Chain of Command Page 2

  Admiral Tyjaa e-Lapeela was of no more than average height for a Varoki, although a Human would still have to look up at him. His hairless iridescent skin gleamed in the lamplight and his broad, leaf-like ears for the moment rested back against his head, but not tightly so. Part of the skin on the left side of his face was discolored, remnant of a burn he had sustained during the failed military coup a year earlier. Most senior officers associated with the coup—those who had survived—had been retired or imprisoned. Nuvaash did not know how e-Lapeela had avoided a similar fate. As the admiral read from the screen, Nuvaash noticed the tips of his ears tremble slightly in relish.

  The admiral nodded to himself as he finished reading the report and looked up at Nuvaash. He reached out his hand, palm up, and curled his fingers—long even for a Varoki—in summons.

  “Come closer, Nuvaash. I have read your threat assessment. It is quite thoughtful. The inclusion of recent Human warship traffic near the outer gas giant of their primary is an imaginative gauge of their ability to reinforce their forward fleet elements on short notice.”

  “Thank you, Admiral. I live to serve.”

  “Of course, as do I.” e-Lapeela leaned back and gestured to the chair across the desk. “Please, sit. I see you have served as a liaison officer to several Human fleets. I once did as well. Did you know I also began my career as a Speaker for the Enemy?”

  “Your public service record mentioned that, Admiral.”

  “And as a conscientious Speaker, you learned what you could about your new fleet commander. I expected nothing less.” The admiral fell silent for a moment and shifted slightly in his chair. Nuvaash sensed that the conversational preliminaries were complete.

  “Nuvaash, we are about to embark upon an undertaking of enormous danger, but also of historic significance. You understand that. You have read the plan for First Action.”

  Yes, Nuvaash had read the plan for First Action—a euphemism for the surprise opening shot in the first interstellar war in Cottohazz history. What he could not understand was why? Why now? Why here at K’tok? Why risk tearing asunder the entire fabric of the Cottohazz, the stellar commonwealth which the Varoki had labored so long to assemble and maintain? What could be worth all of that?

  The admiral nodded, as if knowing the unspoken question.

  “You know our history, but take a moment to consider its grand sweep. Three hundred years ago we Varoki learned the secret of the jump drive and began exploring the stars. Every sentient race we found, we added to our Cottohazz as equals. We are not conquerors, Nuvaash. All that we have retained for ourselves is the secret of the jump drive, although we license it to the others. Our laws, and other tangible measures, protect its secret, but within those limitations it is theirs to use.”

  Nuvaash knew all of that, of course, but he sensed e-Lapeela was laying the groundwork for something else. The ‘other tangible measures’ he had mentioned were the deadly anti-tamper devices which effectively kept anyone but the manufacturers from examining the interior of the sealed jump drive components, a so-far effective way of preventing reverse-engineering.

  “The other four races we contacted have been content with the arrangement,” the admiral continued. “The Humans, though . . .” The admiral paused and shook his head. “You know them. They are like children who never grow out of their questioning phase. ‘What is this? How does that work? Why can’t I see that? Why can’t we manufacture this ourselves? Why? Why? Why?’”

  Nuvaash knew it was so. He had experienced it many times but did not find it as annoying as did the admiral. Still, he nodded in sympathetic agreement.

  “But mostly,” the admiral continued, “they want to know the secret of the jump drive—our most closely guarded secret, something which only a handful of Varoki even know.”

  “But others have wanted to know as well, Admiral. We have always prevented it.”

  “Yes, we always have. The intellectual property covenants make scientific research along those lines already explored economically fruitless, as the Varoki houses which own the core knowledge own any discovery based on it. Every member state agrees to this as a condition of access to the jump drive itself. But the Humans persist.

  “When Human research firms began making dangerous progress, Varoki trading houses bought them up and redirected the research, as we have done elsewhere, but the Humans persist. Now there are private Human charitable foundations dedicated to pure scientific research—with no hope of commercial gain. Their curiosity is inexhaustible and relentless.”

