The First Casualty

Chapter Thirteen

The Admiral dismissed the reorganized bridge with a wave. “I'll spend any battle we may have in my day cabin. I'll need a secure communications lead direct to my office. I'm having to be my own intelligence officer.”

“Yes, sir,” Mattim said. At least the admiral's staff was small. He'd only had to roust out Guns to make way for the new chief of staff. “I'll move the stations in there.” Ding quickly started the riggers tearing out what they'd just put in.

The sortie orders were given just as diffidently—a wave of the hand and a “Get us moving.”

Mattim doubted that was the Navy way, but he was too new to know for sure. He glanced at the chief of staff. “Repeat Admiral Hennessy's orders,” he said. “They worked fine.” Mattim told comm to do so... and to keep the old message files with the last admiral's orders handy. He suspected they'd get a lot of use.

Once the Sheffield was on its course for Gamma jump, Mattim left the bridge to do a second set of inspections. He was especially uncomfortable about the last delivery from the armory. The Sheffield was not designed for that kind of load; he'd post a 24-hour watch on it. He never thought as a captain he'd be glad to be quit of his own bridge. Today he was.

Ding shrugged as the captain beat her to an excuse to get off the bridge. He didn't look any more comfortable sharing space with Admiral Whitebred than she was. She spent the time double-checking what she had already triple-checked. It was, after all, the Navy way and the best way she knew of to stay alive in space. Once the work crew reported the admiral's stations were on line, she checked them out and dismissed the chief and his party. She was about to follow them when the admiral cleared his throat. “Could you demonstrate this to me?”

The Navy joked that every kid reporting for boot camp knew how to operate an admiral's battle station; it looked just like a game station. Ding's dad had plopped her down before a standard Navy-issue station on her sixth birthday. It was nothing like a regular education or game station. She'd spent the last thirty years figuring out how to squeeze the last ounce of data from each modified and updated version. No way could she tell him in five minutes what she'd spent a lifetime learning.

So she showed him how to turn it on. As she toured him through the most obvious features, he stood behind her. When his hands began making circles on the back of her shoulders, she decided he'd seen enough, tapped the help symbol, and stood up. “That ought to take care of any questions you have.”

“Doesn't look that different from my first information station at corporate, ten years ago.” Ding would bet a month's pay he was wrong. She kept her mouth shut and headed for the door. What did I think I saw in that empty bag of space?

“Colin, could I have a moment to discuss our mission?”

She paused, wanting very much to be gone. But she'd learned at her father's knee that an admiral's request was an order. She turned; he was pacing back and forth at a comfortable distance.

“This may take a while. Why don't you sit down?” He waved distractedly at the couch. So long as he kept his distance, the couch should be fine. She settled in.

“We've got a tough assignment ahead of us,” he said, still pacing. “This war is gobbling up resources.” He paused. “Financially, it's a disaster.”

“And it's killing a lot of people, too,” Ding added.

“Yes. Yes, of course. And it's only going to get worse. What we need is a strike that brings everyone to their senses. We can win this war in an afternoon if we cut through the crap.”

Ding's study of military history told her such things sometimes happened. More often, a coup de main was full of surprises. Whitebred had stopped pacing and was suddenly on the couch beside her. His hand settled on her knee. In her black dress at the dinner party, that had been disconcerting. In her shipboard jumpsuit, it was damn distasteful.

“I need to know that when the time comes my orders will be followed to the letter. Will they?”

That hand was wandering her thigh. She tried to chuckle like her old man would have; it came out off-key. “We're not shopkeepers, Admiral. When you give an order, we obey,” she quoted her dad. “Assuming, of course, the order is legal.”

Now why had she added that? That orders were lawful was a bedrock assumption that went without saying.

“Of course, of course,” Whitebred mumbled, “but if we pull off the endgame for this war, that will set us all up for life. We can write our own tickets.” His other arm had slipped unnoticed over the back of the couch. Now it was very noticed as it slid down to rest on her shoulder. She didn't have much thigh left that the other hand hadn't covered. “There won't be anything you can't have, if you play along with me.” While his hands held her like a toy, his eyes were focused far beyond her.

He wants my body, but will he even know it's mea month ago, Whitebred had been magnetic. But in the last month, she'd followed a real captain to the end of the galaxy and back.

