Wolfe nodded. “Yes, you did.”
“We’re all still alive, even after some pretty nasty missions, so we haven’t made a fatal mistake yet.”
Involuntarily, Daivid glanced toward the memorial panel that had been propped against the wall, at the names that had been laboriously punched through the melon-pink cerametal. Lin’s eyes followed his.
“They didn’t make mistakes, as you think of mistakes,” she said, shaking her head. “But there’s bad luck, bad planning, inadequate cover, misfires, malfunctions, breaks in the chain of communication … you name it, it’s happened. Not just to our unit, but to every unit who’ve ever marched together since Gilgamesh and Enkidu.” She noted Wolfe’s smile. “Yeah, I went through the officer training history of warfare course.”
“You finished OTS, but you’re a noncom? Who’d you piss off?”
Lin smiled wearily. It made her look ten years older. “You want the whole list?”
Wolfe shook his head. “I don’t know about you, but I came off four hours of poker, and I’m wiped out. Just tell me what you want.”
Lin tilted her head. “Are you really listening? I want you to lay back. Just give the orders you need to, and trust us to do the rest. It’s not a one-on-one game, no matter what the recruiting posters say. You’re in charge, but you don’t do everyone’s job. You just do yours. You tell us what you need done, and we will figure out a way. You don’t have to paint a picture for us.”
Wolfe hung his head. “Sorry. I was just trying to be a good officer.”
“A good officer recognizes his or her troop’s talents, so he or she can concentrate on achieving the goal and staying alive. In a way you’re lucky this was a training exercise. You got killed because you were paying more attention to what we were doing than what was happening right in front of you. You had a good idea, but we would have come up with it eventually. After all, we work down there. We know what everyone else thinks of it. We have the exact same visceral reaction as Bruno’s squad every time, and it’s got to be eighteen, nineteen times in a row we’ve been stuck down in sewage management on transit voyages.”
Wolfe smacked his hand on the table. “There’s got to be something we can do about that.”
“Don’t worry about it. There are perks. People stay the hell out of our way, mostly. And a … couple of other things. We keep everything going, and we get a lot of free time, and some actual privacy, which you can tell is not so easy on a starship. But it’s good that you care. You’re showing promise, really. It’s been noticed, and appreciated. You’ve just got a lot to learn. God or Mother Nature or the Powers that Be are letting you have a long learning curve, but it won’t last forever.”
“I thought I was doing all right,” Wolfe frowned.
“You are. You lack experience, that’s all. Keep going the way you’re going, listen to the people who have been around, and you’ll be a good officer.”
Her words stung, but Wolfe figured he had them coming. “Uh-huh. And how do I avoid these little talks in the future?”
Lin cocked her head. “That’s easy. You can just tell me not to tell you when you’re screwing up, sir. Or you can admit you’ve got something to learn, and say what any recruit does when he’s getting punishment he doesn’t really want, but probably deserves?”
“What’s that?”
“‘Thank you, sir! May I have another?’”
Wolfe laughed. “Thank you, ma’am! May I have another?”
Lin laughed, too. “At least you’re teachable. That’ll help you survive in the long run.”
“I’d better,” Daivid Wolfe said wryly. “If I don’t come back in one piece my dad’s going to kill me.”
Lin snorted. “As long as he doesn’t kill us if something happens to you.”
“No way,” Wolfe assured her fervently. “More than any other person you will ever meet, my father knows the difference between people who were around when someone died, and people who were responsible.”
“You’re so sincere. It’s so cute!”
Wolfe grimaced. “Thanks. Not. But may I return the favor, while we’re having this private little chat?”
Lin raised a suspicious eyebrow. Wolfe felt the walls coming up again. “You’re the CO, sir.”
