The First Casualty

Chapter Fifteen

Next morning, Ray ordered breakfast in their room; he would not talk to a recording today. Breakfast was half eaten when the room's comm link buzzed. It rang only once, then began recording a message. Ray interrupted the young colonel. “Another delay?”

“The President was up until very early this morning. His afternoon briefing is only for the most urgent, sir. As a field commander, you understand, sir. Now, if you will excuse me...”

“Colonel, I am from Wardhaven. Are there many issues on the President's plate as pressing as the situation at Wardhaven?”

The young man seemed surprised; he studied something out of sight. “Oh, you are from Wardhaven; an army type, though. I will advise my superiors. I must ring off now, sir.” And he did.

“An army type.” Santiago exploded from his chair and began storming around the room. “They are inviting the Earth to invade Wardhaven and have no time for an army type.”

“Enough, Captain. Sit down.” Actually, Ray would have loved the release of pacing. Deprived of it, it was mean of him to deny the captain that release. Still, he needed some semblance of tranquility to think. Santiago subsided into an easy chair. Rita began rubbing Ray's back. He found himself relaxing, almost against his will. “I suspect,” he muttered, “that we will hear nothing more from that colonel today.”

“The President must feel he has the situation well in hand,” Rita mused without slowing her ministrations.

“So he's staying up to the small hours?” Santiago growled.

“You and I have been there. Check, double-check, and check again. We did it with our first platoon, and we did it with the brigade. What we checked was different, the long hours were not. Our President does a thorough job.” Spoken loyally for the mikes.

“Ray, you are going swimming,” Rita announced. “If necessary, I will drag you down to the hotel pool and throw you in. You need exercise.”

Santiago jumped to his feet. “With willing help, Admiral.”

“Pulling rank on me again, wife?” They laughed. It was a good day not to die.

Mattim wouldn't mind dying today, if he could just take that bastard with him. One glance at the changing of the guard outside the admiral's quarters showed what a waste any try would be. There were now five marines outside. Only the prettiest woman was invited in. Only she came in and out, and then only to get meals. Apparently even Whitebred and Stuart gave up their fun and games at three gees. No, Mattim could do something stupid like the middie, or he could wait for the right moment.

He rolled over to the helmswoman. The slingshot around Ward Two would be late tonight. A day or so after that and they'd be in place to start throwing rocks. So, when do we stop the bastard? Mattim was still looking.

“Helm, how close do we get in our pass?” Ding asked.

“Fifty kilometers, ma'am.”

“Does it have an atmosphere?”

“Carbon dioxide,” Mattim answered, “and lots of other crud. Lousy with storms last time I passed it. And I was a lot farther away than fifty klicks. Plan for another bumpy ride.”

“Right, Captain. Our sun pass broke four carts loose. None were at battle station lock-downs. Two were marines. Captain, I recommend all personnel go into lock-down an hour before our close encounter with Ward Two.”

“Please advise the marines.” Mattim kept his voice even.

The admiral interrupted thirty seconds into the call. “I want all guard posts manned.”

“Sir, I respectfully recommend against that.” Ding stayed Navy formal. “Four carts failed. We got no chance to do maintenance. I expect a much higher failure rate this time.”

“Sir,” Mary cut in, “I have one marine in sick bay and another one who's just plain lucky. I only had fifty to start with, sir. I can't afford to lose any more.”

“Sir,” Mattim added, “everyone will be locked down at battle stations. We have cameras scattered about the ship. They can be put in surveillance mode.” As if you didn't know . “Anybody moves off station, you'll know.”

“You will keep the guards at my quarters.”

Mattim knew he should grab the compromise and run, but bulldozing Whitebred felt too good. “Sir, there are no lock-downs outside your quarters. At three-plus gees, I can't have them installed. Here, on the bridge, we'll be juggling a very high-risk encounter. We can't have a cart go careening around.”

Whitebred sputtered on net, apparently at a loss for words. Mary was gentle when she spoke. “You've had several marines in your quarters, sir. That looks like a pretty solid bulkhead between it and the bridge. I could move your guards inside.”

“Do it. Admiral Whitebred out,” he snapped.

Ding continued as if there had been no interruption. “Your bunk space has lock-downs, Captain Rodrigo. I'll have a work party help your troops lock their carts. Would you like them standing by in case anything comes loose?”

“That won't be necessary, Commander. I suspect my troops will sleep through the whole thing.”

“I hope mine do too. Exec out.”

“Glad that's over,” Ding sighed. “Now, how much ice do we have left on this boat's snout? Damage control, exec here.”

Mattim left her to her duties. Like a good captain, he motored from station to station, checking and double-checking. But his mind was elsewhere. If the marines go with me, the bombing is off. And if they don't? That was Mattim's nightmare. Mary sounded none too sure her marines would back her. If they didn't, Mattim wasn't done. Marines were marines; they rode in ships they didn't operate. If it came down to it, would any of them know whether a sailor was fixing a problem—or making one? Then again, a five-thousand-pound rock loose at three gees was not something captains wanted. How do you bust a ship so it can't throw rocks—and not kill anyone?