Horatio was offering her a door into his life. All it would cost was her soul. A month ago she'd never seen a ship fought, a crew led quite the way this strange merchant captain handled his command. A month ago, the unknown of Horatio's world had sounded pretty damn good against the known of her own.

But not now. Now she understood why her dad had toughed the Navy out for forty years. Now she knew what all the waiting and training was for. She'd fought and lived and opened up the galaxy. Damn, it had been terrifying— and fun! His hand was at the zipper of her jumpsuit. If she did nothing much longer—but there was no question what she would do. In one smooth motion, she fended his hand away from her neck and stood.

“Thanks for your thoughts, Admiral, but I've got a ship to run.” She didn't look back, nor did she rush, striding calmly, an officer returning to her duty. At the door, she couldn't avoid a glance back. The man—and the emphasis was on the male part of the word—did indeed look frustrated. She left him.

Smoothly, she plugged herself back into the routine, moving from station to station, observing, checking. Only at Sandy's station did she pause. “Trouble?” the jump master asked, nodding in the general direction of the admiral's door.

“Nothing a big girl can't handle. But the young middies might bear watching.”

“Even the one with a black belt?” Sandy's eyes sparkled.

“But think of all the paperwork if she busts his arm.” Both women chuckled. But that did leave Ding with a problem. Did she tell the captain that Whitebred was out to win the war in an afternoon? How could she tell him that without also telling him the admiral had the morals of a tomcat and was on the prowl? While she liked the captain's style and wanted to see how he solved most problems, how he'd react to the new admiral sexually harassing his XO was not on her short list of ways to spend an evening before battle. She'd let this one slide unless something more came of it.

Mary got exactly twelve hours to mount out a platoon for ship duty. Half of that she lost waiting for battalion to ship someone over to hold her pass. She was not amused.

The corps had its own way of moving an armed mob from point A to point B. It was a part of the manual Mary had been a tad too busy to read. They sent her the lieutenant to help her out.

It was embarrassing to have him salute her first.

“Congratulations, Captain.”

“I'm no captain.” Mary tossed off his salute.

“You are now. Admiral who wanted you insisted we cut your promotion papers.”

Interesting, but that didn't answer half her questions. “What do we take, fancy uniforms or antitank rockets?”

“Supply is doing a standard thirty-day package for you. Everyone takes their personal weapons and gear. The rest, brigade takes care of.”

Four hours later, as she strapped herself into a troop module hooked to a tug, Mary was glad she hadn't had to do more. The air smelled of antiseptic; the tug had snuck in to take out casualties. Now it was taking her to a whole new kind of war.

As they sealed the hatches, Mary glanced at the troops of Company A, first platoon. Most of the old vets were already asleep. Even the replacements were headed in that direction. With a shrug for tomorrow, Mary leaned back and joined them.

“Damn, where did they get that bunch, off a chain gang?” Thor had put on the main screen and feed from the camera on the quarterdeck. The bridge watched as the marines came aboard.

“More like these are the rocks the chain gang couldn't crack,” Sandy chuckled.

Mattim had to agree, they looked like pretty hard cases.

The armor was well worn and the personal weapons handled with casual, deadly familiarity. The exec had stopped her constant roving from station to station to watch the show from behind the captain's chair. “Interesting,” she muttered.

“Yes?” Mattim asked.

“Not one marine rendered proper honors on boarding, saluting the flag painted on the aft bulkhead and the JOOD.”

'They seemed kind of busy.” Mattim smiled sourly.

“Yes sir, marines usually are, but the line beasts play a game with us. Just how sloppy a salute can they get away with? At least, the old hands do. I'd bet money not a single one of them is more than six months out of boot camp. Even the sergeants.”

Before Mattim could add that to the muddle of his thoughts about a new admiral, a mission to nowhere, and the damn contents of his weapons magazine, the door to the admiral's quarters opened. “Captain,” the chief of staff said with a grin, “the admiral would like to talk to you, your exec, and your jump navigator.”

“Now we find out,” Mattim muttered.

The admiral stood beside the work table in his quarters, its display zoomed to just the two suns. No sooner had they reached him than the admiral began. “Today we win the war.”

Mattim had heard that enthusiasm before. “Today we make a mint” was usually followed by going bust. He didn't mind management losing money. He would mind very much this management hotshot losing lives. Especially those in his crew.

