Strong Arm Tactics (7 page)
Read Strong Arm Tactics Online
Authors: Jody Lynn Nye
“No, ma’am,” he assured her fervently. “My interaction with X-Ray company is pretty much all within normal parameters. Don’t worry, commander. I’m sure it won’t all be such smooth sailing in the future.”
Mason sagged visibly with relief. Wolfe guessed she felt torn between two reputations, the Cockroaches’ and the Wolfe Family. “Glad to hear it … I mean, please keep me apprised of your progress. And if you have any troubles over the next few days, come to me. That’s what I’m here for.”
Wolfe saluted briskly. “Thank you, ma’am.”
O O O
Colonel Inigo Ayala stood before his captain’s chair on the bridge of his flagship, the
Dilestro
, as the helm officer prepared to bring the ship out of nonspace transition. The starchart he saw on the three-dimensional viewscreen was a computer-generated projection. What was actually outside the ship in nonspace, that fourth-dimensional jump in between linear points, was nonsense to the human eye since they were traveling faster than light, but people, he mused, could not stand to have nothing to look at. Stars were pictured as streaks, relative to their proximity to the ship, the color dependent upon the Doppler effect of which direction they were moving in the great cosmic dance. Even if it was an illusion, Ayala rejoiced in it. It was pretty. And each streak out there represented either a star system that humanity had conquered, or had yet to conquer. In his opinion, Man was wasting his time not taking over more worlds and making use of their potential. That was why he followed General Sams. She had the same belief he did. Maybe it was a big dream, one that would never be realized in his lifetime, but he still enjoyed picturing the universe as the rightful playground of the hairless, clawless apes from Terra. Not bad for a race that spends its formative years helpless and frightened, eh?
Ever since humanity made the non-linear jump in between Sol’s star system and another, questions arose, not just “how can we do this again?” but “how far can we go, and what effect does it have on the people who make the jumps and the ones they leave behind?” With nonlinearity, the disruption of lives was minimalized. Transit, while not instantaneous, was greatly reduced in endurance, so that to cross the thousands of light years comprising the Thousand Worlds sector of the Milky Way galaxy along the longest axis took less than two hundred days. Why, travellers had to be fairly hyperactive even to get bored during that short a trip.
Humankind’s footprint in the galaxy had increased in size every year since the discovery of faster-than-light travel, and began to overlap those of other intelligent races. The first thing humans discovered was that they could do it—travel faster than light and survive—and the second was that they could do it again. The next thing they learned was that they were not alone in the galaxy, and some of the beings out there could do it, too. The other thing they learned was that people in their zeal to travel great distances kept their eyes on the distant prize, and less on their immediate surroundings. To a boy who had grown up picking pockets in the capital city of Great Fufford, Bailey’s Planet, he hoped that starfarers would never lose that idealistic, billion-light-year vision.
From the trio of worlds that was the Insurgency’s base of operations, forty days to the central trade routes. The latest gen from his spies gave him copies of the bills of lading informed him that the loads he was interested in, the Tachytalks and millions of credits’ worth of other supplies, had already set out from their worlds of manufacture on board a fleet of trade ships bound for distributorships in five different destinations. The trick was to catch the ships before they split up. His ships were built for chase and conquest. They lacked the comforts of most of TWC ships, such as entertainment centers and holosuites, sometimes even devoid of shock padding anywhere but the crash couches, but they had capacious cargo holds and better-than-average shielding. The people who shipped aboard them didn’t mind the discomfort. They were zealots. Each had come to the Insurgency with his, her or its own agenda and own particular grudge against the central government, but by and large they managed to operate under a grudging truce. The first thing was to overthrow the status quo and get rid of the unresponsive, overblown government. How things worked after that was a war for the future.
Not that Ayala had anything against non-humans. Most of the crew of
Dilestro
were bugs. With their hard carapaces they were more radiation resistant than humans, and cared less for the comforts most humans craved. Ayala, who slept on an unpadded plastic slab, never listened to gripes about soft beds. The one thing the bugs liked were fresh leaves, a fortunate coincidence, since the cheapest way to recycle carbon dioxide-heavy air was to let plants breathe it in. Every ship had all-shift grow lights beaming down on mosses and vines that clung to every non-essential interior surface. So the wild growth made it a little hard to read door signs and indicators once in a while, and every so often one tripped over a vine seeking a more room to grow. So what? Green refreshed the eyes. Once the Insurgency had succeeded in overthrowing the central government, he intended to lobby for certain resource-poor worlds to be transformed into nature conservancies. No sense in supporting an impoverished industrial complex when there were so many others making a profit in the universe. Specialization—that made for survival. Let predators be predators, and let herbivores be their prey.
