And now it looked as if Foote was going to have to kill him.
I don’t see a choice, he thought again.
As part of the Commandery’s plan to keep Fleet units shuttling about in order to prevent collusion and rebellion, Force Orghoder had been on a tour of the outer reaches of the empire. The last port of call had been Laredo, where the officers had been feted by Lord and Lady Martinez, the parents of Gareth Martinez. Foote had been disappointed—not by the hospitality, which was lavish, but by the fact that Lord Martinez hadn’t turned out to be a bumpkin with dung on his feet and a straw up his nose, which was what he had hoped.
The Martinez family always managed to find some way to defy expectations. It was one of the things Foote disliked about them.
Force Orghoder had been within hours of departure when a sublieutenant of the Military Constabulary came aboard Vigilance with a message for Captain Foote’s eyes only. Once she and Foote were alone, she informed him that the message was personal from Lord Ivan Snow, the Inspector General of the Fleet. The message was ciphered, but the sublieutenant conveniently provided a hand comm able to read it.
“Do you know what’s in it?” Foote asked.
“No, Lord Captain.”
Foote viewed the sublieutenant with the eye of a connoisseur. She was young and reasonably attractive, with smooth sienna skin and eyes of a vivid green. He considered the possibility that she might prove a compliant partner for the next few hours, before Vigilant was scheduled to depart Laredo’s ring.
“Well,” he said, “sit down and have a glass of wine, and I’ll read the message.”
The message made him forget all about the woman sitting next to him. The Lord Inspector informed him of Tork’s plan to disarm the Terran elements of the Fleet. Apparently Lord Sori had not yet been informed of the plan, which envisaged Foote’s squadron being confronted and disarmed by the other two sometime on the return journey to Zanshaa. More ciphered communiques would be forthcoming, so Foote was to retain the hand comm and keep it in his safe, but if necessary he should try to escape along with his squadron to Harzapid and the Fourth Fleet.
Foote stood, and he looked at the sublieutenant, who had made herself comfortable in a chair with her glass of wine. She looked up at him for a lazy moment, then realized the atmosphere of the room had changed. She put down her wine and rose to her feet.
“I think that will be all, Lieutenant,” Foote said.
The sublieutenant braced to attention. “Shall I send a reply, Lord Captain?”
“No,” Foote said. He’d handle that himself. “Let me call someone to escort you off the ship.”
“My lord.” Leaving her glass on his desk, the sublieutenant made a proper military turn and left his office. Foote sank into his chair again, alone with the dark thoughts that swirled in his skull.
An hour later, he realized he’d forgotten to call for the sublieutenant’s escort, but when he looked into the corridor, she was gone, having presumably seen herself off.
A pity. Another time, and they might have had some fun.
A pair of metallic clicks announced that the riggers had drawn on Foote’s gloves. “Shall I attach your helmet, Lord Captain?”
No choice.
“No, I’ll carry it. You’d better get in your own suits, the drill will begin in just a few minutes.”
“Yes, Lord Captain.”
Foote tucked his helmet under his arm, left his quarters, and took the belt elevator two levels to Command, buried in the heart of the ship. He walked through the hatch, and the third lieutenant said, “Captain is in Command!”
“I am in Command,” Foote agreed.
Foote listened to a brief status update as he replaced the third lieutenant in the commander’s acceleration cage. All was as it should be: nothing had changed since the last watch, except that Foote and his squadron had moved a few hours closer to their fate. The oval room, with its couches in their cages, each at different stations, had fallen silent, waiting for the captain to speak, or otherwise indicate his mood. Sometimes he enjoyed conversation with the other officers, usually about sports. Other times he preferred silence, and the Command crew had learned to be sensitive to his frame of mind. Foote looked at the chronometer on his display, stowed his helmet in the mesh bag intended for miscellaneous bits of gear, and then said, “Sound general quarters.”
