“Whatcha got?”
“I saw some beer over there.” Tanner hooked a thumb over his shoulder.
“Beer?”
“Oh. Maybe not. Wanna trade?”
“Sure”
They exchanged desserts.
“Anyway,” Tanner continued. “A few times my cousin got tagged to do a little escort work. They’d bring these girls through the underground, y’know—pretty much always girls.” He paused, dangling his spoon for a moment. “Keep ‘em down in the maintenance spaces for a couple of days—shit like that. Said you’d hear ‘em talking sometimes.” He shook his head.
“What?”
Tanner shook his head again, scooped some cherries off the remains of the torte. “Crazy shit.”
Baz put his own spoon down. “Does he still do that?”
“Nope.” Tanner pushed the last bite of torte away. “No, he got killed. Accident. They said.” He reached out and pried open the ice cream container. “Yep. It’s chocolate.”
“Hallelujah!” Baz leaned over and the lights went on, blinding them. “Shit!”
“What the hell are you two doing down here in the kitchens?”
Squinting, they held their hands up against the glare, trying to make out the figure in the doorway. Then Baz dropped his hand. “Hey, Kris,” he said sheepishly. “Ice cream?”
* * *
The three of them sat around the small oblong table in their room, five kilos of rich chocolate ice cream rapidly diminishing under the onslaught of determined spoons, although Kris had a habit of levering off sizeable chunks that she ate with her fingers. Neither Basmartin nor Tanner knew what to make of this idiosyncrasy and so resolved not to notice it. But there was a question preying on both their minds and when they had chiseled a good quarter of the way through their plunder, Baz finally got up the nerve to ask it.
“Say, Kris . . . How did you know where we were?”
Kris looked up from licking the remnants of her last shard of ice cream off her fingers. “I checked the door access logs. When I saw someone entering the kitchens at this time of night, I figured it was probably you guys.”
Tanner looked at Baz accusingly. “I thought you cleared that.”
“I did. Afterwards. You can’t clear it while you’re in there or it alarms when you try to leave.” He glared at Tanner. “Idiot.”
Tanner made a face and shrugged. Baz looked back at Kris. “So, how’d you get to the door access logs? Those don’t report out anywhere but the security feeds. Except at the entry pad.”
“They’re linked through the environmentals,” Kris replied innocently.
Two spoons froze in midair. “They what?” Speaking as one.
“The environmentals log all the door and hatch accesses, y’know . . . they gotta. What?” Basmartin and Tanner were staring at her with expressions of fixed horror. “What?” She repeated in a querulous tone.
“You hacked into the environmentals?” Basmartin’s voice was a tense, low whisper.
“So? I didn’t do anything. I just checked the logs.”
“Jeezus fucking Christ, Kris!” Tanner breathed. “This is a fucking moon!”
Kris’s gaze ricocheted between them. Baz groaned and dropped his spoon in the frozen chocolate crater. “Kris . . . Kris . . . you can’t hack the environmentals, f’gawd’s sake! They don’t just expel you for that—they send your ass straight to Helpless!”
“What’s Helpless?” Kris asked, dismayed and bewildered. She’d never do anything—couldn’t they understand that? She wouldn’t have even looked at the stupid environmentals if they hadn’t stuck her with that simulated failure during the exercise months ago. When she found out the simulation didn’t allow her to actually deal with the problem, she’d prodded the environmentals to see if she could find a solution that way. She’d been shocked to discover that the system here on Deimos wasn’t that much different than the one on Harlot’s Ruse; it had a ton more modules, obviously, but it was just as old and it had the same core vulnerabilities. So she got in and poked around a little. She’d found out about the door access logs and some other useful things. But of course she’d never tweak anything—that would be unthinkable.
Baz and Tanner looked at the floor and shook their heads. “I don’t believe it,” Tanner muttered.
“She doesn’t know,” Baz said in reply. He raised his head. “It’s really called Helpernion, Kris. It’s a prison—a maximum-security prison. It’s a nickel-iron rogue body that was hollowed out during the Formation Wars as a secret command post. No one who hasn’t been there even knows where it is. It’s where they send terrorists and people like that.”
