by Mike Moscoe
“It’s about time to knock off for chow, sir.”
“Ivan was never first in line. Let’s see.”
Reluctantly, the exec led off. The power plants for the merchant cruisers were still a fleetwide problem. Until somebody figured it out, the converted cruisers were more of a danger to themselves than the colonials—and Mattim commanded nothing but an oversize hotel hitched to a space station.
As Mattim expected, Ivan was at his commsole. From the rumpled state of his uniform, he might have been there all night. “There.” Ivan stabbed at his board. “There. That’s what killed Ramsey’s Pride of Tulsa. A damn spike. These dirtside generators throw spikes!”
“Then how come we’re still here?” the exec asked as if every day she was greeted with the announcement she should be dead.
“’Cause I’m keeping that piece of shit on its own circuits. The Maggie’s power plant can generate enough to handle both plasma containment bottles. The juice from that mud-ball power plant can feed the guns. They got those huge capacitors anyway. A spike or two won’t faze them.”
Ding rubbed her chin. “Staff want the plants crossfed so damage to one won’t bring down any system,” she said slowly.
Ivan shook his head violently and tapped his board. “That’s the last telemetry out of the Tulsa’s engine room. That’s what I just got from our own plant. Dirtside, they hitch four or eight reactors together. They can swallow a spike and not lose their magnetic fields around the plasma. With just two here, the hit’s too hard. The field comes down and the demon’s out of the bottle. How many Tulsas do those idiots want? Just ’cause General Fusion’s got a war contract for a couple of thousand of ’em is no reason for me and mine to get blown to bits.”
The exec looked at Mattim. “I can pass it along to squadron staff, sir. In a month we may get something back.”
“In the meantime, those poor damn marines keep getting pulverized,” Ivan rumbled.
“Let’s talk with the chief of gunnery over dinner.”
“The other engineers wanted to know how my tests went.” Ivan grinned. “I’ve been passing them my results live. Bet this talk happens on a lot of ships.”
A gray-haired wisp of a commander with Howard on his name tag entered the wardroom as they did. “Afternoon, Captain,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Guns.”
“Got a question for you,” and the XO launched into Ivan’s idea. Ivan hovered, listening, nodding his agreement. His wife Sandy, Mattim’s Jump Master from the old Maggie, joined them.
Guns stared at the ceiling as Ding finished. It was a long minute before he nodded. “I like redundancy, but I can see why you don’t want to crossfeed the second power plant into the containment loop. No power is better than wild plasma. If you set up a feed from the first plant to my guns, I’d be happy.”
“Let’s think about this before we pass it along to the admiral’s staff.” Mattim concluded the discussion. “I want to make sure you’re all one hundred percent behind it.”
“Speaking of staff,” the XO put in, “we have an invitation to dinner from the chief of intelligence to go over the ‘big picture.’ You, Captain, me, anyone you want to bring along.”
Mattim mulled the thought. Information was power; that he’d learned at his mother’s knee. Since getting tied in with the Navy, he’d yet to get any briefing that was better than a five-minute browse of the news channels. Supper would be a good place to take this guy’s measure. Mattim raised an eyebrow at Guns.
“No, thank you, sir. This evening I want to go over Ivan’s report. Make sure that second plant’s output is within limits. I expect they will be. We design our guns to be forgiving.”
Mattim glanced at Ivan and Sandy. He was shaking his head; she was nodding firmly in agreement. “He’s been living in that damn engine room. A night out is just what he needs. Let me run him through the shower and he’ll even be presentable.” Ivan growled, but went when his wife pushed him toward their quarters.
Mattim laughed, as he often did with those two. “Tell…”
“Captain Whitebred,” Ding supplied.
“There will be four of us for dinner.”
• • •
Colin Ding nervously brushed a hand down her black dress. In her thirty years growing up Navy and serving in the same, she’d never been to an “O” Club as classy as this one. Or been in the company of a man as impressive as Captain Whitebred.
