The Far Stars War

by David Drake

This race developed in oceans that resemble those of Pliocene Earth. These waters were filled with creatures more vicious than any Terran shark. There were probably very few moments when the primitive Gerin felt secure. A healthy degree of paranoia was required for survival and has become ingrained in all Gerin attitudes. Also, as amphibians, the early Gerin were limited to a habitable zone comprising only the shallow waters at the continent’s edge. This created intense competition between Gerin for the hunting grounds available.

  The Gerin individually are driven more by their instincts than are humans. Strong among these instincts is the need to protect the race by destroying any intruders into “their” territory. These same instincts make it nearly impossible for a Gerin warrior to surrender. But more than anything else, the Gerin are driven by racial and personal need to dominate or destroy any potential opposition.

  In combat as well, instincts drive the Gerin to fight in patterns laid down in the shallows eons earlier. As reflexes developed in the waters of an ocean are three-dimensional, these often serve the Gerin warrior well in space. They also can be used to an opponent’s advantage, in that they often make Gerin tactics predictable.

  In nearly every combat situation, the Gerin fight in multiples of three. Their smallest unit is the triad. This is led by an experienced warrior, who is supported by two younger Gerin whose position is similar to that of a twelfth-century squire. On a higher level the theme of threes seems preferred, but is often sacrificed to necessity. All command is centralized and failure is often rewarded with punishment; some Gerin commit suicide. The entire race is ruled over by a Supreme Triad whose decisions are implemented by three further triads, served themselves by nine triads in an ever-expanding pattern of threes.

  A combination of extended lines and stiffening resistance slowed this second Gerin onslaught. Many of the remaining human planets had at this time small or weak navies. Most of the planetary forces were composed of nothing larger than a few destroyers supported by unshielded fighters, these being more experienced at rescues than at combat. Everywhere among the Far Stars, worlds strained to produce ships capable of self-defense. During this crucial time the entire burden of defense fell upon those few ships and men that were ready.

  HE WAS a little man, with thinning hair, and sad eyes, and a dead son, and he came to the fleet field at Skandurby on a gray winter’s day when the rain was slanting down from a sky the color of ancient lead.

  The armed military shuttle settled into its preassigned bay for only a few moments, just long enough to leave off the only civilian passenger who had any business here, then powered up its ion drivers and lifted silently away into the lowering clouds. The passenger stood for a moment and watched it go, then looked around him in helpless confusion until he saw the guard post by the gate.

  He looked at the sentry, and the sentry looked at him, but only the sentry saw no threat. Behind the rain-spotted clearsteel visor of his helmet, the soldier’s face looked as harsh as the slugthrower he carried. The little man held out an ID card in a hand that was trembling with age and something more, then took off his hat and wrung it in his hands while he waited for a verdict. The rain ran down his face like tears.

  For a moment the soldier studied the ID, looking up twice to compare its holo image with the small figure standing in the rain. Then he handed it back, and slammed a formal salute-and-present so that the raindrops sprayed from his armor in a glitter of mock diamonds. Behind the visor his hard features shifted into a configuration that now represented stern sympathy. He tabbed open a channel on his helmet comm, spoke briefly into it, and then opened the door of the guard post. “Mr. Prescott, sir, you’re expected. If you’d like to come in out of the weather, there’ll be someone out from the officers’ mess to collect you right away.”

  “Thank you, er ... Corporal.”

  “That’s Sergeant, sir.”

  “Oh. I ... Thank you.” His mistake must have made the little man feel even more uncomfortable, because when he came inside he sat in a corner and from the look of him seemed to be trying to fade through it. The sergeant offered him tea—which was refused—and then, greatly daring since even having it in the sentry post would put him on a charge, held out a mess-kit beaker and a flask of armagnacois brandy.

