by Chris Bunch
• • •
Caud Ceil Fitzgerald wore her just-graying hair close-cropped, matching her all-business manner and ex-athlete’s build.
Garvin and Njangu stood at attention in front of her.
“I’ll make this brief,” she said. “There were suggestions as to who should be the Executive Officer. You were among them, Mil Jaansma. Even though you’re the youngest of the ones Dant Angara offered, I’m picking you.
“I like the way you’ve come up with unorthodox ideas, even though they haven’t worked out quite as expected, always. I think I’ll have no problem riding herd on what we’ll call your youthful exuberance.”
“Uh … thank you, ma’am,” Garvin managed.
“Naturally, you’re promoted Haut.”
She turned her attention to Njangu.
“I have very mixed feelings about you, Yoshitaro.”
Njangu kept his face blank, wondering which of his tricks Fitzgerald hated. Like most paranoiacs, he misunderstood her meaning.
“On the one hand, I think your devious mind is exactly what’s needed running Infantry and Reconnaissance Company. On the other, we’re not in a position to cozy up in slots where we’re not extending ourselves.
“And craftiness has other homes. Effective immediately, you’re promoted to Mil, and will replace Jaansma as head of II Section. I understand you, Dant Angara, Caud Hedley, and Jaansma had an irregular relationship, in that the four of you felt comfortable scheming without going through any chain of command.
“I want to maintain that same irregularity. We are badly outnumbered, possibly outgunned, and none of us has really recovered from the last few years of unrelenting combat.
“That is unfortunate. But there’ll be no relief until Redruth is beaten and, I suspect, his worlds taken by force. We’ve got to keep pressing him until he breaks.
“It’s the last fighter who can ignore his exhaustion and pain, stagger in, and deliver the last blow who triumphs.
“I’ve taken the opportunity to read your files, Yoshitaro, on Larix, and I’ve had a few conversations with Aspirant Stiofan. I do not wish either myself or my children to live under a tyranny like Redruth’s.
“So we mustn’t slacken now.
“That’s all. You two can select the new commander of I&R from within its ranks. I want the officer to hold the rank of Cent, so I’ve gotten authorization from Dant Angara to jump whatever ranks are necessary. I trust your judgment.
“You’re dismissed.”
Both men saluted, about-faced.
“Oh,” Fitzgerald said. “I almost forgot. I seem to have the reputation of being a harsh taskmaster. I prefer to think I merely am more focused than some others.
“Both of you can take the rest of the afternoon off, to celebrate your promotions. However, there’ll be a staff meeting tomorrow morning, an hour after general reveille. I expect both of you to be present and capable.
“Thank you.”
Outside, the two looked at each other wryly.
“Looks like it’s going to be a young man’s war,” Garvin said. “The book says you can expect to make Mil if you’re a good little rank filler about forty or fifty, and Haut’s a good rank to retire with after twenty more. Congrats.”
“You too,” Njangu said. “You’re on your way to Star Foozle.”
“Yeh,” Garvin said. “That’s me. Youngest fleet honcho in the history of the Universe. Wonder if I should start looking for a tailor to make up my uniforms now? Or for a fleet to command?”
Njangu started laughing.
“Nope,” Njangu said, “ol’ Fitz isn’t a slave driver. Not at all, no way in heaven. A whole, what, three hours off? My heart melts.”
“Guess we aren’t going to get too drunk, are we?”
“Guess not,” Njangu said. “Maybe we better com the ladies, tell them the news, and see if they’ve got any nice, sedate ways to celebrate. Maybe a brisk walk, eh? Or a refreshing cup of herb tea?”
Garvin grinned, then caught himself.
“Aw crud! Jasith’s off looking at some kind of new ore transporter the Musth came up with over on C-Cumbre. Guess it will be a quiet evening.”
“If you want, you can tag along with me and Maev. Maybe have a drink or two or dinner over at the Shelburne, then come on back so we’re bushy-eyed and bright-tailed for tomorrow’s staff bullshit?”
