by Jake Elwood
A map of the Kestrel glowed on Tom's bracer. It was the day after the drill, and he ached. Muscles burned in his arms and legs. His lower back felt like one big knot, and he had trouble straightening his fingers. The dolly idea was stupid. But I can't think of anything else.
A tiny yellow rectangle glowed just forward of the engines, not far from the aft magazine. He zoomed in and squinted at the outline of an airlock. The brutal weight of the ammo cases would vanish if the cases could be removed from the ship's artificial gravity field. He swiped a fingertip across the bracer, moving forward. There were airlocks in the forward section as well. None of them were particularly close to Beta Gun, but still ….
He imagined sending one or two people out the aft lock with six cases of ammunition. The rest of the team could run forward and be waiting in the shuttle bay to retrieve it. Then it would just be a short haul up two flights of stairs to the gun.
"Yeah, right." He shook his head. The ship was in hyperspace, which meant energy storms raged just outside. A person in a vac suit wouldn't last long. Even if the ship was in clear space between storms when the drill began, there was no way he'd be allowed to open an airlock. He scowled and closed the map. Boudreau had stacked the deck with meticulous care. There was simply no way for Tom to win.
He thought about studying and decided to take a walk instead. In theory he'd be familiarizing himself with the ship. In reality he would walk the route from the aft magazine to Beta Gun yet again, looking for a way to achieve the impossible.
The hatch slid open and a voice barked, "Hold on!" Tom froze in the hatchway as a massive chunk of aluminum pipe went past. Almost as wide as the corridor, the pipe hung from some kind of harness and drifted along with a marine on either end.
"Sorry about that, Sir," said the marine at the back. "We can't really stop this thing once it gets moving."
Tom stepped into the corridor. "What in space are you doing?"
The marine looked at him as if wondering if he needed to bother answering. His gaze flicked over the half-stripe on Tom's chest and he said, "Disaster recovery drill." He said this over his shoulder, not slowing his pace as he followed the pipe, his hands resting on the metal.
Tom followed him. "Disaster recovery?"
"Yes, Sir." There was a hint of impatience in the man's voice. "We pretends the ship's taken a big hit. Collapsed ceilings, that sort of thing. Only they doesn't let us collapse the actual ceilings." He shook his head as if saddened by a great injustice. "So we practices with big chunks of metal like this." He patted the pipe. "We figures out how to get it up and moving, and we gets it out of the way."
The pipe had to weigh a good deal more than the two marines who were moving it. "How do you do it?" he asked, fascinated. "How do you lift it?"
"Tactical harnesses," the marine said, a grudging warmth in his voice. Like most people he couldn't resist a bit of enthusiasm when talking about his work. "They're made for lifting people. They lets us control our weight, jump off rooftops and the like. We slings 'em around the obstacle and powers 'em up, and pretty soon they doesn't weigh nothing at all."
Four different sets of gray harness were strapped around the pipe. Tom could make out sleeve holes and buckles clearly designed for human bodies. The harnesses seemed to fit the pipe well enough, though.
"Wow. That's a good solution. You would think they would give you something designed for …" He waved his arm at the pipe. "For clearing rubble like this."
The marine shrugged. "The harnesses are pretty flexible. They's designed for people of every size, or wearing vac suits or full armor. So they reconfigures pretty good."
Tom left him to his work and walked away, lost in thought. A quick check with his bracer told him he wouldn't be able to steal the marines' tactic directly. Tactical harnesses were the property of the Marine Corps, and needed by the marines during drills. He wouldn't be allowed to play with their toys.
His thoughts chased themselves around in ever-tighter circles until he wanted to bang his head on the nearest wall. Instead, he retreated to his cabin where he activated his desk and turned on a training program. Designed like a game, Fire Escape created one simulation after another, challenging him to find the closest exits and emergency equipment from various points on the ship. He coped with fires, structural damage, and loss of pressure.
Concentrating was difficult at first. His mind kept wanting to return to the problem of the ammo drill, but gradually the game absorbed all his attention. He poured himself into the scenarios, knowing that if he kept his conscious mind fully occupied his subconscious would go to work.