“This is just friendly. I know how isolated we are when we’re on base. We’re the neighborhood lepers; no one wants to associate with us. Being alone throws people together, and sometimes they get … involved. But you know regulations; someone around here won’t have the same knowledge, however limited, that I’ve got, and may even think he’s doing one of us a favor by getting him or her transferred out of a unit because he or she is fraternizing with a fellow trooper, maybe even one in the same chain of command. You and I both know that trooper is likely to get transferred back to X-Ray again one day, but in the meantime he or she and his or her partner might have to undergo some enforced … loneliness waiting for that day to come. So, be … I mean, tell the others to be more discreet, huh? I don’t want to lose anyone in my command.” He gave a toothy smile, showing all his canines. “It’s my first platoon, and I want to keep the whole set.”
Lin smiled broadly. “You’re a romantic, sir.”
Wolfe held out his hands. “No way. And I’ll fight to the death anyone who even suggests something like that. Do you have any more whips for my back? No? Then let me go and take my poor bruised body to bed. See you tomorrow morning at PT.” He pushed the chair back and limped toward the door.
“Good night, sir.”
“Oh, and by the way,” Daivid said, pausing in the doorway with one hand on the frame. “I smelled my armor when I got into it.”
Lin gulped. “Did you, sir?”
“I certainly did. I wondered how you got all that booze on board, when I didn’t find a single bottle or keg anywhere among our luggage. Let me make it clear right now that if I ever find my suit stinking like a fraternity lounge ever again, I’m going to fill the rest of yours with nitrous oxide. Just remember the Vortex.”
“I do, sir. Good night, sir.”
Daivid grinned. “Good night, Lin. Can’t fault you guys for creativity.”
O O O
The strings of space tied together all existence. Ayala could feel them around him. He felt as if he could draw them in, making planets and suns dance at his order. His puppets. His creation. At his order suns swelled to supernovae. At his command, microbes evolved into useful societies loyal to him and him alone. Some of them were unworthy, and those he destroyed with a wave of his hand. He pictured a new sense of purpose in the universe, where comfort was not as important as endless productivity. Such a situation had been tried on ancient Earth millenia before, in the Uncertain Century, when workers served unwillingly the exponentially growing demands of their employers. It was followed by the Great Overthrow, resulting in an implosion of the world economy, since it had been based upon too few doing too much work, and lacking a unified goal. That would not be the case in Ayala’s Universe. Everyone would work. And they’d like it. Or else. Impassionately he wiped out another system that was not complying and created in its place one that would do its work without complaining. Certainly there was little else to do while they awaited the rest of the fleet to check in.
“Captain Roest calling Colonel Ayala,” a chittering voice announced over the main speakers. The communications officer, a human, nodded. Via non-linear space he was able to hear the itterim in real time, and verify his identity as though he was standing and looking at the green-shelled being. Though Ayala experienced the miracle of Tachytalk nearly every day, it still made him marvel at the cleverness and persistence of the human being. If they could conquer transgalactic information-sharing, how long would it be before they owned every parsec?
“Captain Ziil calling.”
“Lieutenant Maaren calling, Colonel. The captain cannot come to the communicator. She was eaten.”
“A pity,” Ayala replied, signing to his aide to change the file. “She was a g
ood officer. You are promoted, Maaren.”
“Of course, sir,” the voice replied crisply.
The other ships checked in, fifteen of them in all. Two of them were destroyers, like the Dilestro, but the others were smaller frigates. All carried on board single-pilot fighters, though fewer and in poorer condition than he would have liked. Well, if they could secure the merchandise they sought, the proceeds ought to buy a few hundred more, all new, or a thousand ‘previously owned,’ though he hated bargaining with used starship salespeople. They were all crooks, and it took a thief to know a thief.
“Good. Our siblings in the cause report that the shipment approaches.”
“Unguarded?” the voices asked greedily.