“A plan,” Garvin said. “Not that I especially like the idea of watching you two suck each other’s tongues while I stew in solitary splendor. But it’s better than having to buy every goddamned Alt in the Force a drink ‘cause we got promoted. Go ring your lady up, and tell her to get cracking.”
“After we get the pleasure of talking to the new I&R Commander,” Njangu said. “Heh. Heh.”
• • •
The reaction was predictable.
Monique Lir’s head swiveled, like a poisonous snake about to strike, between Yoshitaro and Jaansma.
“You pair of bastards,” she hissed. “I can see you standing there just eating this shit up!”
“Now, Monique, is that any way to talk to your superiors?”
“Goddammit, you two knew I don’t want to be an officer! Not ever!”
“Adj-Prem,” Njangu said, trying to keep from laughing, “as Caud Fitzgerald has informed us, and as you should know full well, into each life some piss must tinkle.”
“Look at it this way, Monique,” Garvin said reasonably. “You’re not an Aspirant, not even an Alt. You’ve leapt into the heights of the not-quite-field-grade, in one swell foop.”
“Think of the money,” Njangu said.
“Yeah,” Lir growled. “About a hundred credits a month less than I make as Adj-Prem. Whoopie.”
“I know what the problem is,” Njangu said. “You’re worried about not having the social graces to handle the Ossifers’ Club, right?”
“Screw you, boss,” Monique said. “You know goddamned well what it is. Warrants run this Force. This army. Any army. Always have, always will. Now I’m one of you snots, and now I’ll have to start worrying about what my noncoms are trying to put over on me! That isn’t right!” she almost wailed.
“Tsk. Tsk,” Garvin said. “Uh, Mil Yoshitaro, isn’t it customary to throw a promoted I&R person in a pond or something? I don’t think the Musth left us any pools, so I guess we should throw Cent Lir in the bay. Right?”
“Uh …” Njangu began cautiously.
“Try it,” Lir gritted. “Please. One of you try it.”
“I think,” Garvin said hastily, “we’ll pass on that local custom, eh? Congratulations, Cent. I’m sure you’ll serve in the highest traditions of the Force.”
“And, by the way,” Njangu added, “Just so you don’t think we’re harsh taskmasters, you can have the rest of the afternoon off to celebrate your promotion.
“But we’ll want I&R on a dawn run tomorrow. Say, out to Tiger Maneuver Area and back. Can’t have the children getting stale, now can we?
“That’s all, Cent. You’re dismissed.”
Again, Lir gave them the deadly stare. “Sometime … I don’t know when … somewhere, I don’t know that either … there’ll be a chance for me to get revenge.”
Her salute could have illustrated a textbook.
• • •
An Ohnce in an orbit over Kura Prime, hidden near an ancient piece of space junk, counted, in its moronic way, the number of ships exiting atmosphere. Too many, too quickly. It coded the count and the size of them, blipped the transmission to its sister in hyperspace, who passed the word down the chain.
• • •
“Well hmmph and horseshit,” Njangu said, disconnecting. “Guess who’s off guarding the good Dant in Taman City. Helluva way to celebrate a promotion.”
“Yeh,” Garvin said. “Look. I’ve been thinking. The Shelburne’s ‘kay, I guess. But shouldn’t we have at least one uncivilized drink first?”
“What, you want to go impose on the noncoms, like we usually do?”
“Why not? Everybody’s busting ass, so it shouldn’t be that rowdy. One drink, then cross the bay for some serious rare roast, a bottle of wine, and then we toddle off to bed like good little boys and girls.”
• • •
Njangu either forgot, or chose to forget, that the NCO Club would be drinking Monique Lir to perdition, on her final night as a noncom.
It looked like all rank barriers were off. Garvin and Njangu weren’t the only officers in the roaring melee, and Yoshitaro thought he saw every member of I&R in the huge club, except for those unfortunates off in space or on duty.
And it wasn’t one drink they had. Each of them had to buy the other a round, then someone spotted them who’d heard about their promotions, sent over a round, and then another. Plus well-wishers dropped by with a drink or two to talk.
“Howmanyzat?” Garvin inquired after a while.
“Eightyleven for me, sixtyfourburp for you rumpkins,” Njangu said.
