by P J Strebor
Zoehrer finished her pseudo screen activity and examined the middy. Although Nathan had longed to be one of the elite special cruise candidates he did not show a trace of what must be a crushing disappointment. What do I have to do to rattle him?
“The results of the mid terms have just been released. I thought you might like a heads-up before they’re posted.” The middy's forehead and upper lip remained free of perspiration. Dammit. “I’m pleased to see your grade point average is up again this term. Once again, commander, you have placed within the top ten percent in your year. Well done.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Results from your classes on tactical analysis, problem-solving scenarios, civil and military history are outstanding. I see you are still having difficulty with shipboard administration and theoretical navigation. However, your persistent arguments in Professor Mollard's moral philosophy class are counterproductive.” Her eyes narrowed as his lips formed a smirk. “Yes, Nathan? You have something to say?”
She harbored a small hope that he would be smart, for a change, and keep his big mouth shut. The hope vanished as soon as his jaw set.
“Respectfully, ma’am, we have had this discussion before. Professor Mollard may be well regarded within the academic community but as far as I’m concerned he is a pretentious windbag who has not earned the right to discuss such life and death matters. His lack of real world experience is appallingly obvious.”
“That is impertinent, middy. What the hell would you know about it?” she snapped. “Do you think because you killed a handful of bandits on Kastoria it gives you some special insight into the complexities of moral ambiguities?”
As usual, his obscure expression masked his thoughts.
“It might come as a terrible shock to you, but you don’t know everything.” Now and again he deserved a sound kick in the backside. Though I shouldn’t have mentioned his civilian record.
“Again, you are missing the point,” she continued with greater moderation. “There are no absolutes in either moral philosophy classes or your exercises in moral ambiguity. That's why it's ambiguous. Morality classes are not a contest about right or wrong but an exercise in coming to grips with new concepts. Not everyone at this facility has faced death in the eye, as you have.” A slight flicker at the corners of his eyes. “We are not in the business of producing stone-cold killers. Whether you like it or not, moral philosophy classes are part of the overall regime of studies to ensure that levelheaded, morally correct decisions are made in high-pressure situations, by those graduating this academy. Or do you disagree with my assessment, mister?”
Zoehrer knew he respected her, but did he see her point? As she had seen him do on countless occasions he exercised inhuman control over his emotions. His eyes softened and the harsh line of his jaw relaxed.
“I would never dream of disagreeing with you … Commander Zoehrer.” They maintained neutral expressions until his peculiarly wry smile creased the left side of his face. Despite her best efforts she failed to restrict a snicker.
“You’re incorrigible.” She tucked her smile in. “Now, back to business. You have been spending an inordinately disproportionate amount of your time in the flight simulators. It might be fun, but fun won't get you into Flight Training School, certainly not at Metier level. Furthermore, the time spent with your Kendo squad, whereas commendable, will not advance your chances of graduating within the top hundred graduates. And the less said about you working out with the marine detachment the better. Once again I must remind you to balance your time. Your final year thesis will require more effort than you can imagine. Time management is also a quality desired in a command officer.”
She straightened her waistcoat and fought to keep her grin in check. "The special cruise candidates ship out in sixteen days time. You are aware of that I assume?" The corners of his mouth tucked in as though he had bitten into a lemon. “Oh, how I remember my special cruise. Would you like to hear about it?”
Nathan seized an imaginary dagger, plunging it into his abdomen then upward in a silent parody of an ancient suicide ritual. They laughed at his nonsense.
“Competition has been as ferocious as I have ever seen,” she continued. “You’ve heard about the successful candidates?”
He nodded slowly. “Yes ma’am and I could not have selected a finer group of middies for the cruise. They will do us proud.”
“Yes, I believe you know them all from your kendo and aikido teams?” From his rigid expression, his sense of humor on this subject had waned. “Pity there are only ten places. But that’s the way the system has always operated ... until today.”