The admiral seemed disappointed that the three of them took the news with blank faces. “I can now tell you that I have uncovered the reason why the colonials have fought so hard for this worthless system.” The slight tilt of the chief of staff's head suggested who had really made the discovery. The admiral didn't notice. Indeed, he no longer seemed to notice anything. Mattim knew this kind of “briefing.” It wasn't to tell you anything; it was to let the speaker glory in the noise of his own voice. Today Mattim could not allow himself the luxury of zoning out; this man controlled a loaded and cocked battle squadron.

“Between these two suns is a jump point, trapped when the native caught the wanderer. That jump point will take us straight to Wardhaven, the most industrialized planet the rebels hold. In the next week, we will cut the heart out of colonial power. They will have to surrender unconditionally.”

The admiral wasn't finished, but Sandy's eyes were locked on the table, studying the two suns, balancing then-gravity, trying to figure out where they held their hostage jump point. She shook her head slowly. Mattim could hear her saying to herself, “It's gonna be a bitch.”

Now Mattim knew why the Maggie was the flagship. There was no better jump navigator in explored space than Sandy. And the bombs in his magazines were for show only. He knew the rules the colonials fought by; he'd had to wait often enough while a planet negotiated its surrender with the fleet in orbit. To the colonials, checkmate was enough.

This admiral wasn't so dumb after all.

The admiral's speech was slowing down. Even he could see that his announcement had gotten their full attention. “So, Captain Abeeb, you will take the Sheffield through the jump point with the battle squadron right behind you. We'll have the colonials by the balls.”

Mattim turned the order into a question and handed it to Sandy. “Can you find that jump point?”

She eyed the plot. “It's gonna be a bitch. We'll have to take it slow.”

“We'll go as slow as you want,” the admiral cut in before Mattim could answer. Well, rank has its privileges, and new rank usually takes a little extra. Mattim was in a very good mood. With luck, he'd be back to the Red Flag Line before New Year's. Trailed by more encouraging babble from the admiral, Mattim led his people back to the bridge. There was a general cheer when he passed the mission outline to the crew.

At Sandy's request the squadron spread out in echelon as it began the dive toward the suns. Still, they were less than fifty million kilometers out before Sandy got the faintest hint of a gravity distortion near the center of gravity between the two suns. The fleet decelerated for another day. Most ships closed in on the flag, but Sandy asked and got the Sendai and Jeanne d'arc to hold station as the long arm of her gravity-anomaly detector. At ten million klicks, she shook her head. “Matt, I've got a good fix—rather, good fixes. That beggar jumps around like the proverbial Mexican jumping bean. It's the bitch of all bitches.”

The door to the admiral's quarters snapped open. “You will lead the squadron through, Commander,” the admiral demanded.

“We will make it.” Mattim was out of his chair and moving to put himself between the admiral and his Jump Master.”

“I hold you personally accountable for this, Captain.”

“We'll get you where you can win the damn war,” Sandy snapped. “I want out of this damn Navy.” She really was having a bad day.

“The Sheffield hasn't met a jump point it couldn't handle,” Mattim assured the admiral. Without another word, Whitebred turned on his heel and returned to his quarters.

Mattim turned back to Sandy. “Want to reactivate some of the science teams? Would it help to have a few of the middies?” That drew a glance between Sandy and the exec that said something to them, but nothing to Mattim.

“No,” Sandy assured him. “I can handle this. You know me, I'm always looking on the downside of things.”

Mattim gave her an encouraging smile and returned to his chair. There was something about this incident that didn't feel right. Slowly he replayed it. Nothing. Again he went through it. How did the admiral know Sandy was having problems with the jump? He glanced around the bridge. Like the quarterdeck, it had cameras. Just as they had watched the marines come aboard, the admiral apparently had been watching the bridge. He must not be very busy if he had time to watch over people's shoulders. Then again, a very paranoid person might feel that need.

Once again, Mattim ran through the situation he was charging into. There were too damn many unknowns or ambiguous values in this setup. And he wasn't likely to clear anything up today. This was no way to run a bargaining session. Not if you wanted to turn a profit.

Hours later, they crept toward the anomaly in space that could be the door to ending the war. “Two minutes,” Sandy announced on a squadronwide hookup. “Keep your ships steady.”

Mattim reminded himself to breathe.

