Maybe I joined the wrong service, he thought, as he took a second to look around the well-appointed chapel. Yeah, they have to go through their own version of hell when they fight. They might not see guts splattered everywhere. Or they might possibly could. When death strikes the Fleet, it comes in fast. But, by God, they get hot meals, showers and beds. And that’s sure something higher class than what we get, while we’re dying in the mud.
Shit, he thought, not the most appropriate thing to go through his mind in what amounted to a church. But the feeling of going through a wormhole was that disconcerting, and was something he had only experienced a couple of times before. There was the feeling of being everywhere in the Universe at once, as time stretched out endlessly. And then the shock of coming back to the Normal Universe, even though everything looked the same. Because you’re aboard a spaceship, genius, thought the General, shaking his head, even barking a short laugh.
“Are you OK, sir?” asked a man in a naval uniform with the insignia of a Lt. Commander on the shoulder boards of his semi-formal uniform, and the crosses of a Christian chaplain on his lapels.
“Are you a priest?” he asked the man. Just because it was a Reformed Catholic chapel, and the chaplain had the crosses of a Christian denomination on his uniform, didn’t mean the man belonged to that denomination. Military chaplains were expected to cover a number of the faiths, and it wouldn’t have been very strange at all to find a Baptist minister counseling a Wiccan.
“I am, General,” said the man, bowing his head. “I’ve been a Fleet chaplain for the last twenty years. Before that, a parish priest. Until the New Vatican gave me orders to serve our fighting men.”
“No family?”
“I had a wife, and two children,” said the man, whose name tag said Martinez.
“Had?”
“They died on Cimmeria, General. Like so many others.”
“I am so sorry,” said Baggett, not really knowing what else to say. He thought it over for a moment, while the man stood patiently by. “Do you ever feel guilty? Surviving them, I mean?”
“All the time,” said the man folding his hands to his front and looking down. He looked back up into Baggett’s eyes. “But it was God’s will that I survive to serve my fellow beings. As painful as that sometimes seems.”
Baggett looked down himself, wondering how he was going to broach the subject to a man who in many ways had lost so much more than he had. He had loved his troops, in an abstract sort of way. Hell, there at the end, I didn’t even know two percent of them. And he lost a wife, and two of his own children.
“Are you feeling survivor’s guilt, my son,” said the priest, laying a hand gently on the shoulder of the General.
“Yes, Father,” said Baggett, blinking back his tears. “That I do.”
“That’s a normal reaction, my son. And you were in charge of a Corps?” asked the Priest, his eyes unfocusing for a moment as he went into link to gather information.
“I started in charge of a brigade,” said Baggett, shaking his head from side to side. “And I’m not even sure I was ready for that much command, since I had just become a battalion commander less than a year before. And then, people started dying, lots of them under me, some over, and I just kept getting more and more responsibility, until I got the top slot. And things just kept getting worse.”
“I’m sure you did the best you could do, General,” said the Priest, patting Baggett’s shoulder. “And that’s all God can ask of any man or woman.”
“And better than most of us could do,” said another voice from behind Baggett.
The General turned to see Grand Fleet Admiral Lenkowski standing behind him, changed into a duty uniform since the reception at the hangar. He still had six stars on his collar, and looked every inch the high ranking Admiral. The Admiral stepped forward and moved into the pew from the other side, sitting down beside Baggett and motioning for the General to take a seat.
“I was looking over your after action report with my Marine commander, Major General Sopworth. She felt that you did an outstanding job, considering what was facing you. I agree. A lot of men just would have given up, and hoped the enemy was in a prisoner taking mood.”
“I didn’t bring many people with me off of that planet,” said Baggett, shaking his head.
“And I lost a third of my fleet in the action to retake that system,” said Len, frowning. “I wish I could have done a better job, and brought more people home. And by people, I mean all of the sentients under my command. Instead, I lost six hundred ships, and over four hundred thousand beings, to rip the heart out of the Fenri fleet. Unfortunately for my people, it was the best I could do. And fortunately for my people, I did my best. Do you see what I’m saying, son?”
Baggett looked over at the Admiral, thinking through what he said.
“I was the one put in charge, son,” said Lenkowski after Baggett didn’t speak. “There might have been a young genius in my command, an ensign, or even a petty officer, who could have done a better job if given a chance. But we didn’t know that, and, for all my shortcomings, I’m a known quantity. Just like you were to your own superiors. You were given command, someone else wasn’t. And so you had to take the shit on your shoulders. But don’t let anyone tell you that you did a piss poor job. Hell, son. Sonia Sopworth said you did as fine a job of leadership, holding out against that horde, as anyone she had ever heard of.”
Baggett simply sat there and nodded his head, not knowing what to say, but absorbing the words of a man who had been a flag officer three times longer than he had been in the service, including the military academy.
“The General did have one negative comment about you though,” said the Admiral. “Though, coming from a Marine, I think it was partially admiration.”
“And what was that, sir?”
“She thought you exposed yourself way too much. And she had a comment about your close in blade work.”