“The admiral wanted a proper club for the squadron’s senior officers. I knew if we left it to the accountants we’d have some run-down slop joint. So I told the admiral to leave it to me. With a bit of private negotiating, I cut a deal with the proprietor. With a war on, he knew which way to jump.” Horacio…he’d asked her to call him Horacio …guided her into the club as he spoke, his hand gently on her elbow, his fingers occasionally brushing her breast.
The Monaco was spectacular. He’d described his negotiations at length the evening he’d entertained all the XO’s of the converted cruisers. It had been quite a night. Captain Whitebred held her chair as she sat. Ivan did the same for his wife Sandy; Colin had to wonder at an organization that allowed people to marry and stay on the same ship. She’d heard a lot about how merchies ran ships. Damn loose. Captain Abeeb settled into his chair with a familiarity that brought a remark from Captain Whitebred.
“You’ve been to the Monaco before?”
“A few times on other people’s expense accounts.”
“I assure you, service has improved and there will be no gouging of poor sailors.” Colin wondered when the last “poor sailor” had passed through the door of this place.
Sandy gave a tight smile. “In war, one must make do.”
“A wise woman,” Whitebred laughed. “Just what a merchant ship would need in accounting.”
“I do the jump navigation, Captain.” Sandy hid her scowl behind a sip from the crystal water goblet before her.
“Well, let us not talk shop tonight.” Whitebred’s broad smile took in all of them. “As the lady reminds us, there is a war on. Let us seize the moments life affords us and squeeze pleasure from them where we will.” Whitebred’s smile settled on Colin. The words, smile, and gentle way his fingers caressed her hand sent shivers up her back. Abeeb’s tight smile was downright puritanical. Whitebred is not in my chain of command, and you gave this sailor the night off.
The meal, ordered by Captain Whitebred beforehand, was scrumptious. Drawn from a dozen planets, including Peking duck from Earth, it was a sensuous delight for the eye and the taste buds. Horacio kept up a running description, most of which she couldn’t pronounce, much less follow, though Abeeb traded him line for line. And Horacio’s hand always returned to gently stroke her’s. His smile was always open, offering her…what? What every man offered? Or something more?
Over dessert and brandy, the war came up. Though the two captains orchestrated this part of the conversation just as deftly as the earlier repartee, it was not long before Ivan threw down his napkin. “Why are we fighting? All the frontier wanted was decent prices for its raw materials, reasonable prices for the stuff they brought from the developed planets, and an interest rate on their debt that wasn’t just short of usury.”
“Usury.” Horacio chuckled. “That’s a term I haven’t heard since college. And what is usury, commander?”
“Charging those poor folks an arm and a leg.”
“All that the market will bear, wouldn’t you say?” Horacio smiled as he settled his napkin tidily in place.
“Damn right,” the engineer almost spat. His wife rested a hand on his arm, patted him as if to soothe.
“Come, come.” Horacio leaned forward. “And what would you charge them, Commander? Nothing has a fixed worth. Its value is what the market gives it. They want, need, the products of the developed planets so they can develop themselves. The raw materials they provide are nice, but hardly worth the value they think, what with transport costs. Every developed system has mines that are hardly played out.
We buy from the frontier as a kindness. If we didn’t, there would be no way they could pay for the machinery and goods they need from us.”
Ivan snorted. “You can’t believe that. What kind of kindness drives people to war? And a costly one. For the war taxes we’re paying, you could lower a lot of interest rates, forgive a lot of debts.”
Horacio shrugged. “If you pay the Danegeld, you always get the Dane back. Right, Colin?”
“That’s what my dad taught me. The Navy’s here to keep bandits honest.”
“That’s what I told my friends in the corporate world when I asked for an appointment to the Navy. Rough times call for the tough to get going. And what we do in these harsh times will be remembered.” He patted her hand and winked.
As the engineer opened his mouth, Captain Abeeb pushed his chair back. “It’s been a delightful meal, and a pleasant conversation, but, Captain, I’ve got some technical issues I want to talk over with my engineer. If you’ll excuse us.”
