He glared at Steadman. “I will not order you to return her money,” he said. “You won it legitimately. What I will order you to do is to refrain from inviting her to play any more games. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Steadman said.
“In addition,” William added, “you are not to gamble—ever—for anything more than petty cash. If you want a high stakes game, you can go to the casinos on Cadiz and play there.”
William sighed. Money wasn’t the only stake in shipboard games. Everything from duty rosters to games and pornographic datachips could be included, if the gamblers were willing. But they tended to cause far too many problems. He’d seen crewmen try to hold down double or triple shifts because they’d gambled and lost. It could not be tolerated.
“I will have my eye on you,” he warned. “Step out of line just once more and it will be the Captain’s Mast.”
Steadman flinched. Even if he wasn’t—technically—guilty of breaching regulations, a Captain’s Mast could destroy his career. The captain had wide authority to determine what constituted a crime and issue punishment as she saw fit. Steadman might be able to convince higher authorities to overturn Captain Falcone’s decision, but it would be a major black mark on his record. And he would almost certainly never take up another posting on a starship.
William rose to his feet. “Report to the senior chief,” he ordered flatly. “I dare say he has some work for you.”
“Sir,” Steadman said. He didn’t look happy. There was never a shortage of unpleasant or uncomfortable jobs on a starship, which tended to be reserved for punishment duties or for very junior crewmen. “I . . .”
“Out,” William ordered.
He watched Steadman go and then sat back at his desk. Steadman wasn’t a problem. Men and women like him wouldn’t go anywhere, not unless they cleaned up their act. If he stepped out of line again, it would be the end of his career. And he’d made a career of knowing just how far he could push regulations before they broke. But his second visitor would be much more of a problem. Her career, which had been promising, might have just run into a brick wall.
The hatch beeped again. “Enter.”
Midshipwoman Cecelia Parkinson entered, looking as though she had been ordered to face the headmaster—or a firing squad. If headmasters on Tyre were anything like headmasters on Hebrides, she might have preferred the firing squad. The midshipwoman closed the hatch and walked towards the desk, nervousness written all over her face. She stopped precisely the right distance from his desk and saluted.
“Be seated,” William ordered.
He took a long moment to study her. She really was young, he knew, young and naive. The captain had been older when she’d graduated from Piker’s Peak but Kat Falcone hadn’t shown the same level of promise as Midshipwoman Parkinson. And yet, if there hadn’t been a looming war, it was unlikely she would have been allowed to graduate so early. Rumor had it that quite a few newer officers needed more polishing and encouragement from the senior chiefs than before.
And Steadman probably saw her coming, William thought, morbidly. Parkinson lacked the self-confidence to stand up to men like Steadman. And once he had his hooks in her . . .
He shook his head. She should have approached the XO or one of the lieutenants for help. No doubt Steadman had pointed out that her career would be at risk if her superiors knew she’d been gambling. Or maybe she’d been horrified at the thought of being a sneak. The captain had had similar doubts over landing Admiral Morrison in the shit.
“Midshipwoman, do you know why you’re here?”
Parkinson shook her head, unconvincingly. She knew, all right, or at least she had a very good idea. William wasn’t surprised. Given her behavior over the last few weeks, she had clearly thought too much about just how badly she’d damaged her own career. He should have tackled the matter earlier, or asked one of the lieutenants to give her some friendly advice. But he’d failed her.
“Gambling,” William said flatly. “How much do you owe Crewman Steadman?”
Parkinson hesitated. “Five hundred crowns,” she said, finally. “I . . .”
William sighed. Half her income would be inaccessible as long as she was onboard ship, a precaution against this very situation. But Steadman wouldn’t have pushed her to withdraw it when she was on Cadiz, not when having her in his debt would be far more useful in the long run. Parkinson was beautiful. Who knew what the crewman had had in mind?
Maybe I should just beat him up, William thought. Or ask the marines to encounter him in a dark alleyway one day.
“Five hundred crowns,” he repeated. It was a sizable part of her wages, particularly with half of her money being held in reserve. “You’re in debt to an ordinary crewman to the tune of five hundred crowns?”
“Yes, sir,” Parkinson said. Her hands twisted on her lap. “I . . .”
“You were lured into the game,” William said. It was time for some fatherly advice. Technically, it wasn’t his job to mentor young officers—that was normally handled by the senior chiefs—but he had a feeling Parkinson would listen to him more than the NCOs. “I believe there was a course at Piker’s Peak on maintaining the proper distance between yourself and crewmen?”
“Yes, but . . .”
William cut her off. “But what?”
Parkinson swallowed. “Sir,” she said, “I was a fool.”
“Good,” William said. “That is a far more useful attitude.”
He met her eyes. “You went into Piker’s Peak because you have the makings of a fine officer,” he said. He’d checked her record. As far as he could tell, she didn’t have any aristocratic or naval connections. “But, you must understand, the universe is full of people who will take advantage of you if you show them the slightest hint of weakness. Gambling with your subordinates was a dangerous mistake.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“It could easily have been a great deal worse,” he added. “You have been entrusted with rank, which brings power and responsibilities. He could have exploited you for his own personal benefit, either by forcing you to work for him or simply by offering to write off part of your debt in exchange for going to bed with him. Do you understand just how close you came to disaster?”
