— From Darkness Back to the Stars:
The Collapse of the Neo Luddites,
Ephraim Bousquet, Ph.D.
Pélissard et Fils, Nouveau Paris,
Haven, 1597 PD
A CALL TO ARMS
Timothy Zahn
Epilogue
Growing up, Jeremiah Llyn had hated being short.
Not that he was that short. Not really. No more than nine or ten centimeters shorter than the planetary average. But ten centimeters had been more than enough to set off the jokesters in primary school, the brawlers in middle grade, and the more elaborate hazing during his teen years. Young adulthood had been marginally better, with at least a veneer of politeness and civilization covering up the derision. But even there, he could see the mental evaluation going on behind employers' eyes as he was passed over for promotions and the truly lucrative jobs.
Now, with the perspective and maturity that fifty T-years of life afforded a man, he found his lack of towering stature not only comfortable but valuable. People, even supposedly intelligent people, tended to underestimate shorter men.
In Llyn's current position, it was often very useful to be underestimated.
Across the desk, Cutler Gensonne shifted position, the prominent and self-awarded admiral's bars glinting on his shoulders with the movement. “Interesting,” he said, his eyes still on the tablet he'd been studying for the past fifteen minutes.
Llyn waited a moment, wondering if there would be more. But Gensonne just flicked to the next page, his black eyebrows pressed together in concentration. “Is that a good interesting, or a bad interesting?” Llyn asked at last.
“Well, it sure as hell isn't good,” Gensonne growled. “You realize this is a system that can conceivably field somewhere in the vicinity of thirty warships? Including six to nine battlecruisers?” He cocked his head. “That's one hell of a fighting force, Mr. Llyn.”
Llyn smiled. It was a standard gambit among mercenaries, one that had been tried on him at least twice before over the years. By inflating the potential risks, the bargainer hoped to similarly inflate the potential payment. “You apparently missed sections fifteen and sixteen,” he said. “The bulk of that fleet is in mothballs awaiting the scrapyard. What's left is either half armed or half crewed or both. Our estimate is that you'll be facing no more than eight to ten ships, with maybe one of those ships a battlecruiser.”
“I did read sections fifteen and sixteen, thank you,” Gensonne countered. “I also noted that the most recent data here is over fifteen months old.”
“I see.” Standing up, Llyn reached across the table and plucked the tablet from Gensonne's hands. “Obviously, you're not the group we're looking for, Admiral. Best of luck in your future endeavors.”
“Just a moment,” Gensonne protested, grabbing for the tablet. Llyn was ready for the move and twitched it out of his reach. “I never said we wouldn't take the job.”
“Really?” Llyn said. Time for a little gamesmanship of his own. “It certainly sounded like the job was too big for you.”
“There is no such job,” Gensonne said stiffly, standing up as if prepared to chase Llyn all the way through his office door if necessary to get the tablet back. The fact that Llyn was making no move to leave seemed to throw him off stride. “I was simply making the point that your intel was stone cold, and that any merc commander would want an update before taking action.”
“Was that what you were saying?” Llyn said, feigning a puzzled frown. “But then why did you imply that the odds—?” He broke off, letting his frown warm to a knowing smile. “Oh, I see. You were trying to amp up your price.”
Typically, Llyn knew, people hated to see their stratagems trotted out into the sunlight. But Gensonne didn't even flinch. A bull-by-the-horns type, with no apologies, no excuses, and no regrets, nicely consistent with Llyn's pre-meeting analysis of the man. “Of course I was,” he said. “I was also seeking more information.” He gestured to the tablet. “We can handle the job. The question is why we should bother.”
“A good question,” Llyn said. As if he was really going to let a grubby mercenary leader into the Axelrod Corporation's deepest thoughts and plans. “You'll forgive me if I respectfully decline to answer.”
Gensonne's eyes narrowed, and for a moment Llyn thought the other was preparing to delve back into his bag of ploys and tricks. But then the admiral's face cleared and he shrugged. “Fair enough,” he said. “You're hiring mercenaries, after all, not fishing for investors.”
“Exactly,” Llyn said, his estimation of the man rising another notch. Gensonne knew how to play the game, but he also knew when to stop. “So. Are the Volsung Mercenaries the ones for this job, or do I look elsewhere?”