The everpresent howl of the drives faded as they slowed. The bright streaks in the navigation tank shortened from dashes to dots. Ayala rode out the rough transition, bending his knees like a surfer at each bump and judder. He would not sit down. To have to hold on to something was a sign of weakness. He cursed his knees, which had forced him to suffer replacement surgery. They did not understand who was master here. Mere joints and cartilage! What were they against neural tissue and its potential for greatness?
Itterim Sol Oostern appeared at his side. “We’ve cleared nonspace,” he chittered.
“Good,” Ayala said. “Any fresh info?”
“Awaiting transmissions from shell-brothers. I sent a coded squirt letting them know our vector. It could be up to half a day. Do we want to wait?”
Ayala nodded. “No sense in throwing a surprise party if the guests of honor aren’t coming.”
He deplored the use of spies, but the other side employed them, so he had to. No sense in refusing to take up a weapon. He felt that the Insurgency had the right on their side. The Thousand Worlds Confederation was outdated, dying under its own weight. What was needed was a simpler outlook: everyone to their purpose, in cooperation with all others, for the greater glory of the galaxy. Others, deep inside the bloated bureaucracy, shared his vision. The identities of some of them would surprise the senators and representatives who purported to speak for the people. They would be amazed to know how many of their so-called constituents felt that government had gone off track and was sticking its nose into places it didn’t belong.
An itterim at the communications console signed to Oostern, who checked his battered infopad.
“They have received our coordinates and will arrive shortly, colonel.”
“Good,” Ayala said. “Tell them we await their news.”
***
Chapter 5
Captain Harawe of the TWC destroyer
Eastwood
obviously knew X-Ray Company’s reputation, and didn’t like it. He surveyed the unit as they reported to him at the shuttle landing zone with the distaste one might have upon discovering a freshly coughed-up hairball.
Harawe, a tall man with very dark skin and epicanthic folds over hazel-green eyes, let his gaze travel from one trooper to another. “I just want to get some things clear before you set foot or whatever,” he amended, peering at the corlist, “on my ship. I don’t take slag, but I give out plenty. There are no easy berths aboard the
Eastwood
. You’ll work for your passage. Is that understood?”
“Aye, sir!” X-Ray chorused obediently. Daivid distrusted them when they sounded that angelic. He snapped off a salute.
“Lieutenant Daivid Wolfe, Captain!” he barked out. “These are my officers, Lieutenant jg Donna Borden, and Ensign Ioan Thielind.”
“I saw your names on the manifest,” Harawe growled, spinning to face them. “We’re not going to get chummy. I’m your ride, and that’s all. Your company will work, eat, excrete, recreate, and sleep, and stay the hell out of my way. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir!” Daivid held himself erect. A regular Navy type. Someone like Harawe sounded like he hated you, but if you dug down deep enough into his inner psyche and really probed his heart you would find out that he didn’t care enough about you to bother with hate. If your plans didn’t coincide with his plans, then you were the one who had to change, and pronto. Whatever made Mason treat Daivid and the others with such leniency didn’t impact upon Harawe at all. All the captain wanted was for them to follow orders, avoid conflict, and make it through the journey so they would get the hell off his ship. Daivid was comfortable with an arm’s-length attitude like that. He had given X-Ray a lengthy speech on just getting there and back again without attracting notice. With straight faces, every one of them had assured him that peace and quiet was all they wanted.
Daivid was already feeling nervous. He had given strict orders not to bring with them the still or the piece of hull plate, but he had noticed a flash of melon-pink behind a rack of weapons before Nuu Myi had slammed the cargo container shut. When Daivid had demanded she reopen it for his inspection she pretended to have forgotten the code sequence. So the memorial was traveling with them. When he realized they were not going to listen to him he had made sure he was the last man out of the enlisted barracks, and checked the battered closet at the end of the room. The still was still there, its heating element turned off and sealed. Daivid had felt a surge of relief, but when he kicked the tank, it rang hollow. Groaning, Daivid had made tracks for the depot to do a quick check of the rest of their cargo.
The array of packing containers piled up ready for shipment was daunting, but no one ever told a Wolfe there was a job too big for him. He had taken the manifest out of Thielind’s hands and scanned it for potential hiding places. Somewhere, they had managed to pack a hundred liters of white lightning. How the hell could anyone conceal that much liquid? He doubted they had sold it all to the spaceport bar. Daivid started opening big carriers, poking through the padding around artillery pieces and lifting up the spacer bars in between weapons. Not a single thing sloshed or burbled that wasn’t supposed to. By the time Harawe had landed he still hadn’t found the liquor. He hoped the captain wouldn’t happen upon it by accident.
Harawe eyed the enlisted troopers with distaste. “There’s sixty skids of goods coming on board. You people are loading my cargo as well as your own. I’m not bringing anyone down here to help. No one gets a free ride on my ship. Do you hear me?”
