Fermi's War

by Richard Tongue

  "You need a spare?"

  Smiling, Orlova turned to the shopkeeper, "Where was this found? On the station?"

  Peering down at a terminal, the old man grunted, "Out on Desdemona, a prospector found a cache of stuff."

  "Desdemona?"

  "You want a copy of the report, proof of ownership or something?"

  "Sure. Might be heading out that way myself at some point."

  "Six hundred credits for the lot."

  Esposito reached down to a collection of old data crystals, labeled 'Techno-Folk', saying, "Captain likes this burbling. He might be interested in these old recordings."

  "You after a promotion?"

  Smirking, she leaned over to the shopkeeper, "What about a price for both of them? These can't be worth that much."

  "Seven hundred. I'll throw in a few mission patches as well, might as well, I'm drowning in the damn things."

  "Done." Orlova dropped her card into the payment slot, waving away Esposito when she preferred hers, "You can buy the drinks tonight." Looking back to the shopkeeper, she asked, "Can you have someone drop this off on the shuttle back to Alamo? We're probably going to be leaving before you open up."

  A cracked smile crossed the old man's face, "Certainly. I'll have my 'prentis drop it off when I close."

  "Hold on a moment." She pulled a wizened pencil out of her pocket and scrawled 'Orlova/Esposito' onto the bag, dropping the data crystal into it. "That should do it. Thanks."

  "Hope to see you again."

  Orlova had the distinct impression that the shopkeeper was laughing at her as they left the store, continuing their way around the ring. Esposito looked at the pilot, shaking her head.

  "A week's salary on that?"

  "You just blew a hundred credits on a present for the skipper."

  "Not a present, I'm pretty sure he'll want them, and he's tied up having dinner with the station commander. Didn't want him to miss out, I figure he'll pay me back."

  "Anyway, what else am I spending my money on? I've got free room and board, my shuttle's being looked after on Mariner for nothing, so I might as well add to my collection."

  She shook her head, "Didn't Franklin complain about that pile of junk?"

  "That's one of the best collections of 21st-century astronaut paraphernalia this side of the Belt."

  They walked past three more closed shops while they were talking, before both smelling something reasonably tempting cooking from up ahead.

  "You hungry, Maggie?"

  "I could eat. I might change my mind when I see what they have cooking over there."

  The source of the smell turned out to be a noodle bar, a converted mess area that had been opened up to the main corridor, probably because someone found a use for the metal. A cluster of stools had been semi-randomly placed around tables, a pair of people wearing the gold-and-green of the Catering Syndicate ladling out generous portions of food into plastic bowls, complete with metal chopsticks. One of the tables had been co-opted by Corporal Clarke, the taciturn NCO of Alamo's espatier unit, and he waved to his commander.

  "Any good, Corporal?"

  "Not bad."

  Sitting next to him, Lance-Corporal Riley gestured to a couple of stools. "Room for you two, if you don't mind eating with the grunts," she said in between mouthfuls.

  Orlova went over to the table, perching herself on a stool in between Riley and Clarke, "Find anything good?"

  "All the interesting stuff's been locked down. Or wasn't even built in the first place by the looks of it, apparently they stopped building this place half-way through."

  "We found a little museum," the petite Flanagan offered, gesturing with her chopstick. "Aside from this place, the closest thing this station has to a night-life is an all-night museum one of the storekeepers set up."

  "What do you expect?" Orlova said. "This place is out in the middle of nowhere. Further than that. From what I heard, they only opened it up because they got it cheap at auction."

  Riley shook her head, "Last time we got to fight off rebel terrorists, plasma weapons at the ready. This time the best we get is standing around in spacesuits watching a bunch of scientists polish old fossils, presuming they let us off the ship at all."

  A pair of bowls clattered onto the table, one on front of Orlova, the other in front of Esposito, who took a seat next to the corporal. She tossed the pilot a pair of chopsticks, who caught them with a hand and planted them into the noodles. The pilot took a bite, nimbly moving the chopsticks from bowl to mouth with a small payload; they weren't as bad as she had been expecting, though there was an unusual tang to the food.

