The Fleet 01

by David Drake (ed)

  “We know that there is a peace faction in the council, but have not been able to contact any of them directly. We also have the location of their home planet, though Fleet policy restricts us from attacking it outright.”

  Commodore Agberea, commander of the remaining combat forces stationed on McCauley half rose, looking as if he was going to comment. Harlan froze, his mouth half open. Seeing every eye upon him, the tall, bearded officer brushed a few nonexistent crumbs off his uniform and sat back down.

  “Physically the Tripes are trilaterally symmetrical,” the intelligence officer continued after gulping a mouthful of air. “They have three legs, three arms and nine eyes. Traders describe their movements as graceful and their arts as highly developed. Not unusually for a young race, Tripean society is highly competitive and individualistic. They are oxygen breathing, carbon-based and prefer Earthlike planets, if those a bit warmer than we’re comfortable on. Based upon those they’ve colonized, I would think they would be comfortable here on McCauley.” Having reached his verbal stride the intelligence officer droned on over the clinking of glasses.

  “They are an extremely visually oriented species, able to see far into the infrared and ultraviolet. Further, they can focus down almost to the microscopic level and at greater distances than we do. They are also noted for their caution, thorough planning and love of detail. One indy captain complained that just one shipping agreement he made with a Tripean merchant filled 11K.”

  One of the junior quartermasters snickered at the comment.

  He had just received a Fleet directive on letting contracts for the repair of computer terminals which had filled 12K, on a planet with no native population to let the contracts to. This earned him a puzzled glance from Meier, but went unnoticed by the lecturing officer who, about to reveal his latest intelligence coup, didn’t miss a syllable.

  “For the last week they have been constructing a base on an otherwise uninhabited planet less than twenty light-years from here and in an area clearly claimed by the Alliance. As this was a previously unknown world, I will exercise my option and designate it as Harlan’s World in all reports.” He grinned sheepishly and hurried to continue.

  “One of their merchant ships was, uh, persuaded to refit at Allison after having a brush with a, um, skiprunner and then being found by one of our scouts. Their instruments use color shifts instead of dials. Their technology, while less refined than ours, appears to have stemmed from First Empire designs, and is basically similar.

  “Their fleet is said to consist of numerous armed merchants and over a hundred scout-and destroyer-class warships. They have purchased materials which leads me to believe they have begun constructing a number of cruiser-class vessels as well.”

  Several of the scoutship captains looked toward Agberea, as if expecting him to comment. The senior combat officer continued to stare at his glass.

  “Even at their current strength, with most of the Fleet tied up on the far side of the Alliance, they have by far the most powerful force in the area. We know very little else and our only consolation is that they seem to know even less about us.”

  There was an awkward silence before Commodore Meier realized Harlan had run down. He hurried to fill the silence.

  “As you can see, we are faced with a delicate and dangerous situation. I’ve been carefully preparing a plan for dealing with the Tripeans,” Meier assured them. “The highest security needs to be maintained over the entire operation. Due to the nature of the plan, it will be necessary for me to brief most of you separately. Those meetings will begin tomorrow.

  “Dismissed.”

  He hurried from the room before anyone could ask him any embarrassing questions.

  By midnight that same day Abraham Meier was past frustration. He had spent the last nine hours in front of his command computer reading over and over the meager data on the Tripeans. No solution presented itself. They would have no choice but to view the Alliance as a threat. It was a threat, and Fleet policy wouldn’t allow them another generation of independence. Their potential for disruption was too great. The two spheres nearly overlapped already with ten Alliance planets located within fifty light-years of the Tripean capital.

  Frustrated, the young quartermaster snapped off the console, only to flip it on again a few seconds later.

  The Tripeans had fought a minor war against another race twenty years earlier and had won handily. Most interesting, that race was currently considered their closest ally. Now it seemed likely they were getting ready to go to war again. The Tripean fleet was large enough to depopulate this entire sector before sufficient forces could be recalled from the Khalian action. There was no question that in a long war the Fleet would win, but this wouldn’t save the millions of Alliance citizens in this sector. It was also a pity, for while they would be formidable opponents, the Tripeans were an industrious race and could be a valuable addition to the Alliance.

  This newly discovered race also meant a disgraceful end to the career of one of the quartermaster corp’s brightest young officers. This thought sent the next in a long series of waves of self-pity swirling through that young officer. Meier’s eyes slipped involuntarily over to the crumpled message from his grandfather and he hissed aloud “tradition” in such a way as to make it sound obscene. At the moment to him it was.

  Meier spent the next ten minutes staring into the empty monitor, not even thinking and too emotionally drained to even generate another wave of self-pity.

  “I’m a quartermaster, not a combat officer,” he protested to the uncaring wad of paper. “I handle supplies better than the best.” Even as he spoke he resented his own words. A hero on the Omni might be able to cobble together a superweapon from the spare parts in his microputer and lead the Fleet to victory with it. Meier was proud of his skill and competence, but none of his abilities appeared to be of any use in facing the Tripeans. The thought of all those who might die because of his inadequacies made the small man shiver.