Zoehrer smiled internally as his forehead wrinkled.
“For the last forty-eight hours a debate has raged between the naval and academic tutors …” her finger stabbed the air between them, “concerning you.”
Nathan’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped open.
Finally.
“Apparently, because your name is affixed to the Tactical and Strategic Excellence plaque, the military tutors consider it a factor worthy of consideration. The academics disagreed and so an impasse ensued.”
Nathan remained mute – a history making event in itself.
“To cut a long story short, Commodore Ponsford stepped in and broke the deadlock. As he’s often said, being Commandant of the Brigade of Midshipman might not make him God but within the walls of Mount Kratos it comes close enough.
“The academy produces more than its fair share of geniuses, but high quality, instinctual leaders have always been the rarest and the most highly prized vocational assets. This facility exists to identify, produce and nurture exceptional leaders. It is my opinion and that of every senior officer at Mount Kratos that this agenda will be best served by the inclusion, for this year only, of an eleventh place on the special cruise.”
Nathan’s genuinely flummoxed expression pleased her no end.
“Anyway,” she continued, “an opening on the special cruise has become available.” Zoehrer paused, her smile curling. “Interested? Or should I invite the next candidate into my … orifice?”
An uncontrollable grin split Nathan's face. His pressure release valve cut in. He threw his head back and laughed as if he were a man reprieved from a death sentence.
***
The sun had fallen well below the peak of Mount Kratos. Midshipwoman Moe Okuma pushed her exhausted body up the final ten meters of steep incline to the summit. Her well-muscled legs had turned to lead-weighted rubber pegs. Her throat rasped air into her ferociously-burning lungs. Damned if I'll let this hill beat me.
With a final tortured surge she lurched onto the flat-topped summit. The other nine middies sprawled, in varying states of sweat-soaked exhaustion, around the perimeter wall. Their broad grins acknowledged the arrival of the final candidate. She smiled back while dragging her aching body to the stone monument. Moe fell against the chest-high dedication slapping both hands onto the polished plaque. The academy's motto stared back at her.
“Take the High Ground,” she whispered. Moe often wondered if the academy’s architect had also been a wannabe comedian.
When she supported herself against the monument, Janine Gilchrist, captain of the Brigade of Midshipmen, started clapping. The others joined in although some of the recent arrivals had trouble sustaining the applause. Moe returned the ovation, nodding to them as she did so.
The academy’s student population numbered over eight thousand, but all of the faces surrounding her were familiar from Kendo class.
“They'll let anyone onboard a monitor these days.” A familiar barb from Meta Kaspowitz.
“Obviously,” Moe said, as she dropped next to Janine. Unhooking her canteen Moe drank greedily. Only one thing dulled the joy of her achievement. Nathan’s single-minded devotion to his regiment had diverted far too much of his time. As a result his grades suffered and he missed the cruise. Of all people, he should be part of this elit
e group.
Moe’s heart rate slowed and she limbered up for the slow jog down the mount.
Janine heard the footfalls first, tilting her head to pick up the sound. By tradition the mount was theirs for the afternoon. If some errant plebe had ignored the decree the senior middies would tear the youngster a new one.
They patiently waited as the grunting and panting grew louder. All eyes focused on the final hump leading to the summit. As the runner’s head came into view every jaw dropped.
Nathan limped to the plaque and slapped both hands onto its cold shiny surface. Like the rest of them his shirt was soaked through. Meta found her voice first.
“Well, bugger me!”
Nathan smiled crookedly. “Thanks for the offer, but I'm a little tired right now.”
Meta chuckled and the others joined in.
“Nathan, please don't take this the wrong way,” Janine said, “but what are you doing here?”
Moe noticed a few of the middies shaking their heads and she resisted the temptation to join them. Intense rivalry between Nathan and Janine resulted in the formation of a less than conventional friendship. In a sense their mutual respect had created a more binding glue than any social affection.
“I got lucky,” he said, slipping into his lazy Kastorian drawl.