  Nuvaash knew that as well. He had never found it anything but interesting and sometimes admirable. Now he began to understand the potential threat it posed.

  “But even if they discover the underlying science, commercially it will still belong to the Varoki trading houses,” he said.

  “Not if the Humans withdraw from the Cottohazz,” the admiral answered. “Once they discover the secret on their own, what is to keep them? And if they withdraw, what is to keep the other races with us? The stable and peaceful star-spanning civilization we have built will unravel and the Humans—aggressive, violent, and impulsive—will end up our rivals, and in all likelihood eventually our masters.”

  Nuvaash felt his skin flush with fear as he listened to the admiral, fear of the future the admiral prophesied but also a more immediate one—fear of where the idea that war was the only road to peace might take them.

  “It must not come to that, Nuvaash. It will not come to that.

  “This war, which starts here in the K’tok system, will not end here. It will end with Human fleets swept from space, Human cities in ruins, and the Human spirit broken forever. But before it can end, it must begin.”

  An hour later Sam Bitka sat over coffee in Puebla’s “away” wardroom in Hornet’s habitat wheel, with Lieutenant Julia Washington—”Jules” to her friends—and Lieutenant Moe Rice. Moe, the largest and most heavily muscled member of Puebla’s crew, a former offensive lineman from Texas A&M, made Jules’s diminutive figure look out of scale next to him. They were his two best friends on Puebla, in Jules’s case maybe even more than that.

  “Oh, Sam,” she said. “Commander Huhn can ruin your career. How could you be so stupid?”

  “Boy, howdy,” Moe added.

  Sam laughed. “I think it must be a gift.”

  Jules sipped her coffee, but her green-flecked brown eyes stayed on him. She had good eyes in a good face, clear-featured and softened by her thick curly black hair cut short, but not the buzz cuts popular with a lot of starship crews, something called a pixie cut. Her café con crema complexion—classic American hybrid—contrasted sharply with the white of her officer’s shipsuit. Moe was much darker, the only black Jewish cowboy Sam had ever known.

  “He can’t hurt my career back at DP,” Sam said. “Oh, you mean here. Well, the thing I figured out today is I’m bulletproof. See, I don’t really have a Navy career to worry about. Do my job and stay out of prison for two more years and I’m out of here. Nobody back in The World is ever going to read the fine print in my fitness reports.”

  That was something he’d realized. He really was bullet-proof, as least as far as Del Huhn was concerned. Sam had a good career, just starting to turn into a damned good career, waiting for him back home. It took him seven years with DP—Dynamic Paradigms, LLC—to work his way up through middle management, but he had just finished the company’s Emerging Leaders program, the first step to executive service. Activation of his reserve commission had interrupted that, but only for three years. His corporate mentor had assured him it would look very good on his resume when he came back. It would set him apart. To rise, you needed to stand out from the herd.

  “In the meantime,” Sam added, “I’m just not going to worry about Del Huhn any more, that’s all. Besides, I got him so pissed off at me I think he forgot about Menzies and Delacroix, which is good. Those two he could hurt.”

  “We call that drawing fire,” Jules said, “and you know how well
that usually works out in the tactical exercises—for the draw-er.”

  “Bulletproof, remember?”

  “Can you reason with him, Moe?” Jules said.

  “Reason?” Moe said and shook his head. “I’ll tell you what, if stupid ever goes to ninety bucks a barrel, I want the drillin’ rights on Sam’s head.”

  “Very funny,” Sam said. “I’ll tell you something else I figured out today. Jules, I’ve been riding you guys in the tactical department like a whip-wielding overseer—updating squadron contingency planning and SOPs, running drills, memorizing Varoki naval manuals and ship energy signatures. And now I’m wondering why.”

  “Because you’re Puebla’s Tac Boss, and it’s your job,” she answered. “And I think you’re right.”

  Sam shook his head. “I’m just a dumb reservist. Look at the regulars, the Annapolis grads—other than you, I mean. Goldjune’s looking for an open slot on the admiral’s staff and Captain Rehnquist is getting his resume together to retire into a cushy job with a DC defense lobbying firm.”

