by Jake Elwood
The stars were cold and bright, much brighter than they ever looked from Earth. He couldn't see Jupiter from this angle, but the stars by themselves were beautiful enough.
When he got tired of the stars he tapped the wrist screen to life. Before the Navy he had been thoroughly connected to the data nets on Earth. Basic Training had broken him of that lifelong habit. Now he was able to connect to the data nets again, but they had lost much of their allure.
He browsed a newsfeed, telling himself that interstellar politics, at least, were relevant to him. The Galactic War was heating up. The League of Free Nations had taken another star system, and the Alliance was growing more desperate.
Some politicians in the United Worlds were demanding that Earth and her allies join the war. A similar number of politicians and pundits were insisting that the United Worlds stay out. One firebrand even insisted that this was the time to start a new war in the opposite direction. The Dawn Alliance was watching and waiting, she said. War was inevitable, and the best hope of victory was to strike first.
Everyone is insane, Tom decided. There's no other explanation. In local news, a politician in New Haven was agitating for separation from the United Worlds. New Haven had only joined the union two months before, but one man at least thought it was a mistake.
Tom shrugged. It had nothing to do with him.
A Recorded Reality star named Jarvis Carver had been married and then divorced, all within the last two weeks. He made action recordings, using his implants to capture every sensation, every adrenaline rush as he did wild stunts. Recordings like his were one of the biggest reasons people got implants. They said Carver's recordings were amazing.
Tom, who'd never had implants, couldn't say.
Tiring of the newsfeeds, he brought up a list of courseware instead. He was expected to do an astonishing amount of studying while also attending classes and doing endless assignments like this one. That meant spending every moment he could spare going through course material.
For the next fifteen minutes he read about spaceships. He'd been studying the large and medium-sized ships for so long he was sick of them. He decided to read about little ships instead, one-person craft even smaller than the ship he was on now.
Some warships still carried drones, tiny, compact, lethal machines that usually worked with a combination of robotic and remote control. Drones could handle more acceleration than a human pilot. They were smaller, so they were harder to hit. And no human pilots had to endanger themselves during combat.
Drones were superior to manned fighters in every way except one. Anti-electronic measures would turn a drone into a useless flying brick.
Single-person fighters continued to be a mainstay of Naval combat, because of Benson fields. A Benson field could scramble electronics. The fields had a range of several kilometers, were easy to project, and didn't interfere with systems on the ship they were projected from. The invention of the Benson field had made drones obsolete.
Fighter craft tended to be tiny. In fact, there was a maximum height limit for cavalry pilots. Lily would have been brilliant in that role, Tom thought.
The next step up from fighters was bombers. A typical bomber would only have one pilot, but it would easily be three or four times the size of a fighter. Bombers were fast, but short-range, though they had more range than fighters. They could carry big missile payloads, but they needed a carrier to get them to their targets.
The United Worlds Navy had three kinds of bombers in active service. The armed forces of other nations used half a dozen more. Tom was reading through endless lists of ship statistics, trying to memorize the differences, when he found himself drifting toward the forward bulkhead. He just had time to get his feet in front of him before the drift became a rush. By the time his feet hit the bulkhead the ship was decelerating at almost two G's.
You could've warned me. He didn't bother transmitting the thought to Abercrombie. The pilot would just say that Tom should have expected deceleration. He knew the mission, after all.
And Abercrombie would have a point, Tom admitted to himself. He should have done his studying with his back braced against the forward bulkhead.
He stood straddle-legged, quietly enduring the weight as the ship slowed down. Abercrombie wouldn't stop. Not that "stop" meant much in space, of course. It would be more accurate to say that Abercrombie wouldn't match velocities perfectly with the mining platform. This was a training exercise, after all. The idea was not to make it too easy for the marines.
When Tom spotted the platform in the distance, he shook his head in disbelief. Easy was the last word he would have used to describe the transit from the platform to the ship. He knew the platform had to be huge, but it looked as tiny as a thimble in the distance. This made his OPT runs look as simple as walking down a sidewalk.