“Well now, isn't that just like Nathan Telford,” Meta chimed in. “He sits back having fun with his regiment, doesn't do the real work and still gets pegged for the cruise. Must be great being the commander's pet.”
Nathan answered her good-natured barb with an easy smile as he dropped next to Moe. As with everyone else he had long since learned to allow Meta’s brand of acerbic humor to wash harmlessly over him. Moe offered her canteen and he took several large gulps.
“Come on, Nathan,” Osmond Hayden said. “Tell us how you pulled this one off.” Ozzie's grin cut a startling white line across his broad ebony face.
“I'm not entirely sure, Ozzie. So, what did everyone get?” As usual Nathan chose to deflect the conversation away from himself.
The middies took turns describing their assignments. Some were destined for duty in Command Eastern Quadrant, some to Southern and some to Western. Meta and Ozzie had pulled the plum assignment, Truculent, out of Northern Quadrant, where the real action happened.
Nathan raised his eyebrows inquisitively at Moe.
She did a drum roll on her thighs. “Truculent.” The group groaned at her good fortune.
“Me too.” The good-natured groans swelled.
They sat for some time without talking. Neither found the silence uncomfortable. Eventually Moe asked, “Have you told Livy?”
Moe caught his slight wince. “We've considered the possibility and she's fine with it.”
“Surrendering all but three days of your leave? And she's fine with it?”
“She's used to being a naval widow by now.”
Yeah, sure she is.
A burst of laughter interrupted their conversation. The eleven of them were about to embark on missions usually reserved for experienced commissioned officers. The impact of their incredibly good fortune struck at the funny bone of one of their number. Of all the people to let their luck get to her, Meta was the most unlikely. Her laughter’s therapeutic qualities drained away Moe’s fatigue. Some middies had the energy to start whooping, until they fell back against the wall panting in delighted exhaustion.
CHAPTER 22
Date: 5th June, 320 ASC.
Position: Imperial Pruessen Naval Base Virtus, Pruessen Empire home system. Orbital Docking & Refit Facility Beta Ten, in orbit around the moon Virtus Two.
Status: Preparation and training ongoing.
Captain Foss examined the latest reports on the condition of his current command. Calling this poorly armed, worn out pile of junk a command was a sad joke. Not even a regular navy warship but a fucking headhunter. He reached again for the bottle of Sorrenson brandy. He sipped the vile brew grimacing at its bitterness. At least it dulled the pain, a little. Where did it all go wrong?
Foss’ brilliantly distinguished fifty-year career had long since earned him Pruessen citizenship. An imperial citizen merited benefits unavailable to the masses, most notably the zealously craved genetic treatment. Known as the GT, the treatment guaranteed an enhanced lifespan free from ill-health. At seventy-two Foss had a spring in his step the envy of any forty-year-old. However, without the treatment booster due within the next four months his body would quickly degenerate to match his actual age.
Foss swallowed another nip of brandy and reflected yet again that life was rarely fair. A lifetime of service obliterated because of one mistake. In the days of the old Republic, showing mercy to a helpless enemy was the expected norm. Then came the war, the president's insane release of the Derwent Plague and the implosion of the Republic. From the ashes of the old republic the Empire rose and everything changed. Too late Foss learned the error of continuing to employ his antiquated moral values. The HRS fell upon him like an avalanche wearing long black boots. In the case of the Human Resource Service Foss could not imagine a more benign euphemism for such a malignant, all-powerful entity.
The HRS gave him a taste of his changed circumstances. Six months as an ordinary seaman attached to the reclamation teams crushed the last of his stubborn resolve. At the mercy of petty officers handpicked for their hatred of former officers he endured countless brutal humiliations. These too he survived. Finally satisfied that they had purged the last traces of pride and resistance, they offered him command of Picaroon.