“Damn,” Sandy said a moment later. “It moved. Adjust course fifteen degrees to starboard, five degrees up azimuth.” The fleet was in line astern of the Sheffield , intervals down to fifty klicks. Any closer and they'd boil the armor off the ship behind. Only the Sendai and Jeanne d'arc were out of line, two hundred klicks abreast to give Sandy a broad baseline. If worse came to worst, they'd break wide and come through later.

Over the next five minutes, Sandy made fine adjustments to her course, adjustments measured in nanodegrees. The other eighteen ships slaved their helms to her. The jump loomed ahead. Even the human eye could see the distortion it lent to light trying to pass through. Looking down an atmospheric tornado might be like this. Mattim squirmed in his seat, most uncaptainlike. He forced himself still, then forced himself to breathe.

“Ten seconds to jump,” Sandy announced, but the mike caught her muttering. “Stay where you are just a little longer, sister, just a wee bit longer.”

“Comm to captain.” The call broke Mattim's concentration.

“Comm, we're busy up here at the moment. Wait one.”

“Sorry, Captain, I can't. I've got the commander of the Ninety-seventh on live. He wants to talk to the admiral.”

“Well, put him through,” Mattim snapped.

“Admiral won't take it.”

“Won't take it?” Mattim glanced around. The door to the admiral's quarters was shut.

“The captain wants to talk to you, sir.”

“Put him on,” Mattim snarled. At her station, Sandy gently played with the fine controls, edging the Sheffield toward the jump. ,

“Captain Mattim.” Captain Anderson appeared in a window in the main screen. “I have a priority message from Beta Station.”

“Got it,” Sandy shouted.

The window went blank. The rest of the screen changed. The stars before Mattim were no longer the stars that had been. “Thor, where are we?”

“That's Ward Star out there. We're trailing Wardhaven by about a quarter of an orbit. Only seventeen ships got through.”

“Damn jump jumped,” Sandy growled.

It didn't stop Mattim from grinning. “Sandy, give me a full passive sweep. What's in this system? Thor, set a temporary course for Wardhaven, two gees. We'll wait for the admiral's orders to be more specific.”

The door to the admiral's quarters opened. Chief of Staff Stuart joined them on the bridge. “Tell Skobachev to take the squadron to Wardhaven at three gees. The admiral would appreciate your presence and all your department heads as soon as possible in his day cabin.”

Mattim nodded. He didn't know what the hell was going on here, but orders given were to be obeyed. “Quartermaster, order a department head meeting in the admiral's day cabin. Comm, advise Skobachev to lead the squadron to Wardhaven at three gees. Anything else?” he asked Stuart.

“Nothing for the moment.”

The hatch to the bridge opened. Mattim turned, surprised that any of his department heads had made it so fast. Eight grim-faced marines marched in. The two officers wore sidearms, as did a pair of sergeants. All the enlisted personnel, sergeants included, carried assault rifles.

The officer leading the marines stopped, saluted in a direction that managed to include both Mattim and Stuart, and announced, “I have orders to report to the admiral's day cabin as soon as we completed our jump.”

Stuart stepped aside. “The admiral's right this way.” He waved his left hand and the marine captain led her troops across the bridge and through the door. Was there a hint of a smile on the chief of staff's lips as he followed them?

One thing was sure. The marine officer was Mary the miner.

Twelve days out from Wardhaven, Oasis docked at High Rostock, the station in orbit above the capital. Her captain came to assist the transfer to a shuttle for the trip down. Ray was just at the lock when a young junior officer rushed up.

“There's a major battle fleet in orbit over Wardhaven!” he shouted.

“Where's our fleet?” Ray shot back.

“What's left is in the yards,” the captain snarled.

“Well, the yards are gone, and the ships in them,” the messenger added.

“My father's people,” Rita gasped.

“Terribly sorry, ma'am,” the captain responded, but Ray didn't see much thought behind it. Both he and the ship's skipper were intent on one question. Were the Earthies going to follow the rules ? The colonial worlds had been fighting among themselves for fifty years. The wars were wild affairs with each side doing whatever it took to beat the other into taking over their debt to Earth. One rule had never been violated. Once you lost control of the space above your planet, you surrendered.

Of course, under that rule, you did not destroy orbiting factories either. The Earthies had broken part of the rule. What did that mean for the rest?