Gensonne gave a little snort and an equally small smile. “The Volsung Mercenaries are very much the ones for the job, Mr. Llyn,” he said. “Have a seat, and let's talk money.”
I
“Mr. Long?” The gruff voice echoed down the passageway of HMS Phoenix. “Sir?”
Lieutenant (Senior Grade) Travis Uriah Long came to a reluctant halt, taking the calming breath he'd taught himself to do at times like this. Senior Chief Fire Control Tech Lorelei Osterman was a major pain in the butt, on a ship much of whose officer corps and enlisted personnel seemed to take a special pleasure in competing for honors in that position. “Yes, Senior Chief?” he replied, catching one of the corridor handholds and bringing himself to a floating stop.
Osterman was about twenty meters away, moving from handhold to handhold toward him, deftly avoiding collisions with the other crew members also moving through the narrow space. Phoenix had its share of first-tour crewmembers bumbling awkwardly in the zero-gee, but long-time veterans like Osterman made it look quick and efficient.
At the moment, though, Osterman didn't seem to be putting much effort into the quick part of that solution. In fact, now that Travis had stopped she seemed to be taking her time about closing the rest of the gap between them. Travis waited, cultivating his patience and resisting the urge to order her to snap it up. He'd been on the other side of the line once, and remembered all too well what it was like to have officers barking at you.
Finally, after a few seconds and in her own sweet time, Osterman reached him. “I just wanted you to know, Sir,” she said in a voice that skated the same not-quite-insubordinate line, “that Captain Castillo wants to see you.”
Travis frowned, glancing at his uni-link to make sure it was active. It was. “I haven't heard any such orders.”
“That's because he doesn't know it yet, Sir,” she said calmly. “But I guarantee he's going to.”
So even Osterman's department had heard. “Ensign Locatelli brought it on himself,” Travis said firmly.
Or tried to say it firmly. Even in his own ears the edge of defensiveness was painfully obvious.
Apparently, it was obvious to Osterman, too. “It was one of three separate tracking sensors,” she reminded him. “The next shift's diagnostic run would have spotted it in a minute.”
“That diagnostic run was two hours away,” Travis countered. “What would have happened if you'd had to fire one of your autocannon sometime during those two hours?”
Osterman raised her eyebrows. “At . . . ?”
“At whatever Captain Castillo decided needed shooting.”
Osterman's expression was worse than any raised eyebrows could have been. And, to be honest, Travis couldn't blame her.
Because, really, there wasn't anything out there for Phoenix to shoot at. There were no invaders, no enemies—foreign or domestic—and the last boogieman who'd shown himself around these parts had vanished into the stardust nearly a century ago.
But that was beside the point. Men and women who wore the uniform of the Royal Manticoran Navy were supposed to care about their jobs, damn it.
Osterman might have been reading his mind. “And you think you're the only one who's getting it right, Sir?” she asked politely.
“No, of course not,” Travis muttered. “But . . .”
He was saved by the twittering of his uni-link. He keyed it and raised it to his lips. “Long,” he said briskly.
“Bajek,” Travis's immediate superior's voice came. “Report to the captain's day cabin immediately.”
Travis swallowed. “Aye, aye, Ma'am.”
“Commander Bajek?” Osterman asked knowingly as he keyed off.
“Yes,” Travis said sourly. Was the smug chief always right? “Carry on.” Turning in the zero-gee, he gave his handhold a tug and once again launched himself down the corridor.
“Learn to play the game, Lieutenant,” Osterman called quietly after him.
Travis glowered. Play the game. It was the same advice everyone else in the universe seemed ready and eager to give him. Learn to play the game. Never mind whether the game was good or bad or clean or rigged. Learn to play the game.
Like hell he would.
The lift ride through Phoenix's spin section, as usual, was more than a little unpleasant, the rapid shift in effective gravity triggering Travis's abnormally sensitive inner ear. He kept his eyes straight ahead during the trip, thinking evil thoughts about whichever law of physics allowed stress bands that could create and mold huge gravitational fields, and compensators that could zero-out more than two hundred gees, but were only just now figuring out how to get a measly one gee pointed toward a warship's decks. Having a half-gee rotating section to live in was better than having to eat and sleep in weightlessness, but floating around the main duty stations like air-breathing fish was a royal pain in the butt.