  “Nest featherers,” Moe said, his voice heavy with disdain.

  Sam shrugged.

  “Yeah, there’s a lot of that going around. And ever since Jules rebuffed his amorous advances Del Huhn just wants to be Bedcheck Charlie. Every regular officer on this boat above the rank of lieutenant junior grade has their head full of everything except getting ready for a war.

  “So what do they know that I don’t? The odds-on favorite answer is: damned near everything.”

  “Ain’t wrong there,” Moe agreed.

  Jules sipped her coffee and thought about that for a while before answering.

  “So, fewer drills?”

  She didn’t look happy about the prospect. Sam knew Jules took pride in the ‘missile monkeys,’ in her weapons division, took pride in their efficiency and professionalism, but also in the sense of esprit she’d fostered in them. There wasn’t a sharper, more square-away division on Puebla, and every one knew it—especially her missile monkeys.

  “I got the word right before I talked to Huhn: we decouple from Hornet in three days. Our destroyer division’s taking point, right out front, the ‘position of honor,’ somebody called it.”

  Moe snorted at that but Jules straightened slightly in her chair and her eyes brightened.

  “So, yeah, drills are cancelled until we’re separated. Between now and then we’ll have our hands full just getting the crew moved over and settled in, and making sure all the systems are nominal. Tactical department’s got a nice edge and we’ll start running cold drills out there to keep it, once we’re on station. But I’ll tell you something, near as I can tell I’m the only department head taking this whole imminent war thing seriously. I guess that makes me either the smartest guy in the Navy or the dumbest.”

  “Pretty sure I know the answer to that one,” Moe said.

  Jules glanced at Moe and then back at Sam, and she smiled, showing even white teeth with one crooked incisor which he suddenly and inexplicably found very sexy.

  CHAPTER TWO

  2 December 2133

  (seventeen days later) (nineteen days from K’tok orbit)

  Later, Sam would decide it had been a mistake to accelerate, but later still he would realize the captain had made the best call he could based on what he knew at the time. Captains sometimes just don’t know enough to know what the right call is, but they have to make one anyway.

  But that all came later.

  Sam woke to bedlam—harsh, repetitive, mechanical bleating, deafeningly loud, which made no sense and nearly drowned out the voice trying to be heard. His body responded before his mind did, hands tearing open the zero-gee restraints on his sleeping cubby, feet kicking free first. His right arm became tangled in the restraint netting as his brain separated the sounds and made sense of them: the regular gongs of the call to general quarters, the whooping siren of the hull breach alarm, and the klaxon warning of imminent acceleration. He had never heard all three at the same time.

  “General Quarters. General Quarters. All hands to battle stations,” the calm but insistent recorded female voice said over the boat’s intercom. “Hull breach. Hull breach. All hands rig for low pressure. Warning. Warning. All hands prepare for acceleration. General Quarters. General Quarters,” the voice continued in its synthetic loop.

  Suddenly there was gravity, enough to turn the rear wall of the stateroom into floor and drop Sam’s feet against it. That would be the first pair of MPD thrusters. He untangled his right arm as the second and third pairs kicked in, upping the gravity to a half gee.

  He yanked the helmet from the locker beside his sleeping cubby, now a narrow bunk bay set into the wall and parallel to the deck, and he sealed the collar of the white shipsuit—short for ship environment suit—he’d slept in. He prepared to catch himself when the acceleration stopped, but it didn’t, so he pulled open the stateroom hatch and sprinted down the trunk corridor to the hatch to the boat’s spine and the access tube leading forward. “Sprinted” was a misnomer; he used the low-gravity fast shuffle, the only way to cover ground quickly at a half gee without his head slamming into the overhead. He ducked past half a dozen crew on their way to their own battle stations. The acceleration cut out as he approached one of the main bulkheads and he sailed the rest of the way, colliding with two ratings and sliding past them.

  “Mr. Bitka!” one of them called out. “What’s up?”

  “Get to your battle station, Cummings. Your section leader will tell you.”