It took more than an hour, and by the end of it he was exhausted and thoroughly sick of Fire Escape. But by the time he blanked the desktop he knew what to do.
When Battle Stations sounded Tom ran past the aft magazine without stopping. He dashed into the surgery instead, where he grabbed a couple of medical anti-grav harnesses. Designed for moving injured people, they were more rigid than the tactical harnesses, but they worked essentially the same way. He'd wanted a dozen of the harnesses, but Dr. Vinduly had put his foot down.
By the time Tom reached the magazine the rest of the team was there, lined up in the corridor while they waited for the Alpha Gun team to finish loading the grav sled. Tom looked his team over. Hanson was probably the fittest, but he didn't trust Hanson. Haskell was the tallest among the rest, and he'd displayed plenty of upper-body strength during the drills so far. Tom pushed a harness into his hands. "Haskell, you're with me. The rest of you, bring the other ammo cases as soon as the grav sled is free."
The Alpha Gun team came out of the magazine pushing the grav sled. Nguyen and Carver followed. Their job would be to bring the sled back when it was empty. Tom stepped into the magazine with a puzzled Haskell at his heels.
They lifted an ammo case down, stood it on end, and wrapped it in a medical harness. Tom cranked the harness up as high as it would go, watching the straps pull tight as the harness tried to rise.
"How many of these harnesses did you get?" Haskell said doubtfully.
"Just the two." Tom wrapped the second harness around the case. "Buckle it up." He tugged a strap tight, then twisted the dial on the harness, setting it to AUTO-NEUTRAL. The harness vibrated as it powered up. The ammunition case trembled, then rose to hover a few millimeters above the floor.
Tom grabbed one end, Haskell grabbed the other, and they heaved upward. The case rose, and they needed the same amount of effort to bring it to a stop at about chest height. "Let's go," Tom said, and tugged the case toward the door. "Wait here," he said to the others. "Get the rest of the ammo to the gun as quick as you can."
Manoeuvering the floating case was a frustratingly slow business. It had a tremendous amount of inertia, and getting it through the corridors required endless changes in direction. Crew rushing past on their own errands had to duck under the floating case as Tom and Haskell shoved it down the corridor and up half a flight of stairs.
Once they reached the spine, though, it was a straight line to the forward section of the ship. Tom could see the Alpha Gun team at the forward end, lifting the grav sled from the vator and heading up the stairs. He wouldn't be able to catch up, but he was determined not to be too far behind.
"Let's see how fast this thing will move," he said, and grinned at Haskell. The spacer gave him an uncertain grin in reply and they pushed on the floating ammo case, shoving it toward the far end of the spine. When the two men had to trot to keep up Tom said, "That's enough. If it gets away from us …."
They jogged along, the ammo case floating at shoulder-height beside them. From time to time they would give it a little sideways push to keep it lined up with the long corridor. There wasn't enough air resistance to slow the case by any measurable amount. It sailed along, effectively without friction, Tom and Haskell running beside it.
When half a dozen marines filled the forward end of the spine Tom pushed the ammo case up until it was almost brushing the ceiling. The marines ra
n past, a few of them tilting their heads to avoid the case.
Once they were past Tom pulled the case back down, then started slowing it down. Haskell helped, both of them tugging on the case. They quickly learned that getting the case moving was a lot easier than stopping it. They'd been able to plant their feet when they pushed it into motion. Now they stumbled along behind it, cursing as they tried to brace themselves without being pulled off their feet.
The case was moving at a brisk walking pace when it hit the bulkhead at the forward end of the spine. The impact made the deck plates tremble under Tom's feet, and he winced. But the bulkhead, designed to keep the forward section airtight during combat, was solidly built. The ammo case put a scuff mark in the blue paint, with hints of orange showing through. There was no other damage.