It took Mattim five minutes to muster his department heads; the doc was last. He led them in single file. Armed marines lined the bulkhead across from his officers. He stepped forward, placing himself alone in front of the admiral, his body between his crew and the marines. Without orders, maybe following some ancient drill that had been skipped in his ninety-day intro to the Navy, the exec and Guns followed him, taking station a step behind him and to either side. They felt good there.

Mattim hadn't the foggiest notion what the drill was, but he doubted this admiral did either. Saluting, he reported, “All department heads present. We await your orders.”

Admiral Whitebred beamed at the military honors, but the twist to his smile was pure evil. “In the next three days, I will win this war,” he informed the officers. “While the rest of the squadron silences resistance around the planet, we will accelerate and, at the proper time, release relativity bombs. They will shatter all resistance on the planet, and the shock waves from them will travel the length and breadth of colonial space. All resistance will crumble, and this war will end.”

“Good God” escaped lips. Mattim bit his tongue to keep silent. Now it all fell into place. The relativity bombs were never meant to intimidate; the stupid bastard meant to use them. Shock and numbness swept Mattim as he tumbled into the deepest pit of hell, a hell as real as the two-and-a-half-ton blocks of steel and stone his crew had so carefully stowed in the Sheffield’s magazine.

The admiral babbled on while Mattim struggled with his own demon. As if from a distance, Mattim heard gibberish about the need for the hard reality of war and death to be carried home. “Only when every man knows there is no place to hide will the killing stop.” Mattim stifled a snort; Wardhaven held a billion people. Their raging ghosts would call up bloody war forever. Mattim started to say so, but found he couldn't. For twenty years he'd sat in business meetings, listened to stupidity and folly . . . and kept his mouth shut. For a second, practice held him quiet.

And that second gave him a moment to look around. One marine nodded. He fondled his gun, familiar with it and the death it dealt. Mattim eyed Mary, remembering their hours together. She focused on the admiral, but the heat of his stare drew her glance. But only a glance before she dismissed him and returned to the back of the admiral's head.

They knew! The marines had been briefed while he was collecting his officers. What was in their briefing?

“Excuse me, Admiral,” Guns' soft rumble interrupted, “but no. I didn't joint the Navy forty years ago to commit genocide. And no man under my command will be a party to it either.”

The admiral actually smiled at that interruption, that same blend of smug, confident evil. “I was afraid an old-school type like you might not see the need to reinvent war,” the admiral said softly. He waved a hand, “Sergeant, I believe we have someone in need of counseling.”

“Yes sir,” shouted a young sergeant. In five swift steps he was beside Guns, pistol pointed up under Guns' jaw.

“Commander,” the admiral went on, “I suggest you reconsider your position. It has no future.”

“I've studied war since before you were born, kid.” Mattim cringed. Even with a gun in his face, Guns would not be tactful, much less retreat. “This idea stinks—morally and tactically. You'll get no quick peace. More likely a long war with no holds barred. You are wrong, and I will not besmirch the uniform I wear with the blood of a billion innocent people.”

“Then we'll limit it to your own,” the admiral quipped. “Sergeant, this man is guilty of disobeying an order and cowardice in the face of the enemy. We being at war, both crimes are capital. Execute him.”

“That's not a legal order.” Mattim didn't get the words out of his mouth before the gun exploded. Deafened, still Mattim could hear the roar of rage from behind him. The marines' assault rifles were coming off their shoulders even as he wheeled to find half his officers lunging forward, following the XO. His fist went out, slugging her in the gut.

“Back!” he ordered as Ding folded beside him and safeties clicked off behind him. One burst from those marines, and his ship would have no chain of command. “Back in place. Now.”

They hovered for a split second, torn between obeying him and avenging Guns. The second passed, and they fell back.

“Very good, Captain,'*' the admiral cooed. He had been very quick to get out of the line of fire. He stayed off to one side, a pistol in hand. “You'll go far.”

“I won't have my officers massacred,” Mattim answered through gritted teeth.

“No need for anyone else to get hurt,” the admiral assured him, “except some colonials, and we're at war with them. Right, Captain Rodrigo?”

The marine Mattim knew as Mary took a deep breath. “Yes sir,” she whispered.

“Captain Abeeb. You have your orders.”