  “Just for medicinal purposes, sir,” he said, and if the muscles of his face hadn’t long before forgotten how to shape the softer expressions he would have looked shy. “It, uh, it keeps the cold out as well as electric underwear, and tastes a damn sight better.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” said the little man, and took the beaker. He stared for a few seconds at the familiar unit crest on its side, then held it out for the proffered nip of brandy. “Real Armagnac, from Earth?”

  “I wish,” said the sergeant, smacking the stopper back onto the flask. “No, we just used the name because the synth was already making something that was going by the name of cognac brandy, so when Johnny got this out of it, we . . . I’m sorry, Mr. Prescott. That was out of order. “

  “Not at all. I’m glad he had a good time. He was a fine boy.”

  “Yes, sir.” The sergeant turned away, put his brandy flask back into whatever cubbyhole it had appeared from, and stared out across the gray expanse of the landing field. There were only a few ships still bayed here and there; the rest were in the belly of a cruiser somewhere, or in action, chopping the Gerin into sushi. Or being chopped. That happened too. He was glad when the field tender arrived for Johnny Prescott’s father before the silence could stretch long enough to be uncomfortable.

  An officer with captain’s tabs at his collar came through the door, and managed to acknowledge the sergeant’s salute with great precision without once breaking the rhythm of slapping raindrops from the shoulders of his uniform. His smile as he took the little man’s hand was equally precise, a nice balance of welcoming goodfellowship, official regret, and some personal feeling. “Captain Piper, Mr. Prescott,” he said briskly. “I’m the squadron adjutant. Sorry I wasn’t here waiting, but even though we were advised you were coming to Skandurby, nobody bothered with an ETA. Well, you’re here now, and safe enough, and the boss wants to see you. Any luggage?”

  The little man blinked, slightly overwhelmed by the young officer’s approach. Then he gathered himself together. “None, Captain. I’m just passing through, but since I was on-planet, and this was . . . was Johnny’s last posting, I asked the squadron commander if I could visit.”

  “Quite so. And perfectly understandable. Now if you’d like to make your way out to the wagon . . . ?” Captain Piper stood to one side as the little man went out, watching him with that same odd mixture of emotions in his eyes before turning to face the sergeant. “Well?”

  “No luck, sir. He doesn’t know.”

  “Damn.”

  “Sir.” There were many occasions when the sergeant wished he was an officer, but many more when he was happy to remain a noncom, and never more so than right now.

  “All right. Thanks for keeping an eye on him. Oh, and one last thing.”

  “Sir?”

  “I’ve got an absolutely rotten sense of smell, but you might just want to open a window for a while. People like Provost de Kuypers can imagine the strangest things. “

  “Sir!”

  “Carry on, Sergeant.”

  * * *

  The few flight crews in the officers’ mess had been hastily warned in advance of Mr. Prescott’s arrival. Consequently, there was no uneasy falling-off in conversation when the visitor entered, since what little talking remained had already been muted from its usual real or forced bonhomie down to a discreet murmur. That was why the silence that spread from the open door like ripples in a still pond seemed not so much wary suspicion as respect. One of the snubship pilots set down his drink and stood up; then another, a third, until one by one every man of the squadron who remained dirtside today was on his feet, gazing quietly at the small,
rumpled figure who had stopped, embarrassed, in the doorway of their private world.

  “Two-one-seven Squadron,” said somebody, they didn’t know whose voice, or care, “atten-shun!”

  Weary backs straightened and the heels of combat boots came together in a ripple of sound like a smallbore volley. There were no hats worn in the mess and therefore no salutes, but the young crewmen remained at parade attention while Johnny Prescott’s father went by, until the connecting door had closed behind him. Then they relaxed again, and wondered why they’d bothered.

  It’s the usual stuff, thought Major Yevgeny Alexandrovich Nakashima as he pushed a small box across his desk and watched while Mr. Prescott opened it. I’ve packed those bloody boxes far too many times, and always it’s the same stuff, more or less.

