And they’re heading to the privacy tubes, he thought, concealing his amusement as he hurried down the corridor. It had been easy to tell, although he could never have put the reason into words. There had been something . . . furtive about their behavior, yet no real guilt. He didn’t care, as long as their relationship didn’t breach regulations. That will probably boost their morale too.
He stepped through the hatch into his Ready Room, then poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the desk. The latest set of intelligence reports from Vangelis’s navy were already on the terminal, informing him that ONI’s estimate of shipping losses within the sector had been, at best, understatements. Dozens of vessels had been reported missing, ranging from outdated bulk freighters that simply weren’t competitive anywhere else to modern starships from Vangelis or the Commonwealth. No interstellar power was capable of providing regular patrols and convoy escorts. No wonder over fifty freighters had requested permission to travel with the two cruisers to Jorlem.
It’s a mess, he thought. And it’s only going to get worse.
His terminal bleeped. “Captain Falcone is calling, sir.”
“Put her through,” William ordered.
Kat’s image materialized in front of him. “Captain,” she said. “I trust you had a moment to read my report?”
“I skimmed it,” William said. He’d planned to go back and reread the report in greater detail, but he’d had too many other duties to attend to first. “Do you think Vangelis is interested?”
“It’s hard to be sure,” Kat admitted. “I think I made some pretty good points, but the local political situation isn’t entirely in our favor.”
“Of course not,” William said. He had to smile at her droll expression. Kat Falcone was better than most, but too many naval officers suffered from myopia where other planets and multi-star powers were concerned. “They’re worried about opening the door for Commonwealth expansion.”
“It isn’t as if they have much to fear,” Kat objected, crossly.
“They don’t see it that way,” William reminded her. “But Vangelis will probably come around, if you give them time.”
Kat nodded, ruefully. “We’ll be here for four more days instead of two,” she said, changing the subject. “System Command wants to gather a dozen additional freighters for our makeshift convoy. I’ve actually requested that the local navy assign a couple of destroyers to provide additional protection, but they haven’t gotten back to me yet.”
“I hope they don’t expect two cruisers to cover over sixty ships,” William said. He’d thought fifty was quite bad enough. A single Theocracy raider could pop off a spread of antimatter warheads, triggering a massive energy storm that would do a great deal of damage. “It will be a minor nightmare.”
“I hope so too,” Kat said. “But they don’t have any experience in large-scale deployments.”
William couldn’t disagree. Tyre had been building up its navy for decades, slowly developing both the fleet and the infrastructure to support it. He knew, from his long experience, just how many lessons had been learned and relearned as the navy swept Commonwealth space clear of pirates and raiders. But Vangelis had only just begun to build up its navy. By his estimate, it would be at least ten years before they were ready to start producing superdreadnoughts, if they ever did.
“We can see what they say,” William said. “We are providing a service here, after all.”
Kat smiled rather tiredly. “We also have to decide what we’re doing after we reach Jorlem,” she said. “The interrogations didn’t suggest that Haverford had been occupied.”
“No, they didn’t,” William agreed. His hackers had pulled a considerable amount of data out of Talon of Death’s datacore, but most of the intelligence was fragmented in one way or another. They apparently wouldn’t be led straight to a pirate base. “I don’t think they managed to conceal anything from us.”
“But they probably wouldn’t have much to say,” Kat mused. “Pirate crews are often kept in ignorance.”
She cleared her throat. “But we should probably drop in anyway,” she added. “Someone has to tell them off for purchasing supplies from pirates.”
“That might be a bad idea,” William said. “Kat, we know nothing about local conditions. If the settlers are desperate, they’re not going to care about where their supplies come from.”
“That’s no excuse for trading with pirates,” Kat pointed out. “They wouldn’t be raiding ships for supplies if they didn’t have a ready market.”
“And what will the pirates do,” William asked, “if Haverford starts refusing to buy?”
Kat grimaced. “You think the pirates would turn nasty?”
“There’s no law and order in this sector, outside of a few places like Vangelis,” William reminded her. “Yes, I do think the pirates will turn nasty.”
He scowled. Kat wasn’t stupid, but she’d never been truly helpless. She’d never had to watch as pirates threatened her homeworld, demanding supplies and women in exchange for not bombarding the planet’s cities from orbit. There was no way she could understand just how it felt to have to compromise one’s principles, time and time again; there was no way she could grasp how ashamed the weak felt, even as they bent their knees.
“Perhaps we should have sold Talon of Death to them instead,” Kat mused. “That would give them a few more options, wouldn’t it?”
William rather doubted it. Talon of Death was primitive compared to Uncanny or Lightning, but she would still need a crew who understood how to maintain her. Haverford most likely couldn’t produce such a crew, not when the files had made clear that her founders had deliberately set out to create a no-technology culture. Still such a stance probably wouldn’t last more than a generation or two. Whatever pressures had convinced the original founders to ban technology would crumble as later generations asked why and discovered that their elders had no good answers.
“In any case, we should make a point of calling on Haverford,” Kat added. “It might convince the pirates that the system is being watched.”