A tone began to bleat from the ship’s speakers. It was a tone deliberately calculated to set the nerves on edge and was impossible to ignore.
Vigilant moved efficiently to a state of readiness. The officers’ servants, or assigned enlisted, came into the room with the Command crew’s vac suits, helped them dress, then went to their own action stations. The departments began to report their state of readiness, and lights began to glow on Foote’s displays.
“All personnel to take their prep shots,” Foote ordered. He reached into one of the compartments on his couch and drew out a med injector. He dialed the dosage, pressed the injector to his neck, and triggered it. The drug entered his carotid with a hiss and would help prevent stroke and keep his circulatory system supple for high accelerations.
“Signals,” he said, “messages to Eighth Squadron’s captains. ‘Captain Foote’s compliments, and he requests your company for dinner tomorrow, 14:01 hours. Signed, Foote, etc.’”
The warrant officer on the signals board repeated the message, then sent it. Replies began arriving, all affirmative.
The message to the other captains seemed straightforward but was in fact a code. The invitation to dinner was a request to report: the affirmative answers told him that the other ships in his squadron had gone to general quarters. He couldn’t ask the question directly without the risk of being overheard by the other ships of Force Orghoder. And he couldn’t send the messages in cipher, because then Junior Squadron Commander Orghoder might wonder why Foote’s Command were sending ciphered messages to one another.
I see no choice, Foote thought.
When he’d received that first message from Lord Inspector Snow, Foote had considered informing his other captains, then either fleeing or fighting a battle right there at Laredo, destroying the other ships of Force Orghoder. But then he considered that a premature action might compromise other Terran-commanded ships in the Fleet, and that he should hope that some kind of political solution would be found before Tork actually issued his order to disarm the Terran ships. If he went into action while a solution was on the verge of being worked out, Foote would become a more infamous mutineer even than Taggart of the Verity.
So Light Squadron Eight had departed Laredo along with the other ships of Force Orghoder and began an acceleration toward Zanshaa. Since Force Orghoder wasn’t in a hurry to get anywhere, there was no heavy acceleration after the first hours, and the time was spent in drills, exercises, inspections, and friendly visits of officers from one ship to another.
Foote had invited his captains and their premieres to dinner one night, after a message from Lord Inspector Snow informed him that Orghoder had received his orders from the Commandery. His officers were all Peers and drawn from the highest-ranked Peer families in the Fleet. One was the daughter of superior officers who had aided Foote’s ascent and had been taken aboard so that he could repay the favors by advancing her in the service; and his premiere and second lieutenant belonged to families who might get him his promotion to squadron commander. Each of these arrangements had been made years ahead of time. Foote’s officers formed a glittering company at the table, all in tailored full dress uniforms with the tall collar and the two rows of silver buttons, each perfectly groomed by the hairdressers and cosmeticians they employed as servants.
Captain Foote made certain that the food and wine were worthy of the company. His chef had trained at Baldpate in the Petty Mount, then worked under the famous Cree chef Tillat at his restaurant in the High City. Snatching him as a private chef on Vigilant had been quite a coup, and one that had cost a lot of money, but as a single bite of his eskatar pie shi
mmered on his tongue, Foote knew that the expense was worth it.
After the final remove, Foote told the servants to leave the room, made sure the doors were locked, and told his guests about Lord Tork’s plan.
“I don’t believe it is desirable to leave the Terran species completely defenseless,” he said. “So what can we do?”
They offered one suggestion after another, but each proved impractical. In the end, the bleakest solution stared them in the face.
Foote looked down at his table, the elegant linen, the porcelain with the Foote crest, the crystal wine goblets, all tangible symbols of his position, his heritage, his wealth. Everything that made him a Peer, the member of an ancient, privileged family who had never committed a mutinous or revolutionary act in its history.
“So,” he said carefully, “I see no other choice.”