Lieutenant Commander Bajek, the ship's weapons officer, was waiting in Captain Castillo's office when Travis arrived. “Come in, Lieutenant,” Castillo said, his voice and expression stiffly formal. “I understand you want to write up Ensign Locatelli.”
Travis was opening his mouth to answer when the phrasing of the comment suddenly struck him. No, he didn't want to write up Locatelli. He'd already done so.
Or so he'd thought. “Yes, Sir, I do,” he said carefully. “Is there a problem?”
For a tense second he thought the question had put him over the line. Castillo's expression didn't change, but Bajek shifted her weight slightly in what was, for her, an unusually demonstrative show of discomfort.
“You're aware, I presume, that Ensign Locatelli's uncle is Admiral Carlton Locatelli,” Castillo said. It wasn't a question.
“Yes, Sir, I am,” Travis replied. For a brief moment he considered asking what Locatelli's genetic makeup had to do with following procedure, but decided he was in deep enough already. Besides, he was pretty sure he already knew the answer.
He was right. “Admiral Locatelli and his family have had a long and distinguished history of service with the Royal Manticoran Navy,” Castillo said, in a way that reminded Travis of someone reading from a script file. “His nephew is this generation's representative to that line. The admiral is anxious that he achieve something of the same honor and distinction as his forebears.” Castillo raised his eyebrows, in exactly the same expression Travis had gotten from Osterman a few minutes earlier. “Do you need me to spell it out for you?”
Travis took a deep breath. Unfortunately, neither he nor anyone else in the RMN needed it spelled out for them. “No, Sir,” he said.
“There's a strong and growing movement in Parliament to gut the RMN even more than it already is,” Castillo said. Apparently, despite Travis's assurances, the captain was in the mood for a spelling lesson. “Men like Admiral Locatelli and their families and allies are the ones standing up for our jobs. Standing up for your job, Lieutenant.”
Which would mean a double handful of nothing, Travis thought blackly, if the cost of that protection was staffing the RMN with political animals who either couldn't or wouldn't do those jobs.
But that, too, was part of the spelling lesson. “Understood, Sir,” he said.
“Good,” Castillo said. “You have a promising career, Mr. Long. I'd hate to have it cut short for nothing.” He pursed his lips briefly. “And bear in mind that there are other ways of dealing with incompetence and neglect, ways that don't involve the recipient's permanent record. You'd be well advised to learn them.”
“Yes, Sir.” In fact, Travis did know those other methods.
Sometimes they worked. Sometimes they didn't.
“Good.” Castillo looked up at Bajek. “Is he still on duty?”
“Yes, Sir,” Bajek said, never taking her eyes off Travis.
Castillo nodded and looked back at Travis. “Return to your station, Lieutenant. Dismissed.”
The rest of the shift was tense, but not as bad as Travis had feared it would be. None of the men and women in his division said anything, though he did catch the edge of a couple of whispered conversations. Locatelli himself had the grace not to smirk. Never ascribe to malice what can be explained by stupidity, someone had once told Travis, and it was just barely possible that Locatelli wasn't so much arrogantly indifferent as he was a really slow learner.
Travis hoped it was the latter. Slow learning could be corrected with time and patience. Arrogance usually required something on the order of an exhibition bullwhip.
Still, by the time he started his final check of the systems under his watch, he was feeling more optimistic than he'd been earlier in the day.
Or at least he was until he discovered that the primary tracking sensor for the Number Two forward autocannon was once again miscalibrated.
Maybe, he thought as he headed wearily back to his quarters, it was time to go hunt up that bullwhip.
* * *
“Freighter Hosney, you are cleared to leave orbit,” the voice of Manticore Space Control came over the bridge com. It was an interesting voice, Tash McConnovitch thought, holding shades of both excitement and regret beneath the official tone. Excitement, because in a system where visitors typically dropped by less than twice per T-month a Solly freighter was a welcome break from the drab routine of the controller's job. Regret, because with Hosney's departure the boredom would be settling in again.
Patience, McConnovitch thought darkly in the controller's direction. You'll be begging for boredom and routine before we're done with you.
Or possibly not. The last data file Llyn had received from Axelrod's spies had put Manticore's fleet at somewhere around ten warships, with at most a single battlecruiser poised and ready to face combat.