A flicker of movement caught his eye, not much more than a handful of stars vanishing as something dark went past. Then a marine in a black vac suit sailed into the bay. He flew in feet-first, his boots hitting the inside bulkhead and his legs bending to absorb the impact. He handled it perfectly, killing every bit of momentum before drifting forward to join Tom against the forward bulkhead.
The ship was still decelerating, but slower now. Tom estimated his weight at well under half a G. The marine landed standing on the bulkhead beside him. They exchanged nods, then turned their attention to the open hatch.
More marines came through, one after another. They were clearly a mix of old hands and new recruits, some landing adroitly, others bouncing back out into the void.
Plumes of white vapor appeared as the marines used jets of compressed air to manoeuver their way back into the ship. Even the clumsiest marine seemed to have a sixth sense for his teammates; they would lean and twist and dodge in the nick of time as another member of the squad came sailing in.
A total of seven marines came through the hatch, making quite a crowd against the forward bulkhead. Then an eighth marine flew in, thumped into the hull of the ship a meter from the hatch, and bounced away into the void.
"Bloody hell," said a voice in Tom's helmet. "The new kid's botched it. He's out of juice, too. You needs to go back for him."
"All right." Tom tapped his forearm, pinging the bridge.
"What is it?" Abercrombie sounded bored and impatient.
"One of the marines missed the pickup," Tom said. "I'm sure he'll catch up, though. There's no need to go back for him."
The closest marines turned to stare at him.
"They don't have much air in those manoeuvering jets," Abercrombie said frostily. "You should know that." Tom and the marines drifted to starboard as the ship began to turn. "I'm going back for him."
The marines began to spread out, stepping onto the deck and ceiling and the interior bulkhead, boot magnets holding them in place. Tom used the controls on his sleeve to activate his own boot magnets. He was just in time, too. The ship spun end for end, then accelerated back the way it had come. Tom swayed, his sense of up and down changing moment by moment. The bulkhead beneath him felt like "down" again for almost a minute, then became "up" as the ship decelerated.
"I's out of juice," said a small, embarrassed voice.
"Hang on," said a man. "I'll be right out to get you." A marine detached from the inside bulkhead and sailed gracefully into the void. He was back a moment later, holding another marine by a loop on the back of his vac suit.
"Is that everyone?" Tom asked, then closed the hatch. He informed Abercrombie, then watched as the marines connected themselves to air umbilicals.
Ten minutes later they passed close by the Aardvark, a light carrier commissioned fifty years before and now relegated to training missions. The ship gleamed in the darkness, a metallic cylinder with the black circles of launch bays showing every few meters along her hull. Tom wouldn't have minded taking a closer look at the carrier, but he didn't get the chance. The marines flung themselves out of the bay, one after another, until Tom was alone again.
; He watched them shrink with distance as they plunged through the void, and felt a pang of envy. What would it be like to be one of those hotshots, learning to treat your own body like a missile?
When he could no longer see the carrier he closed the bay door. As it slid down, though, he took a second look at Jupiter, which was falling away to starboard. That wasn't right. He and Abercrombie were supposed to make a long sweep toward Ganymede. The ship should be turning toward Jupiter, not away.
Frowning, he re-pressurized the bay, then disconnected his umbilical. He waited a moment to see if Abercrombie was going to do any more manoeuvers, then turned off the magnets in his boots. He returned to the bridge and buckled himself into his seat. "Are you lost, buddy? I'm pretty sure we're going the wrong way."
Abercrombie gave him an affronted look. "New orders. We've got an appointment with Commander Friedman back at Capricorn."
Abercrombie brought them into a landing bay, and the two of them stripped off and racked their vac suits. Their instructions were to report immediately to the commander's office, but Tom figured he had time to pass by his quarters and freshen up.