Mattim spent what spare time he had looking for just that spot as he prepared to sling shot around Ward Two. He'd studied everything and was going over the accelerator for the fourth time when it kicked him in the face. For the first time in a long while, he smiled.

For the first time since coming aboard this tub, Mary had most of her marines present. The six guarding the admiral were a mixed bag. Three were old miners who thought like her. The other three would follow Dumont through hell. The Navy work party was done and gone; her troops were locked down, some already nodding off. She glanced at Lek. “Now,” she said.

Only one camera covered the room. With a soft pop it came off the wall, hanging by its cabling. In a few seconds, those wires gave way; the tiny spy shattered as it hit the deck.

“Listen up, folks,” Mary announced. “We got a problem. In case you didn't catch it on the grapevine, let me fill you in on this mission, and what's in it for you.” And she did.

Their reaction held no surprise. The billion deaths drew a shocked recoil from most of her miners. Dumont and crew shrugged it off. The promised reward got cheers from his crew—scowls from the miners. Had any fighting team ever been so split?

“So, why we talking, old lady?” Dumont hadn't used that crack in a while. “Pop a batch of colonials, end the war, and make a friend in high places. All fun and games by me!” It was to most of his youngsters.

Cassie almost came out of her gee-cart. “Didn't you hear her? Kill a billion people. A billion! God forgive us for even listening to the idea. We've got to stop him.”

“Your God never done nothing for me,” Dumont snorted. “If He's so all-fired against killing, where was he when Blacky or Amy or Har or any of us got popped? He got a special place in His heart for them colonials dirtside. He can play catch.”

Cassie, the only religious one in the troop, turned pale. “Let me take this,” Mary said softly. Slowly, she went over what she and Mattim had shared. The miners had no trouble agreeing that any promise from Whitebred wasn't worth the air he used to say it. The youngsters, however, bought his line.

“He forget us, we cut him up good” came from somewhere in the back. For the next minute, the youngsters competed coming up with nastier ways to remind a forgetful Whitebred of his old friends. Mary let it roll, then turned to Lek.

“What you think?”

“He wins this war by killing a billion people, there's gonna be a lot of eager folks that want his hide. Powers that be'll wrap him in a wall of security sunshine can't get through without a retina scan and strip-search. Take it from an old cracker and hacker. He don't want to see you again. He don't.”

That quieted the kids.

“What worries me is whether this stunt will end the war,” Mary said slowly. “I've been up to my eyeballs in war for six months. I don't want no more of it. You been there with me. Would this scare the shit and surrender out of you, or make you mad enough to never quit fighting?”

“Like we was when Blacky and Amy got popped” came a quiet voice from behind Dumont.

“I don't think this admiral's spent any more time in uniform than us. You think he really knows what them colonials will do?”

Dumont was uncomfortable with that one. “I don't know how long he's been Navy. Who knows how good he is? But he's got us here, and the colonials by the balls.”

“Guy don't talk much about Navy stuff,” one of the girls drawled. “He's all the time bragging. All of it's business.”

“He talks when he's screwing you” came from the back.

“All you guys brag when you're screwing,” she snapped back, “and you all a bunch of liars.”

Mary couldn't afford to lose them to another catcalling contest. “Du, Whitebred's as green as we are. He's guessing. That old guy that went up against him. He was forty years Navy. Lek here's been in the mines for forty years. If he says it can be done, you can bet on it. If he says it's a bad idea, I want out of the way.” A chorus of “Me too” and “You bet” backed her up.

“Well, Whitebred didn't exactly give me time to play five questions with the old fart. Boss man said joke him, I did the joke.” Dumont was defending himself, no longer Whitebred.

Mary tried one more slice. “Dumont, there's a billion faceless people, and rocks are cheap, and people die real quick under them. Once we do it, who's gonna do it next? I left some friends behind on Pitt's Hope. How long before some crew with a ship full of rocks is looking down on them as a bunch of faceless enemies? You must have left some people you care about.”

“Only person I care about is me” came from the back. This time nobody echoed him.

“Mary,” Dumont said slowly, “the only folks I care about are right here. A mom or a dad are things other people got, not me. Mary, you could be right, but then again, you could be dead wrong. This is the one chance anybody's ever handed me in my life. I can't piss it away. Maybe Whitebred's like everybody else and can't be trusted. But maybe he can. I got to try.” His voice went loud. “We got to try.”

“Yes!” hissed from a dozen lips.

“You gonna turn me in to the admiral?” Mary asked. “Shoot me for him?”

“No! No way, Mary. You may be an old lady, but you're us. Gang don't turn in a sister. Marines don't shoot marines.”

That got an enthusiastic response from Dumont's choir.

Mary weighed what Dumont had given her. Marines don't kill marines. Good start. But half the platoon wants done what the other half wants stopped! How do I make everyone happy this time? Guess this is what the corps calls a leadership challenge. How do I lead troops in both directions?

