***
Marcus was in a new uniform. Still in the same ship. With a new title. But doing the same work.
The Sulu Republic Navy had assigned him as Azure Tarn’s gunnery officer, with a promotion to full lieutenant. Then they’d postponed installing weapons so the freighter could keep hauling cargo. He didn’t mind. It gave him more time to learn the manuals for what they’d be using.
He did mind the particular cargo they were carrying. Mines. An assortment of autonomous weapons: short range missiles, single-shot plasma beams, and bombs powerful enough to produce a shock wave in the aether capable of shattering a ship.
Delivering the mines to a base wouldn’t be bad. Marcus had plenty of experience with hazardous cargo. But Azure Tarn was dropping the mines off in the Tunnel, the passage connecting the Fieran Bubble with the galaxy beyond.
And each mine had to be armed when they dropped it off.
No one on Azure Tarn’s crew complained about the mission. Somebody had to do it. It was a necessary task. But they weren’t enthusiastic.
Captain Landry did complain that the SRN had seized the ship so they could have their cargo delivered for straight salary instead of the hazard rates a civilian ship would charge. But only to his wife and son.
Marcus found a silver lining in the mission. The SRN transferred five enlisted men to be his gunnery crew. All had at least two years’ experience. He’d feared his authority over them would be compromised by his ignorance.
Instead they were pressed into service as cargo handlers. Marcus trained them to use the crane, manipulate the artificial gravity plates, and deploy the hatches. It was exhausting work. Marcus was glad of it. He’d demonstrated to his spacers that ‘The Lieutenant knew his shit.’
A much better role than the baby officer who had to be taught how to do his job by his leading petty officer.
Gunner’s Mate First Class Hines may have been hoping for such a baby officer to take under his wing. If so he handled the disappointment well.
Hines spotted the problem with the deployment plan. Planetside cargo was unloaded by forklifts or other haulers. To drop the mines off in open hyperspace Marcus planned to set each one in the open hatchway, turn off the grav in the hold, and have the ship sidle away on her docking thrusters.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Gunner Hines?”
“I’m looking at the timeline for mine release. If I enter the arming code as we’re opening the hatch, the mine will be thirty to fifty meters away when it goes active.”
“Our IFF signal would keep us safe, right?”
“Safe from the armament, sir. But when it starts up it activates the station-keeping thruster and the targeting radar.”
“Ah. Yes, we won’t want to be close to that. Please work with Spacers Welly and Betty to calculate the minimum safe distance. I’ll figure a faster deployment.”
The manual for the mines assumed they’d be deployed by a dedicated minelayer. All of those were in the dock being overhauled after running their gear to breakdown, which was why Azure Tarn was being pressed into service. The minelayers used multiple catapults to fling out mines as the ship cruised through the volume.
Building an electromagnetic catapult wasn’t something Marcus could do with Azure Tarn’s stock of spare parts. Even if they had the parts he wouldn’t be able to do it in the three days it took to reach the tunnel. He needed a mechanical solution.
It was ready when they arrived in their deployment zone. The navy men watched as the cargo hold hatch folded out, pulling taut the lines attached to it. Gunner Hines waved a spacesuited finger through the aether as he traced a line through the pulleys and rings to its anchor point on the hatch coaming.
Marcus directed a couple of spacers to adjust tension on each line. One set ran from the top of the opening to the far corners of the hatch, supporting a pulley in mid-aether. Lines from that ran around the waiting mine to more pulleys on the hatch. They continued from there past the mine to a set of pulleys that gathered them all together before the lines tied onto a hook.
The crane lowered its hook to meet up with the new one. As Marcus talked the crane operator through the procedure it drew back to place the slightest tension on the lines. The artificial gravity was turned off to let the mine be yanked out. Spacers gripped their hand or foot holds.
The suit radios crackled. “Hold, we are in the box for the first mine,” said the captain.
