Michael sat back to think about that, the enormous weight bearing down on him gone. “Well, what can I say? Thanks for that. It’ll be good to get things back to normal.”
Armstrong’s hand went up. “Not so fast, young man. I will be briefing the captain shortly and will recommend to her that the charges be dropped. However . . .”
Michael’s heart sank. Why was there always a catch?
“. . . it is up to Captain Constanza to withdraw the charges—”
“Or not?” Michael interrupted flatly.
Armstrong nodded. “If she wishes, she can refer the matter up the chain of command when we return to port. If she does, I stand relieved as investigating officer.”
“Jesus, sir!” Michael protested. “That could be weeks and weeks away. What do I do? Just sit in this damn cabin and rot?”
“Michael!” Armstrong said sharply. “Settle down. Be patient and let us work on sorting this mess out. Getting angry and upset is not going to help!”
“Sorry, sir,” Michael said contritely. He could see that Armstrong was doing his best.
The provost marshal stood up. “That’s it for now. I’ll keep you posted.” With that, he was gone.
Michael sat for a while wondering how Constanza had allowed herself to get into such a mess. He felt a fleeting stab of pity for the woman. She must have been a good officer once. Fleet made mistakes—all big organizations did—but on the whole its record in appointing warship captains seemed pretty good. Michael sat there wondering what had gone wrong, when, and why. What on earth had tipped a competent officer with successful commands of smaller Fleet units behind her over the edge?
His moment of charitable concern was fleeting. She might have been good once, but it was the here and now that mattered. The sooner all this was over and Ishaq got the captain it deserved, the better. The thought that a change of command might come sooner rather than later cheered him up immensely.
There was another knock on the door, and Marine Murphy’s head reappeared. “Sir?”
“Jeez, Murphy. You lonely or something?”
Murphy smiled broadly. “Got to do something to keep amused, sir.”
Michael laughed. He liked Murphy. Even though Murphy was relaxed and friendly, Michael knew full well that the nearly cyborg-sized man would be on him in a split second if he tried anything. Not that he would. He was not that stupid. Michael was small by FedWorld standards, and Murphy easily outmassed, outmuscled, outreached, and overtopped him by margins he did not even want to think about. The bloody man was huge. Any bigger, Murphy would be classified as an illegal cyborg and either reengineered or deported. The FedWorlds were strict about that, but that did not stop people like Murphy—and let’s not forget Leading Spacer Bienefelt, he reminded himself—trying to get within a hairbreadth of the limits.
“Yeah, yeah. You’ve told me. Standing in front of a closed door isn’t the most exciting thing to do of a watch.”
“True enough, sir. Anyway, it’s coming up on 16:00, so my relief will be here shortly. Will you be going to the gym?”
“Too true I will. Try and stop me,” Michael declared forcefully. He would take any chance he could to get out of the box he was confined to, and today’s gym session was one he was not going to miss. “Who’s your relief ?”
“Corporal Yazdi, sir. I’ll be back for the middle watch.”
“Lucky you. See you then.”
“Will do, sir.”
The door closed, and Michael busied himself digging out his gym gear. The two hours of gym time he was given each day was the one chance he got to burn off the unholy mix of ennui, anger, frustration, and fear that churned through his body. He meant to make the most of them. No sooner was he ready than there was a knock on his cabin door.
It was Corporal Yazdi. “Afternoon, sir. Ready to go?”
“Hi, Corporal. Yup, ready.”
Small and sinewy, she did not look capable of taking on a granny in a wheelchair. Michael knew better, much better. Corporal Yazdi was not a woman to be underestimated. Michael would willingly bet a year’s pay that Yazdi was every bit as dangerous as Murphy, her lethally fast reflexes and precision more than making up for what she lacked in height and mass. He liked the marines who had been posted to make sure he did not try to blow up the Ishaq, and Yazdi and Murphy in particular. To while away the endless hours stuck in his cabin, he had talked at length to both of them, the two marines a mine of information on the Marine Corps. Contrary to the popular view held by most spacers, Michael included, that most marines were mindless grunts, Yazdi and Murphy were as sharp as anyone with whom Michael had served.