  Finally, because the Fleet had trained him well, Commodore Abraham Meier keyed the console to decision mode and began summarizing the situation one more time.

  On the one side there was a new race unfamiliar with or to the Fleet and Alliance. They were intelligent, ambitious, cautious, thorough and well armed, everything necessary to defeat the meager forces he commanded on McCauley.

  Upon the discovery of the Tripeans Meier had gathered every ship in the sector. This totalled three cruisers, fourteen scouts and three obsolete planetary bombardment vessels. These last three were left over from the Veeveki War and were totally unsuitable for ship-to-ship combat.

  Even allowing for better technology and experience, his forces were outgunned at least five to one. Worse yet, he had two dozen planets to defend and the Tripeans could strike at anyone of them, more planets’ than he had ships to guard them.

  There was no hope of reinforcements for months, until things were so far gone he would likely be dead or in disgrace. He also had in his command one nearly completed Class E repair facility with only half its complement of personnel, none of its regular garrison of ships. McCauley also was a Fleet supply depot, which is why he was cursed with command. It contained everything needed to rebuild or repair ships except hulls and guns.

  Hoping for a miracle, like finding they had been shipped ten battle cruisers in very large crates, Abe Meier scanned the list of stores. He was, after all, a quartermaster, and he had let everything but worrying about the Tripeans slip too long. On the list he discovered forty thousand barrels of hull paint. Enough to change the colors of every ship in the Fleet. Some other quartermaster had evidently gotten rid of his excess paint by shipping it to McCauley.

  In an effort to break his mood, the young officer announced to the empty room that he had a secret weapon. They would throw paint at the Tripes, they liked colors. Paint he understood. Then it became very silent in the small office and Abe Meier sat
staring at a scratch in the gray on the far wall for a long time. A contented smile grew as he once more scanned the lists of stores. This time more purposefully. Minutes later he was keying in notes and the smile had grown into a broad grin.

  Captain Agberea entered the Commodore’s office with a determined look which he tried to soften and failed. His thin face and carefully tended beard gave him a sinister, almost satanic, look which suitably intimidated junior officers and colonial women. Finally he worked his mouth into a smile which served only to set off the tension evident in the rest of his features.

  The office walls were bare as Abraham Meier had not brought any decorations with him and there were no natives to buy local art from. The only furniture was a desk, two chairs and the massive command terminal which covered the bulk of one wall. Behind the desk was a window. The long silver hulls and green trim of the ships glinted in the blue-tinted sunlight outside it. The combat officer stood in front of the desk and swayed from one foot to another until Meier offered him a seat.

  “Let me begin by apologizing for Commander O’Hearn’s tone last night. She meant no disrespect.” Agberea hesitated until the Commodore nodded his acceptance. Then he took a deep breath and continued.

  “Still, you have spent the last two decades as only a quartermaster. This is hardly a matter of stores and requisitions. There’s no disgrace in admitting you are out of your element ... Abe.” He paused again to see how his attempt at familiarity was accepted. No reaction. He finished in a nervous rush.

  “I’ve commanded in over a dozen combat situations and am willing to accept command of the combat arm of the base. You can still command groundside. Sort of, er, let us both do what we are best at, eh?”

  Commander Meier fought down his anger and stared at the officer for several seconds. Did Agberea really think that he would turn over his command? Then the anger died and Abraham reminded himself that he was going to need this man. Then, as his annoyance subsided further, he let a grin touch the corners of his mouth. Perhaps it would be best if he maintained as much security on the overall picture as he could. If it worked, Agberea’s surprise would add extra satisfaction to the success. If his plan failed they would probably all be dead anyhow.

  Misinterpreting his commander’s smile, Agberea matched it with a relieved smirk and stood to leave.

  “Well, if that is all settled,” he began.

  “There’s nothing to settle,” Meier interrupted in a soft tone. “I am in command and intend to act as such.”

  Agberea froze halfway out of his seat, his expression Sliding from surprise to fear. He had been confident that a quartermaster would welcome his offer. Instead he had insulted his commanding officer. He recalled suddenly that this was a Meier, a respected Fleet family. Careers had been ruined by less.

  “Still, your experience and skill are vital to the plan,” Meier added in even tones, trying not to enjoy the other officer’s obvious discomfort. Suddenly his voice hardened. “Now here is a list of materials your crews should be ready to load no later than this afternoon. It will be tight, but I’m counting on their ingenuity. In addition, each ship should be ready on short notice to carry between four and fifteen auxiliaries. The entire force should be armed and ready for combat on one hour’s notice. All leaves cancelled, pilots to sleep on board.”

  The commodore rose from his chair and stared out the window as he spoke.

  “Finally, I am ordering a number of modifications on the drives of the bombardment ships. See to it personally that they are carried out exactly as ordered, to the tenth decimal.

  “Written orders will arrive this afternoon.” There was a whiplash in his voice as Meier finished.

  Agberea still visibly unsure of himself, lurched the rest of the way out of his chair and snapped to attention. His “Yes, sir” was brisk and he practically ran out of the room. The commodore couldn’t see his face, but the clerks in the outer office appeared startled by it as he rushed past.