Foote and his officers met regularly to make plans and search for new solutions, but two months into their voyage, when a ciphered message from the Lord Inspector told Foote the date for Tork’s coup de main, he looked at Force Orghoder’s planned course and saw a problem.
Lord Inspector Snow’s plan called for Foote to somehow escape Orghoder’s other two squadrons and flee to Harzapid and the Fourth Fleet. There were two ways to accomplish this, the fastest being to alter course at Zarafan by swinging around its sun, accelerate through Zarafan Wormhole Four, and jump through a series of eight wormhole gates to Harzapid. The problem with this was that two additional squadrons were based on Zarafan, one Torminel and the other Daimong, and either one of them outgunned Foote’s light squadron. Both together would bring a swift and decisive end to Foote’s odyssey.
That left Foote with the second option, which would mean breaking away early, at Colamote, the system just before Zarafan. From Colamote he could take a series of five wormhole gates to Toley, where he could rejoin the route from Zarafan to Harzapid. It would mean a longer journey through more wormhole gates, and there was still a chance of being intercepted by the two squadrons from Zarafan, but it was the safest route by far.
But altering course at Colamote meant starting the conflict prematurely. To slingshot around Colamote’s sun, he’d have to make his move a good six days before the planned date for Tork’s strike. If any message were sent out of Colamote, it would travel at the speed of light to Zanshaa within a couple of days—and if the message reached Tork, the Supreme Commander might launch his own strike early, and that might doom the Terran squadrons of the Home Fleet.
Ultimately, Foote decided that he couldn’t be responsible for whatever happened with the Home Fleet, and so he and his captains made their own plans, and he sent a ciphered message to Lord Inspector Snow informing him of his decision.
No choice.
Lights glowed all the way across Foote’s status board. All his captains indicated they were at quarters. Vigilant was ready, and so was the rest of Light Squadron Eight.
Foote felt strangely light-headed. His heart seemed to lurch into a new rhythm every few seconds. The hands that manipulated his displays felt as if they belonged to someone else.
He’d never experienced this sensation in a yacht race, or during combat in the Naxid War. Then he’d been confident, analytical, his various options racing through his brain at what seemed to be the speed of light.
Now he felt unsure, even though he knew perfectly well what he had to do.
Take action, he thought. Action will force my mind to obey my will. Foote triggered the ship’s public address system.
“All crew, attention,” he said. “This is Lord Captain Foote.” He licked his lips with a suddenly dry tongue. “I regret that I must inform you of certain impending ac-actions in the Fleet.” For some reason he had stammered. He charged on.
“Because of political developments in the capital,” he said, “Supreme Commander Tork has issued orders that all Terran-crewed ships in the Fleet are to be boarded and disarmed. This illegal action will take place throughout the empire in six days’ time.”
The officers in Command were already aware of this, but it was news to the cadets and warrant officers who sat at most of Command’s action stations. He could see them exchange glances, their eyes wide.
Despite the cooling units in his suit, lakes of sweat seemed to have sprung into existence under Foote’s arms. More sweat soaked his back.
“I and the officers of Squadron Eight have agreed that we will refuse any attempt to board or disarm us,” he said. “Terrans should not be left without a means of defense. We don’t want to end up like the Yormaks.”
We don’t want to end up like the Yormaks. Foote hadn’t considered that aspect until now. He wondered if the annihilation of an entire species was normal now.
Not if he had anything to say about it, it wasn’t.
He felt that his confidence and delivery improved as he spoke. Simply explaining the situation aloud made its logic clear, and he spoke his final words with conviction.
“Obey your officers, do your duty, and we will resist Lord Tork’s illegal order and preserve the freedom of the Terran species. This is Lord Captain Foote, acting in the name of the Praxis.” He turned off the public address system and spoke immediately to the crew in Command. He didn’t want to give them time to think, only to react.
“Weapons, charge batteries one and two with antimatter. This is not a drill. Power point-defense lasers. This is not a drill.”