The case rebounded, but the two of them quickly got it under control. They manhandled it through a hatch, down half a flight of stairs, and around a corner, moving much slower now. They lowered the case to waist height where it was easier to control and steered it into the magazine. They had to remove one harness to pop the top of the case open. They left the other harness in place while they clicked the case into the feeder.
"Well, that was exciting, Sir." Haskell panted as he removed the second medical harness from the case. "I don't quite see the point, though. The other five cases are still back there." He gestured aft.
Tom massaged his hands, which were cramping from the effort of hauling on the straps around the case. "Boudreau – Excuse me, Commander Boudreau – he's not checking how long it takes us to get all the ammo loaded." Tom gestured at the loading rack. "He's checking the ship's computer to see how long it took us to get the first case installed in the loader."
Haskell's brow furrowed.
"The Navy's a funny organization," Tom said. "If you're an officer you can hand out simple punishments as often as you like. If you want a reprimand on someone's record, though, you need paperwork." He flourished his bracer. "I checked the exact wording of his written notification to us. He was very precise. Our assignment was to get the first case of ammunition in place within ten minutes of the start of the drill."
Haskell leaned forward. "And did we?"
"With thirty seconds to spare," Tom said smugly.
"You mean …."
"We all get shore leave."
"Yes!" Haskell pumped the air with his fist.
The rest of the team showed up several minutes later with the grav sled. Boudreau arrived almost on their heels, his expression smug and malicious. He looked at the full sled, clicked his tongue in disapproval, and made a show of lifting his arm to check his bracer.
And the nasty smile on his face slid downward like melting wax, becoming a disbelieving frown. When he finally managed to speak all he said was, "Good. Carry on." He spun on his heel and marched away.
The team stood there, looking at one another. Haskell was full of glee, Tom struggling not to laugh. The others just looked confused. Haskell repeated what Tom had told him about getting the first case into the loader. Tom watched as it sank in. An air of weary futility seemed to slide away from them. Nguyen straightened up. Swanson squared her shoulders. Carver smiled, looking from face to face.
Only Hanson didn't look happy. He scowled, grabbed the handles of the grav sled, and said, "Let's get this back to the magazine."
Haskell laughed. "Get off it, Hanson. You'd be happier if we all got reprimands and lost our shore leave, wouldn't you?" He shook his head, then looked at Tom. "We're all supposed to be mad at you, aren't we, Lieutenant? We were supposed to lose our shore leave, and it was supposed to be your fault because you're not from New Haven." He snorted.
"You know," said Nguyen, "I've been in the Navy for ten years and this is the first time I've really gone anywhere." She smiled, her whole face lighting up. "We get to see Garnet!"
Hanson muttered something under his breath. The others ignored him. Swanson took the second set of controls as Haskell and Tom took their ammo case out of the rack and added it to the sled. The sled glided aft, heading for the spine.
"They have surfing on Garnet," Swanson said. "Do you think it's hard to learn how to surf?"
That set off an excited discussion of shore leave possibilities. Tom walked beside the sled, listening to the chatter, feeling the stress of the last several days ease its grip on him.
"You know, Lieutenant," Haskell murmured. "Maybe being in the UW Navy isn't so bad."
Chapter 14
Chance put Tom on a sleep shift when the ship was scheduled to reach Garnet. He adjusted his alarm, rose early, and made his way to the wardroom to watch. He'd hoped to have the room to himself, but it was not to be. Lieutenant Carstairs was there, perched in a chair that gave him a view of the window. Vinduly, the surgeon, stood with his nose almost touching the transparent panel, gazing into hyperspace.
Tom took a spot at the window, close to one side so he wouldn't block Carstairs's view, and looked out. The ship was in a clear space between storms. He could see no stars, just a blue wall so distant it seemed smooth and featureless. It was soothing, and he yawned, then allowed himself to relax.
Until the hatch slid open, putting a rectangle of reflected light on the glass, and Brady entered the wardroom.
"As you were," she said as he started to turn. She joined him at the window, taking a position between Tom and Vinduly. Carstairs grumbled, then stood and edged in beside the surgeon.