Baggett found himself laughing, and wondering how his mood had changed so quickly. Damn Marines think they’re such hot shit.
“She also said she would be proud to serve under you any day, General. And, coming from that Marine, that is high praise indeed.”
Very high praise, thought Baggett. Most of the Marines he knew, and he knew many, would cut off their right arms before praising a soldier.
“Feel better?” asked Len, patting Baggett on the shoulder.
“Yes, sir,” said Baggett, getting up from his seat. “Thank you.”
He made way for the Admiral to get up and get by, then moved and sat back down, kneeling from that position. He looked at the Priest, still standing beside the pew. “And Father. Thank you.”
* * *
SECTOR IV SPACE. DECEMBER 5TH, 1001.
“Dr. Southard,” said the young woman who greeted him in the hangar. “Welcome aboard the Gringo.”
“Thank you, uh.”
“Kallie Wyse,” said the woman, who was dressed in an unmarked ship jumper. “I’m the third officer.”
“No Naval ranks?”
“Oh, hell no,” she said, shaking her head. “We’re a civilian research vessel, chartered under military contract. The Imperial University at Capitulum holds title to the ship. Anyway, I’m here to show you to your quarters. One of the spacers will bring along your bags. Then we’ll go and meet the Captain.”
Gringo was not a large ship, only about seventy thousand tons, and capable of hyper VII travel. The hangar was only large enough for two shuttles, the one she kept aboard, and temporary stowage for the shuttle that had carried Southard from the light cruiser he had traveled into the system on. He had wondered at the time why they were going past the hyper barrier to meet the research ship. Or, why the damned cruiser wouldn’t go past the hyper barrier to deliver me, and instead only risked the shuttle. There had been a trio of destroyers outside the limit as well, and he had heard one of the ratings aboard the cruiser talk about the wormhole com one of those ships carried.
&nbs
p; “Can ask you a question, Miss Wyse?” he asked just before they got to his quarters, down one of the two corridors that housed research personnel.
“You can call me Kallie, Dr. Southard. You’re not in the chain of command, and we don’t really stand on formality here.”
“Then call me Larry,” said Southard, as the door to his quarters opened.
It was actually larger than he expected, a five meter square room with bed, desk, kitchenette, and two doors, one leading to the bathroom, another to a closet. He knew this kind of ship, which might go on a research cruise for a year or more, and was made as comfortable as possible for its passengers and crew. Or as comfortable as could be, once supplies and state of the art sensors were crammed into the hull.
“And what was your question, Larry?” asked the young woman as she waved the spacer with his luggage into the room.
“Why are we so far in from the hyper barrier? Isn’t that a major risk, this close to this big boy blowing its top?”
“Oh, there’s no danger of that happening for at least a couple of months,” said Kallie in a very cavalier tone. “We’ll move out behind the barrier well before anything can happen.”
“And why do you believe that nothing will happen for at least two months?”
“That’s what Dr. Tashiga told the Captain,” said the Third Officer. “He said that, based on his theories of stellar evolution, this star will continue burning neon for at least two months before it goes into oxygen, and then silicon burning, causing a collapse.”
“It’s already burning neon?” Southard asked in alarm. “How long has that been going on?”
“About five days,” said the Third Officer, her eyes widening at the scientist’s tone. “Why?”
“We don’t have much time,” said Southard, storming from the room. “Where is your Captain?”
“The Captain is off duty at this time,” said Kallie. “The First Officer has the con at the moment.”
“And Dr. Tashiga?”
The woman went into link for a moment, something Larry couldn’t do on this ship, not having yet been granted access. “He’s on the observation deck.”
“Then take me there.”
Moments later the Scientist was led onto the so called observation deck, with was really a very complete scientific observation suite, with multiple stations and over a dozen holos, including one very large 3D viewer where the normal window would be on the deck.
The view in the largest holo was spectacular, the roiling surface of a supergiant star with over fifty sols of mass. Once two blue supergiants that had been in an unstable orbit around each other, they had fallen into a single mass that was a thousand times brighter and hotter. And one whose lifespan was much reduced over what the two individual stars would have enjoyed. Those stars had already entered the carbon burning stage that produced neon, about two hundred years before, and doomed them to supernova about four hundred years down the line. Now, because of their increased mass, that cycle had ended, and the star was burning neon, fusing it to oxygen. Huge prominences arched from the surface of the star, some curling to splash back onto the brilliant surfaces, others to continue flying out into space.
Another holo showed a schematic of the twenty close in observation platforms that were arrayed around the star at ten astronomical units, about one point five billion kilometers out. Even at that distance they were still absorbing fierce amounts of stellar radiation. They were, of course, getting their information on the star over one and a half hours from the time it was happening, due to the light speed limit. The plot showed Gringo was two light hours further out, way too close, to Southard’s way of thinking. They were using a subspace relay from the satellites, and getting their information ten minutes after the fact, still a great improvement over the light speed limit of normal transmissions.
