First Command

by Scott Bartlett

  Humanity had been transiting back and forth through the wormhole for a century. In recent decades, it had even been deemed safe enough for colonists. Even so, Thatcher felt a knot of anxiety at the base of his throat. It had been there for a couple of days, and it was getting worse the closer they got to the great gateway.

  He’d never visited the Dawn Cluster before. He’d read about the first ships to go through, whose crews had almost all been claimed by cancer a few years later, after being bathed in radiation by the wormhole. Their onboard Geiger counters had told the tale, but by then it was far too late.

  After that, the UNC had banned all wormhole travel while it took a year to develop the hull shielding necessary to protect crews. Yet another technology it hoarded to itself, though it outfitted any ship that wanted the shielding, setting its own price for the upgrade.

  Thatcher knew he had nothing to fear from the transition through the wormhole—these days, any ship that went to the Cluster carried the shielding necessary to protect her occupants. But the idea of traveling tens of thousands of light years in an instant boggled his mind, and his anxiety spiked whenever he considered how far from Lin it would put him.

  But that was far from the only source of his anxiety. At least half of it stemmed from the fact that he was mere hours away from boarding his first command—his childhood dream, realized years ahead of schedule. Was he truly ready? Or would he make some fatal error, when the responsibility for his ship and crew lay squarely on his shoulders?

  He wrote the last exam, checked over his answers, and submitted it a half hour before the timer ran out. With that, he sat in the rigid chair and stared at the bulkhead, forcing himself to breathe deeply. But the knot of tension remained.

  To distract himself, he called up a news site, whose main headline did nothing to calm him:

  “STRANGE UNDERGROUND GROWTHS SUSPECTED TO BE XANTHIC INCUBATION PODS.”

  Stiffening, he read the story twice, his eyes lingering on the featured images. The jaundiced pods had been found on Earth, in caves below the city of Trieste, in Italy. Sinewy tendrils connected the pregnant-looking sacs to the floor and ceiling of the caves. In the first image, men with flamethrowers were turning the pods to ash.

  But Barton was crawling with Xanthic. If the pods are under Italy, they’re probably everywhere else, too.

  I have to go back.

  Except, he wasn’t clear on how he would do that. He doubted the freighter would turn around just to deliver him back to Earth orbit, and he couldn’t afford to hire another vessel to bring him back. Possibly, he could pay a shuttle pilot to divert course and dock with the Goliath to pick him up, then to take him to another freighter bound for Earth. But it would put a significant dent in his and Lin’s savings. How would she take it if he reacted that way? If he managed to screw up his job with Frontier right after leaving the Fleet?

  The last paragraph of the news story mentioned that planet-wide evacuations were already underway, as authorities scoured the planet for more pods. There was nothing he would accomplish by returning to Earth that the UNC and the U.S. military wouldn’t accomplish anyway. So he set about first messaging Rear Admiral Faulkner, asking that Lin and her parents be given priority in the queue for evacuation, along with his own parents. That done, he messaged Lin, urging her to get off Earth as soon as possible and go to one of the Lunar Colonies. He reasoned that the Xanthic pods probably wouldn’t survive on the moon, without any atmosphere. She’d be safe there. As safe as it was possible to be in Earth Local Space, right now.

  His messages sent, he leaned against the chair’s hard back, chewing the inside of his cheek and wondering if he was doing the right thing. In his heart, he knew that Admiral Faulkner was right: he’d be making the biggest difference exactly where he was going.

  But Lin’s face filled his mind’s eye, and he couldn’t help feeling as though he was leaving her and their unborn son to the aliens.

  Chapter Six

  Lincoln Station

  Sunrise System, Clime Region

  Earth Year 2290

  “So I was right,” Thatcher muttered to himself as he marched down the long access tube leading to the New Jersey. “There will be no change of command ceremony.”

  Upon disembarking from the Goliath, he’d received nothing more than directions to the open-space docking bay where the New Jersey awaited him, and orders to proceed to Oasis Colony after taking command. There had been nothing in the message he’d received about a time at which the crew would be mustered and the national anthem played—a time at which he would officially assume command. Neither had there been any indication of his performance on the exams he’d challenged, though he had to assume he’d at least passed them.

  “The New Jersey,” he said, emphasizing the ship’s title sardonically. He was beginning to suspect that Frontier’s habit of naming its starships after U.S. Navy ships of old was nothing more than a marketing gimmick, to give the impression that the company’s ships conducted themselves just like U.S. Space Fleet ships.

  The Admiral seemed to buy that line. Now I get to find out if it holds up.

  In truth, he’d worried about this ever since hearing the New Jersey was a light cruiser. The original New Jersey had been a battleship, and it hadn’t carried any missiles at all. Minor details to some, but in Thatcher’s mind they loomed large.

  This wasn’t how he’d expected to feel the day he assumed his first command. Lincoln Station itself had contributed to his irritation, with its winding ways, nearly unnavigable even with the directions he’d been given. To a newcomer, it was a bewildering warren of identical corridors, hatches, and bays. The American government owned the sprawling station, and it was one of many superstructures littered throughout the Sunrise System, all owned by various countries. Any nation that could afford a station here was permitted only one, and so those owned by governments with sufficiently high GDPs tended to grow over time, most becoming confounding tangles.