Yazdi looked cheerful. Michael knew she would have arranged for a couple of marines to back her up so that she could get some time on the mats with him doing basic drills. Despite his three years at Space Fleet College, Yazdi had not been impressed with his unarmed combat skills. In her professional opinion, they were barely up to the job of fending off a bad-tempered drunk on a Saturday night, a situation Yazdi thought was criminally irresponsible and one she had made it her business to do something about.
Monday, August 30, 2399, UD
FWSS Ishaq, Paderborn Reef
“Now, get out! Get out, Goddamn it!”
“Sir!”
The door to Captain Constanza’s day cabin hissed shut behind Commander Morrissen. For a moment he could not move. He felt sick. He wiped a forehead greasy with sweat. What a mess. Ishaq was a ship in all sorts of trouble. And what was he doing? Trying to get his captain to see that no matter how much she ranted, how much she raved, nothing would change the fact that the charges of conspiracy to mutiny against Fellsworth and Helfort would not stand up. Never, ever. Why could she not see that?
If that wasn’t bad enough, now she was threatening to have him arrested as well. Christ, he thought as he set off back to his office, what a bloody joke. He was the executive officer of a FedWorld heavy cruiser, for God’s sake, and he couldn’t even talk to his captain without being accused of treachery. So much for the fearless provision of advice so heavily stressed in his training. One thing was for sure: His career was over, so none of it mattered. Constanza could rant and rave all she liked; he was finished. Not that he cared anymore; any organization that tolerated people like Constanza was not an organization he wanted to work for. The bitch would have his resignation on her desk as soon as he could find the time to write it.
But that would have to wait. Somehow—he had no idea how—he was going to have to find a way to undo some of the damage Constanza had done. He owed Fellsworth and Helfort that much. And, as much as he hated the idea, that meant another confrontation with Constanza.
“I’m warning you, Commander. One step out of line and I’m charging you.”
“I understand, sir.”
“All right, then. Continue.”
“Right, sir. Clearly, Lieutenant Armstrong no longer has your confidence.”
“That’s an understatement,” Constanza muttered.
“So I think the best thing to do would be to pinchcomm a summary of the brief of evidence to the Fleet provost marshal. If Fleet agrees with you, then we can off-load the two officers at our next driver mass replenishment for transfer back to Terranova. Fleet can hold them until a court-martial can be convened. It would be good to put the problem behind us, to allow Ishaq to move on.”
Morrissen held his breath as Constanza, eyes narrowed, considered his suggestion. If she agreed, Fleet would see exactly what was going on on board poor old Ishaq. That meant there was a chance—a slim chance—that they would do something about Ishaq’s crisis of command.
It took a while, but eventually, much to Morrissen’s relief, Constanza nodded her agreement.
“Right, Commander,” she said. “For once, you’ve done the right thing. It’s a good suggestion. When can you get the draft pinchcomm to me?”
“Give me an hour, sir, if that’s okay.”
“Make it so, Commander.”
“Thank you,
sir.” Morrissen started toward the door but stopped. “Oh, sir. One thing. Since we’re in effect passing this matter on to Fleet, I would like to put Fellsworth and Helfort under open arrest. We can manage, of course, but close arrest is a serious drain on—”
Constanza’s hand went up. “Say no more, Commander. I know where you’re going, and I agree,” she said expansively. “Open arrest it is. They won’t be with us for long.”
“Thank you, sir. I’ll take it from here.”
“You do that. Get that report to me. Now go; I’ve got work to do.”
“Thank you, sir,” Morrissen said to the top of Constanza’s head.
You’re a damn fool, Captain Constanza, if you think for one second that Fleet’s going to back you up on this one, Morrissen thought as he left. The beauty of it all was that the facts—or, more accurately, the lack of facts—would speak for themselves. Fleet would throw the whole pathetic business out the window, of that he was absolutely sure. He would bet what little was left of his career on it.
Tuesday, August 31, 2399, UD
FWSS Ishaq, Paderborn Reef
Ishaq’s executive officer coughed. “Thank you all for coming.” He looked acutely uncomfortable.
