by PJ Strebor
“I think you got away with it,” Roger said, breaking the chilling silence. His dubious expression suggested otherwise.
Nathan groaned. “In your orifice?” his head hit the locker with a sound thud. “What was I thinking?”
“You were thinking what every red-blooded middy has been thinking since plebe year.”
“This isn't funny, Roger,” Nathan growled. “I have to front Zoehrer in fifteen minutes.”
“In her orifice.” Roger laughed so hard he tumbled off his rack. “Well,” he said, choking back a laugh, “if things go well between you and Zoehrer it couldn’t hurt your reputation, you know?”
“My rep is fine, thank you.” Nathan's fingers fumbled as he struggled to tie the thick black cravat to his high-collared white shirt.
“You're a good guy Nathan, but over the years you’ve taken too many truly risky chances. You can push the envelope just so far, you know?”
If you want risky chances, try escaping from the Pruessen Empire in an unarmed freighter being torn to pieces by an attack boat.
Nathan straightened from the mirror, the cravat in place. He was aware of his reputation as a walking talking advertisement for Monitor Corps. Had his desire to be one of the best become obsessive? Livy didn’t think so and their discussions rarely ventured into his naval aspirations. They regularly laughed about all sorts of things.
“We will talk further on this subject when I return. In the meantime I shall, as an old friend suggested, attempt to lighten up. All right?”
“Make me proud, Nathan.”
Nathan winked conspiratorially before stepping over the coaming.
***
Nathan paced the waiting room floor. He stopped before the huge transparent globe that floated within the faintly shimmering anti-grav fields. As he had done countless times before, he examined the three thousand star systems and over two hundred habitable worlds that comprised the sphere of the Tunguska Fault.
An irregular line encircled its circumference marking the frontier with the northern quarantine zone. Established after the first Franco-Pruessen war, the border had torn the map of Tunguska in half, after diplomatic negotiations with Pruessen collapsed. The fortuitous separation helped to restrict the spread of the terrible disease to the south during the final weeks of the second war with Pruessen. Worlds north of the frontier had not been so lucky. The infected worlds stood out from the map as ugly black dots.
To the south of the frontier one black dot marred the many systems of the League of Allied Worlds. Delos.
To the west of the Athenian Republic the border with the north, and the protection of the independent worlds therein, became the responsibility of the Bretish Commonwealth. The Brets had a fine modern navy crewed by aggressive commanders who held the line against all who would intrude into League space. To the east the Francorum Union was accountable for protecting the many independent worlds bordering the frontier. Their reputation had repeatedly been found lacking. Nathan felt his blood rising. My family would still be alive if the Francs hadn't abandoned their duty and left the Iberian system without protection. Fucking Francs, little better than Pruessens. He shook the ugly thought aside and steadied his breathing.
One anomaly not shown on the globe was the Ebony Corona, a solid hyper depression surrounding Tunguska to a depth of six light years. Vessels were incapable of making hyper-transitions within the depression. This factor transformed Tunguska into a space-locked environment. At the best speed of the fastest vessel, a one-way journey through the corona took twelve years.
This effectively made the region a non-commercial enterprise. Terra Corp had ignored Tunguska, preferring to continue its headlong exploitation of every system they encountered. This made Tunguska the ideal place for those rebellious types who had become sick of T-C’s despotic rule.
Three hundred years ago, the first colonists to arrive in Tunguska must have viewed this broken region of space as if it were a new Eden. A chance to start over, a new hope. It was not surprising, therefore, that they named their new world after the first democracy in human history. Humanity brought into the Fault a determination to do better, thousands of years of art, literature, philosophy, technology and high hopes. Sadly, humanity also carried the baggage of ancient passions and an unquenchable proclivity for mayhem. Two wars in the last fifty years proved that things never changed. Nathan was studying for his minor in ancient Earth history. He sighed and wondered if humanity would ever evolve sufficiently to learn from the catastrophes of its past. We cannot escape the nature of our lesser selves.
“Midshipman Telford,” the secretary said, “Commander Zoehrer will see you now.”
Nathan nodded, straightened his waistcoat and stepped to the hatch.
***
Commander Constance Zoehrer scratched at the ghost itch on her left arm. “Bugger,” she grumbled and discontinued the futile gesture. Modern prosthetics were good but they did not itch.
The hatch chimed. “Ad-mit.”
Her eyes remained glued to her screen as Nathan snapped to attention before her desk.
“Midshipman Commander Telford reporting to the commander as ordered, ma’am.”
She spared him a glance. “At ease, commander. Take a seat.”
Constance Zoehrer showed favoritism to no one. However, from plebe year onward she had been Nathan’s year supervisor and knew him as well as anyone. Unlike other military institutions, Mount Kratos earmarked exceptional leaders from day one. This young man stood out from his written reports to his behavior through plebe year and every year since.
But she never played favorites.
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 bu
siness 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 elite 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.