  These stations’ safety was virtually guaranteed, with the presence of so many UNC super-ships—massive fighter drone carriers and dreadnoughts that bristled weaponry, both which dwarfed everything else in the system. Sunrise was considered a “cold” system, along with the rest of Clime Region, with the chance of conflict breaking out here very close to zero. The four neighboring regions were also cold, and beyond them were the warm regions—where Oasis was located. The Contested Regions beyond those were termed “hot.”

  Thatcher reached the part of the access tube where the upper half became transparent, and his eyes fell on the New Jersey herself.

  “My God,” he said, drawing up short to behold the sleek craft. “She’s beautiful.”

  All thoughts of Frontier Security’s seeming impropriety vanished as he let his eyes feast on the waiting starship. The yard workers had done a stellar job of replacing the hull sections damaged when the New Jersey fled the ambush that had awaited her in the first system of the Olent Region. Thatcher had winced his way through the report from that engagement: if there hadn’t been an accompanying electronic warfare ship to unleash an omnidirectional jamming burst and cover their escape, the pirates or the Xanthic likely would have gotten both ships.

  But now, he couldn’t find any evidence of the beating she’d taken after her shields went down, not anywhere along her gleaming, five hundred meter length. The chunky railgun accelerator for flinging warhead-tipped missiles at high speeds, the primary laser focusing array, the automated turrets, the broad hull—all six hundred thousand tons looked new and burnished to a satisfying sheen.

  He found himself drawing deep breaths, fighting to steady himself. This was what he’d spent years working toward. The reason he’d tried to lead the perfect career, with impeccable service, impeccable decorum. So what if Frontier wasn’t the U.S. Space Fleet analog it represented itself as? He would make it work.

  The marine sentry standing at ease outside the cruiser’s personnel hatch came to attention as Thatcher approached, sketchin
g a passable salute. “Welcome to the New Jersey, Captain Thatcher,” he said.

  Thatcher regarded him coldly, saying nothing. By Fleet custom, it wasn’t appropriate to acknowledge him as captain until he’d assumed command. Surely this marine should know that—he must have served with the actual U.S. marines at some point.

  Either way, he wilted under Thatcher’s glare, then turned to key open the hatch to admit him.

  “Aren’t you going to inspect my ID?” Thatcher asked before stepping onto the New Jersey.

  “Why, sir, we all know who you—”

  “I don’t much care who you think I am, Sergeant. Every person approaching this ship is to be properly IDed.”

  They looked at each other for a protracted moment, the baffled sergeant apparently at a loss. Finally, he held out his hand and said, “May I see your ID, sir?”

  Thatcher slapped the card into the man’s hand and continued to study the marine as he made a show of comparing the holographic image there to his new captain’s face. After a few seconds, he returned the card with a salute. Nodding curtly, Thatcher proceeded into the Jersey.

  He rounded the first bend into an empty passageway. Would the marine know enough to alert the ship’s XO to Thatcher’s presence, or would he be forced to wander his new command like a lost tourist until he found the CIC?

  The next passageway was similarly empty, and he took the opportunity to run his index finger along the bulkhead. It came back dark with grime, and he frowned at it ferociously.

  The next corner gave way to reveal his green-eyed Executive Officer at last, walking briskly toward him. They both came up short to avoid a collision, and the XO stepped back, saluting smartly.

  Thatcher returned it. “Permission to come aboard?” he ground out, even though he was clearly already on board, since Lieutenant Commander Billy Candle had failed to greet him at the personnel hatch.

  “Permission granted,” Candle said. If his own indecorum made him uneasy, it didn’t show. “May I escort you to the CIC, sir?”

  “Thank you, Commander.” So they were flirting with Fleet protocol, then. Well, two could play at that game. Custom said Thatcher should wait until officially assuming command before asserting his will, but as they walked together he said, “The state of these passageways is unacceptable. Have Cleaning Stations not been implemented?”

  Candle cleared his throat. “The crew has had…other priorities of late, sir.”

  “Unless we are actively engaging enemy ships, maintaining a clean and orderly ship must be our first priority, Commander. Are we currently engaging an enemy ship?”

  “Um, no, sir. Not at present.”

  “Then it will be your first task to assign Cleaning Stations if they have not already been assigned, and then to tour the ship with the Command Master Chief between 0800 and 0900 to ensure every crewmember is doing his or her part. Is that clear?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Good.”

  Thatcher admired Candle’s ability to conceal his resentment toward the changes his new master’s arrival clearly represented. But there was no doubt the resentment was there—Thatcher had spent far too many years observing his subordinates to miss it.

  This XO is capable of frightful deceit, if he turns his mind to it. I’m sure of it.

  Most seasoned captains would avoid making radical changes from the way his predecessor had run things—certainly on the first day of command. But from what Thatcher had already seen, he sensed that implementing great change was unavoidable.

  He intended to preside over a proper warship, not a filthy, disorderly tub.