“Only one solitary rumpkin, like only me, at this table.”
Njangu owled at him.
“Looks like more.”
“Maybe I better cancel dinner reversations … sorry, reservations, huh?”
“Maybe,” Njangu agreed. “And have ‘em send over another round when the bar slows down enough for you to talk to it. Thirsty out.”
“ ‘Kay,” Garvin said, and got to his feet carefully. He took a sight on the bar and set his course, pleased that he wasn’t weaving at all, but still careful on where he put his feet.
He stopped, watched Adj-Prem … correction, Cent Monique Lir, dancing on a tabletop. She appeared quite sober. Garvin wondered where she’d found the saber that was her partner, went on.
He found a com, dug through his pouch, peering at each card until he found the right one, swiped it through the payslot, and, when the Shelburne answered, very carefully gave his name and announced that he and his fellow officer would be unable to keep their reservations … last-minute call of duty, y’know.
He was quite proud of his clarity of tone, spoiled the effect with an enormous belch, muttered an apology, and disconnected.
Now what? Oh yeh. Order a drink for Njangu. Better get one for myself to keep the guy company. Get two for each of us, since the bar looks busy, and I’m a firm believer in economy of effort.
Coming down the hallway from the com and the freshers was Darod Montagna. She didn’t look in much better shape than he was, keeping one hand lightly on a wall for guidance.
“ ‘Lo,” Garvin said.
Darod looked up, recognized him.
“Haut Jaansma! Congratulations on your promotion, sir. Everyone’s real pleased for you.”
Garvin nodded, tried to think of a snappy reply, failed.
Darod took a step forward, stumbled a little, and Garvin caught her. She looked up at him, smiled happily.
It seemed a good idea for him to kiss her, so he did. She moved against him, both her arms went around his neck — she wasn’t that much smaller than he was, he realized — and kissed him back, tongue running in and out of his mouth. Garvin’s hand came up reflexively, cupped her breast, and she moved against him, pressing herself close.
Someone coughed, and Garvin came back to military reality, and pulled back.
“Uh, the Tweg had something in her eye,” he started, then realized it was Njangu.
“Sorry, sir,” Montagna said. “I, uh, just — ”
“I saw shit,” Yoshitaro announced. “I just came to remind Haut Jaansma we’re running late. So if you’ll excuse us, Tweg Montagna …” putting emphasis on the rank.
He had Garvin by an elbow, a smile fixed on his face, leading him back into the bar.
“And I think it’s time we’re going,” he hissed.
“You aren’t kidding,” Garvin said fervently. “We should’ve been gone before I went to make that com. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“Yeh,” Njangu said. “You’re bound and determined to stay in trouble, aren’t you? I assume that’s the person you were being so frigging vague about. Good goddamned thing I’m around to rescue you.”
• • •
The next morning, Njangu malevolently watched Garvin, suffering the torments of the damned, try to answer Caud Fitzgerald’s questions about Larissan intentions.
Before the staff meeting, while he sucked caff and chewed antacids in the Officers’ Mess, Garvin had plaintively queried him about hangover remedies. Njangu had thought about suggesting raw giptel eggs in hot sauce, or some of the other disgusting folk remedies he’d heard of, then said lots of ice water and mild analgesics were the only thing that’d help. Beyond going back to bed for the rest of the day.
Actually, Njangu knew a couple of real hangover cures. But they were high on the illegal-drug market and, besides, Yoshitaro had no idea where to score something like that these days.
He sighed for lost youth and concentrated on Garvin’s miseries. It kept him from remembering he didn’t feel all that much better, himself.
Neither of their conditions was improved when, an hour after the staff meeting ended, sirens screamed full alert.
The Larissans were on the move.
• • •
Dant Angara had no intention of being caught at the bottom of any gravity well. As soon as the satellite had reported Larissan ships mobilizing off Prime, the Force went to combat positions.
The Cumbrian ships were already armed and fueled, and half of the troops assigned to the ships on board. The rest of the Legion drew arms and went to their duty stations at a dead run.