It wasn't to be. He and Abercrombie made it into the corridor just outside the landing bay, then stopped as a heavyset man with the two and a half stripes of an overcommander came around the corner. "Thrush? Crombie?"
"Abercrombie," Abercrombie said.
"Close enough. I'm Friedman. Come with me." He led them to a small meeting room, where they stood uncomfortably near the door, waiting to see what this was about.
"Sit down," Friedman said.
They waited for him to sit, then took chairs themselves. Does this mean we're not in trouble? Tom wondered.
Friedman fiddled for a moment with his bracer, then looked up. "The war is heating up. That's leading to some changes around here. Across the Armed Forces, in fact."
Tom glanced at Abercrombie, who sneered at him.
"Your training is going to be … modified. Accelerated somewhat." Friedman leaned back in his seat. "Gaining skills and experience is still important, but this isn't the only place you can do that. You'll have some courseware to complete, but you can do that aboard ship."
Ship? Tom managed with difficulty to keep from leaning forward in his chair. Ship? Are we getting an assignment? He looked at Abercrombie in the corner of his eye. Am I going to be stuck on the same ship as this moron?
"We're giving you postings in the fleet," Friedman said. "You'll be on frigates. In the old days, every spacer served on frigates in the first year of their career. They're big enough to work independently, small enough to be cheap and quick to deploy. Frigate crews see more variety in their assignments in a year than battleship crews see in a decade."
Tom shrugged inwardly. He hadn't enjoyed Battleship School, but a small ship meant no gymnasium, no pool, no theater. It also meant less chance to be away from Abercrombie if they were posted to the same frigate.
"You'll be on the Gyrfalcon." Friedman looked at Abercrombie, who nodded. Then the commander's gaze switched to Tom. "Your assignment is the Kestrel." There was a note of regret in his voice, as if he'd just delivered bad news. Tom, who had never heard of that ship, was too busy feeling relieved to give it much thought. I don't have to work with Abercrombie.
"The Gyrfalcon is in orbit around Earth," Friedman went on. "There's a transport leaving tomorrow."
Abercrombie nodded.
"You, Mr. Thrush, will be leaving even sooner. Your ship is at the Eyrie at Korus. We're diverting a courier boat to deliver you. It will be here within the hour. You'll need to be ready to board immediately."
Tom nodded, filled with a sense of unreality. Was he really about to leave his home star system for the first time?
"This will be your only chance to say goodbye," Friedman said, then blinked in surprise as the two sublieutenants exchanged distasteful grimaces.
"Bye," said Tom.
"Bye," said Abercrombie.
"I've sent you the details of your postings." Friedman touched his bracer. "Do you have any questions?"
They didn't.
"Then you're dismissed."
Chapter 8
The shuttle was full of grunts.
Tom moved between the two rows of seated infantry, found an open spot, and sat down. He was the only Navy officer on the shuttle, the only officer of any kind, and he felt as if the soldiers were staring at him as he fumbled to stow his duffel under the bench seat.
The grunts, a mix of men and women, looked tough and competent in light body armor and baggy fatigues that turned steel-gray to match the inside of the shuttle. They would be heading coreward to bolster United Worlds forces near the borders of the Galactic War.
A cavalry officer came swaggering up the aisle. Cavalry officers always seemed to swagger. They would be nothing without a navy to carry them around, but they behaved as if the other services existed only to assist them.
She dropped into the seat across from Tom, somehow managing to dominate the shuttle despite being one of the smallest people there. She was in her early thirties, with short blonde hair and a nose that made him think of a hawk's beak. She flashed him a grin as the back of the shuttle closed and the interior went dim.
"Half-bar, eh?" She glanced at his chest. "And off to your first assignment."
He nodded, distracted. The shuttle had no live pilots, but there were emergency controls along the forward bulkhead, along with a window. He wanted to see Korus one last time, the only alien planet he'd ever visited. All he could see was sky, though, darkening and filling with stars as the shuttle rose through the atmosphere. That was appropriate, he decided, swallowing his disappointment. Korus was the past. Deep space was his future.