Parkinson flinched. “I wouldn’t have . . .”
“It is amazing,” William cut her off, “just how far someone will go with the proper manipulation. He would have started small. Perhaps he would have asked you to alter the duty roster in his favor, a tiny act that wouldn’t have caused any real harm. And then he would have slowly worked his way up until you were completely in his pocket. You would have been his slave, all the time telling yourself that you wouldn’t go any further. I’ve seen it happen, midshipwoman. It can get so far out of hand that the IG has to be called in to sort out the mess.”
He met her eyes. “You’re lucky,” he said. “If he’d been a little more careful about covering his tracks, no one would have noticed until it was far too late. Your career would have been destroyed. As it is, you will have to pay the price for your carelessness.
“There are people who depend on you,” William added, trying to sound firm but not overly harsh. “You will be leading those people into battle one day. The universe is not a safe place for careless young officers.”
“I know, sir,” she said. Tears were glistening at the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry, sir.”
William reached for a handkerchief and handed her a tissue, suddenly feeling very old. They came from very different worlds, literally. He’d served in the ranks before becoming a mustang; she’d never served on a starship until she’d completed her course at Piker’s Peak. She had self-confidence issues he’d never experienced. He wondered, absently, if the captain ever had such issues. But she would have been raised to give orders to her subordinates.
“You have to make a choice,” he said, once she’d wiped her eyes. “You can have NJP—non-judicial punishment—from me or you can face the capt
ain.”
He waited. When he’d been a junior crewman, he would have hated the thought of facing the captain, even though the senior chiefs had been very good at inventing unpleasant punishments for misbehaving crewmen. NJP punishments simply weren’t added to a crewman’s permanent record. He would have to make a note in Parkinson’s file that she’d had an NJP, as she was an officer, but by long tradition the matter would be assumed closed as long as there were no repetitions. Besides, it also cut down on paperwork.
“I’ll take the NJP,” Parkinson said finally.
William nodded, respecting her choice. “There’s no point in docking your wages,” he said. He could have docked her reserved wages, but it would have been petty and cruel. “I will strip your seniority through a retrospective beaching. It will be pointless on this ship, yet the promotions board will take it into account when they consider promotions.”
He saw the wince she couldn’t quite hide and nodded. Seniority in a given rank was important, even though Parkinson had only four months as a midshipwoman. It might make the difference between early promotion and remaining a midshipwoman for several months longer after she completed her first cruise. Unless she did something heroic, of course, that jumped her ahead on the list. It was always possible.
“In addition, you will spend some of your off-duty hours training with the Marines,” he added. Parkinson had done poorly in her unarmed combat course and hadn’t, according to the records, practiced with her firearm since boarding Lightning. “They will teach you how to fight and defend yourself, which will boost your confidence. And believe me, you need your confidence.”
“Sir,” Parkinson said, “I can’t fight . . .”
“You’re in the wrong career if that is literally true,” William said. He’d known people who had been too quick to fight and people who had been held back by their inner demons, but he’d never met anyone who was literally incapable of fighting. “The Marines will make sure you develop the confidence to kick some ass, the next time you need it. And you will.”
“Yes, sir,” Parkinson said reluctantly.
“There is a war coming,” William said. “We cannot allow young officers to avoid their duties.”
He hesitated, then reached for his rank pips and removed them from his collar. “You should have come to me or one of the other officers at once,” he added. “I understand why you didn’t, but you should have. You would have been lectured and reprimanded, of course, yet you would have been helped. We are here to advise you if necessary.”
“Yes, sir,” Parkinson said.
“Report to Major Davidson this afternoon, after your shift,” William said. He smiled at her frightened expression. “The Marines look fearsome, but they will help you overcome your doubts and make you more confident. And you need confidence.”
“Yes, sir,” Parkinson said.
William nodded. He’d repeated it enough, he hoped, for it to sink in. If she didn’t grow a spine, with or without the Marines, she would be in deep trouble when she was expected to fight.
He rose. “Dismissed, Midshipwoman,” he ordered. “I will call you back in a week or two from now. By then, I expect you to have a plan worked out for your future development.”
Midshipwoman Parkinson hesitated, as if she wanted to say something, but then turned and walked out of the hatch. William watched her go, then picked up his rank pips and slowly returned them to his collar. Had she picked up the underlying message? He’d given her advice she had to hear, but not advice he could give as the XO. He sat down and wrote a brief note into the log and then reached for the endless list of issues that needed to be considered. If nothing else, border patrol duty was good for testing the ship, without actual combat. Or interference from bureaucrats on Cadiz.
He continued to think of Parkinson and what she was going through, feeling a flicker of sympathy. On Hebrides, confidence would have been hammered into her head before she reached puberty. But Tyre was kinder to its children.
Poor girl, he thought. All alone in the night.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Captain,” Ross said, “I’m picking up a distress signal.”