  Chapter Seven

  Aboard the New Jersey

  Sparkling Vista System, Clime Region

  Earth Year 2290

  “You there,” the stocky command master chief barked at a pair of seamen chatting over their mop handles. “Get back to work, you, and don’t have me repeat myself.” Stan Wainman turned to his captain with a self-satisfied grin as the seamen resumed their mopping with vigor, and Thatcher offered a grave nod. They and Lieutenant Commander Candle continued along the passageway, observing the crew at their Cleaning Stations.

  Thatcher liked Wainman. He seemed like a man who’d been utterly henpecked by the crew under his last captain. That made sense, as Captain Vaughn had apparently given his subordinates most everything they wanted, including a steady stream of prize money. As far as Thatcher could tell, Wainman found his more authoritarian approach to be a breath of fresh air.

  Of course, his “approach” wouldn’t have been considered particularly authoritarian in the real Fleet. Indeed, he almost certainly wouldn’t have had to make most of these changes, since they would have been part of the normal running of a Fleet starship.

  This was the first time in a week he’d joined Candle and Wainman in their oversight of Cleaning Stations. For the first week of his command, he’d walked with them every day, to help the crew understand exactly how serious he was about maintaining order aboard the New Jersey. He’d also filled his early days with mess deck and uniform inspections, and spot checks—an unusual number of them for the commanding officer to perform. But until he could be sure his officers and chief petty officers had gotten into the habit of performing them routinely, he would continue to hammer home the message himself: the New Jersey was no filthy space tub, but a proper warship, properly maintained.

  It was good to have an ally in his efforts—and not one who just went through the motions, like Candle, but a true enthusiast like Wainman. The command master chief had also brought some startling rumors to his attention, of fraternization between the ship’s officers and enlisted men. Wainman had also “heard” of seamen and petty officers getting invited into officer’s country, to fill out poker games or simply to get drunk and gossip.

  It was plain to Thatcher that these were more than rumors, and that Wainman knew exactly what was going on between the New Jersey’s officers and crew. But it was well that he’d characterized the news as “rumors,” since actual evidence would have forced Thatcher to start discharging crewmembers.

  It was much better to make a brief announcement over the 1MC: “This is Captain Thatcher. All crew are reminded that interaction between enlisted crewmembers and ship’s officers is to be limited to official communication only. Fraternization between a unit’s officers and enlisted members is strongly discouraged, and inappropriate relationships will result in discharge.”

  He didn’t dare try taking their alcohol away—not yet, anyway. But U.S. Space Fleet ships were dry, and the New Jersey would be too. Eventually.

  One thing about Candle, he’s certainly efficient. The XO had ensured the New Jersey was ready to get underway the moment her captain arrived, and since then they’d been making good time through the Clime Region. Soon, they would pass through the regional jump gate, into Unity Region, and then into Dupliss, where most American colonies were. Including Oasis Colony.

  The three men entered the engineering plant, where Ensign Jimmy Devine was busy scrubbing a check valve with a sopping sponge. When he saw the officers enter, he dropped the sponge and came to attention, snapping off a salute.

  “At ease, Ensign,” Thatcher murmured, and Devine took up his sponge again with just as much verve as before.

  Thatcher caught himself frowning as he remembered his first day of command, when the lad had greeted him in an overly familiar way.

  “Your boots could use some work, Devine,” Thatcher had snapped in response, and the ensign had reddened from collar to cap.

  “Yes, sir,” he’d choked out.

  A few other engineers had been within earshot. Under normal circumstances, Thatcher wouldn’t have reacted with quite so much force, but given the stance he’d taken against fraternization he couldn’t very well tolerate it in himself. They weren’t aboard the Goliath any longer.

  The hour of Cleaning Stations came to an end, and they completed their tour about the New Jersey. “Candle, I want you to meet me in my office at 1000.
Bring the chief engineer’s report on his inspection of the Hellborns’ onboard computers with you.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Thatcher nodded, then continued down the passageway toward his office. The new Hellborns were Frontier’s answer to the Ogre-class missiles getting hacked by the Xanthic in Olent. This version was supposed to be unhackable, but Thatcher knew no such thing existed. There was only the arms race between security experts and attackers—a balance of back doors and exploits.

  He could sense the crew’s unease as he passed them by, their eyes sliding off him as they came to attention and saluted. “At ease,” he muttered, again and again. “At ease.” The words seemed to take on a second meaning.

  These men and women had no doubt joined the private military sector to make money and to escape the Fleet’s stringent protocols. Now, here was a captain who enforced them more strongly than anyone they were likely to have served under in the Fleet.

  But Thatcher was a traditionalist. He didn’t believe in the modern freewheeling way of doing things—the way that preserved feelings wherever it could, treating its subjects with kid gloves.

  Rather, he believed there were only a few ways to run an effective ship, and they’d all been discovered already. He didn’t command a social science experiment, but a military vessel. The crew would simply have to get used to it.

  Chapter Eight

  New Houston, Oasis Colony

  Freedom System, Dupliss Region

  Earth Year 2290

  “Welcome to Oasis, Commander.” As they shook, Veronica Rose’s hand was soft but firm against his. “I trust your voyage from the wormhole was an uneventful one.”