“Yes,” Mattim hissed and turned on his heels, no salute this time. And almost stumbled over Guns' body. “Doctor, please remove Commander Howard to the ship's mortuary.”

“Immediately, sir.”

Normally, the officers would have waited on Mattim. With a quick jerk of his head, he sent them out ahead of him. They left, but didn't go far. He found them milling about on the bridge. As he took his chair, Mattim's mind raced. Somehow he had to stop genocide and keep his crew from being shot by marines. For that, he had to get control of his people and his own rage. Ding limped to her chair, rubbing her stomach where he'd slugged her. The other officers gravitated silently toward the bridge hatch; what message would they take to the crew? Two marines came out of the admiral's cabin to take station on either side of the door. One of them was Guns' executioner—no, murderer. The safeties on both assault rifles were off.

“The briefing will not be discussed,” Mattim told his officers, then glanced at the bridge cameras. “Carry on.”

The officers filed out.

Mattim turned to Ding. “I need you, Commander,” he whispered. “I've already got one dead officer. We'll mourn him later. Right now, I and this ship need an exec.”

Trembling—Mattim put it down to her own rage—Ding stared back at him. Slowly she nodded.

Before Mattim could say any more, the chief of staff entered, heading for the helmsman, no doubt willing to pass the admiral's orders direct to Thor. Mattim would not become a figurehead on a ship whose name would be linked with infamy for the next thousand years. He arrived at Thor's station the same second Stuart started talking. “We want a high-gee course. I suggest diving sunward, using it to accelerate the ship, then swing around.”

“We'll have to swing by five or six planets to get us aimed at Wardhaven.” Mattim pointed out the system map Thor had at his station. The helmsman looked on in growing puzzlement.

“I don't think so.” Stuart was wearing that smug smile again. “A deflection around planet two, using four-gee lateral acceleration followed by three-gee acceleration for Wardhaven ought to do the trick. Don't you think?”

Mattim pursed his lips tightly to cover the impotency he felt. He was playing catch-up to a guy who had spent days planning this operation. Only the marines at his back kept Mattim from smashing the smug captain's head against the bulkhead. “Yes, that course will do it. It'll be rough on the crew, and the magazines might not take the load.”

“You'll have a couple of days at two-gee acceleration. Captain, I suggest you order the course change.” Mattim needed time, and they weren't giving him any. This was their hand. He'd lose money this round, but if he anted up, he'd be in and ready for the next—assuming there was time for another. He gave Thor his orders without mentioning relativity bombs. It didn't matter. About that time they brought Guns' body out on a gurney. Everyone swiveled to look. eyes growing wide. Ding looked, then turned away as tears slipped down her face.

Mattim had had all he could handle. “XO, you have the conn. I'll be in my cabin.” He left with as much haste as he could permit himself.

Alone, Mattim let his rage out in one long howl. Pacing his cabin, he slammed his palm into the bulkhead. What he wanted to pound was Whitebred, and Stuart, and the damn marines. Mary the miner had talked about after the war. Was that why she and her marines had bought into Whitebred's promises of wealth and power if they followed his every whim?

Grabbing control of himself, Mattim plopped on the edge of his bunk. Enough worthless emotions; he had a mission and orders he was damned if he'd carry out and a crew that he could not allow to be slaughtered. “Think, damn you, think.”

He glanced around his cabin. Was Whitebred watching? The comm link did not face the bed. Whitebred had been on board for five days, but he had not asked for any work done by the ship's company. Still, any mikes and cameras on board were probably accessed, but no new ones added.

Maybe.

Mattim called up the load out the marines had brought. Most was standard issue. There was an exception. Lek what's his name, Mattim didn't even try to pronounce it, had several crates of uncatalogued electronic equipment and broken parts! Who was this guy? Mattim accessed the ship's personnel files. The marines had not been added. Okay, there was an electronic wizard on board, probably on the admiral's side. Coordinating anything was going to be a bitch.

Mattim settled into his bunk. What assets did he have? A crew that had followed him to the ends of the galaxy and pack. They'd do whatever he asked. But he couldn't say * hat he wanted to without risking a bullet in the back. And he could not stand by and watch them be murdered.

He'd stopped at Wardhaven a dozen times. One industrialist had invited him home to enjoy an evening with his wife and daughter. While it hadn't slowed Mattim's haggling, now it gave him faces to match with the bombs.

