The Fleet05 Total War

by David Drake (ed)

  “They’ve got to have some R&R on a decent planet, not one with the stench of Weasel and blood and death. They need sleep and unprocessed food and rest . . . Plague take it, Trotter, can’t you do something about the air?”

  Amalfi tried to hide behind Damia Pharr, who looked down at her with a slightly quizzical expression on her face.

  “Yeah, Malf, isn’t there something you can do? Who can sleep easy with tainted air in their lungs all night long?”

  “I’ve done everything I can,” Amalfi said, her voice just one note away from a whine. She brandished her clipboard. “I changed every plant in ’ponics when we were grounded. I’ve cleaned every duct, refitted every filter . . .”

  “Had my gun crew jumping out of their skins when they heard her sweeping out the shafts above us,” Hamish said, grinning encouragingly at her. “They thought the captain had found the still.”

  “Which reminds me,” Damia said, “I’ll need four liters tonight if I’m to get my patients to sleep.”

  “Has Fanneris come out of his coma yet?” Loftus asked.

  “No, and I’ve done nothing to wake him up. He’s better off asleep in that babbling bedlam I used to call my infirmary,” Pharr replied, her wistful tone intimating envy of the man’s condition. “He’s okay apart from staying asleep. He’s got the right idea. Sleeping it out till better days.”

  A tinny voice filtered through from Major Loftus’s com unit. “Major, fight broke out in D barracks: tranked nine combatants, but Infirmary says they’ve no room for ‘em.”

  “That’s right,” Damia replied cheerfully. “Any injuries?” she added as an afterthought.

  “No, sir. We had warning of the mood and arrived in time to restore order.”

  “List their IDs for Report, Sergeant Norly, then dump ’em in their bunks with wrist and ankle restraints. There’s no more room in the brig anyhow.” Loftus swore as the crackling of the intercom ceased.

  “Do you think they feel safer fighting among themselves?” Pharr asked rhetorically, glancing about the room.

  Amalfi saw Badeley open his mouth and she glared so fiercely at him that he subsided. A depressed silence fell on those waiting at the table. Two of the Marine captains who had listened intently to their commanders’ remarks were now obviously trying to get a few winks of sleep in the lavender-scented air. Amalfi was only too relieved that no one started in on her again. The sound of boots clomping on the metal decking alerted them all. As one, they looked toward the door, anticipating Gruen’s return and whatever hope he might have gleaned from his wife.

  The blank expression on Jay Gruen’s face as he entered was sufficient to depress all hope. He closed the door behind him with meticulous care and then leaned against it with the weariness of total dejection.

  “The truth is so bad”—and he paused—“that not even High Command has the balls to put it in the orders.”

  “Well?” demanded Damia Pharr when Gruen let an atrocious span of time go by without enlightenment.

  “I agree.” He pushed himself off the door and toward the table. Loftus and Argyll made room for him as he folded, like a decrepit aged man, into the chair. “It would appear that the Khalia are not the primary enemies of the Alliance . . .”

  “Say what?” demanded Loftus.

  Gruen clasped his hands before him, one thumb massaging the other. He didn’t lift his eyes once as he continued to speak.

  “The Khalia appear to have been the first line of defense of an oligarchy of Merchant Families—of human or humanoid stock—known as the Syndicate. The Khalians questioned named them the Givers.”

  “They Give war?” asked Damia softly.

  “There are a lot of gaps about the Syndicate but one thing is sure: they subjugate any useful entities and massacre any that defy them.” Gruen’s voice mirrored the defeat in his expression. “The Khalian War, the one we just finished, is apparently only the prelude to the Big One. And the Alliance has got to win it or expect that every single planet and star system in the Alliance could, and would, be destroyed by the Syndicate.”

  “But surely in a large group, a Syndicate, there would be an outcry against wholesale destruction?” Brace asked. “It’s just not economical to obliterate whole planets and star systems . . .”

  “The Syndicate doesn’t think the way we do. They may be technologically superior, but not sociologically,” Gruen said, massaging his thumbs with such force the blood suffused the tips. “They’re prime bigots—hate any alien race and enslave or exploit them. And we thought the Khalia were bad . . .”