But that data had been old. Dangerously old, as it turned out. For reasons McConnovitch had yet to pin down, King Edward had launched into an ambitious program of pulling RMN ships out of mothballs and pushing the boot camps and Academy to churn out enough warm bodies to put aboard them.
Still, Edward's revitalization was a work in progress. While the RMN might look fairly impressive on paper, none of the newly refurbished ships were even close to running at full strength. They should still be no problem for the Volsung Mercenaries.
Though of course the Volsungs themselves might not see it that way.
Fortunately, none of that was McConnovitch's concern. His job was simply to deliver the data to the rendezvous system where the mercenary task force was assembling. That snide little man Llyn was the one who would have to make the actual go/no-go decision.
“We're clear of the lane, Sir,” the helmsman announced. “Course laid in.”
“Good,” McConnovitch said, and meant it. He was more than ready to show his kilt to this grubby, backwater little system. “Make some gees, Hermie. We wouldn't want to keep Mr. Llyn waiting.”
* * *
Travis had finished unsealing one of his boots and was starting on the other one when the young man lolling on the top bunk of their tiny cabin finally emerged far enough from the depths of his tablet to notice he was no longer alone. “There you are,” Brad Fornier commented as he peered over the edge of the bunk. “Bajek have you on extra duty today? Or were you just starting the celebration early?”
“What are we celebrating?” Travis asked.
“Our upcoming R and R, of course,” Fornier said. “Don't tell me you're not looking forward to a couple of weeks groundside.”
Travis shrugged. “Depends on if the Number Two autocannon tracking sensor is slated for replacement. If so, yes. If not, not really.”
“Mm,” Fornier said. “At least you're not blaming Locatelli for that anymore.”
Travis winced. No, he wasn't blaming the young ensign for the sensors' foul-up. At least not directly. “He still should have spotted the problem and either fixed it or reported it.”
“Uh-huh,” Fornier said, an annoyingly knowing tone to his voice. “How many people in your section, Travis?”
“Nine, including me.”
“And how many of them are useless political appointees like Locatelli?”
Travis made a face. It wasn't hard to see where Fornier was going with this. “Maybe two.”
“Maybe two,” Fornier repeated. “So let's call it one and a half. One and a half out of eight—make it nine, since you're not political and I assume you consider yourself nonuseless. That comes to about seventeen percent. All things considered, that's really not all that bad.”
“I suppose not,” Travis conceded. Though Fornier was conveniently ignoring the fact that the political problem seemed to get worse the higher up the food chain you traveled. With one side of Parliament still pushing to defund and dismantle the Navy, all of those political animals—the ones who'd joined for the honor and glory—were scrambling to claw their way up the ladder to the coveted command ranks before the rug was pulled out from under them.
Maybe King Edward would turn that around. Certainly his “refit and recruit” program was showing progress.
But Travis had seen other such efforts fizzle out over the years. He wasn't really expecting this one to do any better.
And in the meantime, there were way more earls and barons in the command structure than anyone needed.
Maybe that was the end vector of all armed forces during protracted peacetime. Maybe the trend always drifted toward the political appointees, and the people who couldn't figure out what else to do, and the coasters who figured such service would be an easy and comfortable way to wander their way through life. Maybe the only way that ever turned around was if there was a war.
Still, much as it might be interesting to see how those three groups handled a sudden bout of real combat, Travis certainly didn't wish a war on the Star Kingdom. Or on anyone else, for that matter.
“Trust me, it's not bad,” Fornier said dryly. “Certainly isn't a travesty or anything.”
Travis glared up at him. “Not you, too,” he growled.
“Sorry,” Fornier said, not quite suppressing a grin. “It just suits you so well, that's all. How in the world did you pick up a signature phrase like that, anyway?”
“It's a long story,” Travis said shortly, returning his attention to his boots.
“Okay, fine—don't tell me,” Fornier said equably. “But seriously, take it from someone who did two years in retail before joining up. You keep track of every vendor, tradesman, bureaucrat, and official you meet during your two weeks groundside. I'll bet you a hundred that you'll find way more than seventeen percent who are jerks—”
Abruptly, the heart-stopping wail of the ship's klaxons erupted all around them. There were two seconds of full volume, and then the cacophony abruptly dropped to a relative whisper. “Battle stations!” the voice of Commander Vance Sladek, Phoenix's executive officer, came sharply over the alarm. “Battle stations! Battle stations! All hands man battle stations!”
