Rumors of War

by Jake Elwood

  Deck P, known informally as "Pee Deck," was a tiny section of catwalk originally designed to give access to the top of the ship's massive engines. The middle four engines had been removed when she was decommissioned, however. Deck P now hung suspended above a gulf thirty meters high. It was to this deck that Tom was summoned during his sixth week on the Dauntless. His heart sank when he saw who waited for him.

  Jerry Reynolds had seemed, at first, like just another trainer. He'd delivered lectures with the same sneering disdain Tom had come to expect from the cadre trainers during Basic Officer Training. Tom had come to realize, however, that the status of the students was different here. They were no longer new recruits working hard to become officers. Tom and his classmates were officers now, more or less. In theory they outranked the trainers, though the captain of the Dauntless had made it abundantly clear during her welcoming speech that they would deeply regret trying to pull rank on seasoned professionals in charge of teaching them.

  The trainers walked a careful line, displaying a certain degree of respect to the brand-new officers under their care without leaving any doubt who was truly in charge.

  All except Reynolds.

  Tom wasn't sure if Reynolds hated all officers or just the ones he was supposed to teach. Or perhaps he hated everyone, and student officers were simply the only ones he was able to abuse. At any rate, he was petty, unpleasant, and insulting. Tom loathed him, and the sentiment seemed to be mutual.

  "About time you got here," Reynolds sneered as Tom stepped onto the catwalk. "I guess we can finally begin. Go stand with them." He gestured at three other sublieutenants standing in a row beside the railing that was all that separated the front of Deck P from the void. "You're going to be jumping down there." He smiled nastily. "If you have the guts."

  Tom glanced over the railing and felt his stomach tighten. The next deck was a long, long way down. The thought of putting on an antigravity harness, clambering over that railing, and letting go filled him with a queasy dread. He suddenly understood why they called this "Pee Deck".

  "What's the matter, Thrush? Scared of heights? Don't they have tall buildings back there on your reservation?"

  Tom was used to harassment from the man, but this was a new low. He looked at Reynolds, who smirked at him. "What are you used to, tipis? The Navy must be a big step up for you. We've got running water and indoor plumbing! But you're going to have to earn your place if you want to stay. You're going to have to man up."

  A wave of fury washed over Tom, shocking in its strength. He wanted to pound Reynolds's face until that smug expression was a pulpy, swollen mess. Instead, he grabbed the railing in both hands and twisted against the unyielding metal. Pain lanced through his hands, focusing him, and he wrestled his rage down, shoved it into a cage in the bottom of his mind.

  "What's the matter, Indian Boy? Don't like it when people tell it like it is?"

  Tom shot him a glare, then looked away and said, "Can we please get on with the exercise, Mr. Reynolds?"

  "Well, since you asked so nicely." Reynolds strutted forward. He leaned against the railing, so close that Tom could feel the man's breath against his cheek. Reynolds was a tall man. Even leaning against the railing he could look down at Tom. There was an eager gleam in his eyes, like a predator who's scented blood.

  "What's the matter, Thrush?" he said softly. "You upset?"

  Tom stared straight ahead and didn't answer.

  "Is that a tear I see building in the corner of your eye? Are you going to cry? Is all the nasty talking too much for the poor little recruit?" When Tom ignored him he barked, "Answer me!"

  Tom looked at him. "Sir."

  Reynolds said, "What?"

  "I don't see any rank bars on your uniform." Tom tapped his own chest, where the painfully narrow half-stripe of a sublieutenant ran from his collar to the seam of his sleeve. "Like this one. So you can address me as 'Sir' from now on." He smiled, the frosty, merciless smile he'd learned from CT Carpenter. "Is that clear, Jerry?"

  Reynolds's face turned red. "You will address me as Trainer Reynolds!"

  Backing down would have been prudent, but Tom was much too angry. He deepened his smile, knowing it infuriated the other man. "Sir. You forgot to say 'Sir' at the end."