“A sweep through the system might even go unnoticed,” William agreed. “They don’t have any orbital installations, according to the files.”
Kat nodded. “But for the moment, we’ll head directly to Jorlem,” she mused. “Do you have any other issues you want to raise?”
“Not at the moment, I think,” William said. “But if you can find a way to convince the planetary government to send a few escort ships with the convoy, it would be good.”
“I know,” Kat said. She sounded frustrated. “I hadn’t realized just how many ships would take advantage of our offer.”
William smiled. “We’re offering to escort them through the most dangerous region of space, short of the war front itself,” he said. “Offering to stay long enough to let System Command round up more potential travelers might have been a mistake.”
Kat smiled back. “It might have been,” she agreed. “I’ll speak to you nearer our departure, ideally with a handful of Vangelis starships in our party. But if none accompany us, we’ll just have to make the best of it.”
“You might want to think about what will happen once we reach Jorlem and the freighters want to go farther,” William added. “Escorting them will probably do more to win us goodwill than talking to the planetary governments.”
“We’ll just have to see,” Kat said. “I’ll speak to you soon.”
Her image vanished. William allowed himself an amused smile, then returned to the latest set of reports from his crew. Roach was handling his duties well—better than William himself, at that age—but there was no excuse for William not keeping as close an eye on things as possible. Who knew what surprises were lurking below decks?
A few more victories will change that, he told himself. The crew will no longer fear a curse.
It was unusual, Kat knew, for the senior chief to request an interview. Personnel matters were normally handled below decks or by t
he XO if it was a matter that didn’t have to be brought before the starship’s captain. But Senior Chief Alex Houghton had sent a message requesting a private interview. She puzzled over it for a long moment—there was something oddly mealymouthed about the way he’d worded the request—then sent back a short reply, inviting him to meet her in an hour. Perhaps it was something that couldn’t wait for the XO to return from his brief shore leave.
But it’s hard to imagine what, Kat thought, as she returned to her notes. She’d already written out a short report for her father, but she needed to write her impressions before they faded from her mind. What could have happened that requires immediate attention?
An hour later, the hatch chimed. She opened the door and lifted her eyebrows, in surprise, as the senior chief escorted a young midshipwoman into the Ready Room. Kat recalled meeting her briefly during her introduction to the ship, but she couldn’t say she’d seen much of the younger girl since then. The woman was strikingly young, almost certainly on her first cruise. Her dark hair was cut close to her scalp, her almond eyes peering from tinted skin, darting around as if she expected a blow at any moment. She wore the uniform well, but there was an odd hint of vulnerability that worried Kat more than she cared to say. Had she been molested by one of her crewmates? The senior chief would have taken care of that, surely?
“Captain,” Houghton said. He looked older, somehow. “Midshipwoman Tasha Reynolds has a report for you.”
Kat blinked, feeling apprehensive. This wasn’t going to be good.
“Captain,” Tasha said. She swallowed, hard. Kat couldn’t help thinking that she looked like a very small girl who had been called before the headmistress. “Captain . . . is there a chance of promotion for me?”
Kat hadn’t been sure what to expect, but she honestly hadn’t expected that. A midshipwoman on her first cruise would be lucky to see promotion in less than a year, unless she did something very heroic to prove she deserved it. And even if she did, she could expect trouble from her next set of superior officers, officers who would suspect she’d been promoted well ahead of her competency. Even Kat had taken a year and a half to get promoted to lieutenant, despite her family connections. Tasha certainly didn’t have those.
“An interesting question,” she said finally. She hadn’t heard anything bad about Tasha, which suggested she hadn’t screwed up too badly. The XO normally handled all matters relating to the midshipmen. “Why do you ask?”
Tasha made a visible attempt to screw up her courage. “The XO asked me a number of questions, Captain,” she admitted. “And he said I’d be lucky to get promoted.”
Because she’s not from Tyre, Kat finished. Tasha might not have had anything to unlearn, as she was too young to have served in any other navy, but her accent marked her out as a foreigner. What did he say to her?
“What . . . exactly . . . did he say? Did you record the conversation?”
“No,” Tasha said. “Captain . . . should I have recorded the conversation?”
Kat grimaced. Implants, even civilian-grade implants, could record a person’s entire life, but recording another person without their permission was considered bad manners. And recording a superior officer’s words without permission was against regulations, although she knew a number of officers who did it anyway. It was useful, sometimes, to have a recording of what was actually said. But Tasha, a midshipwoman who hadn’t been born on Tyre, had no leeway at all.
“Probably not,” she said finally. “What did he say to you?”
She listened, feeling her temper start to flare, as Tasha stumbled through the entire conversation. Crenshaw had asked her about her homeworld, about her early life . . . and then questioned her loyalty to the Commonwealth. He’d asked her where she would stand if there was a major disagreement between Tyre and the rest of the Commonwealth; he’d openly accused her of bringing foreign attitudes into the Navy. And, in the end, he’d simply dismissed her, leaving Tasha with the impression that her career was doomed. She’d confided in the senior chief, and he’d insisted on going to the ship’s captain.