“Deploying,” replied Marcus. He wished there’d been enough time to test his catapult. He signaled Hines to arm the mine.
When the petty officer finished he joined the rest of the cargo handlers behind the painted line on the deck. Marcus signaled the crane. It yanked the lines, flinging the mine into hyperspace.
“Let’s get the lines reset,” said Marcus. He notified the bridge they could move on.
They were almost ready to close the hatch when a buzz sounded in their radios.
“That was the mine taking its first look around,” said Hines.
Marcus chuckled. “Enough distance.”
The next mine was in place and wrapped in the lines well before Azure Tarn arrived at the coordinates to deploy it. With practice the crew grew faster. That let the spacers spend time chatting between each deployment.
Marcus didn’t have any luck striking up a conversation with Hines. The petty officer replied politely to questions but didn’t say any more than he had to.
The younger spacers talked of chasing—and catching—girls. Marcus didn’t join them. He missed Wynny. He hoped she was all right. Logically she’d be fine, doing accounting for her father’s clan again. He worried anyway.
At three hours Marcus called a break to give his men a rest. Hours in suits were uncomfortable, even if aether wasn’t as taxing as vacuum. He appreciated getting to use a urinal instead of a relief tube himself.
Refreshed and fed they went back to the hold. The first hour went just as efficiently. Then the team slowed down a bit. Marcus didn’t push them. He was tired too, and the job was getting done.
Then the routine broke. Hines stepped back smoothly after arming the mine, but when the crane pulled on the lines, the brace holding a pulley snapped. It bounced off the mine then stopped in a tangle of knots.
“Get the lines off it!” ordered Marcus. “Bridge, stand by, deployment failed.”
Free fall made throwing the lines about easy. Stopping them from bouncing back was the hard part. One spacer was caught up in the tangle.
“Leave him! Push the mine.” Marcus demonstrated by bracing his feet on the deck, pressing both hands on the mine, and shoving with all his might.
A spacer tried to copy him and went flying across the hold. He used his maneuvering pack to stop before slamming into the opposite bulkhead.
“Brace your feet,” said Marcus. He kicked at the recessed tie down rings in the deck, popping them up to provide footholds.
With three spacers pushing beside Marcus the mine began to budge. The one who’d been caught in the tangle freed himself and joined in.
Marcus turned to look behind himself. Hines was standing in the safe zone, holding the module with arming codes for each mine.
“Hines, get over here,” he called. Then he faced the mine and leaned into it.
His spacesuit helmet didn’t have a great view, but he had enough peripheral vision to see it was just him and the spacers. Without turning he said, “Gunner Hines, get your ass here now and put your back into it.”
Hines arrived in a moment. He didn’t look to be pushing as hard as the others but every bit helped.
Marcus wanted to push continuously but as the mine moved the spacers had to find new places to brace their feet. Half the time he had to kick up the tie down rings for them.
Then it was moving fast enough they couldn’t all keep up. Marcus stayed with it as it went over the edge, giving it an extra-hard shove to send himself back.
“Inside, everyone,” he ordered. As they passed through the hatchway he transmi
tted, “Bridge, we’re clear of the mine, get us out of here.”
As Azure Tarn leapt forward the surge of aether through the open hatch knocked one spacer into the hatch coaming and staggered the rest. Marcus ordered the hatch closed.
Before it was a third of the way shut Marcus heard a painfully loud burst of static. Then the only noise was the turbulence of the aether coming through the open hatch.
Spacers were trading ‘radio out’ hand signals with each other. Marcus pressed his helmet to the nearest spacer’s. “Go above, get your suit repaired.” He repeated that with the others. When Hines approached Marcus waved him aside to wait until the last spacer had been sent away.
Once they were in private he pressed helmets. “Gunner Hines, why were you slow to obey my order to help with the mine?” No response. “You may speak freely.”