  “They were,” Loftus muttered respectfully. “But surely if the Alliance sticks to our sphere of influence . . .”

  “That would work with anyone but the Syndicate. And the Syndicate doesn’t tolerate powerful neighbors.”

  “The Alliance isn’t hostile,” Badeley began. “We live in peace with lots of other species and civilizations.”

  “We blew the peaceful image by fighting the Khalia . . .”

  “But, Colonel, they began the hostilities,” Badeley replied belligerently, “we were only defending ourselves.”

  “Oh, plug it up, Badeley,” Argyll said. “Jay, what about other regiments? Can they take another all-out offensive?”

  “I don’t have to worry about other regiments,” Jay Gruen said, slapping both hands facedown on the table, his eyes averted. “I have to worry about mine. And mine are not ready to hear the score.”

  “We can’t keep them in the dark for long,” Loftus protested. “And if we don’t level with them, whatever faith they have in us as commanders flushes right down the tubes!”

  “You’re right there. So”—and Jay Gruen glanced around at the others—“we’ve got approximately twenty hours to come up with a way to restore morale—which news of fighting a brand-new war is not going to do—before leaving orbit.”

  “But we won’t be making the rendezvous for two weeks . . .” Badeley began.

  “If someone,” Loftus said, pinning Badeley with a hard glare, “isn’t smart enough to figure out that we’re not heading back to Alliance territory, there’s nothing we could do to resurrect our once-proud regiment. And I’ll just bite the bad tooth and get my discharge.”

  Badeley looked even more shocked but he shut his mouth.

  “I’d sleep on that notion, were I you, Lofty,” Damia Pharr said kindly. “Oh, Great Gods and Other Lesser Deities!” She slapped her forehead and expressions of amazement, anxiety, incredulity, and dawning hope flitted across her broad homely face. “Why didn’t I think of that before!”

  “Think of what?” Gruen asked with acid impatience.

  “Sleep therapy! We could all use a really good sleep. I read about the therapy in the Space Medicine Journal. The surgeon general (someone named Haldeman) recommended dream sleep therapy for troops being transported from one theater of war to another. I don’t see that much difference in this application. It could work. It should work. It sure won’t hurt and it’ll cut out all the brawling, that is . . . Arvid,” she spoke sharply because the supply officer was quietly napping in his corner. “You still have all those barrels of hibernation gas, don’t you?”

  Startled, the jg had to have the query repeated. “Sure, yeah, hey, that stuff’s probably the only thing we haven’t used in this campaign.”

  “Deep sleep will not solve a morale problem,” Gruen said. “It’ll only defer it.”

  “Used as a hibernant, yes, but used to induce a deep and restful slumber, now that’s another thing. We can’t give the men any R&R but we can give ’em S&D. Sleep and dreams.” Damia was so positive that some of her enthusiasm began to infect the others with hope. “What your troops need is restful REM sleep, to help relieve the backup of willie-horrors . . .”

  “And how in hell are you going to tend close to four thousand sleeping troopers? They’ve got to be fed, evacuat
ed, and. . .” Gruen stopped and Damia, grinning broadly now, waved her hands encouragingly to talk himself into the next step. He stared at her with dawning comprehension.

  ”Yup, that’s right. Battle-dress drill. I know you made ’em all service their suits on the surface. There’s enough nutrient fluid to keep every single one of them going for ten days. And the suits do bodily functions as well as monitoring. Why must such expensive equipment be used only in war?”

  The others around the table, even those who had remained silent, began to talk.

  “Malf,” Damia turned to the life-support officer, “can you block off the barracks decks from Operations. You guys still have to run the ship even if your passengers are all asleep.”

  “Ah, yes, I think so except I thought sleep gas is skin-permeable. Wouldn’t the suits . . .”

  “Seal all the airlocks from the troop decks, and penetrating as that hibernation gas is, it won’t affect the ship’s crew,” Damia went on, sort of running roughshod over objections.

  “Now, just a minute, Dame,” Gruen began.

