’t an officer in Fleet ... but he was. He would have to convince the Adians to help.

  CHAPTER 14

  CONFEDERATION OUTPOST FOUR

  Drills had not captured the dry-mouth fear that actual combat brought on. This time, the hits causing the heavily armored pod to shake came from Confederation weapons, not the pilot’s simulations. Each commando wore an emergency pressure suit—one that would come off with the bump that told them that they had attached to the objective—but the thought of being breached sat like a heavy weight in each stomach.

  Sar Krinth felt her stomach leap as the pod received a heavy hit. She froze, waiting for the scream of escaping air, until she realized the other Tox were quickly peeling away their pressure suits. Somewhat abashed, Sar realized that had been the bump for which she’d waited.

  “Prepare the burn!” Tlel called out and Sar heard the hissing vibration. This was it. The real thing. Sar took a deep breath and enjoyed the smell of Arnyl Grass for perhaps the last time.

  “Burn complete,” Tjenor reported, just like in the exercise.

  “Fire the charge.” The explosion sent a loud clang echoing through the pod.

  “Check seal.”

  “Seal holding, pressure within tolerances.”

  “Go!”

  Just like in the exercise, Sar thought, the routine calming her. The hatch opened, and they boiled out into the station.

  The station seemed cold and unfriendly. Something felt definitely wrong; Sar knew it the moment she stepped out of the pod. She tried to think what it might be. Then she had no time to think.

  “We’re on level 4, section 8,” someone yelled. Sar looked at the wall, seeing the Confederation writing telling just that.

  “Watch your whiskers!” Tjenor ordered as she led her squad out the door and to the left. A small explosion came from behind, followed by the scream of a wounded commando.

  “Squad Leader!”

  Tjenor turned to Prell, Sar’s Section Leader. “What is it?”

  “Drop way.” She pointed to a hatch.

  Tjenor’s eyes slitted. She activated her comm, but it only hissed. She hesitated only a split second. “Force it. Lenthor, run to Group Leader. Tell her we’re going for the power generators. Set up comm relays on your way back. Prawlten Comm doesn’t work in here!” Lenthor ran.

  “Okay, down!”

  Sar jumped through the now-forced hatch into the dropway. She allowed the pole to slip through her hands and feet as she plunged down five decks. At the bottom Tjenor had already forced the hatch, and she followed her out, weapon at the ready.

  They had yet to run into a single human. And now Sar realized what was wrong: the station felt dead. No living odors graced the air. No grass, no herbs, no human scent, nothing but the dead smell of steel and plastics and the awful breath of recycled air. Could the humans really live like this?

  “Watch your whiskers!” Tjenor pointed to the almost invisible line that stretched across the hallway at ankle height. Sar’s stomach contracted. Pitfalls. Humans fought dirty, she saw, and she wanted to have the human who’d set this one in her sights. No humans appeared and no sound of weapons fire echoed down the passageways. Only the occasional explosion as someone either tripped or dealt with a pitfall.

  Immediately the first two Hands arrived, Tjenor led them forward with all due deliberateness. The commandos walked as if through a graveyard, fully expecting the dead to come out of their burial mounds.

  “There!” The power room.

  Inside, they disabled two pitfalls and studied the console briefly. “Everything off!” Tjenor ordered, and Sar threw switches indiscriminately. Lights died and the room went quiet. Tjenor’s comm crackled.

  “Good work!” Rai Tlel’s voice sounded anxious. “Now get out, quick! We’ve discovered scuttling charges.”r />
  In a controlled rush, the Tox hurried back the way they’d come. Scuttling charges! The humans had abandoned the station and had set it to auto-destruct with as many commandos as possible within! Sar’s neck fur rose and her ears, inside the helmet, flattened against her head.

  Tjenor found a stairway and they ran up it, two steps at a time. Sar quietly thanked the endurance training she’d once cursed. How much time left? No one knew, and the comm didn’t work as they took a different way up.

  Sar barely felt the explosion behind her as someone tripped a pitfall that she’d apparently jumped, but she heard the awful scream which suddenly died, making more terrible the dark silence. She licked her dry lips, chest heaving. Out, out, out, went the cry in her mind. Have to get out. Behind her, labored breathing told the story of those carrying the wounded or dead commando. She stopped and took the place of one, supporting the dead weight of one of her comrades. She couldn’t tell whether she still lived or not.