"Do you know which way you're going?" she said.
"Rimward," he said. "Probably Garnet."
She nodded. "I'm going the other way. I guess you won't be on my ship."
"You're going where the action is," he said a bit wistfully. "I won't get much excitement unless the Dawn Alliance tries something."
"They won't," the cavalry officer said confidently. "And I won't see any action either. We'll both sit on the sidelines. New Sheffield saw to that."
Tom nodded. When the Star Republic of Stradivar entered the Galactic War the Dawn Alliance had promptly invaded the Strad colony on New Sheffield. The rest of the Green Zone was safe from Dawn Alliance aggression – so long as the United Worlds continued to mind their own business. "I hope you're right," he said, not sure if he meant it. He didn't want the war to spread, not really. Still, it would certainly make his naval career interesting …
"There's the Eyrie," she said, nodding at the window, and Tom turned.
The Eyrie was a massive space station, a fortress and a naval docking facility all in one. It orbited Korus and formed the heart of the United Worlds military. From a few hundred kilometers away it looked like a top, although it didn't spin. The hull gleamed white and bristled with gun emplacements. A handful of ships were docked to the station, and a dozen more hovered in the void around it.
This is it. Everything is really about to change. He'd been looking forward to this moment ever since he'd gone into Basic Officer Training, but now that it was upon him, he was suddenly terrified.
"It'll be fine." The woman's voice was soft, and when he looked at her there was only compassion and understanding in her face. "It'll actually be easier than Basic. Basic was all about breaking you down so they could re-shape you. Your first assignment is about building you back up." She smiled, a gentle smile instead of the cocky grin she'd worn earlier. "The XO will take you under his wing and they'll teach you how to be a Navy officer. And you'll do fine."
His mouth was too dry to let him speak. He nodded instead, then turned to look out the window again. A ship loomed beside the station, an ungainly shape like a dumbbell.
Designed to carry up to six enormous cargo pods, a frigate, he knew, could look quite elegant. Now, though, stripped of the pods that would give substance to th
e center of the ship, it looked scrawny as a wet cat.
The tail of the ship was a pale orange. The forward section, though, was a soft blue. The tiny dark shapes of robots moved across the hull, painting the hull plates. Blue was the color of the United Worlds Navy, and he frowned, wondering at the orange paint that was being covered up.
"Is that your ship?"
Something in the cavalry officer's voice caught his attention, and he tore his gaze from the frigate to look at her. "Yes. It's the Kestrel."
The corners of her mouth drooped ever so slightly. "Oh."
"Oh?" He frowned. "What do you mean, 'Oh'?"
"It's a Havenite ship."
He stared at her, not understanding.
"New Haven," she said. "You know, one of the fringe nations just rimward?"
He'd heard of New Haven, a small nation bordering the United Worlds. Come to think of it, there'd been something on the feeds …
"I forgot," she said. "You're just out of training. You don’t get much chance to hear the news, do you?"
He shook his head.
"New Haven voted to join the Union about six weeks ago."
"Okay." The United Worlds was an expanding republic. Small independent nations joined from time to time. "What's that got to do with the ship?"
She gave him a look that might have contained a hint of pity. "They're folding the New Haven Armed Forces into our military. That means they're sticking a few UW officers onto that ship, putting everyone in new uniforms, and telling them they're part of the UW Navy now."
Tom said, "I see …"
The look on her face said she doubted it. "That crew has been proudly serving New Haven for their entire careers. Now they've got a handful of strangers coming on board and announcing that they're in charge." She shook her head. "They aren't going to like you. They aren't going to like you at all."
He turned to take another look at the frigate, but he was too late. The hull of the Eyrie blocked his view as the shuttle came in to dock. He felt the little boat touch down, and light flooded in as the ramp at the back dropped.
The cavalry officer stood. "Good luck, kid." She slapped his shoulder as she headed for the exit. "You'll need it."
