After a badly needed shower, Michael changed into a dark gray one-piece ship suit marked only by his shoulder badges of rank, his name tag, and the deep purple starburst of the Federated Worlds on the left breast. The ship badge that belonged on his upper right arm would have to wait until he could find someone to issue him one from stores.
With the transition from crumpled space traveler to ship’s officer complete, he commed Mother. Her avatar was the pleasant face of a middle-aged woman, calm and unflappable and, like most Worlders, the color of milky coffee.
“Welcome aboard DLS-387, Junior Lieutenant Helfort.” It was a velvet voice, as calm and unflappable as her avatar.
“Thank you, Mother. Please call me Michael.”
“Certainly. Welcome aboard DLS-387, Michael.”
Michael smiled. An AI with a sense of humor?
“Mother, since it’s early and most of my division, not to mention my new boss, are away on weekend leave, I would like to get the ship knowledge and safety test out of the way first. Can you set up the guided tour for me? I’ll see if I can get it done this morning. I’ve been through the induction material and done the sims, but this is the first time in years that I’ve actually been in a light scout.”
“Stand by. Ship knowledge and safety induction tour set up. We’ll start on 4 Deck aft in propulsion and primary power. Please follow the arrows.” As Mother finished, Michael’s neuronics pointed the way to the nearest hatch and he set off.
Four hours later, Mother had taken Michael into every compartment, every corner, every recess of DLS-387, and there had been a hell of a lot of ship to see. She had taken him through every system onboard end to end, including, and this had been a particular thrill for Michael, the personnel and ship waste recycling system. If he didn’t know better, he could have sworn that this particular AI definitely had a sense of humor. She had taken an awfully long time making sure he knew the full intricacies of a system that most were happy to leave to the engineers.
Finally, the induction tour over, Michael sat in his tiny cabin on 2 Deck, eyes half-closed as he successfully navigated his way through the ship knowledge and safety test before finishing up with the two mandatory damage control sims: first a catastrophic loss of hull pressure after a collision with a large meteorite and second a fire. Heart pounding and covered in sweat, Michael and his imaginary team, most of whom had to be directed more firmly than he was used to, finally had extinguished the fire that had threatened to engulf most of 3 Deck from its starting point in the galley.
He sat back to wait for his score.
Mother was not long, and she did not disappoint.
“Thank you for waiting, Michael. I’m happy to tell you that you have achieved a score of 98 percent, thereby passing the mandatory ship knowledge and safety test. I will update your personnel file accordingly and inform the captain, the executive officer, and Lieutenant Hosani.”
Michael breathed out with relief. While he had never been in any doubt—Michael was nothing if not good at passing tests after three years of Space College—it was still good to get this hurdle, the first of many, no doubt, out of the way. “Any idea when the XO and Lieutenant Hosani will be back onboard?”
“Yes, I’ve just gotten an update. They’ll both be on the up-shuttle from Anjaxx scheduled to arrive at 20:25 tonight.”
“Fine. Can you let them know I’ve arrived?”
A short pause. “Done, Michael.”
“Thanks, Mother.”
With that, Michael turned his attention to the next thing on his very long list: space-suit setup. He commed the duty safety equipment operator, one Senior Spacer Carlsson, and arranged to pick up his suit. Setup would take an hour or so, and then lunch would be a damn fine thing.
Michael set off to find Carlsson, who according to Mother was testing one of the lifepods right aft and down on 4 Deck.
Sunday, August 30, 2398, UD
Outside the Diplomatic Compound, City of McNair, Commitment Planet
Digby stood, as he had done on so many dark mornings, alone on the Avenue of Heroes.
Running away from him all the way down to the Grand Corniche that fronted the eastern shores of the Koenig Channel, carefully shaded streetlights threw sharply distinct pools of orange light, stretching away like a long double string of exotic pearls. Massive trees flanked the road, visible only as ink-black shapes against the star-studded sky; well set back, the anonymous shapes of government buildings loomed gray and forbidding.