“Our pleasure, sir,” Lieutenant Commander Fellsworth replied sardonically. Michael grinned. He liked the exec. Despite everything, Commander Morrissen was a decent guy. Sitting beside him was Commander Pasquale, Fellsworth’s boss. Pasquale looked angry. She glared at Michael; dutifully, he wiped the smile off his face.
Michael knew that Morrissen had reason to look uncomfortable. Morrissen had not covered himself in glory over his handling of what was now called the COMEX affair. Well, that was what the polite members of Ishaq’s crew called it. The impolite preferred “COMEX screwup,” the rude liked “COMEX fiasco,” and the insubordinate were going with “COMEX clusterfuck.” That was Morrissen’s choice; apparently he had been overheard saying it in an unguarded moment. Michael had to agree. It was probably the only label that even came close.
“Forgive me, Jack, but for God’s sake get on with it.” Commander Pasquale’s impatience was obvious. She had a busy department to run, and none of this made that job any easier.
“Yes, please do, sir,” Fellsworth said.
“Right,” Morrissen muttered. “Well, I can tell you that the charge of conspiracy to mutiny will be withdrawn, so that’s good news.”
“Thank you, sir. No surprises there considering it was a complete load of nonsense in the first place,” Fellsworth exclaimed angrily.
Morrissen looked embarrassed. “Er, yes. Quite so.”
“When, sir?” Fellsworth’s tone was angry.
“Well, that’s the problem. The provost marshal has formally advised the captain that the charges are unsupported by the available evidence and must be withdrawn, um, er . . .” Morrissen’s voice trailed off into an uncomfortable silence. Fellsworth sat back, arms folded. Michael stepped up to the plate.
“Sir, is there a problem? Surely all the captain has to do is sign a piece of paper.” Michael leaned forward, a look of innocent inquiry on his face even though he knew full well what the real stumbling block was.
Morrissen nodded. “That’s correct, Helfort. That is all she has to do. The problem is that until we return to port and the matter is formally taken over by the Fleet provost marshal, she is the only one who can withdraw the charges. That’s her right under military law, and I’m afraid it’s a right that I cannot, umm, well, er . . .”
Michael finished the sentence for him. “. . . persuade her not to exercise?”
Morrissen nodded glumly. “Yes.”
Fellsworth leaned forward to look Morrissen full in the face. “So that means we’re still under close arrest?”
Morrissen’s hands went up as if to fend her off. Before he could speak, Pasquale got in first.
“I have told the captain that would be inappropriate, and she has agreed. Right, Jack?”
“Correct. You will be under open arrest. A formality. You are free to go anywhere you like on board, though for the time being you’ll not be standing watches.”
“Some good news, then, sir.” Michael grinned, happy that his run of unbroken nights would not be ending.
Morrissen ignored Michael’s feeble attempt at a joke. He looked at Fellsworth. “I know you aren’t happy about any of this, but believe me, neither am I. You’ll have to trust me, Karla. I know I could—should—have done more. Believe me when I say I regret that bitterly, but I can assure you that standing between a captain in command and her rights is a bad place to be. So, unless there is—”
Fellsworth’s hand went up to stop him. “Sir! I know that,” she interrupted, her voice softening. “I don’t think I can judge you—or anyone else involved, come to that—without being in the same position as you all were in. So why don’t we leave it at that? What more is there to say?”
“Not a lot.” Morrissen shook his head. “So thanks. I’ll keep pushing, but in the end Fleet will have to step in. Oh, talking of Fleet, I forgot something. I think I can safely say that there will be a formal apology from Fleet once this is all sorted out. Okay. I’ll see you all later. I’ve commed the necessary orders to Armstrong. You’ll lose the marines effective immediately.”
“Thank you, sir,” Fellsworth and Michael chorused.
Morrissen nodded, stood up, and left without another word. Michael thought he looked terrible; the stress of the COMEX affair on top of all the shit Constanza had piled on him would have made anyone look terrible.
Pasquale started to get up but thought better of it. She sat back down.