“No, sir!” Boland led the rest in a hearty salute. Daivid shot the noncoms a wary glance. They grinned at him. Harawe nodded curtly.
“Then let’s get this load of crap moving!”
“Hey, lieutenant,” Supply Chief Sargus had called, pointing a thick thumb at an army of frontloaders rolling along behind him. “Here’s the rest of your ammo. And your suits. I don’t believe it! Everything checked out. You must be the luckiest dumb fragger ever to board ship, or the toughest. Good luck!”
“I’m going to need it,” Daivid thought.
O O O
The
Eastwood
must have been well-favored by Central Command, or it had been recently commissioned. Everything
smelled
new, like a flitter straight out of the display room. Daivid oversaw the loading, with Harawe towering over him disapprovingly. They stowed the containers of battle armor, weaponry, and personal goods. Daivid hovered around them nervously, listening for that telltale gurgle. The last of X-Ray’s equipment was loaded, and he was none the wiser, but Harawe hadn’t noticed anything unusual, either. He’d have to check once they got on board. In the meantime, the rest of the loading job remained to be finished.
“Watch that, there!” the stern captain shouted, as Ewanowski guided the first of Supply’s frontloaders out of the warehouse, a box over six meters long by two broad. “That’s my new flitter. One scratch, and you will all be remelting and mending ceramic bulkhead all the way to your drop site!”
“Aye, sir,” Daivid acknowledged. “Er, wouldn’t it be easier to take it out of its crate, secure the crate, and drive the flitter inside the hold? That would lessen the possibility of it getting any bumps on the way in.”
“Good idea. See to it!” Harawe stalked away to talk with Commander Mason, arriving in the wake of the supplies.
At Borden’s direction, Meyers and Boland undid the locks at one end of the long container. Boland stuck his head inside and let out a long whistle.
“What a beauty!” he crowed. Before anyone else could move, he swung inside and dropped into the pilot’s seat. “Hot slag! Antigrav displacement emitters, Parkinson positronic drive, Van Clef-Menow MR3 stabilizers, multi-source renewable fuel—this baby will never run out of power, no matter how long you run it!”
“It’s not yours,” Daivid said firmly, foreseeing a potential incident like the one to which Boland had alluded on Daivid’s first day.
“Of course, not, sir,” Boland replied, as if shocked. He ran his hands over the instrument panel, then punched both thumbs into the drive actuators. With a roar, the flitter jumped forward, covering the hundred and ten meters between the warehouse and the shuttle in seconds. Daivid ran after him. The crate trundled behind him at one twentieth the speed of the flitter.
When Daivid got inside the hold, Boland was polishing the traces of oil from his fingertips lovingly off the sides and control panel of the flitter.
“She’s fantastic, sir,” he said, with genuine affection. Rag still wound around his hand, he patted the vehicle. It bobbed slightly on its magnetic anti-grav lifts as if responding to the caress.
“Well …” Daivid was not immune to the charms of a fast flitter. He leaned over to take a sniff of the smooth upholstery. It smelled newer than the shuttle. It reminded him of the personal craft his uncle had given him for his sixteenth birthday, the one he and his cousins had wrecked dive-racing along updrafts in the mountains. “You leave it alone, chief. It’s the captain’s personal vehicle. I don’t want you to touch it again while we’re on that ship.”
“Agreed, sir,” Boland said. He threw a salute, then turned to help Meyers and Okumede recrate the runabout. With deep misgivings, Wolfe returned to the warehouse to oversee the next load. There was something in the chief’s assent that struck him as too ready and too smooth. He’d have to think about the exchange, and figure out where the hole in his logic had been.
O O O
Daivid always got a feeling of stepping off a cliff every time he went on a mission. A faint, undefinable feeling of going off into the unknown. Excitement made up a large part of the elixir, a touch of fear and a large dollop of curiosity. They were going to fight humanity’s enemies and make another part of the galaxy safe for civilization. Almost ready to go, now. The loaders and ground transports were all emptied, their burdens tucked into the belly of the gleaming shuttle. The wheeled vehicles and all the base’s personnel withdrew behind the ten-meter-high, transparent firescreen at the far edge of the vast polycrete surface of the launch pad. Daivid squinted into the brilliance of the afternoon sun. Supply Master Chief Sargus stood at the edge, back propped against a forklift with his big thumbs hooked into his belt. And Commander Mason hovered behind the window like a house pet watching its master departing, except instead of being sad, her shoulders were slumped with relief. She was getting rid of her problem children, possibly forever. A little of his excited energy abandoned him. He followed his troopers on board the shuttle.
The Cockroaches were directed to impact benches just to the fore of the hold.