As he hung back from the street safe in the deep shadows thrown by the trees, Digby was beginning not to care whether Kumar appeared. He’d seen the bloody man only once in the last ten days, and then in the company of two other men. Thank Kraa, he’d decided to get his wife out-system; confirmation that she’d made it to Scobie’s World safely had come as a huge relief. The risks he had been taking had been hard enough to bear; they would have been infinitely harder to take knowing that Jana, too, would suffer if he was arrested loitering close to the diplomatic compound for no good reason.
He did have his running gear on. Even brigadier generals of marines were supposed to stay fit, after all.
Digby comforted himself with the knowledge that for all its fearsome reputation, Doctrinal Security was as slack as most security organizations without an immediate and obvious threat to deal with seemed to be. Its supposedly random patrols were far from random, and Digby would have sworn before Kraa that at least half of them wouldn’t have seen an elephant standing at the side of the road unless it was painted bright pink and floodlit with a strobe light nailed to its head. He’d been a marine for far too long not to recognize the signs of low morale, poor discipline, and weak leadership at a glance. He’d even had to dodge the shattered remains of a beer bottle thrown from a jeep as it sped past.
Then, all of a sudden, there was activity at the compound gate. A light came on to reveal a man talking to the gate guards, but it was too far away to tell if he was Kumar. Please, let it be him and nobody else, Digby pleaded, his heart thudding. Please let it be Kumar and let him be alone. Digby waited in impatient agony. They must know him well, he thought, as the faint sounds of laughter came down the avenue. They seemed very chummy; maybe it was not Kumar.
Finally, the man was off and running. Kumar. Please Kraa, let it be Kumar. Nerves jangling, Digby turned and moved down the road to a position 50 meters short of the first cross-street, turning every so often to track the man coming toward him.
And Kumar it was, and thank Kraa, he was alone.
Almost before Digby knew it, Kumar was on him.
“Captain Kumar, it’s Julius Digby,” he hissed. “Don’t slow down. Keep running and turn right at the cross-street and stay close to the trees. I must talk to you.”
And with that, Digby was off through the shadows, hoping like hell that Kumar wouldn’t do what common sense would tell him to do: turn around and go straight home.
Moments later, Kumar rounded the corner, jogging steadily up the Avenue of Martyrs toward the sea some 3 kilometers in front of him, hugging the curb, running in and out of the shadows. Suddenly he stopped, bending down as though to adjust an overly tight shoe.
“You’ve got twenty seconds, Digby, and then I’m gone.” Kumar’s voice was harsh. No Sylvanian would ever trust a Hammer, and for all Kumar knew, this could be entrapment.
“Ashok, you must trust me. I have a message capsule here for you. It will open only when you say the passphrase ‘concurrent,’ that’s ‘concurrent.’ Please repeat.”
“Concurrent,” Kumar replied shortly. “Five seconds.”
“Okay. Meet me 100 meters down the road and I’ll hand the capsule over. Then I’m gone. You’ll know what to do when you read it. If you’re stopped, for Kraa’s sake, wipe it or I’m a dead man.”
The Sylvanian ambassador’s normally deep ebony face was gray with anger. He had lost family and friends when Jesmond had been nuked by the Hammer and had little reason to put any faith in them or their works. And
now this.
“Ashok, we have to give the Feds time to stop this insanity.”
“I wish we could.” Kumar’s frustration was obvious. “Our next starship courier is, uh, yes, September fifth. The Dnieper. If we can get her turned around quickly, there’s a chance we can pinchcomm the Feds on Terranova in time to stop the hijacking, but it’ll be very tight. Needless to say, asking the Hammer to let us use their pinchcomms system is not an option. I’ve checked the outbound starships to Scobie’s World. All full, thanks to the Establishment Day holidays, with the waiting lists closed as usual. And of course, thanks to Mr. Murphy, the Feds’ next courier doesn’t arrive until the seventh. So it’s got to be the Dnieper. Unless, that is, we confront the Hammer now and let them know that we know what they are up to.”
Ambassador Kwashomo’s hands went up. “We don’t even know if this is just an elaborate hoax. And if we do confront them, then what? We have no proof, and everyone involved will be dead by the end of the day. And even if they did believe us, Merrick would go in the usual Hammer bloodbath, to be replaced by God knows which councillor. Probably that devious man Polk. And then the usual Hammer bullshit: We didn’t know, it wasn’t our fault, blame Merrick, it was his fault, we are so sorry.” The ambassador stopped, conscious that he had come close to losing control. “So what do we do?”