  “Thanks,” came the breathless gasp. That commando must have been at her limit. In the backwash from the emergency light of the helmet lanterns, Sar saw another commando replace the second bearer. Then they returned to the brutal climb up the stairs in full battle dress, carrying a comrade.

  The interminable climb ended. They rushed down the passageway, the last ones, and filed into the pod.

  “Release the seal!” This allowed the pod to move away without compromising the hull integrity of the Station—there might yet be Tox onboard, returning to their pods.

  “Tlar!” the pilot exclaimed over the speaker. “She’s blowing!”

  Sar shuddered. If someone hadn’t found the scuttling charges the whole Command might yet be within. She looked down and saw her hands shaking. Deep down, anger began to build. Furless cowards!

  ADIA

  “By the Great Constellation, you are cute,” Lawdin Mellar whispered in her ear as he stroked her hair.

  Sub-Lieutenant Natya Krirtol shivered. The young Adian musician had her trembling with excitement. “Let’s check out that garden you mentioned,” Krirtol suggested. The one with the gazebo where it would be dark and private. “Oh!” He had kissed her neck and it felt like nothing before had ever felt.

  “Anything you say, darling.”

  Darling. No one had ever called her that before. That word, she had naively hoped to hear from Mart Britlot. Two weeks into their mission, she had realized it would never happen. Although he tried to hide it, Krirtol could easily see that Lieutenant Weytok held his interest far more than she ever would. With Britlot away at the Adian capital, she found herself with more free time than she’d had since joining. She’d found that, and a man. A man who whispered ‘darling’ in her ear and meant it.

  She ignored the knowing smile of Spacer Tumjut as she allowed Lawdin to lead her from the tavern. She allowed him to lead her to the gazebo; allowed him to kiss her face and neck and whatever else he could lay his lips on; then took over and led him down the path of lust. He was taking far too long, so she took control and taught him what a young woman with a taste for the exotic could teach a young man from a small town.

  This was, she thought lazily as she laid her head on his shoulder to savor the aftermath, the very best leave she’d ever had.

  “Why don’t you give up roaming the stars and settle down with me, Natya?”

  Sub-Lieutenant Natya Krirtol found herself giving the idea more thought than she would have believed.

  * * *

  With Britlot meeting the Adian Council and the rest of the crew enjoying the local hospitality, Lieutenant Weytok also found herself with little to do. She made up for a lifetime’s loss by enjoying one of the base’s hot-boxes with Lieutenant Sharden. She could get used to this, she decided, climbing to the upper bench to sit beside Era.

  “Ah,” she sighed, “that’s wonderful. I can feel every pore opening.”

  Era’s laugh echoed in the small room. “You know, I’m surprised the Confederation doesn’t have hot-boxes. They are so very relaxing. What you need, dear Feneya, is to change navies. It has to be better than fighting the Tlartox again.”

  Now that the Council knew, Feneya no longer felt herself constrained to silence, and had opened up to Eraphene. That had removed a weight from her, and she felt the relief.

  “Absolutely, Era, show me where to sign up. However, I have to be on the A-list rotation for the hot-box.”

  She pretended to consider for a moment. “Oh, and I get to keep my rank ... be assigned to your ship and ... and I get to keep Lieutenant-Commander Britlot!”

  The two women laughed. “Mart is a dear,” Era conceded. She waited a heartbeat, “He needs to make his own decision, but he is of Adian stock. Perhaps he’ll find the decision to stay easy.”

  Feneya’s smile faded. She hadn’t thought of that. Would Mart decide to stay and send her and the crew back? “I wasn’t serious, Era.”

  Era smiled lazily. “Of course not.” She stepped down and poured another ladle of water on the hot stones. “But consider the advantages.”

  “Advantages?” Feneya wasn’t sure she liked where this was going.

  “Advantage, anyway,” Era confirmed. “You wouldn’t have to dismantle this hot-box and smuggle it aboard Searcher. My spies have told me of your plans.”

  Feneya pretended shock. “Who talked?” she demanded.