Southard’s eyes glanced over the other holos until he came to the one that was of the most importance, the main sensor scan of the star. Spectrographs, deep radar, subspace pulses, they were combined on this holo to give a picture of what was going on in this star. And he didn’t like what the star was showing him. It was still burning neon, at a much reduced rate, and oxygen was starting to fuse in the core. By his estimation, based on eyeballing the star, oxygen would be used up in a little over a week and a half, and silicon would become the dominant substance. The silicon would fuse, resulting in the production of iron in the core, and the collapse that would cause a supernova. The last stage would probably last a couple of hours.
“There you are,” said Dr. Yoshi Tashiga, turning in his chair to stare at Southard. “I told them you weren’t needed here. That your theories were wrong, and I was right.”
“And still a pompous ass, eh, Yoshi,” said Southard, glaring at the man who was his prime rival. “I guess it’s a good thing I got here, then.”
Chapter Thirteen
Politics have no relation to morals. Niccolo Machiavelli
THE DONUT. DECEMBER 6TH, 1001.
“Welcome aboard the Donut, your Majesty. My Lady,” said Dr. Lucille Yu, smiling as she bowed at the waist.
Two score of Marines in their ceremonial red uniforms performed a rifle salute at the same time. The other fifty Marines in the chamber were in full battle armor, the medium suits normally worn for shipboard actions, where maneuverability was paramount. The Imperial Secret Service and the Imperial Intelligence Agency were also here in force, over forty agents in the room, all trying to look nondescript in the business suits their operatives normally wore. And all failing miserably, as those suits, of a very conservative cut, were all that was needed to give away their function.
There were scores of newsies in the room as well, the select few of the thousands who had wanted to be here. Sean knew that all had direct mind uplinks to their networks, and that everything they saw and heard was being cast on their home planets, if near enough, or recorded for later playback. Dozens of small drones floated through the air, adding to the footage, and all carefully programed to stay clear of the Imperial couple, who had a security field around them projected by their closest battle suited Marine guards. Any unauthorized device that entered that field would be deactivated, if not destroyed, and its owner would find him or herself the center of questioning as to their intentions.
Sean held the arm of his Fiancé within the curve of his own, her left hand resting lightly on his forearm. He looked at her face for a moment, seeing her nervousness at appearing in front of such a large gathering. She looked up into his eyes, swallowed, smiled, then composed herself and nodded her head. Good girl, thought Sean, nodding back, then stepping forward to shake Dr. Yu’s hand. He knew that Jennifer would never relish the public eye. As long as she could tolerate it in small doses, everything would be fine.
“Thank you, Director Yu,” he told the woman in front of the cameras. “And I am very happy that the Donut is still here for me to be greeted on.”
“Amen to that,” whispered Read Admiral Kelso, who had just come out of the wormhole in time to hear the last comment.
“We have set up a stand over here to allow you to speak to the press, your Majesty,” said Yu, waving toward a heavy faux wood structure set toward the near end of the gate room.
Sean glanced at Jennifer, and she nodded once again. He had told her there might be questions, and it was his job as the Supreme Ruler of the Empire to talk to the press. Especially since Samantha had made a deal with the press, allowing them access to him at times like this, in return for them getting on board with Sean’s other policies, like giving the war effort a positive spin. But another part of the deal was that Jennifer was not fair game for their questions. Until and unless she agreed to an interview.
The couple walked over to the stand, which had seats arranged behind it. Sean helped Jennifer into one of the chairs, then took his place behind the podium and started to receive questions. A few of the reporters still tried to direct questions to Jennifer, but for the most part Sean deflected them, and passed over th
ose reporters. Until finally a question came that he hadn’t been expecting.
“Zoe Chan,” said the Asian woman who had waited her turn patiently. “Galactic News Network. Is it true that we have a new method of detecting the shape shifting aliens that have caused so much trouble?”
Sean froze, a troubled expression on his face. How in the hell did they find out so quickly? was his first thought, followed a second later by, this is supposed to be top secret information. If it’s leaked, we lose a big advantage in trying to catch the bastards.
“I am sorry, but I cannot say anything on that subject,” he told the reporter, smiling, trying to disarm the situation.
“If you can’t, your Majesty,” asked the reporter, “who can? After all, you are at the top of the intelligence heap. If there’s an answer out there, you must know it.”
“Oh, I know the answer,” said Sean, motioning to one of his security staff, then linking to that agent’s com. “I just don’t think I can give you an answer at this time.” Make sure that none of this gets out to the public, he sent over his implant to his Chief of Detail. Remove any mention of this topic from the casts, and take Ms. Chan into custody at the end of this interview. I want to know where she has gotten this information.
Yes, sir, came back the reply, and Sean could see agents already on the move to make sure they were near to Ms. Chan.
Zoe Chan saw the movement, and seemed to have realized that she had asked the wrong question. The young woman sat down and tried to disappear, but the damage was already done. Now it was damage control, making sure that none of these people spread rumors that caused as much damage as a disclosure would.
Exodus: Empires at War: Book 7: Counter Strike Page 18