“Sir, I am a skilled technical professional. Not a meat forklift.” Hines took a breath to calm himself. “Look. Petty officers and real officers aren’t supposed to do manual labor. We’re supervisors. Putting your back into it is for spacers. And not the ones with two or three stripes, the new guys.”
Marcus took a moment to consider his response. The hold quieted as the closing hatch cut off the roar of aether in the ship’s passage. He could hear Hines’ breathing now. “That’s perfectly reasonable for a heavy cruiser with hundreds of crew available. We’re more short-handed than that. Everyone needs to pitch in. Especially in a life or death situation.”
Hines started at the last words. “How was that life or death, sir? The radar firing up in the hold would have blown out our radios, and that’s what happened anyway.”
“Can a mine receive Azure Tarn’s IFF broadcast in the hold?”
“Um . . . I don’t know.”
“Neither do I. Which is why I considered it of the utmost urgency to get it outside before it armed.”
Hines didn’t have an answer to that.
“As for real officers. I was doing damage control on this ship when the Censorial Navy was firing missiles at us. That’s more real than anything you or the rest of the Sulu Republic Navy have done in the past twenty years. Most of the people in this crew were on board when we were fired upon. So I expect you to give them real respect. Is that clear?”
“Yessir.”
“Let’s go get our suits fixed.”
***
One month later:
The Goch clanhome kitchen was barred to members not on cooking or cleaning duty. Boys wanting to sneak a snack could expect a plastic spoon across the knuckles for their presumption. Women bearing future members of the clan were exempt, of course. If a craving struck they were free to pillage the larder at will.
Fortunately for Wynny the exemption extended to outmarried children who’d moved back in because their new clan had been kicked off the planet. It helped she’d invested her bloodprice money in new Clan Goch business ventures. That brought her enough respect she was being “Aunted” even by cousins years older than her.
Right now she wasn’t worried about business. She just wanted to eat enough cheese to make her body stop complaining. A five month baby wasn’t a big visual presence but it had taken over her metabolism.
A teenage cousin went by in the corridor, giving Wynny a polite smile and nod. As he passed by he brushed against her. She felt a folded paper against her palm. She clutched it reflexively. She kept walking, not changing her expression.
She’d played this game herself as a teenager. You weren’t supposed to remember who the message came from. Ideally it would be passed through several kids for maximum deniability. “After all,” the older kids told the younger, “what you don’t remember you can’t tell Censorial Security.”
Most messages were from suitors outside the clan, not subversive secret society organizers.
Wynny waited until she was in her private room before opening it. It only said ‘We have a question’ with a location in Bundoran’s second sublevel and a time two hours away.
Probably not a suitor.
Two hours later she was in the sublevels wearing a don’t-notice-who-I-am cloak and hood. It did a better job of fighting off the below sea level chill than the detective hat had.
Approaching the meeting point she saw another blacked-out bit of corridor. Wynny cursed and reached for her flashlight. This trip was bringing back her memories of being nearly beaten to death. She didn’t know of any enemies in Bundoran but that wasn’t comforting her. The only people who knew where she was were her parents.
Before she could turn the flashlight on another one’s beam appeared ahead of her. The holder laid it on the pavement and came forward to join the other waiting figures.
There were six. They wore hood cloaks like hers. With the light behind them she couldn’t see even a hint of faces.
Wynny walked toward them. At ten paces one held up a hand. She stopped.
“The governor is returning with his fleet to attack Fiera,” said one. “Supplies are being gathered. There may be an opportunity. We must know. Can the Fierans win?”
The voice wasn’t one she recognized. It was too ambiguous to categorize. Possibly artificially distorted.
Wynny considered the question. They must belong to a saboteur society, striking at the Censorate when they could harm it without being caught. “Win how? Win against the invasion? Beat any fleet that comes? Come back here as conquerors?”
The cloaks shifted. Another spoke. “Can they cause the Censorate pain?”
“Yes,” she answered instantly. “The Fierans are smart and tough. They’ve fought bitter wars amongst themselves. They learned to fight.”