  If he knew, Sam thought. He hadn’t kept exact count but he guessed the acceleration burn had lasted at least forty seconds, perhaps more, and the thought made him sweat. At full thrust the Puebla’s low-signature MPD thrusters had less than two minutes worth of juice in the energy storage system. Whatever was going on, it was bad. The General Quarters and Hull Breach alarms continued to sound but at least the acceleration klaxon had fallen silent. With his free hand he snagged the handhold above the bulkhead hatch as he nearly collided with it. The sudden stop at an awkward angle wrenched his back but he launched himself through the hatch, into the spinal transit tube, and forward toward the bridge.

  The tube itself was square and three meters across, but was also interrupted by half-bulkheads jutting out from the sides, closing off the port half or starboard half of the tube, alternating back and forth every three meters for the length of the boat. It made travel through the tube tedious in zero gee, but it also kept the tube from becoming a hundred-meter-deep shaft of death when the boat accelerated.

  Within twenty or thirty meters he encountered a mass of men and women, mostly in blue enlisted personnel shipsuits but with a couple in the khaki of chief petty officers.

  “Make way,” Sam called.

  The crew closest to him looked back, saw his white shipsuit, and one of them shouted, “Officer. Make way!”

  Each half-bulkhead also included an extendable hatch which could completely close the shaft, sealing it in the event of a hull breach. Sam moved forward and several hands helped pull him to the extended and sealed bulkhead hatch, with flashing red lights around its perimeter: low atmospheric pressure on the other side. As he watched the lights changed to solid red: vacuum.

  Surgically embedded commlinks included a limited visual menu controlled with eye pressure. Sam squinted up the boat’s directory and pinged Damage Control.

  Damage Control. Go, a harassed-sounding female voice answered inside his head.

  “Lieutenant Bitka aft of frame fifty-five with a sealed hatch and a vacuum warning forward,” he reported.

  Wait one, she said and for a few seconds the connection went mute. Then the brusque voice returned. A-gang on the way. Do not open the hatch until they arrive. Acknowledge.

  “Bitka acknowledged,” he answered and cut the connection. His commlink vibrated softly almost at once. He opened the command channel and the captain’s voice filled his head.

  Mister Bitka, this is Captain Rehnquist. I understand there
’s a block at frame fifty-five.

  “Yes sir. I’m here with about a dozen other crew trying to get forward to our primary battle stations.”

  Understood. We have maneuvering watch personnel here to cover the bridge stations, and Lieutenant Washington will ride the TAC One chair. Send the crew aft to their secondary stations. You go to the auxiliary bridge and help Lieutenant Commander Huhn.

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  So Jules would ride the TAC One chair in the bridge. Whatever was happening, she could handle it as well as Sam could. He passed the captain’s order on to the nearby crew and made his own way aft to the auxiliary bridge.

  Puebla’s auxiliary bridge was only half-manned by the time Sam got there. It was a smaller, cramped version of the main bridge. A smart wall comprised the forward bulkhead, able to display any combination of sensor and instrument readings. The nine crew stations were built into the bulkhead three meters back.

  The dorsal row consisted of the TAC One chair to the right, Communications to the left, and the command chair in the center, with Huhn buckling himself in. The broader second tier consisted of two more TAC chairs on the right with Petty Officer Third Elise Delacroix at Tactical Three, the hatch giving access to the central communication trunk in the center, and the two maneuvering station chairs on the left, with Ensign Barb Lee at the helm. The bottom row, usually called “the pits,” held another empty Tac chair to the right side of the access trunk tunnel and engineering petty officer second Rachel Karlstein at boat systems station to the left.

  “What are you doing here, Bitka?” Huhn snapped.

  “Captain’s orders, sir. Blockage at frame fifty-five, so people are reshuffling their stations. Jules is sitting TAC One up front.” Sam pulled the folding workstation over his midsection and locked it in place after strapping himself into the chair. He plugged the life support umbilical from his shipsuit into the work station socket, slid the helmet cover down over his face, and checked to make sure his suit was sealed and had positive air flow, in case they lost pressure in this compartment as well. All his internal system telltales showed green and he slid his helmet cover back up.