  Reynolds's voice rose to a shout. "You self-important little moron, you're not a real officer! I'll bounce you out of here so fast, you'll be back in your wigwam in the forest before your head stops spinning! If you think I'm going to let some savage talk to me like that, you've got-"

  The room vanished in a haze of red. It didn't lift until a fist slammed into Tom's kidney from behind. The pain made him suck in his breath, and he shook his head, clearing it.

  He stood at the railing with a student officer on either side of him. They had him by the arms, and they were straining with everything they had, trying to pull him back.

  Reynolds was on the other side of the railing. He was clutching the middle bar of the railing with one hand, his other hand flailing in the air. His legs waved over the void, and he wailed, an incoherent sound of terror. Tom stared down at him, feeling a rush of exultation that quickly gave way to fear. Oh my God. What have I done?

  He let the others drag him back. A burly young man named Kalac stood chest to chest with him, hands on Tom's shoulders, while the other two ran to pull Reynolds to safety.

  "Settle down," said Kalac. "We don't need any more finger stomping."

  Tom winced. I stomped on his fingers?

  "I couldn't let you kill him," Kalac said. "You see that, right?" There was tension in the set of his shoulders, wariness in his eyes.

  "Sure."

  "No hard feelings, then?"

  Tom said, "For what?"

  "Hitting you."

  Tom reached a hand behind him and touched his back just below the ribs. Now that he gave it his attention, the pain was really quite bad. He said, "Did you have to hit me that hard?"

  "Yes." Kalac nodded. "Yes, I did."

  Behind Kalac the other two dragged Reynolds over the railing. He was a mess, gasping and clutching at them, but he'd compose himself soon enough. And then he would open his fool mouth. "If it's all the same to you," said Tom, "I'm going to head back to my room. I guess I better pack."

  Kalac nodded and let go of Tom's shoulders, but he didn't lower his arms.

  Tom started to turn, then paused and turned back. Kalac lowered himself into a crouch, clearly expecting the worst.

  "Kalac?" Tom said. "Thanks."

  Packing didn't take long, since he owned practically nothing. He folded his dress uniform and put it into a duffel bag, then took his sword out of the closet. He wondered if they would take it away when they cashiered him. It wasn't much of a weapon, but it was certainly beautiful, bright enough to use for a mirror. He looked at his own face, distorted by the curve of the scabbard, and shook his head, disappointed by the man he saw looking back at him. "You stupid shit," he muttered. "When are you going to learn?"

  His bracer chimed. Most civilians had implants for data access and communication. Kids carried handheld devices or wore data gloves. The Navy used a standard bracer, a metal bracelet that ran from the wrist half way to the elbow. Tom tapped his bracer and read the message displayed on the built-in screen.

  He was to report to Captain Alizadeh at once.

  Her office was not far from Tom's cabin, but the short walk felt as gruelling as an all-day hike with a full pack. Tom hesitated outside her door, then took a deep breath and told himself he might as well get it over with.

  "Lieutenant." Sublieutenants and overlieutenants were all addressed as 'Lieutenant' unless there was a need to be more specific. "Sit down."

  Tom took a seat in front of the gleaming expanse of the captain's desk. She had olive skin and dark eyebrows above two of the fiercest eyes he had ever seen. She was small, barely half his mass, but he found her utterly intimidating. She looked at him with the cold haughtiness of a bird of prey, and he felt a slow flush rise up his neck and
spread across his face.

  "You've had quite an interesting day, Mr. Thrush."

  "Yes, Ma'am," he said meekly.

  She picked up a data pad and looked at it, her expression impossible to read. "Let me see. Trainer Reynolds peppered you with racial insults. You responded by asserting your very junior rank in an entirely inappropriate way." She glanced up at him, arching an eyebrow. It felt as scathing as the worst dressing down he'd ever gotten from the cadre trainers in Basic.

  "Trainer Reynolds challenged you, and you responded by, let me see …"

  Tom squirmed in his chair.

  "Ah, yes. You threw him bodily over the railing of Deck P, then stepped on his fingers as he hung from the railing." Her face became very still, and Tom had the strangest sense that she was suppressing a smile. That was preposterous, of course.