She’d spent many nights staring at the ceiling thinking on just this question. “They can’t surrender. Their people would revolt at Censorial laws. They’ll fight, and fight hard. They’ll try to take the Censorials down with them.”
When Wynny finished the figures were silent. She could hear the sound of a ventilator fan in the distance.
The first figure said, “Thank you, Mrs. Landry. Our question is answered.” It turned and walked back to the flashlight, bent down, and turned it off.
Soft shuffling said they were all moving away in the darkness.
Wynny turned and walked toward the light.
***
Commodore Meckler entered the conference room. He stopped before the table and saluted Admiral Pinoy. The admiral let him hold it for three beats before returning it.
This was not a staff meeting. It was a Board of Inquiry. Governor Yeager was here as an observer. His place at the head of the table put him out of the way now.
The edge of the table facing Meckler was empty of chairs. Pinoy sat on the other side flanked by the other admirals, all senior to Meckler.
“Please summarize the situation, Commodore,” said Admiral Pinoy.
Meckler remained at attention. “An explosion occurred on Corwynt Orbital Supply Depot Three. It caused a chain reaction among the missiles and other ordnance stored there. Seven Censorial personnel and two locals were killed. Twenty-eight and five were injured. The depot will have to be scrapped.
“The investigation is still ongoing. Much of the security monitor data was destroyed. The current hypothesis is that poor supervision allowed the native workers to store the ordnance in an unsafe configuration. Other possibilities are poor manufacturing producing unstable warheads, sabotage, and a handling accident. Previous shift workers have been called in for interrogation. We may not be able to establish the cause conclusively given the amount of data lost.
“The good news is that the shipments of fuel and other consumables are unharmed. We have fourteen percent of the ammunition which was in transit or stored elsewhere. Requests for replacement shipments have been sent to the factories. Some are in other star systems. They’ll be delivered in four weeks.
“The responsibility for this disaster is mine. I was responsible for appointing all naval personnel and overseeing their training and procedures. I offer my resignation and will ac
cept any judgement of this board. My aide has all available data from the investigation.”
“Your resignation is declined,” said Admiral Pinoy. “There’s too much work to do and not enough experienced people to do it.”
The rear admiral to his left asked, “What evidence is pointing toward sabotage?”
“None,” answered Meckler. “If there was any physical evidence it was destroyed in the explosions. We know there are subversive groups on Corwynt who would certainly want to cause such damage. Security is investigating them for recent activity and connections with the supply depot workers.”
“So that’s based on pure speculation?”
“It’s based on motive, sir,” said Meckler. “Security is looking at their usual suspects.”
Pinoy interjected, “Stand easy, man. We’re here to find facts, not execute you.”
The commodore slid his feet apart and put his hands behind his back in a formal parade rest. As the discussion went on he was forced to move his hands to bring up evidence on the table’s holographic display. Two hours of review found that each hypothesis lacked proof. None of the board members had a new theory to present.
Admiral Pinoy said, “I’ll have to put my bet on incompetence.”
“Always bet on incompetence,” quipped Vice Admiral Zahm. There were grim chuckles.
“I don’t see any actions Commodore Meckler should have done differently. We all know the Censor doesn’t send his finest recruits to the edges. Does anyone wish to move to censure Commodore Meckler? Anyone? It’s unanimous then. We find no fault with your command.”
The standing man’s shoulders eased just a bit, not something that would be noticed by someone who wasn’t staring directly at him.
“This board of inquiry is concluded. Now the operations meeting begins. Commodore, please sit down.”
The aide brought up a chair. Two other commodores came around the table as aides scurried behind with their chairs.
“The decision I want advice on,” said Admiral Pinoy, “is when to depart Corwynt for Fiera. The original plan was to load supplies and be off in less than a week. Now we’re looking at four weeks to have our full load available.” He sat back.
Between Home and Ruin (Fall of the Censor Book 2) Page 14