  Era feigned being in deep thought. “I believe it was Searcher’s second-in-command—every time she stepped inside.” Laughter danced in Era’s eyes.

  Feneya scowled. “Untrustworthy wretch.”

  “Indeed!”

  But Feneya’s found it necessary to force her light-heartedness. Would Mart decide to stay?

  TRENTH’S FANG

  Sernena Jendo would live. She had lost her left leg to the pitfall, but she would live. Others hadn’t been so lucky, or were luckier, depending upon one’s viewpoint. Sar Krinth lay on her cot and integrated the details of the day. Her first action.

  Her Hand had survived without casualty; Sernena had been in their sister Hand. None in their Squad had died. Their final records would remain stored until updated. No one at home need wail.

  The debriefing had gone well. Sar was elated to find that the power disruption they had caused came just as the station’s computer started its auto-erase. As they had cut emergency power as well, their comrades recovered the memory bank before the system could reboot on its own minim-powerpack and finish its task.

  She’d heard talk of commendations for the Squad, but what most pleased Sar were the looks she had received from her comrades as they took Sernena’s weight from her. She still remembered the support of friendly arms as she collapsed and she would remember until her dying day the fierce look in Squad Leader Tjenor’s eyes, and her two word comment: “You’ll do.”

  They accepted her. She belonged. As she drifted to sleep, Sar Krinth’s Hand-comrades could hear her soft purr.

  ADIAN CAPITAL

  “Define ‘war’ for us, Lieutenant-Commander.”

  Britlot looked at the Foreign Minister blankly. Define war? He fell back on the Academy definition. “War is the use of force to obtain one’s political goals.”

  “I see.” The Chamber fell silent. “And for what political goals would we go to war?”

  The session shaped up a rough one. Britlot wished they had brought a diplomat, but no one had believed Adia still existed. That aspect of his mission, as far as fleet was concerned, was merely a morale ploy.

  “Freedom, sir.”

  “Yes, you mentioned that possibility. We’ve had freedom here since we arrived. No wars, no struggles which could not be solved diplomatically. We have neighbors who believe as we do. They do not threaten us.”

  Britlot didn’t like the tack; he could feel something bad coming.

  “Having no enemies, no threats to our way of life, we have not found it necessary to construct new warships. Our fleet, the ‘Vandoo’ as you called it, is the self-same fleet with which we left the Confederat
ion. And war, sir, is state-sanctioned murder of opponents in order to achieve one’s goals.”

  Britlot felt the Chamber begin to spin around him. No new vessels in three hundred years? The implications! Big old battleships and cruisers against modern frigates? They’d be cut to pieces more rapidly than the Class-C recommissions. His dreams came crashing down. There would be no Adian fleet riding to the rescue. He studied his options, desperately trying to find a way to bring back the Adians without having to shoulder the responsibility for their subsequent slaughter.

  “Council, Gentlemen, Ladies. You may call war ‘state-sanctioned murder’ if you like. Yet, if you desire to keep your peace, you will prepare for it. With no modern fleet to speak of, you exist at the whim of whoever finds you first, the Combine or the Empire.”

  Britlot looked from face to face. Could he ask them to die for the Confederation? His duty demanded it. He considered the arguments before speaking again.

  “In light of the information now provided, I cannot, in good conscience, ask for Adia’s help. I thank you for hearing my petition, but I withdraw it. I now ask your leave to depart and return to my ship. We must return to the Confederation. War with the Empire may begin at any time—may already have begun. They need us there.” He spoke without thinking. Go back just when he had found Family? Go back when he had an offer to stay?

  No one rose to answer him. Britlot looked around the room. A third of the seats had remained empty. The same ones, he’d come to recognize. Was his news of such bad taste to that third that they did not deign to hear him? Strict pacifists, perhaps? Finally the defense minister rose to speak and Britlot turned his attention to the man.

  “Lieutenant-Commander Britlot. On behalf of the Council, I thank you for your consideration. In the spirit of friendship then, we have news for you. The Tlartox Empire has just begun its attacks. The Confederation, we understand, has sent most of their Fleet to the Combine sector, leaving the Tlartox sector almost undefended.”