Kumar was emphatic. “I think that we have to sit on it at this end. Toppling Merrick, much as we all despise the man, on the basis of a single unsubstantiated report is not our decision to make. I think that it is ultimately up to the Feds to decide what they want to do. The Mumtaz is their ship, after all.”
“I agree.” Kwashomo was equally emphatic. “We cannot stop the project from going ahead, so let’s not add any new variables by forcing any changes at this end. Merrick is a madman, but better the madman we know than somebody new. A new madman, dear God! Imagine Polk—the man is such a xenophobe, even for a Hammer. Just what we don’t need. The Dnieper it is.”
“I’ll get on it.”
Monday, August 31, 2398, UD
DLS-387, Berthed on Space Battle Station 20, in Orbit around Anjaxx
Michael fidgeted as he waited for his captain to arrive.
Just his luck, he thought, for his first formal task onboard 387 to be acting as accused’s friend for the black sheep of his division, one Spacer Angelina Athenascu. Not that Athenascu was a bad spacer, far from it. Her record showed her to be a hardworking, experienced, and competent member of Michael’s surveillance drone team, someone to be relied on in a tough situation. But off duty was a different matter, and once again a space battle station’s long-suffering provost marshal had delivered Athenascu, left eye a brilliant swollen patch of purple and red, apparently after she’d taken exception to the way a group of marines had talked about Space Fleet in general and light scouts in particular. Unfortunately for Athenascu, her ability to take on the marines had been degraded severely by a very long session in the Fleet club, and she hadn’t been smart enough to slap on a detox patch before hurling herself off a table straight into the swinging right fist of the largest marine present.
By the time the patrol had arrived, the marines were long gone, having left Athenascu flat on her back complaining bitterly about marines who wouldn’t stand and fight.
387’s legal AI had processed all the evidence and, helped by Athenascu’s plea of guilty, had duly returned a firm proof of guilt finding. It only remained for Ribot to accept the AI’s findings—usually but not always a formality—and pass sentence. Michael’s job was to persuade Ribot, against all the evidence, that Athenascu did in fact not make a habit of taking strong exception to marines, that this was a one-time occurrence, and that he should pass only a token sentence, preferably a caution. Michael didn’t fancy his chances. With 387 about to deploy, the last thing Ribot would have wanted to spend his time on was yet another of Athenascu’s indiscretions. And it was on record that Ribot had warned her in no uncertain terms the last time around that he didn’t want to see her at his table again.
Michael’s pessimism was interrupted by the coxswain’s stentorian voice as Ribot left his cabin to stand behind the plasfiber lectern that had been set up in the passageway. “Captain’s Defaulters! Atten…shun.”
Returning Chief Petty Officer Kathy Kazumi’s snappily precise salute, Ribot made his tone sternly formal. “Thank you, Coxswain.”
“Good morning, sir. One defaulter, sir.”
“Well, that’s something, I suppose. Okay, let’s get on with it.”
“Sir. Spacer A. K. Athenascu FR4456778 charged with conduct prejudicial to good order and Fleet discipline in that she did commit common assault on the person of Marine G. J. Waddell MR8919034 in the Fleet club of Space Battle Station 20 at 02:40 Universal Time, Monday 31 August 2398 Universal Date.”
Ribot sighed deeply. Michael certainly understood why. Legal protocol prevented Ribot from knowing in advance any more than the fact that he had defaulters to deal with. Who they were, what they had been accused of, how they’d pleaded, and what the legal AI thought all would come as a surprise and, in this case, a doubly unwelcome surprise, Michael had no doubt.
“Bring in the accused.”
“Sir. Spacer Athenascu!” Kazumi’s voice would have cut steel, and Michael was glad that he wasn’t the one having to front Ribot.
“Sir.” Athenascu appeared smartly from wherever she had been lurking, coming to a halt in front of Ribot with parade-ground precision, hands tightly tucked into her sides, eyes firmly locked on Ribot’s impassive face.
