Fermi's War

by Richard Tongue

"Back into the ready room," Cunningham said, striding through without waiting to see if anyone followed his order, waiting with his arms crossed as the group settled back into their seats. Jenkowski looked somewhat smug, Esposito was clapping Franklin on the back, shaking her head. While Franklin had simply made a mistake, it was a pretty foolish one to make given the circumstances, but it did take the shine out of the espatier's victory.

  Looking around at the room again, Cunningham nodded, saying, "I've made my decision. Douglas, Esposito, Orlova, you get the call. The rest of you can return to your duty stations." He turned to the engineer, continuing, "I might call on you again, Mr. Quinn, if I am assembling an acrobatic display team."

  Esposito looked sheepishly around, "Sir, I don't think it was a fair test for me. I'd be happy to fight Franklin again when she recovers her key, or for that matter anyone else."

  "I stated at the outset that the decision was mine to make, Ensign. Nothing I have seen changes that." The brief flicker of hope on Franklin's face disappeared, but she did manage a little grin at Esposito by way of thanks.

  Jenkowski was shaking his head, standing up and saying, "Sir, I won my battle. Why have I not qualified for flight training?"

  "I'm sorry, do you think that talking back is going to help? Did I at any moment suggest that this was a simple winner take all? I was watching flight performances, Sub-Lieutenant. Flying a fighter – as those wings of yours should testify – requires a lot more than rote learning. That'll get you into the cockpit – then in battle it'll get you killed. Feel free to complain if you want. But not here, and not to me."

  Quinn stood up, looked around the room, and saluted Cunningham, saying, "Thanks for the chance to get back some good memories. I wouldn't mind sitting in later on if you don't mind; if I'm going to be helping to service your fighters, it'll help if I'm current on how they fly."

  Suddenly Orlova realized why the engineer had taken part, and why he didn't seem to mind too much that he'd lost. As Quinn walked out, followed by a sullen Jenkowski and a disappointed Franklin, Cunningham slid a chair over to talk to the remainder of the group.

  "Don't any of you get the idea that this is all there is to flying a fighter. Any of you know how many aces the three fleets managed between them during the Interplanetary War?"

  They looked at each other for a moment before Douglas volunteered, "Twelve?"

  "Correct. In eight years of war, only twelve pilots managed to rack up five or more kills. And of those, only five of them are alive today, two of them on this ship. Myself, and the Captain. The lesson I'm trying to ram home here is that dogfights are damn dangerous. To the point that they are the least part of what you will be required to do. Most of this is sitting by yourself in a very small spaceship staring at the walls waiting for something to happen and praying that it won't."

  He paused to let that sink in, before continuing, "All of you have demonstrated that you can improvise in a crisis. That's something I can't teach you, so it's a good thing to start with. But what you will be learning here is flight procedures, regulations, and how you will act for ninety-nine point nine of the time while you are sitting in that fighter. You've been through flight training before, but none of you have been through my flight training before, and until you do, I will not trust you with one of the craft I am responsible for. If all of that is clear, the first lesson is ended. I'll be arranging with your department heads for you to spend your watches down here until we reach Uranus-space. Dismissed."

  As the three of them stood up to leave, he raised his hand, "Not you, Orlova. Take a seat."

  She waited for Esposito and Douglas to leave before replying, "Is there a problem?"

  Cunningham frowned, saying, “What are you doing here? I understand why the others volunteered for this, but you I don't understand.”

  "What is there to understand?"

  "Why? I'll be honest, I didn't expect you to be sitting here, but I didn't have an excuse not to give the Captain's pet sub-lieutenant a trial."

  She stood up, "Pet?"

  "Take a look at your record from an outsider's point of view. Is this a career, an interlude, what?” Raising a hand, he continued, “You'll get your training whatever your answer is.”

  Walking over to the wall, she turned back after a minute, replying, "I really just fell into this. I ended up on Alamo almost by accident for the mission to Ragnarok, and the Captain suggested I might make a good officer. My father was in the service during the war, maybe I wanted to know how he felt. Get closer to him."