  "They ran this off here. Apparently the mix is an old Earth recipe," Esposito said.

  "I don't think it's aged well."

  Another group walked in, making their way over to the table. Five of them, all rather tough looking, wearing a purple-gray combination, a collection of carefully cultivated stubble on their cheeks; all of them had mohawks, their hair carefully placed in a traditional Belter style.

  "This is our table," their leader said, placing his hand next to Esposito's bowl.

  Riley looked up at him, shaking her head, "Didn't see your name on it."

  "Everyone knows this is our table. We're with the Atomic Syndicate. I'm Yoshiro."

  "Is that supposed to mean something?" Orlova said, rolling her eyes.

  Shaking his head, "It means find somewhere else to eat. We don't want your kind on this station anyway."

  "Our kind?" Esposito asked. "What is that supposed to mean?"

  "The Belt stands alone. It always has. We don't need any of you planetary types getting in our way."

  "Getting in your way?" Riley said, laughing, "All you've got are a load of exhausted mines and this piece of junk. We ought to kick you out."

  Yoshiro attempted to throw the first punch, but Riley dived back off her stool in time, leaving the miner's hand to slam into a near-empty bowl, splintering the plastic. His gang moved around menacingly, and Flanagan lunged at them, catching one of them on the temple and sending him reeling, before she was caught in the side. Esposito considered for a second whether she should do anything to stop this, but a stray elbow from one of Yoshiro's thugs sent her noodles spilling into her lap, and without thinking she cracked her elbow into his stomach, knocking him down to the floor. Not wanting to be left out, Riley managed to smash her hand into Yoshiro's face, sending him falling.

  "Er, we aren't winning this one, guys," Orlova said, looking around. The rest of the bar had decided not to simply watch their countrymen being expertly knocked around, and were moving in from all sides. She grabbed a stool and started swinging it around dangerously, pushing some of the approaching mob back a few wary steps.

  "Time to go," Clarke said, sending his bowl spinning into the crowd. The espatiers backed up to the door, stepping over the prone figures of Yoshiro and his goons, then sprinted out into the corridor, directly into a group of military police, nightsticks at the ready; at their approach the crowd stopped dead, looking contented that the law was taking their side.

  "Who's the senior person here?"

  "I am. Ensign Esposito. I take responsibility for my people, but we were provoked."

  The corporal commanding the detachment waved over to the far side of the corridor, gesturing for the officer to follow. Clarke and Orlova tagged along as well.

  "I believe you, Ensign, those Atomic crazies are calling half the fights out here. Nevertheless they're the ones with the money." He looked at the espatiers up and down, then continued, "Did you win?"

  "Of course."

  "Look, I've got to do something. You're scheduled to leave tomorrow anyway, aren't you?" Esposito nodded. "Then I'm issuing a curfew for you and your people as of now; we'll escort you back to the shuttle, or if that's going to be a problem, to a holding area for a while. One with a working drinks machine."

  Esposito looked at Clarke, who nodded. "That sounds fine, Corporal. Sorry for causing problems."

&nbs
p; "I expect it will do your people good to blow off some steam. I've done some long tours myself. Name's Gomez, by the way."

  "Must be fun out here."

  "Lots of fun. I have a detachment of three to keep order on a station where the syndicates have dumped four hundred people with next to nothing to do, on the off-chance that the miners will find something interesting. Uranium's sent out twenty people, the Ice Crackers have fifty – though at least they have something to do." He looked at the troopers again, then back at Esposito, "Say, I don't suppose there's any chance that I could borrow a squad while you're here?"

  "Sorry, Corporal, I've only got a single squad this time. We're hip-deep in scientists..."

  Her communicator cheeped, and she glanced down at it, then looked back up at the Corporal, saying, "I need to get to a terminal to speak to my ship." She turned to Orlova, "You to, apparently."

  "Me?"