  "This is a very serious matter," she said. "It will have to be dealt with somewhat harshly, I'm afraid."

  Here it comes, Tom thought. He nodded. "I understand, Ma'am."

  "Do you?" she said. Her expression didn't change, but her face seemed somehow less harsh. "Do you know why Reynolds is a trainer?"

  Tom blinked, startled. "No, Ma'am."

  "Sometimes we take the very best that the Navy has and make them trainers, so they can pass along that tradition of excellence to new officers and crew." Now he was sure of it. She was hiding a smile. "That is not the case with Mr. Reynolds. In his case, we keep him here because he would be a disaster on a working battleship."

  Tom stared at her, astonished.

  "He serves a useful purpose," she said. "We have him teaching officers because it keeps his sadistic tendencies in check." She frowned. "Usually it does. He's unpleasant and unjust, and it prepares student officers for some of the more difficult people they'll have to deal with during their careers. And you're familiar with the idea that the more you suffer during training, the longer you live during combat."

  Tom nodded.

  "I've allowed him to remain, in spite of his significant personal shortcomings. He's been getting worse, though. I've been thinking I would need to do something soon to rein him in." She smiled briefly. "You've taken care of that for me."

  Tom stared at her, bemused. Is she telling me off or not?

  "I have to punish you, Mr. Thrush." The smile was gone now, the coldness firmly back in place. "You behaved inappropriately. You violated some pretty significant regulations. Frankly, you committed offences I could have you arrested for, if that was my inclination."

  Tom gulped.

  "Worst of all, you showed bad judgment. That's an unforgivable sin in a naval officer." She leaned forward, her eyes skewering him. "You're smart. I've seen your record. Even the complaints. Especially the complaints. Those reprimands tell me you're always thinking, always analyzing. But today you let your temper get the best of you, and you did something stupid." She shook her head. "I can't have an officer on a warship who loses all common sense when somebody pisses him off."

  He made himself meet her gaze. It was as difficult as anything he'd ever done.

  Some of the severity left her expression. "The truth is, you don't belong here."

  He flinched.

  "Now, that might sound like a criticism, but it's not. Not necessarily." Her chair creaked as she leaned back. "You're an innovator and a thinker and a fighter. Unfortunately, those aren't values that battleship commanders value. But battleships are not the entire navy.

  "I'm kicking you out of Battleship School. You'll be leaving the Dauntless tomorrow. It looks like punishment. It's enough to discourage your peers from shoving any more trainers over railings." A hint of a grin touched her lips, then vanished. "It's enough to appease Trainer Reynolds." She lifted an eyebrow. "He's not pressing for a court-martial, by the way. I don't think he wants to stand in front of a courtroom and repeat the things he said to you, and then describe how he let a student dangle him over a railing." The grin appeared briefly. Her expression went cold as she said, "You got lucky today, Lieutenant. Don't forget it."

  Her chair creaked again as she reached for a data pad. "I'm transferring you to Capricorn Base. You'll be learning small ship tactics and strategies. Frigates and corvettes."

  Tom's heart sank. Battleships were the glamorous part of the fleet. Carriers and heavy cruisers had some glory attached to them too. Small ships were an afterthought, though. They ran errands, or tagged along behind the big ships without contributing much in a battle.

  "You don't look impressed," Alizadeh said. "You should be. We get more traffic flowing from Capricorn to here than the other way around. They send us the dull ones. The ones who need everything spelled out to them. The ones who do everything by the book and never take a chance. The ones who can't hack Small Ships.

  "In return, we send them the bright ones. The fighters. Everything the trainers told you is wrong with you is an asset in frigates and corvettes. Trust me, Thrush. You're going to love it."

  Well, I haven't got much choice, so I guess I'll take her at her word. "Thank you, Ma'am."

  "I know you don't mean that," she said. "You will, though." She waved an arm around. "For most of the officers on this tub it really would be a punishment. They need structure. Predictability. You don't get those things on small ships. You get variety instead. My first command was a frigate, and I still miss it. A day on a frigate where everything goes according to plan usually means the ship missed a message. No two days are the same. And frigates go everywhere."