  “Shit, Jay, you need the rest more than your men. I promise you, at the concentration we’ll pour into the troop quarters, everyone will go beddie-byes and dream sweet. Dream themselves right back into rested, resilient minds quite willing to take on this new challenge. Hell, if they’re deeply asleep, we can even do some sleep training, and they’ll be fit as fiddles when we rendezvous with Grampion.”

  “You’re sure it’ll work?”

  Amalfi had to look away from Colonel Gruen’s face: the beseeching look of hope revived was almost more than she could bear.

  Damia put her hand on Gruen’s shoulder. “I don’t know anything else to try. And sleep’s not going to hurt anyone aboard this ol’ tub . . .” She shot an apologetic grin at Brace and Argyll. “If the entire regiment is suited save the medical staff, and with a little help from the Mandalay personnel, we can check you all out.”

  “Is there enough protective garb, Arvid?” Loftus asked. “You gotta have the right gear or you’ll end up asleep at the switch.”

  “Yeah, yeah, sure. Plenty,” Arvid replied. Amalfi thought he hadn’t taken in exactly what was being planned.

  “Malf, can you handle your end of it? Blocking the vents?”

  “I’d only need to block off at 3 deck. But I’ll have to bunk in with someone else,” Amalfi said. “I wouldn’t mind sleeping through it all but I haven’t got a battle suit,” she added, responding to the lightening of mood.

  “Good girl, Trotter,” Gruen said, his eyes alive again in his face. “Now, Brace, how d’you think the captain will take this?”

  The science officer, who was nominally the second in command to the captain, gave the colonel a slow smile. “I don’t think he’ll quibble, Jay, it’s not exactly a naval decision. Mandalay’s proud to ferry the Montana Irregulars. We want to help. After all, if this Syndicate is half as bloodthirsty as rumor makes ’em, we’ve got to have at least one regiment fighting fit.”

  “Good. I’ll just stop up to his quarters and give him the word. Let’s get cracking. The faster we can suit ’em all up, the quicker we avoid problems.” The colonel nearly bounced out of the wardroom, a cheerful Loftus and their captains, looking remarkably bright-eyed, following.

  “Arvid,” Damia Pharr said, “I’ll just get the specs on that sleepy-time gas so I get the dose calibrated correctly. Can’t have our beauties oblivious to wake-up time . . .” She had the supply officer by the arm and was hauling him away.

  “How many hands will you need, Mr. Trotter, to effect the seal off?” Brace asked her. Amalfi was running the figures in her head but Brace waved her to the wardroom console. “If this works, I might try a little compulsory shuteye myself on the next leg of this voyage.”

  At 2302, following Captain August’s devious advice, every alarm system on the Mandalay howled, hooted, and shrieked. Troopers on every deck, even those in the brig and infirmary, were ordered into their battle suits until the “break in the skin of the Mandalay could be mended.”

  As the seasoned troops, cursing vehemently, struggled into their protective battle armor, complaints were rife but there wasn’t a breath of suspicion. Some may have thought it very odd that they hadn’t been ordered to close and seal their helmets against loss of oxygen, but battle-weary troops don’t do more than they’re told to. The first insidious flow of the diluted hibernation gas spread across every deck simultaneously. Not one trooper noticed—and every one of them fell asleep, held upright in parade readiness by their stout battle suits.

  The crew in their protective gear muttered about it being bloody unnatural to move through the rank and file, lowering each to the horizontal mode. To relieve the tedium of their caretaking duties, there was a spritely competition about who had the most outrageous snore, the longest, the most involved, the funniest. There was considerable controversy in the Mandalay’s wardroom about the competition: they didn’t want the results to affect the Navy-Marine relationships when the troops were finally awakened. Captain August had been heard to chuckle as some of the snore tapes were replayed.

  “You’ll notice, Captain,” Damia Pharr said shortly before they had reached the rendezvous, “that crew morale has also improved.”

  “Noted, Major. We can only hope that the improvement also includes our sleeping beauties.”

  “It will, sir, it will,” Pharr replied so devoutly that the captain entertained no further doubts.