“I’m not a terrorist!”
“For fuck’s sake, keep your voice down!” Tanner hissed. “Minx could barge in here any second.”
They appeared to be serious. An uncomfortable, clotted feeling started to form in her throat.
“How did you do it?” Tanner asked. Kris told them: a brief and heavily redacted explanation.
Then a strange, hard look came over Basmartin’s face. “Wait . . . you’re kidding, right?” Kris looked into his pale violet eyes. He stared back, his pupils shrunk to black pinholes.
“Um . . .” She began. “Ah . . . yeah, I am. I was just fuck’n with you guys.”
“What?” Tanner exclaimed. He threw his head back with a hand over his face. “Gawd dammit, Kris! Don’t fucking do that!” She couldn’t tell how much was relief and how much was anger. “So how did you find us?”
“I followed you,” Kris lied. “I was coming back from the infirmary an’ I saw you guys way down one ‘a the corridors, so I thought I’d see what’s up. I didn’t know which way you’d gone, so I jus’ wandered ‘round till I saw an open door code.” She swallowed. “That’s all.”
“Damn, you had us going.” Tanner shook his head, exhaling heavily.
“Sorry,” Kris mumbled, staring back into the ice cream. “So where’d you guys get the access codes to the kitchens?”
“Tradition,” Tanner said.
Kris squinted at him.
“There’s sorta this tradition,” Baz explained, his eyes returning to normal, “with the upperclassmen and this refer unit. We, ah, we did a little recon a while back and then . . . kinda filled in the missing pieces.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“Didn’t wanna get ya in trouble.” Tanner’s look as he offered the excuse was unconvincing. Kris opened her mouth to retort, but the sound of the door opening interrupted her.
“What’s with the ice cream?” Minx asked.
“We won a bet,” Baz answered smoothly. “Want some?”
Minx humphed. Kris pushed herself away from the table. “Here, you can use my spoon,”—wiping it on her fatigues—“I’m finished.”
“Yeah, okay.” Minx accepted the spoon, wiped it again and sat down. “You guys hear the speech?”
“What speech?”
“The Speaker’s speech, of course. He stepped down tonight. They had it on all the monitors. Don’t any of you keep up on current events?” All three of them shook their heads.
“What’d he say?” Asked Baz.
“He talked about that ultimatum they proposed. Said it was a prelude to war.”
“Seriously?” For all the reports and rumors and gossip of the past month, most still thought it wouldn’t amount to much, Baz and Tanner among them. Kris hadn’t bothered to form an opinion.
Minx took a dainty bite of the softening ice cream and nodded.
“Shit,” Tanner breathed. “They really gonna do it?”
Minx shrugged, licking off the spoon before she dipped it again. “With a new Speaker—and I hear the Archon is on his way out—I betcha they do.” Silence as three young minds grappled with the formerly abstract concept to war. Minx seemed to have made hers up.
“Y’know,” she said after the interval, “they commissioned cadets as midshipmen for active service during the last war.”
“Y’know,” Ba
z said while Tanner was not-so-discreetly rolling his eyes, “they only did that cuz the casualty rates during the first two years were so high they started running out of officers.”
Minx gave an elaborate shrug while she licked up a bite. “That was last time. I think it’d be cool to serve.”
“Oh boy . . .” Tanner sighed under his breath and Baz got up. “Yeah, a real picnic,” he said. “I’m done. Go ahead and finish that.”
Chapter Fifteen
CEF Academy
Deimos, Mars
The government of Nedaema fell. The Archon was removed in a resounding vote of no confidence, and in the general election that followed five weeks later, the pacifists lost half their seats and the former opposition took firm control, the first non-coalition government Nedaema had elected since the turn of the century. Lysander Gayle, the new Archon, used the occasion of his victory announcement to make a fiery speech, and the media came alive with stories of turmoil, havoc and threats of war.