As the coxswain went through the time-honored rituals of captain’s table, Michael, now standing slightly behind and to the right of the hapless Athenascu, had little to do but listen as Athenascu confirmed her plea of guilty before the case for the prosecution was presented. Petty Officer Kazumi’s experience showed as she simply and concisely summarized the evidence, and in only a matter of minutes the job was done, the legal AI formally confirming that it would be safe for Ribot to accept Athenascu’s plea.
For a while, Ribot stood there in silence. He had the option of handing the case over for further consideration, but Michael suspected that Ribot, like most captains, hated having disciplinary loose ends hanging around. Thus, it was no surprise when Ribot announced to an impassive Athenascu that the charge was proved.
Two minutes later, the theater of captain’s table was over, with Athenascu beating a hasty retreat from a clearly very unhappy captain. Michael’s request that Athenascu’s good professional record be taken into account had been treated with duly grave consideration by Ribot, but Michael still winced as Ribot smacked Athenascu with a 500-FedMark fine and stoppage of fourteen days of leave effective on completion of their current mission. As Michael turned away to follow Athenascu, Ribot caught his eye and waved him back.
“Sir?”
“Michael. That’s the last time I want to see Athenascu at my table. If I see her on a clear-cut case like this one again, I’ll have no choice but to recommend dishonorable discharge. While I hate to lose a good spacer, she’s had all the chances she’s going to get. Space Fleet likes aggression in its spacers but only when it’s accompanied by self-control. Make that clear to her and make sure she understands that she has no more chances. None.”
“Sir.”
As Ribot walked away, radiating extreme unhappiness with every step, Michael sighed deeply. This was not the start he’d been hoping for. Oh, well, he mused, things can only get better. In any case, he couldn’t spend any more time worrying about Athenascu. The final ops conference to review 387’s upcoming mission was due to start in less than an hour’s time, and Michael intended to be fully prepared for it.
With the ops conference over and only a hurried break for lunch, the rest of the day involved hard physical work for Michael and his surveillance drone team, which also doubled as 387’s cargo handlers.
Of course, Michael thought as he, Athenascu, and Leong wrestled a recalcitrant cargo container into position outb
oard of the mass driver storage bins on 3 Deck, the cargo always arrives last, and late, and nobody can ever explain why. Despite the mission having been scheduled for more than three months, the Defense Gravity Project had managed to get the massive gravitronics arrays up to SBS-20 only late that morning, leaving Michael and his team precious little time to get them secured by the XO’s deadline of 18:00 that evening and get the ship patrol-ready.
Finally the massive container, painted a light blue to show that it was vented to space and required no external services, was secured and the locking pins were rammed home and checked visually. Mother signaled a secure lock and detached the cargobots, and Leong and Athenascu maneuvered up and out of the brightly lit cargo bay to await the next container.
Michael did the same thing and then paused for a moment.
Above him was the enormous spherical gray-black bulk of SBS-20, to which 387 was securely berthed, its 400-meter diameter dwarfing 387, her stealthed hull a formless, bottomless, impenetrable black pit punctuated only by the brilliantly lit silvered inner surfaces of the open cargo hatches. Thousands of kilometers below him swam the glorious swirling blues and whites of Anjaxx itself. Beyond and above the planet hung its two moons, both silvery gray in the harsh light coming from Prime, Anjaxx’s orange-red main sequence dwarf star only 81 million kilometers away. Providing the background to it all were the billions of diamond-sharp pinpoints of light that made up the rest of the galaxy. It was a sight Michael had never gotten used to and, if his parents were any guide, never would.
“Incoming, sir.” Leong’s comm interrupted his little reverie, and Michael turned to see the next container, another big one but this time a luridly bright green to show that it was pressure-and temperature-controlled. It swam slowly into view around the sharp curve of the battle station’s outer hull, two Day-Glo orange cargobots attached one to each end, their mass driver thrusters firing brief silver-gold plumes of incandescent matter as they moved the container in a slow and carefully coordinated arc around SBS-20’s hull.
Helfort's War: Book 1 Page 9