Alarms went off. He drifted up from his bed. “Oh, shit.”

His screen lit up—Whitebred. “Captain, you seem to have an engineering problem,” he said softly. Then his face hardened. “If we are not back at two gees in five minutes, I'll have the marines fix it. Your way or my way, we will be back at speed in five minutes.”

Launching himself from his bunk, Mattim was out the door and going hand over hand down the main passageway. “Make a hole,” he hollered. “Captain coming through.” People made space even if it meant drifting away from the emergency handholds. He passed two sets of marines. They watched him, but made no move to follow.

In engineering, Ivan and his watch hunched over stations. “Damn groundhog reactor hiccupped and sent a spike through the system. Damn near fried main power.” He glanced up, a resigned scowl on his face. “I'll need thirty-six hours to straighten this out.”

“You got two minutes,” Mattim growled, “or they'll put a bullet in your brain like they did Guns. Sandy first, then you, then your team one by one until somebody cracks and turns back on what you turned off. Ivan, don't be stupid.”

Marines clattered through the hatch. The sergeant who'd murdered Guns was leading.

“Back off,” Mattim said in a harsh whisper. “Now, Ivan.”

Ivan tapped his board several times. The normal hum returned to the engineering spaces.

“Very good, Captain.” The admiral's unctuous voice issued from the speakers in engineering. “I knew you could make your man see the error of his ways. Sergeant Dumont, bring that officer to my quarters.” And Mattim had to follow Ivan and his marine escort because he wasn't about to have another of his officers wheeled out of the admiral's quarters feet first. Meeting demands with counter demands, screams with shouts, threats with veiled threats of his own, Mattim got Ivan back through the door alive. The admiral looked smug.

In his quarters, Mattim collapsed on his bunk, trembling. He'd been to zoos with poisonous reptiles and man-eating carnivores. He'd never been so up close and personal with one.

The comm beeped. Ivan was in tears. “They took her.”

“Sandy?”

“Yes. While they had me, they took her to the brig.”

“Let me take care of this.”

“Please, Matt, she's my life.”

“I'll get back to you.” Mattim broke the connection. “XO, I need some help. Who has control of our brig?”

“We do,” she answered.

“Maybe not anymore. Check with the chief master-at-arms.”

“Wait one.” Ding was back in only seconds. “The marines took charge of the brig about three minutes ago. Faced with assault rifles, our people bailed out fast. Hadn't had time to report. Damn it, he can't just take over sections of our ship!”

“He can and is.” Mattim cut her off before she talked herself into the brig. “Okay, this is what we do. Sandy's in that brig. Ding, please call up the lead marine and offer her any assistance in making the brig secure and its occupants comfortable. Offer to have a couple of our people work under her people. Colin, I want our folks down there as witnesses to what happens in that brig. Sandy's only the first of us.”

“Put our people under her marines?”

“Yes, Colin, our people. She's got to be shorthanded with this whole boat to patrol. If we put one or two nonthreatening old farts in there to be gofers and do the unarmed stuff, that's got to be a load off them. And I do mean old farts who know better than try to be heroes. No kids. Got that? No kids.”

“Yes, sir. You are giving up the brig. We are to render full assistance to the marines in managing it.” The XO said the words like they were poison.

Mattim didn't like it any better. “Yes, Colin. Anything to get us through this without people dying.” He hoped she noted his inclusive language. Not crew killed, but people.

There was a change in her voice when she said, “Understood.”

Mattim made a quick and very unsatisfactory call to Ivan, then tried to settle back on his bunk. Sleep was impossible, but he had to get some rest. In the morning, he'd have to be sharp when he made a walk around. There had to be a way around Whitebred and his marines and his damn rocks.

Mary looked sharp as she made a walk-around of the guard posts before turning in. The crew was sullen as she passed them. There'd been no public announcement; still, you didn't keep the death of the gunnery officer a secret. Damn Dumont! He'd taken the admiral's bait, hook, line, and sinker. Stupid kid! And the admiral had played all of them like a damn piano. While she'd been trying to figure out how to react, he'd pushed Dumont over the edge. Pushed, hell. Dumont had jumped at the chance. And Mary couldn't let the sailors tear Dumont to pieces.

Now what? Her teams were stretched thin. The offer from the exec to keep a couple of hands around the brig was appreciated. Mary had rousted Cassie out of bed to take over the brig watch. She should be taking over soon.