“You won’t be taking Sandra with you?” Horacio asked as the Jump Master also stood.
“Sorry, I too must get back to the ship.”
“Everyone is deserting me before my dessert is finished. You won’t be fleeing, my dear Colin?”
Colin had spent the last three months getting that tub in as good a shape as possible. Didn’t she deserve a night off?
“Have you given much thought to what you will do after this war?” Horacio whispered.
“No.”
“You’ve benefited from the flood of war promotions.”
“Yes,” she scowled. It didn’t take a history book to tell her what the usual reward was for a victorious officer.
Horacio moved his chair closer, dessert forgotten. “The Navy isn’t the only world. There will be vast opportunities once this”—he dismissed the war with a flick of his finger—“is done. Let me tell you of some of them.”
Colin’s career counseling had started at her father’s knee. She recognized this for just such a session, even if Horacio’s fingers roving her arm, flicking by her breast, made it quite different. She leaned forward, not totally ignoring the lingering glance Horacio gave what the scoop-neck of her dress revealed. “What opportunities will there be in the corporate world once we’ve made the galaxy safe for business?”
He grinned. “There is much to share.”
• • •
At 0600 the next morning, Mattim took breakfast in the wardroom; he used it for a quick staff meeting. Ding sat at his right. She’d been two hours later returning from dinner—and what she did with the time was her own damn business. Guns was at his left. Ivan and Sandy sat farther down the table. The ship’s damage control officer, Tina Gandhi, and communications officer, Sparky Sanchez, filled up the table.
“I want the Sheffield at underway watches even if we are alongside the pier. Let’s get the crew familiar with their jobs.” That drew nods. “Guns, any problem with the power from the new plant?”
“Looks okay. I’ll check it out today.”
“Good. I’d like to spend the morning with your folks.”
“Glad to have you, sir.”
“The admiral’s called for a teleconference at oh-nine hundred,” Ding put in. “I suspect it has something to do with engineering modifications made recently.”
“Ivan?”
The chief engineer chuckled. “Got calls this morning. Every ship’s adopted the layout. We all worked together on it. I just tested it first.”
“I don’t think Smiley’s gonna like it,” Guns drawled.
“Smiley?” Mattim echoed.
“Wait until you meet the man.” Guns ducked the question.
“I want everyone in my day cabin for the conference.” Breakfast was served and eaten quickly. Mattim went with Guns when they finished. The tour of the weapons department added flesh to the lectures Mattim had sat through. Nine turrets were split fore, aft, and amidships and distributed around the center line at different points so two-thirds of them could pour laser fire at any angle. Gravity-focused, they were theoretically lethal out to twenty-five thousand kilometers. “I’d hold my first salvo ’til fifteen thousand K’s if I could,” Guns suggested. “Heat’s a gun’s enemy. Don’t let the textbooks fool you. Even with a gravity lens for the primary focus, heat buildup on the mirrors adds to the scatter. And the capacitors get hot. By the fourth salvo, it takes longer to recharge and we’re getting less energy. Choosing your timing and your range. That’s what a battle’s about.”
“There’s a lot I need to learn.” Mattim was taking a risk, but after time with Howard, it looked like a good one. Guns had answered a lot of Mattim’s unspoken questions…and not a few answers had gone against the book Mattim’s brief course insisted be followed. Was this the reason this man never made captain? Mattim knew he was a student again. He knew how to manage a ship. Learning how to fight one was his new job.
“Be glad to help, Skipper. Man and boy, I’ve studied these guns for forty years. It’ll be good to have someone new to listen to my space stories.” The old man laughed.
“So why do you call him Smiley?” Mattim asked.
Guns glanced at his watch. “About time you find out.”
Mattim’s day cabin was more proof of the space in the Sheffield. A VP at corporate didn’t have an office this size, though Mattim’s was pie-shaped and lacked a window. The wider end held a table with over a dozen chairs. The middle area was a comfortable conversation area with couch and overstuffed chairs around a low table. His desk filled the narrow end; it was still fairly clear of paperwork.