“Hey, look at this!” Aaooorru announced, poking his forefeeler to the third joint in the padding. “Comfy!” The others threw themselves into the couches and wriggled against the cushioning. Petite Lin almost vanished into her seat’s depths. They took up a great deal more room than the usual crash-couches, but Daivid thought they’d be worth it, preserving the health of the troopers enveloped in them. And they’d be a lot more tolerable for long transits than the old style seats, which were more like riding on a bench than a safety device designed to deliver soldiers to their deployment in good working order.
Everything, bulkheads, seats, control panels, infoscreens, disposers, dispensers, signage, was perfectly clean and new or in good repair, not a chip, a tear, a stain or a scratch visible anywhere. Daivid experienced deep envy at the newness, the air of prosperity all around him. Why couldn’t
his
unit have ships and facilities that weren’t sixteen-times hand-me-downs? The pristine corridors rang with their footsteps as he and his two officers followed the
Eastwood’s
executive officer, a narrow-faced man with thin, red-brown skin and flaring nostrils, from the enlisted troopers’ cabin forward to the bridge. Harawe gave them one sour glance as they strapped in, and never looked at them again.
The shuttle, so pristine that its exterior plating shone like the glass it was, lifted off effortlessly in spite of the heavy containers in her belly. Treadmill’s mosaic landscape receded hastily in the star tank. At Harawe’s order, the navigator, a plump woman with barley-gold curls, turned the view outward. The
Eastwood
gleamed in the star’s light like a planet, its curved arrowhead shape shimmering white as the shuttle. The exterior was studded with laser ports and missile tubes. Since she was not designed to land dirtside, no expanse of her white belly had to be left flat for landing gear. She was defensible from every angle. Daivid counted six gun emplacements angled around the landing bay into which the shuttle flew.
Treadmill was a sleepy little hamlet compared with the bustling complement of the
Eastwood
. Grapples captured the slowing shuttle and eased her into her landing cradle. Hoses and cranes snaked out of the walls and hooked onto the hull with assorted clanks and thumps, followed by technicians and repairbots. Harawe smacked the safety buckle on his impact harness and was up and on his way out off the bridge before Wolfe, Borden, and Thielind had undone theirs.
None of the
Eastwood’s
officers looked at the three of them. Wolfe shrugged. Even if he hadn’t been paying attention when they had boarded the way to the exit was clearly marked in Standard and eight other languages, and one destroyer was pretty much laid out like another. He had done his initial service on the destroyer
Van Damme
.
What to do when he reached the shuttle bay was another thing. Once they had debarked and passed through decontamination in the vast, shining white airlock, they paused, hoping they didn’t look as lost as they felt. Fortunately, Harawe had arranged for a welcoming committee.
Bong! A bell-like sound echoed in his head, as the ship’s communication system broadcast directly into his mastoid implant. A crisp female voice announced, “Please proceed forward twenty meters to the next set of double blast doors. Then halt. Your escort is waiting for you.”
“Did you hear that?” Daivid asked the others.
“Did I ever!” Thielind said, shaking his head. “That computer has one sexy voice.”
“You need to go on a date,” Borden smirked.
“What’s the hurry? It’s only been six months since the last one.”
A female junior officer so smartly attired Wolfe thought she must be going to a costume ball instead of on duty marched up and saluted him. It took him a moment to realize she was dressed normally. Daivid mentally shook himself. Five days among the Cockroaches was ruining his eye for appropriate military bearing. He had better watch it, or he was going to forget what standards were supposed to be like.
“I’m Ensign Coffey,” she said, shaking hands with all of them. “I’ll take you and your officers to your quarters. When they’re finished stowing your gear the flight deck master chief will show your company where they’re bunking. Come with me.”
A muted female voice overhead followed them along the corridor, the public-address computer making announcements or paging crew members to locations where they were needed.
“… Volleyball semi-finals will begin at 1600 hours in the forward gymnasium between Team Red and Team Blue. Supporters will only be admitted during their nonduty shift. Highlights can be viewed on in-ship channel 605. Today’s birthdays are Midshipman Vol Pendgarest, who turns 22, Lieutenant Finela Howes, who turns 40, and Mannalenda Vargas, age two, daughter of Lieutenant Commander Juda Sugg Vargas. The main midships ladder between decks 4 and 5 will be closed between the hours of 2300 and 0200 for maintenance due to worn treads. Please use midships lifts or other ladders fore and aft …”
Daivid experienced a feeling of isolation. A healthy, active military community was bustling all around him with purpose and common goals. It was so different from the way the Cockroaches lived, set apart from the other units on a base that was already considered punishment duty. As much as he was coming to like them, they were still pariahs among pariahs. He also had a momentary surge of guilt, then alarm, realizing that they were still back in the landing bay, not currently under his direct supervision.