He chuckled mirthlessly at the term offer. As if I actually had a choice? So he drank, sometimes to excess. If he completed this preposterous mission to his superior’s satisfaction they might forgive his one mistake. Perhaps restoration to duty in the regular navy? Foss clung to that hope as a drowning man clings to a small lump of wood. Only hope kept him from eating his pistol.
Mad men must have planned this mission. It would probably get him killed. Draining the glass of brandy he reached for the bottle. The call chime sounded. Foss hid the bottle and glass under the table and straightened his waistcoat.
“Ad-mit.”
The hatch slid aside and Lt Saxon stepped over the coaming. He looked far too young to hold the rank of lieutenant jg. Foss knew who he was and suspected what he was.
The lieutenant snapped to attention. "Good morning, captain."
“Lieutenant.” Foss gestured to the nearest chair. “What can I do for Pruessen Naval Intelligence today?”
“Same thing as last time I'm afraid.” His rueful smile failed to hide the lethal nature of his eyes. Eyes that did not belong on such a boyish face.
Foss spread his hands wide. “If you’re having trouble training the crew in your new techniques you’re on your own. You know what these headhunters are like.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Saxon’s nose twitched, undoubtedly detecting the brandy on Foss’ breath.
“I will have another word with my executive officer and see if we can reach an accommodation of some sort. Perhaps I can buy his cooperation with a case of brandy.”
“Any assistance will be appreciated, captain.” Saxon snapped to attention and left.
Under his breath too low for the pickup to capture, Foss said, “And there goes the future of the empire.”
***
“Another mission, another pseudonym,” Orson mumbled as he left Foss’ cabin.
The Family’s orders were abundantly clear but his concerns over the likely outcome of this mission caused his head to throb.
From the thousands of vessels available to the Pruessens they chose this ship. Not a warship, not even one of their svelte e-boats but a great hulking mass. Picaroon was little more than an armed freighter formerly used by pirates.
Orson wanted the hand-picked finest from the Pruessen navy. He got headhunter dregs. He required a year of intense training. They gave him four months.
What
the hell is the Family thinking? In a rush of shame he bit his lower lip. Orson loved the Family. Without the Family he would be nothing more than a Pruessen slave.
Although doubts remained he understood the reasoning behind the strict mission parameters. However, pitting Picaroon and her miserable headhunter crew against the best of the League Navies carried extreme risks. All League worlds treated headhunters as nothing more than pirates. The penalty for piracy was death.
The Family could not allow technology of this advanced type to fall into enemy hands. Orson’s junior status and expendability made him ideal fodder for this potentially suicidal mission. Regardless of the high-risk nature Orson knew he would return from this assignment. He vowed that nothing would stand between him and his true destiny. He would prove his worth to the Family.
Orson reached the gray metal door and read the bronze plaque: Commander Bannister, Department of Planning and Infrastructure. Orson tapped the call button and stepped into the room when the hatch opened. The small, sparsely furnished room contained nothing to distract from its utilitarian function. Behind the single desk sat a man about thirty years old. Tall and broad-shouldered he showed the benefits of years of tough physical training. Bannister glanced from his screen, severe disinterest clouding his features.
“I'm busy Saxon. Make it quick.”
“Sir, we have a problem and we need to discuss it.”
“Very well.” For the first time in weeks Bannister’s expression changed to one of acute interest. “What's the problem?”
“You are.”
Bannister's curious expression turned lethal.
“For the last three months I have done everything you’ve asked of me, accomplished every task assigned to me. Despite this you treat me like a piece of shit stuck to your boot. I accept I am the junior member of this team. But it is essential that we work in concert to accomplish the mission. This will not do … sir. This is a vitally important mission and – ”
“I don't need to be lectured about the mission, certainly not by you.” Bannister leapt from his chair his hands supporting his weight on the table. “I will not have you bursting into my office making demands. Let's get something straight, Saxon, I did not request you. Nor do I want you here. However, when those we serve give me an order, I obey. But that doesn't mean I have to like it.”
