O O O
The geese woke him two hours later, at false dawn. Wolfe stared at the ceiling for a moment, then rolled over, carefully feeling the bedclothes with his feet. No strings had been tied to his toes, no return Vortex played on him while he was sleeping, but he still had the feeling that someone had been in his quarters. He had no specific reason, no clue to which he could easily point, except for a faint, foreign scent in the air that couldn’t be put down to his perambulation of the base nor his personal toiletries. He stretched out a hand to palm the control for the overhead lights. He could see nothing unusual. He eased himself out of bed.
Very gingerly, he stood to one side and activated the doors to the closet and the bathroom. Nothing. No bucket of water tumbled to the floor, no tripwires sprang up from the smooth, synthetic flooring to grab his ankles, no sudden blast of marching band music shocked him into jumping backwards. The contents of his bureau and desk had been left alone. None of the drawers were booby-trapped. His infopad seemed to function correctly, and all his uniforms were dry and properly pressed.
With a sudden attack of panic he felt for the card on his chest. It was intact, with no sign that any attempt had been made to tamper with it. The miniature screen sprang into life when he held the retinal scanner up to his eye. None of the access alarms showed.
A half-hour’s search turned up no signs of intrusion. Still feeling a little uneasy, he stepped into the shower and turned on the tap.
The outrushing torrent from the showerhead knocked him against the back wall. Wolfe flailed for the grab bars and hauled himself upright. He slammed the lever downward and stood panting, water streaming down his body.
A cursory flick of the lever produced another waterfall-power cataract. Wolfe turned it on and off a few times just to make certain that it was ordinary water coming out of the rose, not perfume, paint or a few other less savory liquids that he knew could be loaded into a tank. He laughed until the enamel-walled room rang with the sound. Either the faulty plumbing had healed itself overnight, or the Cockroaches were responsible for the puppy-piddle stream he had bathed with for the first few days of his tenure. They were waiting for a sign that he was worthy of their respect. How many commanding officers had come and gone through here, never knowing that the shower could work properly?
“I wonder which one it was,” he said, aloud, as he adjusted the spray to a comfortable spray, halfway between drowning standing up and a fine mist, before stepping in, “facing the supply chief, or the Vortex?”
An hour later he jogged in place on the exercise yard as the chronometer turned over from 0459 to 0500. The door of the barracks zipped open, and every member of the Cockroaches swarmed out, attired in workout gear.
“Morning, lieutenant,” Boland greeted him, with a snappy salute. “So, what do you want us to do first?”
O O O
“As you can see, we have already returned twenty-two units,” Wolfe said, as Commander Mason read through the supply request he had placed on her desk. “They’re ready for refurbishment.”
“They are?” Mason asked, glancing up from the infopad. On the tip of her tongue was an unasked question. Wolfe picked up the cue as neatly as he could. He put on a stern expression.
“Yes, ma’am. I think you’ll find them to be in as good a condition as CBS,Ps can be, when they’re so overdue for replacement. I believe they should have been swapped out over 150 days ago. Even standard programming can’t stabilize an elastic fabric that gets that much wear in the course of a military task. My troopers might have to rely upon those units to save their lives. Not that I am criticizing a senior officer, ma’am. Just quoting regulations.”
“Standard programming, eh?” Mason murmured to herself. “Miraculous. I mean, good.” As Lin had predicted, the senior officer read the notation on the infopad, and affixed her signature code. She pushed it toward him.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Wolfe said, saluting. “I’ll take this directly to Supply. We have only three days until we lift.”
“Lieutenant,” the commander began tentatively. Wolfe stopped. “I … I have to say how remarkably well you’re doing with your new unit. I was very impressed by the results of the inspection the other day. I wouldn’t say such strides are unprecedented, but admittedly, they are rare.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Daivid said, pleased. But Mason wasn’t finished.
“I, uh, you didn’t have to put any unusual pressure on your company in order to get those results? There’s nothing you need to discuss with me?”