“You two okay?” she asked.
Fellsworth and Michael both nodded.
“Hang in there. So there are no doubts, I can promise you this: The charges will be dropped. You will get the formal apology from the commander in chief personally. There will also be—” Pasquale stopped abruptly. Michael looked at her curiously. She had been about to say something but must have thought better of it.
Pasquale gathered her thoughts before continuing. “That’s it. Let me know if you have any problems. You shouldn’t. Word’s out. That’s it. I’ll see you both in the wardroom: 12:30 sharp. I want you both to have lunch with me.” She stood up. “Think of it as rehabilitation if you like,” she added with a small smile. “I’ll see you then.”
“Sir.”
Once the door closed behind Pasquale, Fellsworth let out a long sigh. “Well, Michael. There it is.” Her voice was flat, emotionless.
“Never a dull moment, sir.”
Fellsworth looked curiously at Michael for a moment. “You haven’t picked up on it, have you?”
Michael was baffled. “Picked up on what?”
“Oh, Michael!” Fellsworth complained despairingly. “For a bright boy, you can be awfully thick sometimes. Think!”
He thought long and hard, but whatever Fellsworth was talking about, he did not get it. “Sorry,” he murmured, hands held out wide in an embarrassed apology.
“Well, please do not repeat this, but I think we’re in for a change of command.”
“Oh!” Michael sat stunned. He had wondered what Pasquale had been about to say. Now he knew.
Michael was jerked awake by the ship’s main broadcast.
“What the f . . .” he mumbled as he struggled to get his sleep-clogged brain back in gear.
“All stations, this is command. Stand by for unscheduled drop in ten, repeat ten, minutes. Command out.”
Strange, Michael thought. Something had gone wrong with one of Ishaq’s mission-critical systems, or the ship had received a pinchcomm with a change of plans. Which was it?
Michael patched his neuronics into the ship’s management system. A quick check told him that all Ishaq’s systems were nominal. So, he thought, no systems problems; it had to be a pinchcomm. Now, that would be most unusual. Getting through to a ship in pinchspace was a difficult and uncertain business involving multiple slaved pinchcomm transmitters sen
ding at maximum power. If the beam formers were good enough to focus the message—essentially a coded modulation of pinchspace itself—onto the same piece of pinchspace occupied by Ishaq, she would get the message, a laboriously transmitted four-letter group repeated over and over. Nine times out of ten, pinchcomm messages sent to ships in pinchspace did not get through; that was why Fleet doctrine reminded planners emphatically not to rely on them at any time. Any way one looked at it, Ishaq had been lucky to get it. Must be damned important for Fleet to go to all that trouble, he thought.
With no duty to attend to, Michael thought briefly about getting out of his bunk to see what was going on. On second thought, he decided, he might as well stay right where he was. He lay in the half darkness, neuronics patched into the ship’s holovids to see what was going on, until the ship duly dropped out of pinchspace.
For a while, nothing much happened. Getting the full pinchcomm message, Michael thought. Then furious jets of reaction mass began to roll the ship slowly end over end. They were turning back, Michael thought. What in God’s name was going on?
Once positioned, what started as a gentle trembling grew into a ship-shaking rattle. Ishaq’s main engines came up to full power, the aft holocams whiting out in the face of a glare as bright as any sun as driver mass accelerated at 40,000 g blasted out of Ishaq’s two main engines, the ionized driver mass ripping its way through space. Ishaq decelerated slowly, but the main engines stayed at maximum power even as she came to a dead stop. For a moment, Ishaq seemed to hang motionless in space. Then, her fabric groaning under the 5-g acceleration, the main engine burn started to drive the ship back to jump speed.
Twenty-three minutes and a lot of driver mass later, Ishaq was ready to jump on a vector back the way she had come. Michael was impressed. Must be one hell of a set of new orders to justify something so drastic, he thought.
“All stations, this is command. Stand by to jump in five minutes.”
While Ishaq settled down after the ordeal of jumping, Captain Constanza came up on main broadcast.
The Battle of the Hammer Worlds Page 7