“Yes, unguarded, or so our spy swears,” Ayala said. The itterim, Kaarl Veendam, had been almost slavering in vicarious anticipation of conquering such an easy target. He also confirmed the cargo itself. Tachytalks were almost a thousand credits on the open market, and these, which had not yet been assigned to one of the long-distance communication systems, would be nearly priceless to the kind of people who shouldn’t get their hands on them … such as Ayala and his cohorts. For the rest, portable power supplies would enable them to make better use of their captured weapons. Plasma guns required new cartridges, or constant recharging of the old ones. With those in hand, and carefully reworked for the kind of amperage needed for the task, they could conquer whole cities, using their own power grids against them. On board also were letters of credit worth nearly a billion credits. They had to be especially careful to take those intact. One scratch on the confirmation seal, which had to be completely undamaged upon presentation, and even the corrupt bankers who did business with the Insurgency would laugh in their faces.
He sent them the coordinates for the junction of the strings where the cargo ships were expected to emerge. There, and only there, were the ships vulnerable. It was impossible as long as a traveller was in transit along a singularity route to catch up with him. The speed of each was constant. All they could hope to do was find a string capable of propelling them greater distance in a shorter time, intercepting them as they emerged, and taking the captured cargo and vessels back into the transdimensional stream, leaving no evidence but a few spent ions representing the vaporized crew that anyone had ever been there.
“Alas, I will not be able to accompany you on this enterprise,” he added. “For I am on the way to a remote location for another mission that is of great importance to the cause, and then on to our final destination. Once you have succeeded, you will join me with the goods, to be used in the furtherance of our great work of liberating the galaxy! Success, or destruction!”
“Success or destruction!” the captains echoed.
O O O
Daily reports from the noncommissioned officers were held in Daivid’s quarters, clustered around the small desk.
“… And I’ve been trying to see when we can get into the antigrav chamber,” Lin was explaining. “We all need to be recertified in zero-gee combat. The ship’s complement is so bloated with units on the way to Benarli, they’re rotating us in there in shifts. We really need to get in there more than once every five days, sir. Otherwise we stand no chance of getting into the action if the Eastwood boards another vessel. No one will sign off on us.”
The antigrav chamber lay at the rear of the ship as null-displacement for the circular gravity generator that hung like a gong between the horns of the backward-facing crescent that was the main body of the ship. Along with the rest of the newly arrived visiting officers Daivid had been taken on a tour of every section by Ensign Gruen, Commander Iry’s clerk. He longed to get in there and try out the facility, which was newer and more complex than any he had ever seen, including obstacle courses and a padded sphere for practicing close-quarters nongrav combat. He knew the others were itching to try it out, too.
“I went to the officer of the day,” Lin continued, “but he said to change our whole schedule you have to go to Supply.”
“I’ll see what I can do about getting us in there more often, Top,” he agreed. “When’s our first evolution, Borden?”
Borden consulted her infopad. “1300 hours four days from now,” she said. “The next is five days after that.”
“Not enough,” Wolfe agreed, making a note of his own. “I’ll see what I can do.”
O O O
“Enter!”
Wolfe waited until the hissing door receded into its niche and strode into Lt. Bruno’s office. The supply officer stood waiting with his back turned to the doorway, hands clasped behind him, pretending to study a framed document on the wall. Even from there Wolfe could see that it was a certificate of merit, the kind he had a dozen of stored in his infopad. It took some kind of insecurity to print one out and stick it on the wall. He could also see the other’s eyes reflected in the perspex.
“How’s the leg?” Bruno asked, spinning around suddenly, as Wolfe stood before his desk.
“Fine, thank you,” Wolfe answered politely, determined to keep the interview civil. After all, he wanted a favor.
“Your own medic take care of it, or did you go to the infirmary?”
“Just some analgesics and a little hydrotherapy,” Wolfe admitted. “A couple of days, and it went away.”
“Ah. I got over the same injury in a day because I’ve been practicing yoga for ten years,” Bruno said offhandedly. “Although I strained my thigh during a boarding maneuver against the Lizards. My suit was punctured, too.”
Wolfe smiled even more politely. To attempt to win this oneupsmanship contest was to lose the objective for which he had come. “I see. That was some attack, by the way. If the swords had been unpadded you might have gotten me with that second thrust.”