  He gave her a cautious nod.

  "You're relieved of duty for the rest of your time on the Dauntless. I'm putting a Class Two reprimand on your file, and docking you three weeks' pay." She looked him up and down, then shook her head. "I suggest you spend your down time reading up on small ship tactics. You'll be spending a lot less time pressing your uniform and a lot more time in simulated combat. They're going to expect you to lift off with your rockets blazing. Understand?"

  Tom nodded.

  "You're dismissed, Thrush."

  He turned toward the doorway, but stopped when Alizadeh spoke again.

  "Thrush? I don’t think Reynolds is actually a racist. He just has a knack for finding people's buttons, and pushing them. You might want to think about not being quite so easy to manipulate."

  She returned her gaze to the data pad and ignored him as he slipped out of her office.

  Chapter 6

  The enemy fleet lunged through the darkness, silent as starlight, deadly as sharks.

  Tom tapped at the screens surrounding his chair, aware he was smiling like a fool and not caring. The simulator smelled of sweat and spilled coffee. The fingerprints of other student officers smeared the screens, and the hard plastic chair beneath him squeaked every time he shifted his weight. None of it bothered him.

  He loved combat simulations. They were everything that Battleship School wasn't. In combat simulations, only results mattered. There was no one way to do things, no standard path you were never supposed to deviate from. Instead of endless rules, there were guidelines and best practices. In fact, there was only one real rule.

  Complete your mission.

  A disabled battleship floated dead in space somewhere behind his corvette. His mission was to protect the battleship from a trio of mini-corvettes. The enemy might try to slip past him, but he was betting they would mob him, try to overwhelm him and finish him off so they could tackle the battleship at their leisure.

  He launched a spread of missiles, three missiles at each of the approaching targets, then jinked sideways, nudging his corvette out of the way of incoming fire. This wasn't a completely realistic simulation, where he'd be in command and giving orders to officers at the helm and weapons stations. This was much more fun. He got to do it all himself, treating a massive corvette like his personal fighter, the biggest, deadliest fighter the galaxy had ever known. He cackled as an approaching ship took a direct hit and began to spin end over end.

  The remaining two bandits took out his missiles and came a
fter him, hungry for revenge. They fired almost a dozen missiles between the two of them, and Tom fought the urge to evade, keeping his own ships steady as automated laser fire knocked out one missile after another.

  Gambling that his opponents had exhausted their missile supply, he closed to point-blank range. For five gruelling minutes he slugged it out with both ships, giving and receiving a steady barrage of minor damage from lasers and cannons. One screen filled with lines of angry red text listing the damage to his own ship. Another screen showed the hits he was scoring on his enemies.

  When the last laser turret on the nearest enemy ship blew apart under a withering stream of explosive shells, Tom knew his moment had arrived. He slapped an icon on his center screen and launched his last two missiles at the battered ship. At a range of just over a kilometer the bandit had less than a second to react. Both missiles struck, and Tom let out a whoop.

  It turned to a groan a moment later as a buzzer sounded and a computerized voice announced, "Your engines have been disabled."

  He scanned the damage report and winced. The last enemy ship was shooting his corvette to ribbons. Tom still had a functioning gun on the starboard side, but his port-side gun was scrap metal, and the bandit was staying well to port. With his engines disabled, there wasn't a whole lot Tom could do about it.

  When the visor of his helmet slammed down he knew the bridge had lost atmosphere. There was still air all around him, of course; the simulator could only do so much.

  He scanned the control screens, looking for an icon that hadn't gone red. He found a manoeuvering thruster still functioning in the nose of the ship and tapped it. The corvette began a lazy turn that would eventually bring the remaining gun to bear on the enemy.

  But the bandit, of course, wasn't about to stay still. Tom watched helplessly as the enemy ship moved in time with the turning of the corvette, remaining stubbornly on his port side. And the bandit shifted focus, concentrating its cannon fire on Tom's last remaining thruster.