Behind Mattim, the wall came to life. The admiral held the center block of the screen. Tables like the one Mattim sat at filled the periphery sections—all seven cruisers were present, even the ravaged Sendai. The admiral began without preamble.
“Every captain is responsible for his ship’s combat availability. These ships were in a sad state of repair when the Navy took them over. I have filed several complaints with the comptroller concerning discrepancies between what was claimed by the shipping lines and what my staff found. The executive officers have attempted to make whole these problems.” The man smiled directly into the camera. There was no humor. Beside Mattim, Ding’s face was a frozen mask; he suspected she found no comfort in the admiral’s faint praise.
“As merchant captains you are no doubt aware you hold primary responsibility for your ship.” The smile grew wider. “That no longer includes making a profit. Now it solely consists of making it battle-ready. All nonregulation equipment will be landed to save weight. Some execs have fumbled this, unwilling or unable to make longtime merchant officers follow Navy policy. You captains will correct this.”
Mattim glanced at Sandy. He’d invested heavily in sensors as well as that fire control computer. Her determined scowl as much as Ding’s shrug told him they were still aboard. Good!
“I am also advised…” the admiral went on, his grin growing even wider. How could a man’s facial expression be so out of touch with his words? Unease grew in Mattim’s belly. “…that unauthorized modifications have been made to the power plants. These will be corrected. My staff will visit each ship and assure themselves personally that every ship is in conformity with proper ship configuration.”
There was a commotion behind the admiral. A message was handed to him. At the same time, Mattim’s communication officer tapped the display before him on the table. “Sir,” he whispered, “we just got a message from the Marines in the next system.”
“Put in on speaker,” Mattim ordered, knowing full well it would be carried over the conference link. A desperate voice came from several sources; Mattim wasn’t the only one listening to the admiral’s mail. “Ninety-seventh Planetary Defense Brigade to Commander, Cruiser Squadron Fifty-three. Enemy is one jump away. We will be under attack in forty-eight hours. Request assistance. For God’s sake, don’t let them pound us again. Captain Anderson sends.”
The admiral was no longer smiling. He ignored t
he repeating of this communication as he tapped the message flimsy. “Pringle, can you get the Significant underway?”
Pringle was the only other regular Navy captain and his ship the only other regular cruiser. “We are ready now, sir.”
“Unfortunately, the Reply and the Significant are the only ships ready to get under way. We can not engage an enemy force of unknown composition alone. Regrettably, that will have to be my answer.” He did not seem brokenhearted.
Mattim was damned if he’d sit here and be an excuse for this man, not after all Ivan had done. He glanced at his engineer and got the barest nod to the unasked question. “Admiral, the Sheffield can get under way in four hours.”
“Your ship has not been cleared by the yard supervisor.”
“Yes, sir, but the ship has checked out in preliminary tests, and I expect we can finish up the loose ends in four hours.”
“Your engines,” the admiral began.
“Have been tested at full power.” Ivan nodded forcefully. “We are ready to get under way”—Mattim now eyed Guns—“and we are fully combat ready.” Guns grinned and gave him a thumbs up.
“Well, maybe the captain of the Sheffield thinks he can come aboard one day and leave for battle the next, but…”
“The Aurora’s ready too, sir,” Captain Buzz Burka said, never one to pass up a barroom brawl. In a moment, all the rest had piled in.
Smiley was not smiling as he jumped to his feet. “We will see. No ship sorties without yard certification. No ship jumps out of this system until it’s demonstrated combat availability.”
The center screen went blank. “Sparks,” Mattim barked, “get me the yard superintendent. Who’s running it?”
“Trong Thon,” Ding answered.
“Torchy! Good.”
In a minute the answer “Trong here” came back.
“Torchy, Matt here. I need to get under way in three hours. Can you get a team over here to cover loose ends?”
“Matt, my board’s lit up like a fireworks display on landing day. Everybody heading out at once?”
“Yeah, Torchy, there’s a war on.”