  The corporal shrugged, "You can use my office, just down the corridor. Private Ishigawa will take the rest of your people back to the holding area."

  He turned down the corridor, making a brisk pace, obviously well used to the stronger gravity; Orlova and Esposito were hard-placed to keep pace with him as he turned into an office. The room was tidy and well-kept, a neat stack of datapads on an empty desk, a picture of a man and three children placed where he could see it easily. He tapped in a twenty-digit security code and placed his palm down on the scanner, then gestured at the ensign.

  "All yours."

  She sat at the desk, and frowned when Cunningham's face appeared on it. He didn't waste any time.

  "Is Sub-Lieutenant Orlova with you?"

  "She is," Orlova said, leaning to look at the screen.

  "I'm detaching both of you to Shakespeare Station. Captain Marshall has agreed to loan three pilots to crew some old fighters, in case our friends from the Republic decide to try something silly."

  "Three of us?"

  "I am informed that Third Lieutenant Douglas cannot be spared from her scientific duties, so Lieutenant Warren will be your commanding officer for the purposes of this assignment. If there is anything you want from Alamo, you'd better get in touch and request it; your flight gear is coming across on the next shuttle."

  "What about my espatiers?"

  "Are you objecting, Ensign? I should point out that giving you this assignment counts as flight duty, and hence," he paused for a second, obviously reluctant, "indicates that I consider you qualified as a fighter pilot. Your wings are coming over with your flight gear. If you believe you cannot be spared..."

  She shook her head, "Corporal Clarke should be capable of doing whatever is necessary, and if needed I can easily be contacted. How long is this for?"

  "Until Alamo returns to pick you up. Any further questions?" He looked away from the screen for a moment, then back at Esposito.

  "No, sir."

  "Alamo out."

  The two of them looked at each other, Orlova sitting down on the other side of the table.

  "I'll be damned. He certified us." Orlova looked up at the corporal. "Any chance you could go down and get us a bottle of something? We need to do some celebrating."

  Chapter 10

  There was a buzz from the door of Marshall's office; he punched to open it, and Cunningham walked in, immediately taking a seat opposite Marshall almost before the door could close behind him. The captain browsed through a datapad, deliberately ignoring the wing commander, before placing it back down on the desk after a short wait.

  "You wanted to see me, Captain?"

  "Yes, Mr. Cunningham, indeed I did. At 2300 last night, you detached three officers from this ship to Shakespeare Station, including the commander of this ship's Espatier unit. Not to mention the assignment of Lieutenant Warren as liaison officer. I can't argue with Sub-Lieutenant Orlova's selection, but the other two are critical to the mission we are undertaking. To be frank, Lieutenant, I expect to at the least be consulted before such decisions are made."

  Leaning forward on the desk, Cunningham replied, "You ordered me to detach three pilots to the station. I was in command of the ship at the time, and Lieutenant Dietz was asleep in his quarters. I did not judge the situation important enough to wake him, and you were still over dining with Lieutenant-Major Akimoto."

  Marshall replied, "Assigning Ensign Esposito was outside your authority, Lieutenant." He shook his head, continuing, "It's too damn late to rescind that order now, not without a prolonged delay."

  "My judgment was that our strongest pilots should be assigned to the job. Lieutenant Warren had expressed a desire to lead the new pilots in combat, and he seemed a logical choice for the assignment."

  "I grant you that Warren was a sensible choice. Assigning Esposito was outside your authority."

  "Not while I was in command." The two of them were almost shouting. Marshall shook his head.

  "Damn it, Cunningham, you're running the fighters as if they were your own personal fiefdom."

  Resting back in his chair, he replied, "I will in future inform you whenever such decisions are made. Is that all, sir?"

  "Not by a long shot, Lieutenant." He slammed the datapad on the desk. "We're both speaking freely. Take a look at that."

  He glanced down, then back up, "My service history, post-war."