Wolfe groaned inwardly. He knew exactly what she meant. Was he threatening the Cockroaches, Family style, to get them to shape up the way they had? He almost opened his mouth to admit to her he had made most of the beds himself.
“No, ma’am,” he assured her fervently. “My interaction with X-Ray company is pretty much all within normal parameters. Don’t worry, commander. I’m sure it won’t all be such smooth sailing in the future.”
Mason sagged visibly with relief. Wolfe guessed she felt torn between two reputations, the Cockroaches’ and the Wolfe Family. “Glad to hear it … I mean, please keep me apprised of your progress. And if you have any troubles over the next few days, come to me. That’s what I’m here for.”
Wolfe saluted briskly. “Thank you, ma’am.”
O O O
Colonel Inigo Ayala stood before his captain’s chair on the bridge of his flagship, the Dilestro, as the helm officer prepared to bring the ship out of nonspace transition. The starchart he saw on the three-dimensional viewscreen was a computer-generated projection. What was actually outside the ship in nonspace, that fourth-dimensional jump in between linear points, was nonsense to the human eye since they were traveling faster than light, but people, he mused, could not stand to have nothing to look at. Stars were pictured as streaks, relative to their proximity to the ship, the color dependent upon the Doppler effect of which direction they were moving in the great cosmic dance. Even if it was an illusion, Ayala rejoiced in it. It was pretty. And each streak out there represented either a star system that humanity had conquered, or had yet to conquer. In his opinion, Man was wasting his time not taking over more worlds and making use of their potential. That was why he followed General Sams. She had the same belief he did. Maybe it was a big dream, one that would never be realized in his lifetime, but he still enjoyed picturing the universe as the rightful playground of the hairless, clawless apes from Terra. Not bad for a race that spends its formative years helpless and frightened, eh?
Ever since humanity made the non-linear jump in between Sol’s star system and another, questions arose, not just “how can we do this again?” but “how far can we go, and what effect does it have on the people who make the jumps and the ones they leave behind?” With nonlinearity, the disruption of lives was minimalized. Transit, while not instantaneous, was greatly reduced in endurance, so that to cross the thousands of light years comprising the Thousand Worlds sector of the Milky Way galaxy along the longest axis took less than two hundred days. Why, travellers had to be fairly hyperactive even to get bored during that short a trip.
Humankind’s footprint in the galaxy had increased in size every year since the discovery of faster-than-light travel, and began to overlap those of other intelligent races. The first thing humans discovered was that they could do it—travel faster than light and survive—and the second was that they could do it again. The next thing they learned was that they were not alone in the galaxy, and some of the beings out there could do it, too. The other thing they learned was that people in their zeal to travel great distances kept their eyes on the distant prize, and less on their immediate surroundings. To a boy who had grown up picking pockets in the capital city of Great Fufford, Bailey’s Planet, he hoped that starfarers would never lose that idealistic, billion-light-year vision.
From the trio of worlds that was the Insurgency’s base of operations, forty days to the central trade routes. The latest gen from his spies gave him copies of the
bills of lading informed him that the loads he was interested in, the Tachytalks and millions of credits’ worth of other supplies, had already set out from their worlds of manufacture on board a fleet of trade ships bound for distributorships in five different destinations. The trick was to catch the ships before they split up. His ships were built for chase and conquest. They lacked the comforts of most of TWC ships, such as entertainment centers and holosuites, sometimes even devoid of shock padding anywhere but the crash couches, but they had capacious cargo holds and better-than-average shielding. The people who shipped aboard them didn’t mind the discomfort. They were zealots. Each had come to the Insurgency with his, her or its own agenda and own particular grudge against the central government, but by and large they managed to operate under a grudging truce. The first thing was to overthrow the status quo and get rid of the unresponsive, overblown government. How things worked after that was a war for the future.