  By the time the Mandalay eased into position in a docking bay at the gigantic supply ship, Grampion, even the air aboard had improved from barely breathable to quite pleasant.

  The officers were the first aroused, for orders had come for them to attend a briefing on the flagship. If the sparkle in the eyes of Colonel Gruen and Major Loftus were any indication, Pharr’s therapy had indeed worked its magic.

  “We’ll wait till our return, Pharr, to effect a full-scale revival,” Gruen told his medical officer, ignoring her smug grin. “We just might have some good news to relay with the bad by then.”

  “Won’t hurt. It’s been so peaceful I almost hate to wake ’em up.”

  Damia Pharr responded with a huge, jaw-popping yawn. “I get a chance for some S&D first, Jay!”

  “S&D?”

  “No R&R, try S&D. Makes a difference. You will see.”

  Formally piped on board the flagship, the colonel found an anxious wife waiting at the airlock for sight of him. Her amazement at his rejuvenation was heartening.

  “I can’t believe my eyes, Jay,” she said, giving him a quick but ardent kiss under the eyes of the grinning officer and ratings who were in the portal. “Two weeks ago, you looked ghastly . . .” She broke off without further detail of that clandestine contact and pulled him down the companionway out of sight. “And it’s not just you. Hello, Pete, you looked rested and raring to go, too. However did you do it?”

  ”You can’t keep a good regiment down, you know,” Pete Loftus replied, grinning. Then a yawn escaped him, and chagrined, he belatedly covered his mouth.

  “There was nothing wrong with any man in the Montana Irregulars, Pamela,” Jay Gruen told his astonished wife, “that a good long sleep couldn’t set right. A little S&D would do you no harm either. I’ll tell you all about it on our way to beard the general in his lair.”

  THEIR SPONSORS, the Syndicate of Families, never expected the Khalia to win the war against the Alliance. They had expected the war to last at least a decade. The Merchant Families had begun arming and training the Khalia decades earlier with the intention to create a buffer zone between themselves and the expanding Alliance. To this purpose they created an entire branch of modular manufacturing. This was the only way things could be kept simple enough for the Khalian warrior to operate or repair. This led to riches for a few families (actually greater power) and opportunities for the scions of the lesser houses.

>   The Syndicate strategy was in some ways a flawed policy. By its defensive/aggressive nature the Alliance had to concentrate its expansion in the direction of the worst threats to its own security. In their misguided attempt to create a powerful buffer, the Syndicate actually managed to draw in their direction the bulk of the Fleet’s forces. To counter this they redoubled their efforts to encourage the Khalia to fight back with ever-greater ferocity, turning a border conflict into a major war.

  That all this was grossly unfair to the Khalia was never a concern. Within the Family Boards of the Syndicate the human chauvinism of the late Empire still prevailed. This gave rise to a philosophy of exploitation, or worse, for all nonhumans contained within the Syndicate sphere. The typical Syndicate citizen was neither evil nor cruel. Not any more so than the typical British citizen during their empire’s exploitive era during the nineteenth century. The system, though, assumed that the only value of an alien race was whatever it could contribute to the family that was appointed to “manage” it, no matter what it cost the native race. In the case of the Khalia, several families cooperated in arming a primitive society with modern weapons and spurring them into a hopeless war.

  Even though the Fleet stunned most Syndicate combat managers with the speed of its victory, they were still confident of defeating the Alliance. After all, they had still nearly three decades of intense preparation and a decisive edge in intelligence. This gave them many more advantages than just infiltrating spies. Though smaller than the Alliance, their fleet was equal in number to their enemy’s. Further, they had a massive edge in intelligence. Not only had they infiltrated the Fleet, but they had spent much of this time preparing surprises within the borders of the Khalian Empire. Surprises that would cost the Fleet dearly in both men and ships. A few of these were found early in the occupation. Some by luck, others by good intelligence work, a few by more unusual means.

  LIEUTENANT JENSEN paced, spun in a tight circle, then hammered an angry fist on the chart table. Loose marker pins scattered from the blow, falling like micro-shot through furniture tight-knit as a battle formation, “Damn the man, what godforsaken plot could send him back to Guildstar?”