The Bannerman ambassador chose this moment to make an ill-timed and pointedly undiplomatic comment to the Second Secretary of the Nedaeman Foreign Office. It seemed likely that the comment was meant to be private, but it was made in a public forum and overheard. Gayle, suddenly worried about escalating the situation, took no notice, but he reckoned without his friend, Zenda Alpernius, a grand senator from Messier who was facing a stiff reelection challenge. Senator Alpernius calculated that the time was ripe to be incensed, and without consulting Gayle, he no longer being a member of the chamber, revived the specter of his ultimatum, happily languishing in committee since it had done its work. So now the new Archon watched with growing alarm as this bastard stepchild of his ambition began to grow legs.
Speaker Gauthier, mindful of her slim majority and nervous about straining her untried political muscles, temporized. The Bannerman President-for-Life ordered his fleet units at Callindra 69, a fortified outer base, to deploy. In response, the Plenary Council voted to direct CNO to order the CEF Third Fleet, under Vice Admiral Burton, to sortie to Wogan’s Reef, the junction that secured the main transit to Bannerman space from the League’s side.
Fleet Admiral Westover, unwilling to be pulled into a game of brinksmanship by career politicians who had no actual skin in the game (however much they valued their political hides), demurred, pointing out the inherent dangers of such an operation—besides, the ‘training’ exercises PrenTalien had directed Admiral Burton to carry out were already covering that approach—and instead detached Third Fleet’s Task Force 34 under Rear Admiral Lo Gai Sabr and sent it to New Madras to keep an eye on Bannerman activities from there. Critically, he would be much better placed to observe the main Bannerman fleet at Tarakan, as well as cover any moves attempted by Cathcar or Lacaille.
But if these events could be likened to the proverbial tree that topples in a forest, the noise they made registered but distantly within the hallowed confines of the CEF Academy. Two main reasons accounted for this: the proximity of their final exams, culminating in War Week, the intense series of wargames the ended the term; and the beginning of the All-Forces Unarmed Combat Tournament. The preliminaries to select the final thirty-two contestants who would compete for the title over the next two weeks were already underway, and among Kris’s classmates this eclipsed most other concerns, absorbed as they were with Sergeant Major Yu’s quest for an unprecedented fourth title.
Yu took no part in the preliminaries. Anyone who had won the title more than once was automatically entered into the final thirty-two if they chose to be, as was the reigning champion. Corporal Vasquez was steadily gaining adherents, while those who had met Yu on the mat during the course of their own unarmed combat training were confirmed in their belief he was unbeatable, even by the as-yet-undefeated Vasquez.
But what was really stoking the fires was the possibility (or in the view of most, the strong probability) that repeat champions would meet in the finals, something that had only happened once before in living memory—two years ago, when Yu defeated a Marine captain named Minerva Lewis for his third title. Lewis, who’d made the finals for the past four years running, winning twice before losing to Yu and then to Vasquez last year, was not competing this year, a circumstance welcomed or deplored, according to one’s loyalties. In any event, it simplified the betting, which was now a soft four to three in Yu’s favor, and there was strong feeling that by the time the quarterfinals arrived, it would be even money.
None of this concerned Kris, who labored to project a polite but obviously pale and academic interest in the affair. What interested Kris much more than the tournament was participating in War Week for the first time. The Academy awarded a number of honors to cadets, some more official than others. Obviously there was class ranking, with special privileges extended to the cadets who graduated first or second. There was the position of Honor Candidate for the cadet who graduated with the fewest demerits, satirically known as the ‘Tinplater.’ And there were specific rankings in the various tracks: for cadets in the fighter program, the rank they achieved during their flight training was most important.
But the most coveted—and least official—prize was that of War Week Points Leader. Each cadet earned both individual and team points during these exercises, and the team that performed best overall was, upon graduation, officially recognized as Team Alpha. But the cadet who amassed the highest individual total throughout their academy career earned the title of ‘Number One.’ The honor was unofficial because the Academy deliberately elevated team effort over individual achievement, and because it was almost impossible for anyone outside the fighter track to win it. The ace deep-radar operator, snug in CIC, was critical to her ship’s performance, but it was her ship that won the battle. Nor was she likely to go down in flames five times a day.