Not that Ayala had anything against non-humans. Most of the crew of Dilestro were bugs. With their hard carapaces they were more radiation resistant than humans, and cared less for the comforts most humans craved. Ayala, who slept on an unpadded plastic slab, never listened to gripes about soft beds. The one thing the bugs liked were fresh leaves, a fortunate coincidence, since the cheapest way to recycle carbon dioxide-heavy air was to let plants breathe it in. Every ship had all-shift grow lights beaming down on mosses and vines that clung to every non-essential interior surface. So the wild growth made it a little hard to read door signs and indicators once in a while, and every so often one tripped over a vine seeking a more room to grow. So what? Green refreshed the eyes. Once the Insurgency had succeeded in overthrowing the central government, he intended to lobby for certain resource-poor worlds to be transformed into nature conservancies. No sense in supporting an impoverished industrial complex when there were so many others making a profit in the universe. Specialization—that made for survival. Let predators be predators, and let herbivores be their prey.
The everpresent howl of the drives faded as they slowed. The bright streaks in the navigation tank shortened from dashes to dots. Ayala rode out the rough transition, bending his knees like a surfer at each bump and judder. He would not sit down. To have to hold on to something was a sign of weakness. He cursed his knees, which had forced him to suffer replacement surgery. They did not understand who was master here. Mere joints and cartilage! What were they against neural tissue and its potential for greatness?
Itterim Sol Oostern appeared at his side. “We’ve cleared nonspace,” he chittered.
“Good,” Ayala said. “Any fresh info?”
“Awaiting transmissions from shell-brothers. I sent a coded squirt letting them know our vector. It could be up to half a day. Do we want to wait?”
Ayala nodded. “No sense in throwing a surprise party if the guests of honor aren’t coming.”
He deplored the use of spies, but the other side employed them, so he had to. No sense in refusing to take up a weapon. He felt that the Insurgency had the right on their side. The Thousand Worlds Confederation was outdated, dying under its own weight. What was needed was a simpler outlook: everyone to their purpose, in cooperation with all others, for the greater glory of the galaxy. Others, deep inside the bloated bureaucracy, shared his vision. The identities of some of them would surprise the senators and representatives who purported to speak for the people. They would be amazed to know how many of their so-called constituents felt that government had gone off track and was sticking its nose into places it didn’t belong.
An itterim at the communications console signed to Oostern, who checked his battered infopad.
“They have received our coordinates and will arrive shortly, colonel.”
“Good,” Ayala said. “Tell them we await their news.”
***
Chapter 5
Captain Harawe of the TWC destroyer Eastwood obviously knew X-Ray Company’s reputation, and didn’t like it. He surveyed the unit as they reported to him at the shuttle landing zone with the distaste one might have upon discovering a freshly coughed-up hairball.
Harawe, a tall man with very dark skin and epicanthic folds over hazel-green eyes, let his gaze travel from one trooper to another. “I just want to get some things clear before you set foot or whatever,” he amended, peering at the corlist, “on my ship. I don’t take slag, but I give out plenty. There are no easy berths aboard the Eastwood. You’ll work for your passage. Is that understood?”
“Aye, sir!” X-Ray chorused obediently. Daivid distrusted them when they sounded that angelic. He snapped off a salute.
“Lieutenant Daivid Wolfe, Captain!” he barked out. “These are my officers, Lieutenant jg Donna Borden, and Ensign Ioan Thielind.”
“I saw your names on the manifest,” Harawe growled, spinning to face them. “We’re not going to get chummy. I’m your ride, and that’s all. Your company will work, eat, excrete, recreate, and sleep, and stay the hell out of my way. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir!” Daivid held himself erect. A regular Navy type. Someone like Harawe sounded like he hated you, but if you dug down deep enough into his inner psyche and really probed his heart you would find out that he didn’t care enough about you to bother with hate. If your plans didn’t coincide with his plans, then you were the one who had to change, and pronto. Whatever made Mason treat Daivid and the others with such leniency didn’t impact upon Harawe at all. All the captain wanted was for them to follow orders, avoid conflict, and make it through the journey so they would get the hell off his ship. Daivid was comfortable with an arm’s-length attitude like that. He had given X-Ray a lengthy speech on just getting there and back again without attracting notice. With straight faces, every one of them had assured him that peace and quiet was all they wanted.