  "That's not a service history, Lieutenant, it's a bad joke. One mediocre assignment after another, drifting further and further away from any sort of career path. You turned down Staff College twice; the second time you'd have got a promotion to Major. Now I can cope quite happily with an officer that doesn't have any ambitions to senior command..."

  "I'm sure you can."

  "...But the reports that are attached to it are far worse. Three times you came within a hair's breadth of a court-martial for insubordination. Lieutenant, what the hell is wrong with you?"

  "I apologize if I am not living up to expectations."

  Standing up, Marshall walked over to the viewscreen, his hands clasped behind his back, before turning back to the desk.

  "Is this me, Cunningham? Are you still stuck back in the war, eleven damn years ago?" He gestured at the datapad. "Whatever else I have ever thought of you, Lieutenant, I never thought that you weren't a good officer." With an effort, Marshall softened his tone. "This posting is your last chance to get yourself back to where you once were. The Fleet's going to need good officers, and now that we're finally getting fighter wings – you should be thinking of getting another stripe in a couple of years, get up to group commander. Maybe a training job. Or hell, if you want to transfer out of fighters, I can organize that as well."

  "Thanks for the career advice."

  "Tell me what your problem is, Lieutenant. Consider it an order."

  Cunningham stood up, and walked over to Marshall, looking out at the stars, then at the flag.

  "Marshall, I look at you today and I still see the same officer I saw eleven years ago. I've read the reports from your mission to Ragnarok, and they don't suggest to me that anything has changed. You're still reckless. Someone has to protect the pilots from officers like you."

  "And your response to my perceived failings is to gather up a few officers in your hands and wait for me to fail, is that it?"

  "What else am I supposed to do?"

  Marshall sat back at his desk, looking at his subordinate standing by the window. "Lieutenant, I have enough based on this conversation alone to write you transfer orders that will transfer you out of the fleet once and for all. Either Warren or Caine could take your place in a heartbeat."

  "Then get on with it."

  "No. I'm not going to do it."

  Cunningham returned to his seat, peering at Marshall through narrowed eyes as if suspecting a trap, before saying, "Why not?"

  "Because I need to make use of all the resources at my disposal. That includes you."

  "I'm a resource now. Is that what I've been reduced to?"

  "You are a valuable officer whose skills can be a phenomenal asset to this
ship. Whether or not you decide to be is your decision, not mine. I need a wing commander on top of his game right now – hunting for some mysterious alien ruins with the Republic breathing down our necks and a third of our pilots stuck out on a semi-derelict space station? This situation can get bad very quickly. I need more than a wing commander, I need an adviser."

  "What?"

  Crossing his arms, Marshall sat upright, "If you truly believe that I am that reckless, then your duty as an officer is to alert me if I am making mistakes. I expect all my senior staff to advise me, to offer me alternatives. Not only in your field, but on any topic. I would be stupid to ignore your experience and skills. And that, I hope even you can concede, I am not."

  "I grant you that. You were a pretty good pilot."

  "Maybe you can become a pretty good officer again. When this mission is over, we can have more words if you like." He paused. "In future I expect to be consulted about any transfer decisions or patrol plans."

  "Understood, Captain."

  "That's all. Dismissed."

  Cunningham walked out of the room, stalked across the bridge and into the elevator. After a moment, Dietz walked in, standing at attention beside the door, gesturing at the chair.

  "By all means, sit down," Marshall said.

  Carefully, Dietz pulled out the chair and sat, replying, "Thank you, Captain."

  "Did any of that get through the dividing walls?"

  "Enough for me to hear. I am aware that my predecessor was transferred under similar circumstances, prior to her mutiny, that is."

  Marshall sighed, "That was a mistake. Had she not turned out to be a traitor, it would have been the wrong thing to do. If an officer is incompetent, my duty is to correct that by any means required, or see that they are placed in a position better suited to them – or out of the service entirely, if it comes to that. Personality conflicts are another matter."

  The calculating exec nodded, "I agree. His record – especially during the war – suggests that he should be an extremely valuable officer."

  "There's more to it than that, and I need your assistance."