“With the first,” Bruno corrected him. “The neck injury would have been fatal. The monofoil on the edge of my blade is new. I always replace it before a battle.” Seeing that he had quashed his opponent thoroughly on at least three counts, he came around to business. “May I ask why you’ve requested this meeting?”
“X-Ray Platoon has been on ground duty for over three months,” Wolfe explained. “Many of my people are overdue to recertify for zero-gee combat. My senior chief said that the first time you can get us into the chamber is several days from now, and at fairly long intervals after that until the ship reaches the front. I’d like to request an accelerated program.”
Bruno eyed him. “Your platoon, and I say this regardless of its reputation, some of which I experienced the other night, is only a very small unit, and its priority is going to be correspondingly low. You do realize that we are carrying almost ten thousand spacers and troopers.”
“Yes, I do. I’ve made inquiries among the other officers, and most of them come from space stations or have been transferred from active duty to join the push, so they’re fresh. I’d say 90% of them have their status current. I would appreciate it very much if you would increase our access to the training module to, say, every three days, or every other day, until we certify, then you can increase the interval to whatever you want. The other ten percent of the complement would probably appreciate a speeded-up process, too,” Daivid added, trying to make it sound like a win-win arrangement. “That way you would have 100% compliance by the time we get to Benarli. You’d probably have thought of it yourself. I’m only trying to bring it to your attention for your convenience.” Bruno frowned thoughtfully. Daivid had him there. It would make him look good, but a born bureaucrat had to resist somehow. “We’ve got a 1300 hour training time in four days. Could you schedule us, say tomorrow for the same time as we have for our first scheduled workout? 1300 hours?”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Bruno nodded meaningfully toward the door. The interview was at an end. Daivid retreated.
O O O
Ignoring the insults Bruno had managed to work into the conversation, Daivid was pleased with the outcome. Instead of passing it along by way of an infopad link, or asking Thielind to relay it, he de
cided to take a few moments and drop down to the sanitation department to tell Lin in person. Besides, Borden’s quietly competent assertion that she always studied the venues where the platoon was stationed made him feel guilty. He should have known that—should have been doing that. There was a lot to learn about being the CO. It was like piloting a spacecraft. You didn’t pay so much attention to how it was done when you were a passenger as when you finally got dumped into the front seat.
Whistling, he swung down to Deck 6 and made his way forward toward the Sanitation Department. Funny how much smaller the corridor looked, now that he could see it in the light. Creeping down it with only his scopes and infrared vision to go on, the transit seemed to have taken forever. The ceramic walls and blue directional signs looked like any other section of the ship. Wolfe knew he had arrived when the air took him by the throat, making him cough. His eyes watered. He tried to clear them, but rubbing only seemed to make the situation worse. He sniffed heavily, trying to drive the tears back. That brought in a fresh lungful of stench, and he hacked it out again.
Streb waved to him from the top of a tank along the huge main array that ran through the pumping room. He swung down, landing nimbly on his feet at its base.
“Hi, sir! Great day, isn’t it?”
“How do you stand it in here?” Wolfe coughed. “It stinks in here—I mean, stinks! How do you breathe? You would have to burn my clothes. Even the box couldn’t get the reek out of them.”
“This is nothing,” Streb assured him, flipping the wrench in his hand up in the air. It turned end over end before he caught it slap in his palm. “Sometimes the fumes are so thick you can’t see through them.…” He clutched Wolfe’s arm when the lieutenant looked stricken. “I’m just kidding, sir! This is about as bad as it gets. The valves had to be opened while we replaced some gaskets. The air cleaners only kicked on a minute ago. Pretty soon it’ll smell like roses in here. Comparatively, that is.”
“Thank God,” Wolfe said. “I’m looking for Lin.”
“She and her squad are on the firing range, sir. Boland’s here … uh, maybe he’s not,” Streb hesitated.
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