“One moment,” Kat said when Tasha had finished. “I need to review some files.”
She tapped her console, bringing up Tasha’s file: born on New Petrograd, a stage-three colony that had joined the Commonwealth during the early years; passed the entry exams for Piker’s Peak at seventeen; entered the academy itself at eighteen. She hadn’t taken any honors, Kat noted, but that proved very little. No one passed through four years at Piker’s Peak without being head and shoulders above their civilian counterparts, even if they didn’t have strong family connections. She didn’t have any pre-academy experience, yet that was hardly uncommon.
Crenshaw had done a good job in keeping the files updated, she admitted, as she skimmed through Tasha’s service record. No major problems, thankfully. The young woman had committed the usual string of errors committed by any newly minted ensign, but none of them were particularly career ending. Tasha might not have been marked out for greatness, either through skill or connections, yet she hadn’t blotted her copybook either. She should have a promising career ahead of her.
Kat looked up. “This happened two days ago, right?”
“Yes, Captain,” the senior chief said. He didn’t make any attempt to sound apologetic. “I felt it best to wait until the XO was off the ship.”
So I didn’t send them back to talk to the XO, Kat thought.
She shook her head in bitter frustration. Crenshaw hadn’t written any negative comments into Tasha’s file . . . but if he wanted to ruin her career, there were ways to do it without writing anything blatantly untruthful. What was he thinking? Kat could have crushed him for sexual harassment or molesting a junior officer, but this was different. Crenshaw might well be able to justify his conduct before a court-martial board.
“Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” she said. She glanced at the senior chief. “Is there any other reason for concern?”
Tasha shifted from side to side, nervously. Kat looked at her. “What?”
The young woman cringed but held her ground. “I may be being paranoid . . .”
“Spit it out,” Kat ordered, sharply.
“We’re assigned to different departments by the XO,” Tasha said. “Neither I nor Midshipman Collins have been assigned to either tactical or the helm. I’ve spent time in life support and engineering . . .”
Kat resisted, barely, the urge to groan. Unless she missed her guess, Collins would be another foreigner. And Crenshaw had found a subtle way to hamper their careers. Tasha had entered command track at Piker’s Peak, but she wouldn’t have any hope of promotion unless she spent time in the tactical and helm departments.
“Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” she said finally. “I’ll deal with it.”
Although, she admitted to herself as Houghton showed Tasha out of her office, she didn’t have the slightest idea how to proceed.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“That’s Lightning’s XO over there,” Henderson muttered. “Lucky bastard has two women on his knee.”
Joel concealed his amusement with an effort. The bar was dark—the only illumination came from flashing spotlights that flickered on and off at random—but there was no point in taking chances. If Commander Crenshaw realized they were laughing at him, or even talking about him, the consequences could be disastrous. He wanted—he needed—to remain unremarked.
He took a sip of his drink, leaning back in his chair. The bar could easily have passed for a spaceport bar on Tyre: cheap booze, flashing lights, loud music, scantily clad girls, pools of darkness to conceal the dubious stains on the fittings . . . very much like home. And the space was crammed with hundreds of spacers, frittering away their bonuses before returning to their ships for the next voyage to some godforsaken destination. He’d already had to squash one fight between a handful of his crewmen and a couple of civilian spacers. The civilians had been moaning and whining about having their shore le
ave cut short because their commanders wanted to join the planned convoy.
Idiots, he thought. You’d think they’d be grateful to have a better than even chance of reaching their damn destinations.
“Now there’s something interesting,” Henderson muttered as he took a bite from his sandwich and washed it down with a swig of his beer. “Look at the girls.”
Joel followed his gaze, watching as the five girls stepped onto the stage. There was nothing remotely sophisticated about their appearance, but the crowd wasn’t very sophisticated. The only thing keeping their outfits on were the prying eyes of every man in the room. He rolled his eyes as the music changed and the girls began to dance, thrusting out their chests and shaking their bottoms while the crowd hooted, hollered, and threw credit chips towards the stage.
Henderson elbowed him. “Wouldn’t you like to get your hands on one of them?”
“Everyone else will have had a go at them,” Joel pointed out. “Or doesn’t that bother you?”
He grimaced at the thought. Most spaceport brothels were owned and operated by the local authorities, ensuring that the prostitutes were clean, the spacers were not charged through the nose, and anyone who caused trouble was hastily evicted. The amateur establishments, on the other hand, were often a different story. They could be cheaper—and they took immense risks—but they were also filthier.
“Pussy is pussy,” Henderson said. The dance came to an end. The girls removed their costumes, then started to dance again as the music changed. “Or would you rather a man?”
Joel kept his face impassive. Henderson was already well on his way to drunkenness or he would never have dared poke Joel like that. But it hardly mattered. He watched Henderson as the crewman stared at the dancers, his tongue practically hanging out of his mouth as the girls went through a dizzying series of motions. By the time the dancing was finished, Joel knew the local prostitutes waiting outside would have plenty of clients.
Cursed Command (Angel in the Whirlwind Book 3) Page 14