There was a thud as Fornier hopped off his bunk and landed on the deck. Travis was already at the emergency locker; pulling out the vac suits, he tossed Fornier's to him and started climbing into his own. “Hell of a time for a drill,” Fornier said with a grunt.
“If it is a drill,” Travis warned.
“Sladek didn't say it wasn't.”
“He also didn't say it was,” Travis countered. “Either way, he'll skin us alive if we're late, so move it.”
Four of Travis's eight men and women were ready at their combat stations when he arrived. Ensign Locatelli, he noted darkly, wasn't one of them. “Diagnostics?” he asked, floating over to them in the zero-gee of the ship's bow.
“In progress,” Ensign Tomasello confirmed. “Number Two's trackers are still coming up twitchy—”
“Long!” Bajek's voice boomed through the cramped space. “Lieutenant Long?”
“Here, Ma'am,” Travis said, moving out from the partial concealment of a thick coolant pipe.
“Captain wants you on the bridge,” Bajek said shortly. “I'm taking over here. Go.”
“Yes, Ma'am.” Maneuvering past her, Travis floated his way down the corridor toward the bridge, pulling himself hand over hand along the wall grips, a sinking feeling joining the resident tension already in his stomach. He had no idea what he'd done now, but for Castillo to be bothering with him at a time like this it must have been something big.
Like the other officers aboard Phoenix, Travis had been part of the bridge watch rotation ever since the early days of his assignment. But he'd never seen it during combat conditions, and the first thing that struck him as he maneuvered through the door was how calm everyone seemed to be. The voices giving orders and reports were terse, but they were clear and well controlled. Captain Castillo was strapped into his station, his eyes moving methodically between the various displays, while Commander Sladek held position at his side, the two of them occasionally murmuring comments back and forth. All of the monitors were live, showing the ship's position, vector, and acceleration, as well as the status of the two forward missile launchers, the spinal laser, and the three autocannon defense systems.
In the center of the main tactical display was the approaching enemy.
It was a warship, all right. The signature of the wedge made that clear right from the outset. It was pulling a hundred twenty gees, which didn't tell Travis much—virtually any warship could handle that kind of acceleration, and most could do considerably better. The range marker put it just under four hundred thousand kilometers out, a little over twelve minutes away on their current closing vector.
His first reaction was one of relief. There was no way a warship could sneak up that close without Phoenix's sensors picking it up. Fornier had been right: this was indeed a drill.
But what kind of drill required Travis to be hauled away from his station onto the bridge? Was Castillo testing Bajek's ability to run the autocannon? That seemed ridiculous.
“Analysis, Mr. Long?”
Travis snapped his attention back. Castillo and Sladek had finished their quiet conversation, and both men were gazing straight across the bridge at him.
Travis swallowed hard. What were they asking him for? “It's definitely a warship, Sir,” he said, trying frantically to unfreeze his brain as he looked around the multitude of displays. The sensor analysis should have spit out a data compilation and probably even an identification by now, but the screen was still showing nothing except the preliminary collection run-through. Probably another of Phoenix's chronic sensor glitches. “But it's not being overly aggressive,” he continued, trying to buy himself some time. “The hundred twenty gees it's pulling is probably around seventy percent of its standard acceleration capability.”
“So far, there's been no response to our hail,” Sladek said. “How would you proceed?”
And then, to Travis's relief, the sensor ID screen finally came to life. The approaching ship was indeed one of theirs, a Triumph-class battlecruiser. Specifically, it was HMS Invincible, flagship of the Green One task force.
He had a fraction of a second of fresh relief at the confirmation that this was, indeed, just a drill. An instant later, a violent wave of fresh tension flooded in on him.
Green One was commanded by Admiral Carlton Locatelli. Uncle of Ensign Fenton Locatelli. The junior officer Travis was continually having to write up.
And here Travis was on Phoenix's bridge, being asked advice by his captain while Locatelli charged into simulated battle.
What the hell was going on?
“Mr. Long?” Castillo prompted.
With a supreme effort, Travis forced his brain back to the situation. “Do we know if she's alone?” he asked, again looking around the bridge. Everything he could see indicated Invincible was the only vessel out there, but he wasn't quite ready to trust his reading of the relevant displays.