  "He died?" Cunningham's tone was softening.

  "Missing, presumed dead. Ten years ago."

  "Another question. That trick you pulled with the missile, where did you get that from?"

  "Lieutenant Quinn. I knew he'd flown during the war, so I asked him for a couple of tips. I had a look at the specs, and saw it could handle the maneuver."

  Standing, Cunningham walked over to her, "You actually went out and asked someone for advice. Do you know how hard a lesson that is to ram home usually?” He looked at her more closely, then nodded, “You have an opportunity to make this a career, and that's the question I need answered. Is that what you want to do?"

  She turned back to him, looking him in the eye, "I don't know. I did what I did on Ragnarok because it had to be done."

  "Most people wearing a uniform have either spent all their life wanting to wear it, or are wearing it because their homes and families are in desperate need of protection from attack. You've ended up in without either of them. Not that I actually think Captain Marshall made a bad decision, I can understand it. If you find your motivation, I'll see what I can do to help, for whatever it's worth."

  "And if I don't?"

  "Serve out your three years, rack up the qualifications, then resign and work out what you actually want to do. I think that's enough for one lesson, Sub-Lieutenant. Dismissed."

  "Sir." She nodded, moving to leave the room, before pausing to ask, "Why did you stay in, after the war?"

  "Dismissed, Sub-Lieutenant." She shrugged and walked out, leaving Cunningham alone in the room, staring at the holographic fighter slowly rotating.

  Chapter 6

  The doors to the science section slid open on an argument; Vivandi seemed to be refereeing a heated debate between two of her team as they pointed at different sections of one of Uranus' moons on a holograph. The effect was if they were dueling with laser pointers in between debate points; Marshall couldn't help but laugh. Caine was sitting at a desk on the far side of the room, evidently sharing his amusement.

  "Doctor Vivandi?" Marshall said, and the room fell silent.

  Turning, the doctor bounded over to him, saying, "Captain! You haven't been down here before."

  Gesturing around, he replied, "This part of the ship hasn't seen that much use since the original construction. I rather gather that it was being used as storage before we got the word your team was on the way."

  "Well, we're all cozy down here, Captain. All we're going to need is a good big cargo bay to store all our finds in!"

  Caine walked over, shaking her head, but was interrupted by her communicator. She looked at the message and rolled her eyes.

  "Problem?"

  "Ryder wants a word with me, up on the bridge. Excuse me." She walked out of the room; Marshall was tempted to follow her, but the hand of Vivandi on his arm suggested otherwise.

  "Are you all quite comfortable in your quarters? I'm sorry you're having to double up."

  A tall man with receding brown hair shook his head, "I was going to ask about that, Captain. I really sleep a lot better with more privacy."

  "I suggest you arrange to be in your quarters when your counterpart isn't, then, Mr?"

  "Cross. Geochemistry," he replied in a 'you'd-better-remember-it' tone.

  Vivandi shook her head, laughing, "You'll have to forgive Cross. He looks down his nose on mere social scientists as being unworthy of ascending the heights of academe."

  "If that's
the best answer I'm going to get, I think I'll head to my shoebox to squeeze myself in for a nap. Excuse me." Cross stalked out of the room, the doors closing behind him, and Marshall had the distinct impression that this was not unwelcome to the rest of the group.

  "We've been in flight a week, and I haven't had the opportunity to meet the rest of your staff."

  "We have rather shut ourselves in, haven't we! Thank you for lending me Louisa, by the way. She's been very helpful."

  Marshall did a double-take, "Louisa? You mean Lieutenant Caine?"

  "Sorry, I keep forgetting the military terminology." She gestured around the room. "Gordon and Lorraine are two of my three astroarchaeological assistants," she indicated the couple who had been having the argument, "with the other being Celia, who your Lieutenant Cunningham has poached! Naughty of him."

  Frowning, Marshall asked, "Celia?"

  "Douglas. She's taking flight training."