"I never miss a transition if I can help it," Brady said. She glanced at Tom. "Unless it interferes with rack time. I'm an enthusiast, not a lunatic."
Carstairs chuckled. "The kid's keen. Let him enjoy it. He'll be tired and cynical soon enough."
"Look," said Vinduly, and the others went silent. A tiny white circle glowed just ahead of the ship. The circle grew and grew, giving the illusion they were rushing toward it. The ship was rushing forward, Tom knew, but that circle, projected by the ship itself, was keeping pace. It expanded until all he could see was white.
From the bridge they would see more. The ship's scanners would give a view of normal space beyond the portal, allowing the bridge crew to check for collision hazards. Tom didn't want to see the transition through a screen full of data, though.
He wanted to see it with his own eyes.
"Here we go," Brady murmured, and the whiteness grew impossibly bright. Tom squinted, lifted a hand to shield his eyes, and then dropped it.
They were through. The view through the window was of blackness, stars slowly appearing as his eyes adjusted. Carstairs and Vinduly moved away, leaving Tom and Brady at the window. One by one the stars emerged from the darkness, and then the Milky Way appeared, making a sloppy pale swath across the starscape.
The ship had to be moving, though it was impossible to hear the engines from this far forward. The ship was turning as well. The stars slid gracefully to starboard, and the first of Garnet's defenses came into view. It was a gun platform, drifting in a high slow orbit around the planet. Roughly spherical, the platform featured small thrusters to make it rotate and great thick slabs of armor plating. Three fat gun barrels jutted out, pointing toward deep space.
Several more gun platforms came into view as the Kestrel advanced. If the Dawn Alliance tried to bring large warships into the system, they would face a warm reception.
Bombers, of course, would be able to race past the gun platforms with impunity. It would take a very lucky shot to bring down a small, fast-moving ship with such ponderous heavy guns. No doubt there were other defenses to deal with bomber attacks, Tom told himself.
Small shapes in the distance slowly grew until he could make out docking stations bristling with ships. The stations were huge, spidery things that enmeshed the ships of the Green Zone Fleet in a shroud of girders and gantries. As the Kestrel drew close to the nearest station, Tom saw a battleship that looked almost puny compared to the web of metal that ensnared it. The massive battleship wasn't even the only ship there. He saw a couple of light carriers and no fe
wer than three cruisers entangled in the same station.
None of those ships, he realized, would be able to disengage quickly in the event of an attack.
The station fell away aft and he saw more stations, each with a handful of ships docked to it. Each ship would need anywhere from several minutes to most of an hour to disconnect from its station.
He didn't see any ships in open space.
"Lieutenant?" he said.
Brady glanced at him. "Hmmm?"
"Isn't it, I don't know, kind of dangerous, having all these ships linked to the stations? They can't react very quickly if there's an attack."
An amused grin quirked her lips. "There won't be an attack. There's a network of scanner buoys all around us. The fleet will have an hour's warning if the Dawn Alliance tries anything."
He thought of the strategy exercise from Small Ship Training. What if a carrier stopped just outside the web of scanner buoys and launched, say, a dozen bombers? Or two dozen? He pictured a cloud of little ships sweeping in and blasting one of those docking stations to scrap metal, and all the docked ships too. The bombers would be able to flee unscathed before the rest of the fleet could react.
He pushed the macabre scenario from his mind as the Kestrel drifted up to Garnet itself. There were admirals with decades of experience making sure the Green Zone Fleet was safe. It wasn't Tom's job. He had plenty to think about, like watching how a frigate docked, and figuring out how to spend his shore leave.
This star system had a name – GRN753, if he remembered correctly – but no one called it anything but the Garnet system. Garnet properly referred to the fifth planet out from the star, but most spacers called the orbiting naval base 'Garnet'.
The base was a monster, a massive disk in a geostationary orbit above the equator of one of the galaxy's gems. A tether forty thousand kilometers long connected the station to the planet below, and extended upward to anchor a counterweight high above the station. Personnel and urgent cargo went to and from the surface by shuttle, but most cargo traveled up the tether by elevator.