The third lieutenant, who shared the weapons board with a warrant officer, acknowledged and bent to her work.
“Batteries one and two charged with antimatter,” she reported. “Point-defense lasers charging. This is not a drill.”
“Let me know when the—”
“Defense lasers charged, Lord Captain.”
Foote frowned. He didn’t like being interrupted, and his tone made his disapproval clear. “Weapons, this is not a drill. Have you programmed your missiles with targeting information?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Ready point-defense weapons to shoot down incoming missiles. This is not a drill.”
The targets had been chosen well ahead of time, in conferences with Foote’s other captains. Force Orghoder was traveling in three packs, each squadron loosely grouped around its flagship, each oriented so that any likely course change wouldn’t result in their being bathed in the fiery radioactive tail of another ship. Sori Orghoder’s heavy squadron was in the lead, and the other light squadron in the rear, with Foote sandwiched between them, a situation that put Foote at a disadvantage—a deliberate disadvantage, Foote assumed, since the formation had been ordered a couple days ago, after a series of maneuvers that had disarranged the original order, which had Foote at the rear.
Light Squadron Eight had eight ships, and the other two squadrons seventeen between them. Each of Squadron Eight’s ships was targeting three of the others with two missiles apiece, which Foote hoped would provide sufficient redundancy.
“This is not a drill,” Foote said. “Prepare to fire on my mark.” He put a gloved hand on the acceleration cage and spun his couch to face the signals board.
“Signals,” he said, “message to the squadron: ‘Transmit birthday wishes in eleven seconds. Signed, Foote.’”
“Yes, Lord Captain.” There was a moment’s delay, and then, “Message transmitted, Lord Captain.”
Foote started a digit counter on his command board. “Weapons,” he said, “this is not a drill. Fire on my mark.” He looked at the digit counter. “Six, seven, eight, nine, ten, mark.”
Foote felt no change in the ship as his six missiles fired, but lights shifted color on his weapons display board, and he gave his next order without waiting for a report from the third officer.
“Engines, rotate ship to heading two hundred twenty degrees by forty-three degrees relative.”
“Missiles clear of the tubes,” the third lieutenant reported doggedly. “Traveling normally on chemical rockets.”
Foote’s inner ear shimmered as Vigilant rotated to its n
ew heading. His acceleration cage swiveled as the ship spun around it. Vigilant had been decelerating at one gravity, and now it was aimed in a completely different direction.
“Missiles fired from all ships in Squadron Eight,” said the cadet at the sensor station. His voice shivered with dread, and he was barely audible. The third lieutenant was more emphatic.
“All missiles report antimatter engines alight. All missiles tracking to target.”
“We are on our new heading, Lord Captain,” said the warrant officer from the engine station.
“Engines,” Foote said, “increase acceleration to twelve gravities for nineteen seconds. Then five gravities.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Increased gravities slammed Foote into his couch, and his cage swung to its dead point as the gravities piled on. He grunted as if someone had just punched him in the solar plexus. His suit closed on his arms and legs to keep blood from draining out of his body and brain. He fought for breath, his vision going dark. Consciousness seemed to drain away as if his mind were pouring like a waterfall out of his skull. Yet, at the end of the nineteen seconds’ acceleration, he thought he hadn’t completely lost consciousness, and he congratulated himself on retaining his yacht captain’s reflexes.
At five gravities’ acceleration Foote’s awareness returned slowly, and his vision remained dark. Fortunately his instrument boards were brightly lit, and they stood out against the murk of his conscious mind.
“Detonations!” called the third lieutenant. “Radiation spikes!”
The cadet at the sensor station spoke, but at insufficient volume to penetrate Foote’s leaden awareness. In irritation, he reached out against gravity to his own sensor board, tilted it so he could better view it, and saw nothing but vast, rapidly expanding fireballs, each of them completely opaque to his sensors. He could see his own squadron, though, still burning on their prearranged heading.
The Accidental War Page 32