Kat swung her chair to turn and face the communications officer. “Is it real?”
“I think so,” Ross said, after a long moment. “There’s none of the oddities hyperspace throws up when a message has been bounced hundreds of light years.”
“Show me its location,” Kat ordered. The display altered, showing a location on the near side of the border that was far too close to a hyperspace storm for comfort. “And is it genuine?”
“Unknown,” Ross said.
Kat hesitated. By law, and interstellar agreements, ships were meant to respond to distress calls, no matter who sent them. There was also an agreement against sending fake distress calls, an agreement she knew the Theocracy had never signed. It was quite possible that the call was a ruse, intended to lure her ship into a trap. But it was her duty to respond to the call unless she knew it was a fake. And she knew no such thing.
“Alter course,” she ordered. “Yellow alert. I say again, Yellow alert.”
She settled back in her chair as the drumbeat sounded, calling her crew to action stations. If it was a trap, so close to the border, they might find themselves in a fight at any second. An ambush in hyperspace would be risky, but the Theocracy might deem it a worthwhile risk if they wanted her ship destroyed. Taking her intact would be a little harder.
“Launch probes,” she added. Hyperspace would dim their signals, but there might be some advance notice if they were flying towards a trap. “And monitor them closely.”
She glanced up as the XO came onto the bridge and checked the situation. He took his seat next to her. He looked tired. It struck her, suddenly, that he’d been sleeping when she’d sounded the alert. She threw him an apologetic look, then looked back at the display. The signal source was getting closer, but it was still obscured by bursts of energy. Hyperspace roiled and boiled, as though it were a living thing.
And if it’s a trap, Kat thought, what better way to hide it from our sensors?
“I’m picking up weapons fire,” Roach snapped. “There isn’t one ship there, Captain. I’m picking up at least two.”
Kat sucked in her breath as the two contacts suddenly came into view. One of them was a freighter, clearly modified to carry at least some weapons and heavy defense shields. The other was a destroyer of unknown design, but definitely modern. She checked the records and found no match. They had to be looking at another indigenous Theocratic design. And it was clearly on the verge of blowing the freighter apart.
“The freighter is hailing us, Captain,” Ross reported. “They’re begging for assistance.”
Kat looked at the XO, who looked back evenly. They were in Commonwealth space, but they didn’t have the slightest idea of what was actually going on. For all they knew, the freighter was crewed by terrorists or pirates and the Theocrats were doing the right thing by hunting them down. It was equally possible the crew were refugees, fleeing the Theocracy’s iron grip on their worlds. There was no way to know without boarding the ship.
And she had orders to protect the border.
“Contact the Theocratic ship,” she ordered. “Warn them off.”
There was a long pause. “They’re opening a channel,” Ross reported.
“Put it through,” Kat ordered.
The image was so badly distorted by hyperspace that it was hard to make out any details about the speaker. His face seemed dark, but she couldn’t tell if he had a beard or if it was merely his uniform. The audio channel was clear enough, however. She could hear the speaker without problems.
“The freighter has been stolen,” the voice said. The speaker didn’t even bother to identify himself. “You are ordered to allow us to recover our ship without interference.”
“Ordered?” the XO repeated. “Unless he has some secret weapon mounted in that hull, Captain, we outgun him by an order of magnitude.�
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“Red alert,” Kat ordered. Alarms howled through the ship as she touched his console, linking her into the audio channel. “This is Captain Falcone. Your vessel has engaged in hostile acts within Commonwealth space. You are ordered to stand down. The freighter will be boarded, then towed to the nearest Commonwealth naval base. You may request its return there.”
“They just swept us,” Roach snapped. “They’re locking weapons onto our hull!”
Kat blinked. “Are they mad?”
“They may not want to report failure,” the XO said softly. “What will their superiors say if they back down now?”
It seemed absurd, Kat considered. Her superiors wouldn’t expect her to pick a fight with a starship several times her size, not over a mere freighter. That suggested there was something important about the freighter, something that needed to be recovered at all costs, no matter the risk. Unless it was a trap, of course. The freighter had really been quite lucky, suspiciously lucky, that Lightning had picked up her distress call.
“Lock weapons onto their hull,” Kat ordered. They’d clearly been trying to take the freighter intact, but they might change their minds now Lightning had arrived. “And prepare to cover the freighter if necessary.”
There was a long pause. “Your attempts to shield the freighter are an act of war,” the enemy commander said finally. “Stand down and allow my forces to board the freighter or you will be fired upon.”
Kat thought fast. Her orders were somewhat contradictory, thanks to Admiral Morrison and his bureaucrats. She was supposed to patrol the border and defend Commonwealth interests, but she wasn’t allowed to fire first under any circumstances. It might start a war. Yet she knew the war was likely to start anyway . . .
If we had a few weeks to prepare, she thought. But we won’t get those weeks . . .
She keyed her console, opening the channel. “This is Commonwealth space,” she said, firmly. “I will not allow acts of aggression within our territory. You will have your chance to issue a demand for the freighter to be returned to you and any prisoners to be extradited. I . . .”
The Oncoming Storm Page 24