The members of Team Alpha got a nicely framed certificate and their achievement was added to the list on a big wall plaque somewhere; the maintenance crews kept it dusted. But any cadet who’d been through War Week once could tell you who’d made Number One in each year going back to the last war.
Kris’s uneven scholastic record gave her no shot at graduating at the top of her class, her mouth and her attitude had long since forestalled any danger of her becoming the Tinplater, but ever since she’d gotten a taste of wargaming, she’d been determined to leave as Number One.
The Academy’s wargames were managed by Commander Buthelezi, who had the good fortune to be among the best liked and most respected of the Academy’s instructors: exacting and demanding yet approachable and scrupulously fair. Kris, in particular, had a strong liking for the commander, whose demeanor managed to combine gravitas with a surprising degree of warmth, and she was the only instructor Kris consciously tried to impress. For her part, Commander Buthelezi took a deep interest in her singular cadet. She’d already noted Kris struggling through her course work, her uneasy interactions with her fellow cadets (Basmartin, and to some extent Tanner, excepted) and her tendency to bristle at potential slights.
But when Kris strapped into a flight simulator, all this changed. The proud, closed face relaxed, losing its prickly reserve, her heart rate and the rhythm of her breathing changed, and a look of profound concentration combined with a passionate eagerness would suffuse her entire being. It brought to Commander Buthelezi’s mind an ancient poem, still thought of by many as the fighter pilot’s anthem, that began Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth, except that the sense was entirely different. The poet had reveled in the ecstasy of flight—Kris reveled in the ecstasy of the hunt. The tension that sang through her, visible even in her biometric readouts, was the untamed anticipation of a predator sighting her prey. And nine times out of ten, the prey never stood a chance.
Naomi Buthelezi had spent her entire career in the Navy, mostly in staff billets such as operations, or as a flag lieutenant, but she’d also served as a TAO on a number of deployments and to her, combat was much like a lethal form of chess (a game at which she excelled), but chess played
by gamblers for life-and-death stakes with most of the pieces hidden. The searing, capillary-bursting excitement of a close-quarters dogfight—the fierce ballets that could be so heartrendingly beautiful if only they had a different object—was alien to her.
Still, she could read it in the faces and gestures of the men and women when they returned from a mission, flashing out in a laugh or a glance or just a glow in the eyes behind the rigidly held professional demeanor, and since SRF officers not uncommonly exchanged into the Navy to serve a tour or two as TAOs or in staff billets, she had come to know several quite well, Rafe Huron among them. But she’d never known one quite like Kris.
War Week was coming up in a mere five days and all of Naomi’s instincts cried out that war itself would be following not long after: three or four months maybe, five at the outside. Admiral PrenTalien clearly shared her judgment—friends on Lo Gai’s staff kept her quietly informed—and he already had Third Fleet on what was essentially war footing. They were certainly entering interesting times, as the old curse ran, and Commander Buthelezi, in the few quiet moments her day allowed, often wondered what was in store for them all: herself, her friends, her Service, and an enigmatic young flight-officer candidate who just might be the most dangerous person she’d ever met.
Chapter Sixteen
LSS Ardennes, in port
Cassandra Station, Nedaema, Pleiades Sector
Compared to the admiral’s stateroom, with its opulent day cabin, night quarters, separate galley and private head, the Flag Bridge on LSS Ardennes was small, cramped and undeniably spartan. It was almost entirely devoid of furniture, with only a charting table down one side and what seats there were bolted to the deck around the big omnisynth that dominated the space, the projecting ledge of which served as a work surface and a place to put your coffee cup or a hasty sandwich. The bulkheads were lined with large displays linked, like the omnisynth, to the dreadnought’s myriad sensors and comms nets. There was room for the admiral’s staff and a few visitors, if they didn’t mind standing.
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