Landing fields on the human-occupied planets and moons of Cumbre trembled, and dust clouds swirled as ships lifted for space.
The first to take off were the Kanes, now nine strong. They moved into parking orbits just off their assigned planets, their controllers reeling streams of orders to the incoming ships while the rest of the fleet assembled.
There were more than just the Kellys and aksai-carrying velv in the formations. After the Larissan attack, every Force vessel a weapon could be lashed to became a warship, from tiny patrol boats to merchantmen to Force supply craft.
Against the rules of warfare, which Angara somehow thought Redruth didn’t have memorized anyway, civilian ships were armed, and the women and men who volunteered to serve on them given hasty instructions. The tough mining cargo ships of Mellusin Mining were particularly suited for this modification.
Space-rigged Zhukovs and even Griersons hung in space, their mission the close-in defense of the homeworlds.
Here and there were a scattering of yachts. Somehow, word had spread through the Rentiers across D-Cumbre that it’d be “awf’ly appropriate, old boy, if you actually stood up for something in this life, and anyway, wouldn’t it be kickers to see if that racer of yours’d be able to fight, say, one of those damned Larissans? Or make a stab at it, anyway.”
Word was that Erik Penwyth had been the one who came up with that idea, but he piously pleaded innocent. Another, more personal reason some of the playboys found their elaborate yachts floating in close orbit with drab merchantmen and the odd, shepherding wynt was that almost everyone in the close-knit Rentier community had lost someone in the bombing, or knew someone who had.
One of those yachts, unknown to Garvin, was the repaired Godrevy.
Angara’s staff had decided on the four most likely nav points the Larissans might use. Angara had rejected one as being too far away from Cumbre’s heart, another because it lay close to the asteroids, and might be considered a navigational risk to the newly expanded Larissan fleet with its less-experienced officers.
The two remaining were between C- and D-Cumbre, and just inside the orbit of H-Cumbre. Angara thought the first not the most likely. Redruth, or rather Celidon, who most certainly would actually be commanding the invasion fleet, would need some time and space to assemble his forces before attacking. Nevertheless, Angara had a full twelve destroyers guarding that point.
The bulk of his fleet he ordered
positioned just beyond the H-Cumbre point, in the orbital plane of the ice giant.
There they waited, for almost two E-days.
An aksai was the first to report the Larissan fleet as they burst out of hyperspace at the predicted H-Cumbre nav point.
They blinked into being in concave arcs. The horns of each arc were secured by patrol ships and destroyers. The cruisers were mostly in the forward elements, two at the rear. In the center of the rows were the troop transports, some design-built assault ships, vastly more hastily converted merchantmen, each packed with even-more-hastily trained soldiers.
All their search apparati must have been aimed at the occupied worlds, for long minutes passed without any sign they’d noticed the Cumbrians waiting “behind” and “below” them.
That was long enough for Ho Kang and the other controllers to determine the exact Larissan orbit — directly toward D-Cumbre, in the least-subtle strategy — and run programs sending orders to each of the Cumbrian ships.
Kellys, velv, went into hyperspace for an instant, coming out just on the fringes of the Larissan mass. Others appeared in front of the Larissans, a long gauntlet to D-Cumbre.
• • •
Alikhan, without realizing it, was making a low humming sound in the back of his throat as his sights swept down the nose of the Larissan destroyer, back up, centering on the bridge. His paw rested over the launch sensor, touched it.
One of his three Goddards hissed out of the tube, targeted the destroyer and sped off.
As ordered, Alikhan returned to N-space, jumped to his second destination. He never saw the Goddard rip the Larissan’s bow open, leaving the rest of the crew to die behind automatic airlocks in a slowly rotating tomb.
• • •
Mil Liskeard got lucky, or so he thought at first. His jump coordinates put him in the middle of the Larissan transports. His collision alarm blatted, and his hyperdrive kicked him back in, out of N-space, barely avoiding a collision. He was close, too close, to the enemy ships.
His screen showed him at the rear of a fairly coherent wave of ships, quickly ID’ed as assault transports. He ordered his weapons officers to seek targets and fire at will, and for his navigator to put him across the rear of the formation.