“Confirmed,” Sladek said. “There's nothing else within range—”
“Missile trace!” someone barked.
Travis snapped his gaze around to the tactical. A new wedge had appeared, the smaller, more compact wedge of a missile tracking straight toward Phoenix. “Acceleration thirty-five-hundred gees; estimated impact, two minutes forty seconds,” the tactical officer added.
“Stand by autocannon,” Castillo ordered calmly. “Fire will commence fifteen seconds before estimated impact.”
Travis drew a hissing breath. That was, he knew, the prescribed response to a missile attack. With an effective range of a hundred fifty kilometers, the autocannon's self-guided shells were designed to detonate in the path of an incoming missile, throwing up a wall of shrapnel that could take out anything that drove through its midst, especially something traveling at the five thousand kilometers per second that a missile carried at the end of its run.
At least, that was the hoped-for outcome. Given that the missile would be entering the shrapnel zone barely two hundredths of a second before reaching its target, it was a tactic that either worked perfectly or failed catastrophically. Still, more often than not, it worked.
Only in this case, with Phoenix's Number Two autocannon not tracking properly . . .
“You have an objection, Mr. Long?” Castillo asked.
Travis started. He hadn't realized he'd said anything out loud. “We've been having trouble with the autocannon, Sir,” he said. “I'm thinking . . .” He stopped, suddenly aware of the utter presumption of this situation. He, a lowly senior lieutenant, was trying to tell a ship's captain how to do his job?
But if Castillo was offended, he didn't show it. “Continue,” he merely said.
Travis squared his shoulders. He had been asked, after all. “I'm thinking it might be better to interpose wedge,” he said, the words coming out in a rush lest he lose his nerve completely. “If the missile comes in ventral, there may not be enough autocannon coverage to stop it.”
Castillo's lip might have twitched. It was hard to tell at that distance. But his nod was firm enough. “Helm, pitch twenty-six-degrees positive,” he ordered.
“Pitch twenty-six degrees positive, aye, aye, Sir,” the helmsman acknowledged. “Pitching twenty-six degrees positive, aye.”
On the tactical, Phoenix's angle began to shift, agonizingly slowly, as the ship's nose pivoted upward. Travis watched the display tensely as the incoming missile closed the distance at ever-increasing speed, wondering if his proposed countermove had been too late.
To his relief, it hadn't. The missile was still nearly twenty seconds out when the leading edge of Phoenix's floor rose high enough to cut across its vector.
“Continue countdown to missile impact,” Castillo ordered. “Jink port one klick.”
Travis frowned as the helmsman repeated the order. A ship had a certain range of motion within the wedge, particularly at the zero acceleration Phoenix was holding right now.
But moving the ship that way was tricky and cost maneuverability. What was Castillo up to?
“Missile has impacted the wedge,” the tactical officer announced. “Orders?”
Castillo looked at Travis and raised his eyebrows. “Suggestions, Mr. Long?”
Travis stared at the tac display, where Invincible was now rimmed in flashing red to show that its position was based on the foggy gravitic data Phoenix was able to glean through the disruptive effects of its own wedge. For the moment, at least, the two ships were at a standoff. Phoenix couldn't fire at something it couldn't see well enough to target, and with its wedge floor interposed between them the destroyer was likewise completely protected from any weapon Invincible cared to throw at them.
But Phoenix was a ship of the Royal Manticoran Navy. Its job wasn't to be safe. Its job was to protect the Star Kingdom's people. However Locatelli was grading them on this exercise, that grade wouldn't be very high if Phoenix continued to hide behind its wedge.
“Recommend we reverse pitch and reestablish full sensor contact, Sir,” he said. “I'd also recommend we stand by to launch missiles.” He hesitated, wondering if he needed to add that they would want the practice missiles, not the ones with full-bore warheads. Surely they already knew that.
“Agreed,” the captain said. “Anything else?”
Travis frowned. From the tone of Castillo's question, he guessed there was indeed something else they should be doing. Wedge, sensor contact, missiles—
Of course. “I'd also suggest the autocannon begin laying down fire as we approach reacquisition.”
“Good.” Castillo gestured. “Pitch twenty-six degrees negative; prepare missiles and autocannon.”
“Pitch twenty-six degrees negative, aye, aye, Sir.”