  "Oh, Third Lieutenant Douglas! I understand she's doing very well."

  "Cross handles geochemistry, Madeline over there cosmochemistry. And finally Vivian," a tall dark-skinned woman with shining white hair grinned from a console, "is our tectonophyisicist."

  "You seem to have everything covered."

  "Absolutely! This team was hand-picked, Captain – even Cross is one of the best students the geological department has had in years. If he didn't know it, he wouldn't be anything like as bad as he is."

  "I've met people like that." He walked over to the hologram. "Which one is this?"

  "Cordelia," she replied, "the innermost one. Lorraine has a theory that it's the most likely spot to find artifacts."

  "Simply because of its location; if we haven't found anything on the major moons, the innermost moon is the best place to start," the young archaeologist interrupted.

  The man shook his head, "You're being illogical. We need to ask why they would be interested in Uranus in the first place, what sites of interest they would want to explore. Those readings from Desdemona are worth taking an early look at."

  Turning to Vivandi, Marshall shook his head, "Didn't you have an exploration plan to get this mission authorized?"

  "Of course, Captain, but now that we're actually on our way, everything feels a bit different. I think that there is value in going over everything again, don't you?"

  Quietly, he replied, "Basically, all of you are pounding the walls waiting to get started, and this is a good distraction for your staff, yes?"

  She smiled, nodding, then gestured over to her office, a small cubicle in a corner of the room. She'd decorated it with pictures of various sites, some of which he recognized from news stories, as well as a picture of a man holding a boy on his shoulders.

  "Your husband?"

  "Ralph. He's a traffic controller at Syrtis City. He's holding Scott, our son." She looked at the picture for a minute. "Only problem with this mission is that I'm going to miss his birthday." She looked up at Marshall, and smiled. "I promised him I'd bring him back an artifact or two. Though he wants to be a spaceman when he grows up, of course."

  He looked at the boy, then to Vivandi, "Next time I'm on Mars I'll stop by if you want, try and talk him out of it. Or give him some advice, whichever you'd prefer."

  "He'd love that. Thanks." She rooted around in a draw, and pulled out a datapad, "You can presume that we'll be sticking to the exploration plan we filed, at least from the moment. Naturally we might have to revise it based on our findings."

  "Don't worry, Doctor, this ship is yours for the next few months while we complete the survey. There is one thing, the main reason I called; before any information gets sent back to the university, I'd like to take a look at it first."

  Her eyes narrowed, "Look at it?"

  "I'm not going to classify anything. This is a scientific expedition, and I'm looking forward to it – this is exactly why I joined the Fleet, and don't expect me to stay away from any findings you make – but I'd like to have a chance to review your findings before they get sent back home. That going to be a problem?"

  "No, I don't think so. You promise you won't keep anything secret?"

  "Not unless you ask me too," he said in response, smiling. His communicator beeped, and he pulled it out of his pocket, "Marshall here."

  "Ryder, sir. I've spoken with Lieutenant Caine, and request your immediate presence on the bridge."

  "I'm on my way." He looked back over to Vivandi, and shook his head, saying, "A Captain's work is never done, it seems. If you need anything, let me know through Lieutenant Caine."

  "Will do. Thanks, Captain."

  Marshall left the room, another argument obviously brewing in the room behind him, and pushed the elevator for the bridge. The door opened early at the Senior Officer's Deck, and Cunningham stepped in.

  "I'm heading for the bridge," Marshall said.

  "So am I. Deadeye had me paged."

  "How are the trainees shaping up?"

  He shrugged his shoulders, "I should have 'em ready in a few weeks."

  "I can give you my old lecture notes if you want to take a look. I taught a few fighter tactics classes a couple of years ago. Might find them useful."

  "I think I can manage, Captain," he said, as the elevator came to a stop.

  Ryder turned nervously as the doors opened, and Marshall looked around the room. Caine was hunched over the sensor station, entering something into the console over the technician's shoulder. Cunningham stood at the rear of the room, as it trying to blend into the background.