Daivid was already feeling nervous. He had given strict orders not to bring with them the still or the piece of hull plate, but he had noticed a flash of melon-pink behind a rack of weapons before Nuu Myi had slammed the cargo container shut. When Daivid had demanded she reopen it for his inspection she pretended to have forgotten the code sequence. So the memorial was traveling with them. When he realized they were not going to listen to him he had made sure he was the last man out of the enlisted barracks, and checked the battered closet at the end of the room. The still was still there, its heating element turned off and sealed. Daivid had felt a surge of relief, but when he kicked the tank, it rang hollow. Groaning, Daivid had made tracks for the depot to do a quick check of the rest of their cargo.
The array of packing containers piled up ready for shipment was daunting, but no one ever told a Wolfe there was a job too big for him. He had taken the manifest out of Thielind’s hands and scanned it for potential hiding places. Somewhere, they had managed to pack a hundred liters of white lightning. How the hell could anyone conceal that much liquid? He doubted they had sold it all to the spaceport bar. Daivid started opening big carriers, poking through the padding around artillery pieces and lifting up the spacer bars in between weapons. Not a single thing sloshed or burbled that wasn’t supposed to. By the time Harawe had landed he still hadn’t found the liquor. He hoped the captain wouldn’t happen upon it by accident.
Harawe eyed the enlisted troopers with distaste. “There’s sixty skids of goods coming on board. You people are loading my cargo as well as your own. I’m not bringing anyone down here to help. No one gets a free ride on my ship. Do you hear me?”
“No, sir!” Boland led the rest in a hearty salute. Daivid shot the noncoms a wary glance. They grinned at him. Harawe nodded curtly.
“Then let’s get this load of crap moving!”
“Hey, lieutenant,” Supply Chief Sargus had called, pointing a thick thumb at an army of frontloaders rolling along behind him. “Here’s the rest of your ammo. And your suits. I don’t believe it! Everything checked out. You must be the luckiest dumb fragger ever to board ship, or the toughest. Good luck!”
“I’m going to need it,”
Daivid thought.
O O O
The Eastwood must have been well-favored by Central Command, or it had been recently commissioned. Everything smelled new, like a flitter straight out of the display room. Daivid oversaw the loading, with Harawe towering over him disapprovingly. They stowed the containers of battle armor, weaponry, and personal goods. Daivid hovered around them nervously, listening for that telltale gurgle. The last of X-Ray’s equipment was loaded, and he was none the wiser, but Harawe hadn’t noticed anything unusual, either. He’d have to check once they got on board. In the meantime, the rest of the loading job remained to be finished.
“Watch that, there!” the stern captain shouted, as Ewanowski guided the first of Supply’s frontloaders out of the warehouse, a box over six meters long by two broad. “That’s my new flitter. One scratch, and you will all be remelting and mending ceramic bulkhead all the way to your drop site!”
“Aye, sir,” Daivid acknowledged. “Er, wouldn’t it be easier to take it out of its crate, secure the crate, and drive the flitter inside the hold? That would lessen the possibility of it getting any bumps on the way in.”
“Good idea. See to it!” Harawe stalked away to talk with Commander Mason, arriving in the wake of the supplies.
At Borden’s direction, Meyers and Boland undid the locks at one end of the long container. Boland stuck his head inside and let out a long whistle.
“What a beauty!” he crowed. Before anyone else could move, he swung inside and dropped into the pilot’s seat. “Hot slag! Antigrav displacement emitters, Parkinson positronic drive, Van Clef-Menow MR3 stabilizers, multi-source renewable fuel—this baby will never run out of power, no matter how long you run it!”
“It’s not yours,” Daivid said firmly, foreseeing a potential incident like the one to which Boland had alluded on Daivid’s first day.
Strong Arm Tactics Page 8