  There was a wristchrono, the squadron crest engraved on its band as if for dress wear, but dirty and scratched and with part of its metal slumped into shiny droplets. There was a bundle of letters, both chip and printed hardcopy, tied with strapping plastic; some money; a tobacco pipe and a pouch of what passed for tobacco on Hekla; a scarf of red silk with white polka dots; a bar of medal ribbons and the cased decorations that they represented; and a dog’s collar.

  There had been a couple of vidisks as well, but they had been destroyed. There were some intimate parts of a man’s private life that had no need to outlast him. Nakashima had acted as censor before. He was good at it, as good as anyone might be with his amount of practice at sorting personal effects. He would have to do it again when the present raid came back, and he would do it as always to the best of his judgment, without a qualm, and be ready to answer for his decisions to the highest level.

  Mr. Prescott looked at the pipe for a long time, turning it over and over in his hands as he polished the bowl with the spotted scarf. “Like something out of history,” he said.

  “History, sir?”

  “Yes. From the early flying wars. When pilots were supposed to swagger, and dress in a certain way that showed they were . . . different.”

  “They still do, Mr. Prescott.” Although the way they dress usually ends with a zippered rubber bag—if they’re lucky. Nakashima felt suddenly uncomfortable in this old man’s presence, and knew that he would continue to feel that way until he had the answers to a great many questions. “Sir,” he said, not so eagerly that it was obvious, “would you like a tour of the station?”

  “Is that permitted?”

  “If I permit it, yes. There’s nothing sensitive or classified on view. Most of that stuff”—Nakashima smiled crookedly—”is probably in action right now.”

  “Will you be showing me around, Major?” Nakashima managed to keep shock at the very idea from showing on his face. “I’d like to, but”—he gestured at his desk, neat enough but with ominous racks of data chips awaiting attention—”keeping the place this clear needs work, and I’m behind on that already.” He thought for a moment, sorting through names and faces before deciding on the safest candidate and switching on his annunciator. “Lieutenant Glass, Captain Piper, to my office.”

  The two officers arrived so fast that Nakashima suspected they might have been waiting for the summons. Piper because he was the squadron adjutant and likely to be called upon at any second by the boss, and Glass for no other reason than that he was observant and intelligent.

  Young Phil Glass was already well aware that he had been posted to the 217th as a replacement for Johnny Prescott. Commander Nakashima credited him with enough sense to realize that his presence was likely to be required in this situation for just that reason—as well as various others, all interconnected with a lack of seniority, a lack of experience, and a consequent ability to say quite honestly, “I don’t know about that, sir.”

  “Lieutenant Glass,” said Nakashima when the brief ceremonies of introduction were out of the way, “I’d be grateful if you could give Mr. Prescott our official two-cred guided tour of the station. Reserved,” he continued with a thin smile at the elderly civilian that included him in a private service joke, “for top brass, politicos, and all the other sorts of people we hope will vote us funds when the next defense budget comes up for review.”

  There were no laughs, because it wasn’t really a very funny joke whatever side you were on. Then Glass took Johnny Prescott’s father out of the office to show him around the stark base where his son had lived and more recently died. The feeling of relief that followed his departure was almost as shaming to Yevgeny Nakashima as the embarrassed discomfort preceding it had been.

  “I thought we had buried this one with Prescott,” he said, poking at the little box of personal effects while staring carefully at nothing in particular. “Evidently not. I’m sorry to rake it all up again, Jochen, but official notice might just have to be taken after all.”

  “Notice of what, boss?” said Jochen Piper, and shrugged, dismissing the problem that he saw as no problem. “He lived, he fought the enemy, he’s dead. Nothing unusual about that in wartime.”

  Nakashima set the security interfaces and stood up, setting his uniform cap on his head and becoming with that one small gesture no longer just “the boss,” but the squadron commander with all of the rights and responsibilities that went with the rank. “It depends on the life and the death. There’s too much unusual about this one. I need to talk to the people who knew Prescott better than I did. Come with me.”