  "What's the problem, Ryder?"

  She walked over to the sensor station, and the duty technician tapped some buttons, changing the holographic tactical display to Marshall's left. From an image of Alamo's course, it blew up to show the whole solar system, Neptune's orbit inward, Alamo's track still on display. Ryder walked over to it and pointed.

  "Our course track, from Mariner Station at the forward Martian trojan point to Titania. Throw in the other ship, Spaceman." A second track appeared, this time from Earth, closing in on the same target. "We just received a flash from Intelligence that reported a ship leaving Luna, and navigational detectors suggest that it is heading directly for Uranus. It left about six hours ago; it took that long for the information to filter through to us."

  Frowning, Marshall looked at the second ship before turning to Caine, asking, "What type, and when?"

  "Fast Frigate by the looks of it. We've been promised a complete breakdown as soon as possible, but it's difficult to get accurate military information out of the Republic. As for time, have you got it plotted yet, Spaceman?"

  The technician nodded. "They'll arrive nine days after we do, Captain, presuming a best-time course. It appears that this type of ship is capable of slightly faster acceleration than Alamo."

  Caine walked over to her tactical station, "I'll get started on a briefing pack, start working out some tactical scenarios."

  "No hurry, Lieutenant," Marshall replied, "We've got at least five weeks before we see them."

  She looked over at the captain again, asking, "What the hell is out there that is so important?"

  He ran a hand across his face as he moved over to sit in the center seat, pausing to look at the two converging courses again, trying not to let his knowledge show.

  "I wish I knew, Lieutenant."

  Cunningham looked at the courses, then asked Caine, "What sort of fighters would a ship like that have?"

  "No Republic ships of that size use fighters. They keep them for orbital installations only, as a rule," she replied, her head bent over her console.

  "Captain," that word seemed to come to him with difficulty, "they can't be after the same thing we are. Our ship can survey multiple targets at once with the fighters, they can't."

  Marshall nodded, replying, "They've come to watch what we do, rather than engage in some sort of a race."

  "Which suggests to me that they are confident that they could take us in a fight," Caine added. "They'll have an edge on speed,
but now we have some flying teeth, that's likely to help."

  "Our fighter screen is intended for patrol rather than combat," Cunningham hastily added. "We'd need stronger armaments for a start if we were going to take them on."

  "What about your trainees, Lieutenant?"

  "As I said in the elevator, they'll be ready for flight by the time we get to Uranus, but I wouldn't want to risk them against a frigate, not just yet."

  "I very much hope that it doesn't come to that. Nevertheless, you'd better make sure that your class – and for that matter, all of the pilots – are fresh on Lunar tactics. Take a look at Alamo's logs, we've had some recent encounters with them."

  Cunningham nodded, looking at the frigate specifications again, shaking his head as he ran down the data. "I'll do that. Better have them prepared for the worst."

  "Any Republic activity in Uranus-space, Lieutenant?" Marshall turned back to Caine.

  "A few surveys, the most recent last year, before the Belt established Shakespeare Station. Major moons only. Aside from that, no record of permanent installations, but that doesn't necessarily mean a thing."

  "What do you mean?" Cunningham asked.

  "That almost every decent sized body in the system has some outposts on it. The records show half a dozen Belt mining companies alone doing some work on the major moons, and all of them will have installations. Not much of a reach to suspect that some of them might be supporting another project, quietly."

  "I suspect one of our intelligence agencies would be working on that."

  "Possibly, but I doubt it's been given much of a priority. I'll get in contact with Mariner and see if I can get someone working on it."

  Marshall raised his hand, "No. Use only the data we already have; we had a complete briefing pack anyway."

  A puzzled look on his face, Cunningham asked, "Why?"

  "We've got reason to suspect that the Republic has operatives on Mariner. I'd rather the Republic was less prepared for any action we take. Nor do I want to contact Shakespeare, for the same reason. It might be compromised. Better to wait."

  "Sounds a bit paranoid, sir. Don't you trust anyone?"