  The quartermaster officer leaned back in satisfaction as the door closed. Right or wrong, it had begun. He enjoyed the familiar sensation of dealing with what he knew best as he began to input the hundreds of detailed orders that would be required.

  Chief Petty Officer Ovram Checkley had served aboard the bombardment ship Vilhelm Ranier for the last twenty of his fifty-five years in the Fleet. For the last eighteen he had spent most of his waking hours ensuring her engines and drives ran at their greatest efficiency.

  Ovram was a thickset man with graying hair and hands much too large for an already big frame. To punctuate his displeasure the spaceman gestured with a three-foot wrench, swinging the heavy tool in short arcs. The three younger crewmen in the engineering section literally cowered in one corner.

  “Twenty years tunin’ this pile of scrap,” he protested, “and now they want me to mess her up. All because some crazy quartermaster is so scared he’s staining his dress blues.” The engineering mate was so enraged he failed to hear the hatch open behind him.

  “That will be enough,” Captain Agberea snapped as he strode onto the engineering deck. ”I fail to see where it is your place to judge the orders you have been given. You are to execute them to the best of your ability.”

  Checkley stood frozen, the massive wrench stopped in mid-swing. Then, the Captain let his expression soften.

  “Look, Ovram, there is a reason. This is vital to our upcoming effort against the Tripes. I’m counting on you to do the job right.” And I hope Meier knows what he’s doing, because I sure don’t, the combat officer added to himself. But to the men he seemed all self-assurance.

  “But to detune the engine to these specs and keep ‘er there?” the engineering mate protested. “Why, we’ll be in as bad a shape as the Rustbucket.” He was referring to another of the bombardment ships, the Russell Warren, which was notorious for having the worst engineering section in the sector. “We’ll slow you all down.”

  “We’re counting on you all to do exactly as ordered. Look on it as a challenge,” Agberea said. ”I’m counting on you.”

  When Quartermaster Owen Eirich was confused his voice tended to break. He had already waited for over a decade for age and maturity to cure the habit and was beginning to be resigned to its being permanent. His voice virtually squeaked over the com line as he questioned the orders he had just received.

  “It makes no sense, sir, loading a hundred gallons each of ten colors on every ship. That’s enough to paint them over twenty times. We haven’t even changed admirals.”

  “Just do as you are told,” an equally confused adjutant to Meier assured him. “It is a vital part of the effort to deal with the Tripes.” The adjutant hung up and stared at the door to Commodore Meier’s office. This was the sixth such call he had fielded that afternoon. Ships were being loaded with more spare fins, antennas and odd hull parts than they could use in ten years of combat, and on a rush basis. His carefully laid out duty rosters were a disaster. Only arming of the bombardment ships with space-to-ground missiles had made any sense. And even then they were cramming in half again as many missiles as each ship was meant to hold.

  For a moment he had the urge to go through the door and ask the Commodore for an explanation. Still, he’d seen Agberea’s face that morning and wasn’t anxious to find out what had caused the man’s evident panic. Finally he decided that if the Commodore had slipped a gear he really didn’t want to know.

  The com-unit buzzed again. This time it was a scout-class ship’s captain protesting against having bunks rigged in every open area of his ship. He would hardly be able to move, much less fight. The adjutant wearily assured him the orders really did make sense and were absolutely vital. It was fortunate for his peace of mind he couldn’t see the building plans across which Commodore Meier was cheerfully scrawling the words Top Priority.

  Harlan’s single giant moon was growing rapidly as the Castigator approached at combat speed
. The moon’s airless surface was the color of dirty chalk and pocked with craters. The planet beyond was a collage of yellows and reds, broken by two large purple oceans. Sitting in the observer’s seat on the Fleet cruiser’s bridge, Commodore Meier was beginning to feel guilty. They should be in combat in less than ten minutes and if he was killed, his plan would be lost. He balanced this against the memory of Captain Agberea’s visit to his office and resolved to explain to the officer what this battle was meant to accomplish. Turning to the tall, bearded man he gestured for his attention.

  “You are probably wondering why I ordered the formation to drop into real space so far out?” he understated.

  Agberea cautiously didn’t answer, but nodded his assent and waited for Meier to continue.

  “The reason is simple. By dropping into sight this far away we have given the Tripean commander plenty of time to see he is too badly outnumbered to fight. He should be ordering any ships in this system to flee while they still have enough clear space to escape. I don’t want us to have to destroy any of the Tripean’s ships.”

  This was too much for the combat officer.

  “I suppose you don’t want to make ‘em mad,” he snarled.

  “Something like that,” Meier agreed. The explanation didn’t seem to be doing much to improve relations, but Agberea at least now understood their constraints. “Please issue appropriate orders. All ships are to pursue the enemy only at a distance. No shots are to be fired unless I personally order them.”

  “There’s only six,” Agberea almost whined. ”We could have trapped them against the planet. Why did you have me place scouts at the edges of this system if we’re not surrounding them?”

  “Oh, yes, please call those scouts every ten minutes, just say hello and sign off and remind the other captains to stay out of planetary laser range until we are sure Harlan’s right and they don’t have any,” the Commodore added in a conversational tone.