“Prepare missiles and autocannon, aye, aye, Sir.”
Once again, the tac display began to shift. Travis watched, his thumbs pressed hard against the sides of his forefingers. From somewhere forward came a muted rumble as the autocannon began firing. The flashing red rim around Invincible vanished as the sensors reacquired contact—
“Missile!” the tac officer snapped.
Travis blinked. The whole thing had happened way too fast for him to see, but the vector line on the tac display showed that the incoming missile had come in right along the edge of fire from the misaimed Number Two autocannon, shot past the wedge floor as it pitched back down, skimmed past Phoenix at a distance of eleven kilometers, then continued on to disintegrate against the wedge roof.
He was staring at the line in confusion, wondering how in the world a second missile had sneaked past the sensors, when the com display opened up and Admiral Locatelli himself appeared. “Well, Captain,” Locatelli's voice boomed from the speaker, “I believe that gives me the kill.”
“Very nearly, Admiral,” Castillo said calmly. “But I think you'll find your missile didn't quite make it into full kill range.”
The admiral frowned, his eyes shifting off camera. His smile soured a little, and he gave a small grunt. “Clever,” he said reluctantly. “You're still blind, though—your whole tracking radar system would have been destroyed. Telemetry system, too.”
“I can still launch missiles,” Castillo pointed out.
“Only if there was another ship nearby you could hand them off to,” Locatelli countered. “In this case, there isn't.” He shook his head. “All in all, Captain, your response was a bit on the sloppy side. I suggest you consider upgrading your tactical officer's training and drill schedule.”
“This wasn't my usual tac team, Sir,” Castillo said. “One of my other officers was handling the action.”
Locatelli sniffed audibly. “Your other officer has a lot to learn.”
“Yes, Sir.” Deliberately, it seemed to Travis, Castillo turned a studiously neutral look in his direction. “I believe he knows that.”
Travis felt a swirl of disbelief corkscrew through his gut. He'd been prepared—almost—to believe that an admiral of the RMN might actually go out of his way to slap down a junior officer who had crossed him.
But for Travis's own captain to join in on the humiliation was beyond even Travis's usual level of reflexive paranoia. For Castillo to single him out this way, in front of the entire Phoenix bridge . . .
Travis swallowed, forcing back the stinging sense of betrayal. Castillo was still his commanding officer, and the captain was clearly expecting a response. “Yes, Sir,” he managed.
“Perfection is a noble goal,” Castillo continued, his eyes still on Travis. “We sometimes forget it's a journey, not a destination.”
I never claimed to be perfect. Travis left the automatic protest unsaid. Clearly, this was his payback for insisting that Ensign Locatelli do his job, and neither Castillo or the admiral would be interested in hearing logical arguments.
Or pathetic excuses, which was what any comment would be taken as anyway. “I understand, Sir,” he said instead. “I'll make it a point to remember today's lessons.”
“I'm certain you will.” Castillo turned back to the com display. “Any farther orders, Admiral?”
“Not at this time,” Locatelli said, a quiet but definite note of satisfaction in his voice. Whether this had been his idea or Castillo's, the admiral was obviously aware of the currents running quietly beneath the surface. “Resume your course for Manticore. I'll want a full analysis of your crew's response to this unscheduled exercise a.s.a.p.”
“It'll be ready by the time you return from your training run, Sir,” Castillo promised.
“Good,” Locatelli said briskly. “Carry on.” He reached somewhere off-camera, and his image vanished.
“Secure from Readiness One,” Castillo ordered. “Resume course to Manticore, and get the spin section back up to speed.”
He turned back to Travis. “First lesson of combat, Mr. Long: always be ready for the unexpected. In this case, because we weren't accelerating and were on a fairly predictable course, Invincible was able to slip a second missile into the wedge shadow of the first. If the attacker is very clever with his timing, he can arrange it so that the rear missile burns out its wedge at the same time the forward one impacts the target's wedge. With nothing showing, a pitched target will have just enough time to resume attitude as the second missile enters kill range.”
“Sometimes the tell is a bit of the second wedge peeking through during the drive,” Commander Sladek added. “Or it can show up as a sluggishness in the first missile's maneuvering as its telemetry control is eclipsed by the one behind it.”