“Captain.” It was Cassie's voice.

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Brig is secure. Prisoner secure. For this you got me up?”

“You got two people from ship's company helping you?”

“Yeah, a middle-aged man and woman.”

“Keep an eye on them.”

Cassie snorted. “Hero types these two ain't, but understood.”

“Rodrigo out.”

Mary stepped carefully over the coaming of the bridge hatch. The bridge crew pointedly ignored her—only the XO nodded. Mary had assigned four marines to guard the admiral. The two male guards lounged in chairs outside the admiral's cabin, their guns at the ready. The two woman guards were nowhere to be seen.

The XO joined her. “Hope you don't mind us loaning your marines chairs. At two gees it gets a bit heavy on the feet.”

Mary had glanced through the marine guard manual once. It was definite about standing guard duty. She hadn't noticed anything about high gees. “Thanks. I think.”

The Navy type shrugged, then glanced around the bridge. “Tough situation. No need to make it any tougher on the poor working folks than necessary.”

Obviously, this woman would never make it in management. “You know where my other two guards are?”

“Admiral said the women could stand their watch in his cabin.” More likely in his bed hung unsaid.

Mary agreed; the admiral had been specific about two of his four guards being girls. “And the two helping out in the brig?”

“Captain suggested you could use a hand. We'll pick from the old and smart types. Captain doesn't want anybody killed.”

“Thanks,” Mary mumbled as she turned to go. So, Matt the merchant had no taste for blood. A virtue in a trader that had no place where they were, but Mary would use it.

Her last stop before hitting the rack was the brig. Cassie and two privates were monitoring the prisoner by video—a woman, an officer from the shoulder tabs.

“Why's she in?” Mary asked.

Cassie just raised her eyebrows. “One of Dumont's corporals marched her in. Don't know.”

“She's the Jump Master,” a middle-aged woman in blue Navy coveralls answered. “Wife of the chief engineer.”

Mary stared at the ceiling for a moment, absorbing it all. Power loss. Chief engineer restores power; wife lands in the brig. That little admiral was playing hardball. Just how hard?

Mary checked her prisoner. The woman lay on the bunk, staring at the ceiling. “Cassie, enter into the brig log. I want

to be called if there is any change in a prisoner's condition. All prisoners will be treated as guests and will leave here in as good a shape as they arrived. You got that?”

“You bet, boss. Loud and clear.” Cassie grinned. “You hear that, guards? Pass that along verbally when you're relieved. You Navy types, too.”

Mary took in a deep breath. She'd spent a night or three under hack. Mining company guards were picked for their heavy hands. She would have none of that on her watch. Mary yawned. Cassie quickly caught it.

“Girl, we're both too old for this shit,” Mary said. “Get one of your sergeants to take over here. I'm headed for the rack. You too.”

“Joyfully, Captain.”

Mary was halfway to her quarters when something went thud in the mud her brain was turning into. I said I didn't want any of the crew dead. The XO said no people dead. Was she quoting the captain? And did he mean that? No people! Well, Matt, does that include a billion enemy non-combatants ?

Mary undressed for bed, but kept her gear handy. It was already after midnight; she'd be back up at 0515. She needed some sleep. What she got was thoughts that wouldn't go away.

The admiral had told them quickly and bluntly what he wanted and the rewards they'd get in return. Just like at the mines, he'd say “frog jump” and they would. Mary rolled onto her side, tried to get comfortable at twice her normal weight—and rolled back over.

A billion people were going to die. She tried calling up the horrible visions of the hundreds she'd killed and imagined a million more for each one of them. Her mind balked. Since that first day, it had. Some part of her that cared about others had frozen over that day into icy stone. Marines she fought to keep alive. No one else mattered, any more than the waste runoff from the mines mattered.

Worker bees just did what they had to.

But I'm not a worker bee, Mary snapped at herself. I’m an officer, just like Umboto . She had sworn to defend humanity against all enemies, foreign and domestic. That had to mean something. The admiral said it meant a billion peaceful women and children dead. That couldn't be right.

Still, with Dumont in the admiral's pocket, could she stop him? Did Mattim really mean he wanted this thing ended with nobody dead? She had to talk to that guy. Maybe, just maybe, together they could figure out what was right and how to do it.