  Piper followed in silence, and listened in silence as Nakashima began a questioning session in the mess that came pretty damn close to an interrogation. The late Captain John E. Prescott was not a subject which the normally garrulous young men of the squadron wanted to talk about. Major Nakashima soon found out why.

  “He got here on the same shuttle as Wollacott and Vass, sir,” said Nick Hudson. “Last fall. Same time as most of B Flight, when you think about it. . . .”

  “Bugger brought a personal flitter with him,” chipped in one of the other pilots. Nakashima raised an eyebrow, inviting elaboration. He knew about the flitter, but had never wondered before what the other members of the squadron thought about it. “It was an ancient grid, of course,” the pilot continued, in a tone that suggested none of them had expected anything else. No fighter jock who played the part that Johnny Prescott had chosen for himself would ever drive a new sports wagon. “A ‘28 Boulton Turbo-Ten. He used to drive it like a mad bloody bastard.”

  “And,” said someone else, “he had a dog.”

  This time Major Nakashima blinked as astonishment slipped through the impassive mask of his official face. Promoted and posted to Skandurby only a few months back, he hadn’t known about the dog—and had only barely known about Prescott. “A dog?” he echoed.

  “Yes, sir. Some sort of terrier. He called it Toby.”

  “It pissed on my boots,” said a voice from the back of the group. “Twice.”

  “So let me get this straight,” said Nakashima. A long time ago he’d been interested in military history, enough at least that he’d eventually ended up in a uniform himself, and lots of images from wars centuries past were tangling with what he had just heard, cluttering up his mind so that he was properly confused by now. “The man had a dog, smoked a pipe, wore silk scarves, and drove a . . .”—he rummaged in his mind for the archaism— “... sports car.”

  “He drew a line at a mustache, though,” said Jochen Piper helpfully.

  “Oh, good.” Major Nakashima felt and sounded venomous, as if the dead pilot had somehow managed to pull some sort of long-term practical joke on everyone remaining in the squadron. “I’m so pleased to hear that he wasn’t a total cliché. So tell me about him. Everything”—he sent a slow stare around the pilots and crewmen of League Attack Squadron 217—“that was somehow left out of the official reports.”

  * * *

  Johnny Prescott had been transferred to 217 Squadron during a slack time in the war, just after the victory at Ten Moons had ch
anged Admiral MacDonald from a reasonably capable fleet commander into a genuine chrome-plated hero. Eight new flight crew got off the shuttle—eight, and Prescott. He wasn’t new, except to the squadron; he was already famous, with a chest full of the sort of decorations that showed how brave he was and how lucky he was and how long he’d managed to stay alive. They said that he, too, was some sort of hero, and he took care to behave that way.

  There had been the Boulton sportster, for one thing, which he drove right to the edge of its envelope; and the way he was able to drink anyone in the squadron under the table and still be on the flight line at dawn, looking fresher than any human being had a right to when an alien system’s primary was still barely able to peek over the horizon. There was the way he flew, too, like a fallen angel. Everybody wanted to be there the first time Johnny Prescott went up against the Gerin with the 217th, and nobody, but nobody, wanted to be wearing the sushi’s tentacles on that day.

  It came soon enough.

  * * *

  Sensor-linked, Skandurby’s scramble klaxon went off with a screech in the same instant that 217 Squadron’s designated carrier cruiser downwarped into the Hekla system. By the time LCC-1702 Lanoe Hawker VC slid into a high geosynch, all of the ships detailed for that particular tour of duty were already prepped, cross-checked, and lifting through the atmosphere for rendezvous and departure.

  “Fast enough for you, kid?” said Prescott to his copilot. Miklos Istvan, one of the young replacements who had come in with Johnny, nodded in dumb amazement. Seven minutes was all that it had taken, from uncomfortable suited-up dozing in the ready room to lining up a final docking approach with a cruise in high orbit. That was enough to impress most people, never mind someone who had already spent an entire transfer run just being impressed with the company he was keeping.