“Yes, Sir,” Travis said. And if the missile was kicked out with a fusion booster there would also be a telltale flare when it was launched, as well as a slight decrease in the attacking ship's acceleration to give the missile time to get a safe distance before lighting up its wedge. All of that had been in his tactics classes back at Officer Candidate School, he belatedly remembered. In the heat of the moment, and with the role of command unexpectedly thrust upon him—
He cut off the train of thought. Rather, the train of excuses. He'd been given a job, and he'd failed. Pure and simple.
And if it hadn't been an exercise, with a practice missile instead of the real thing, he and everyone aboard Phoenix would probably be dead. “Yes, Sir,” he said again. “I'm sorry, Sir.”
Castillo grunted as he unstrapped from his station. “No need to be sorry, Lieutenant. There's just a need to learn.” He waved at the tac display. “As I said, that kind of trick takes careful timing and a great deal of skill. But it also requires a fair amount of luck. Your job as an officer of the RMN is to cultivate both. And to always assume that your opponent has done likewise.”
He floated out of his chair, steadied himself a moment, then gave himself a shove that sent him floating swiftly across the bridge. “Mr. Sladek, return ship to Readiness Five,” he called over his shoulder. “Mr. Travis, you may return to your station for debriefing.”
“Yes, Sir,” Travis said. Lesson delivered, and lesson learned, and the captain was back to business as usual.
Travis would remember the day's lesson, he promised himself. Very, very well.
* * *
For the next two days Travis walked around on figurative eggshells, waiting for the inevitable fallout from his part in the fiasco.
To his surprise, no such fallout materialized. Or at least nothing materialized in his direction. There were vague rumors that Captain Castillo was spending an unusual amount of time in his cabin on the com with System Command, but no details were forthcoming and Travis himself was never summoned into his presence. Given that Phoenix was about to settle in for some serious refitting, chances were good that that was the main topic of any such extended communications.
Phoenix was slipping into its designated slot in Manticore orbit, and Travis was finally starting to breathe easy again, when the shoe finally dropped.
* * *
“You're joking,” Fornier said, staring wide-eyed from across the cabin. “After all that, you're being promoted?”
“I'm being transferred,” Travis corrected sourly. “I never said it was a promotion.”
“Please,” Fornier said dryly. “If Casey isn't a promotion, what the hell is it?”
“I don't know,” Travis growled as he arranged his dress uniform tunic carefully at the top of his travelbag. “But if Locatelli's behind it, hell may very well be the relevant neighborhood.”
Fornier shook his head. “You're way too young to be this cynical,” he said. “Anyway, who says Locatelli's hand is anywhere near this? For all you know it was Castillo who recommended you for Casey's assistant tac officer slot.”
“With my sterling performance on the bridge during that drill cementing it?” Travis snorted. “Not likely.”
“Fine,” Fornier said, clearly starting to lose his wedge-class patience level. “So maybe Castillo decided you needed a lesson in humility. Welcome to the human race. But maybe while he was delivering the message he also saw something he liked about you, some potential that hadn't come through before.”
“I doubt it,” Travis said. “About all I did was regurgitate what was in the manual. Or half of what was in the manual. No, given Heissman's reputation, I think they all just want me out from under Castillo's fatherly care and underneath a genuine hammer for awhile.”
For a moment Fornier was silent. Travis looked around the cabin, mentally counting out the items he'd already packed and trying to figure out if he'd missed anything.
“There are two ways to approach life, Travis,” Fornier said into his thoughts. “One: you can expect that everyone's out to get you, and be alert and ready for trouble at every turn. Or two: you can assume that most people are friendly or at least neutral, and that most of the time things will work out.”
“Seems to me option two is an invitation to get walked on.”
“Oh, I never said you don't need to be ready for trouble.” Fornier grinned suddenly. “Hey, we're RMN officers. It's our job to be ready for trouble. I'm just saying that if you're always expecting that second shoe to drop, you're never going to be really able to trust anyone.” He shrugged. “And speaking from my own experience, there are a fair number of people out there who are worth your trust. Not all of them. But enough.”
“Maybe,” Travis said, sealing his travelbag and picking it up. “I'll take it under advisement.” He held out his hand. “It's been great serving and rooming with you, Brad. Keep in touch, okay?”
“Will do,” Fornier promised, grasping Travis's hand in a firm grip and shaking it. “Best of luck.”