Mary spoke slowly. “Okay, Du, here's where you and your kids get to show us how good you are. The miners are going to try to stop the bombing. You catch one of them out of line, I take them off the duty roster and lock 'em down here. Admiral don't have to know why. Same for Navy types. Turn them in to me and I'll see they get put under hack.”

Dumont looked around. There were a lot of smiles from his kids. “Mary, we been joking with the man's stuff on the streets for years and none of us got caught. We'll spot you first try.”

“I don't think you will, but we'll know tomorrow.”

“Okay. Mary, this has got to be even up. Half the admiral's guards are from my side, and we shoot to keep him safe. I want most of the guards on the magazine and the launcher to be my people. Deal?”

“Deal,” Mary said.

Her comm link beeped. Everyone in the room quit breathing. Mary let it ring. On the third, she slapped the key. “This better be f*cking good,” she growled sleepily, “ 'cause he was the best dream I've had in months.”

There was a long pause. “Ah, Captain, the camera is out in your bunk room,” the admiral said slowly. “I just wondered if anything was wrong.”

“Damn thing fell off the wall a while back when we hit a bump. We were all half asleep. Damn near shot it to pieces. If you want, Admiral, I'll leave my mike open and you can listen to us snore,” Mary added helpfully.

“No! Not necessary.” Whitebred tumbled over his words. “Everything's okay. Go back to sleep.” His line died.

“You want that for a friend,” Lek observed dryly.

“Never had a suit for a friend. Don't know what they're good for,” Dumont answered slowly.

“A billion dead people,” Cassie snapped. Mary shot her a glance. They can't hear you on that one, old girl. We got what we want. Don't push.

“Captain”—Thor breathed a sigh of relief—”you ask me to do that again and I swear, I'll get out and walk home.” The bridge crew laughed; they'd done good. Sheffield’s nose ice was down to millimeters. Engineering had red-lined the engines for the last hour, pushing them toward the planet they'd missed by a fraction of a heartbeat. Dozens of people could have ended the mission with one slip-up. No one was suicidal.

“We've done great, folks, so let's get some sleep. Tomorrow will be another busy day.” We kill a billion people, or we don't. No ties allowed.

As he entered his quarters, his chair beeped. “Kids have not bought in. Consider all young marines hostile. However, the admiral is out of the loop. If one of your people is tagged, you must take her off the watch. Call me if you more info.”

So, no more people get killed. Some marines were friendly, some were not, and Mary hadn't had time to give him a program. For what he had in mind, he didn't need one. He used channel Lek 23 to call Chief Aso.

“Chief, we've got an oversight here. Bomb and loader were all designed for twelve gees—assuming a five hundred pound bomb. We got five thousand pounders, and at three gees we're in trouble. We reinforced the magazine, but I'm not satisfied with the work on the loader and the bomb thrower. You got a welder you can trust in some heavy work?”

“Dan from the Maggie signed over. What you got in mind, Skipper?”

Mattim told him. The chief beamed.

The phone in their room rang as Ray finished his oatmeal. Rita tapped the speaker phone. It was not the colonel. A major general beamed at them. “Major, you are included in today's briefing. It will begin at thirteen hundred hours. Be early. The president is very interested in what kind of fight the forces of Wardhaven will give the Earth invaders. Please include a full table of organization and deployment.”

“Yes sir,” Ray snapped.

“See you then.” The general switched off.

“Today,” Rita breathed.

“Captain.” Ray was all mission. “We have the required data?”

“Yes sir.”

“Let us redo our briefing,” Ray sighed as if it mattered.

“Yes, sir.”

Rita went to lay out his uniform ... and hers.

Mattim called damage control first thing next morning using Lek 23. “We've reinforced the magazine, and it's taken the pounding. You've done some work on the loader and accelerator. I'd like to reinforce that. A two-and-a-half-ton rock loose is a hell of a lot of damage to control.”

“Yes, sir,” Commander Gandhi said. “I'll put a work chit in right away with your priority on it.”

“I'd rather my name wasn't on the chit.”

“No problem, sir.” Tina didn't bat an eyelash. “I like a skipper who lets his people do their job.”

“Thank you, Commander. One more thing. Chief Aso handled my toughest welding problems on the old Maggie . I don't think gunnery would mind you pulling him off for this.”

“What with all the high gees and bouncing the Sheffield’s been taking, I can use all the help I can get. Will do.” If the commander was part of a conspiracy, she hadn't showed it. Nor had she missed a line.

“Have at it, Commander.”

Mary worked up the Order of the Day for her detachment with Dumont at her elbow. She would assign one, he would assign one.

“I get command at the rock slinger,” Dumont said.

“We share that one.” Mary finished the list. “Assignments are for all day. Chow will be catch as catch can.”

“We're gonna stop you.”

Mary pursed her lips. “We'll see.”

Mattim did a morning walk-about. The crew was nervous.

“Is it true, sir, our armor ain't no thicker than frost on the freezer?” Hassan asked as he gave Mattim two pancakes.

“Never saw any frost on your reefer, you old belly robber.” Mattim dodged the question. As he made his rounds, matters did not improve. The Sheffield showed the effect of high gees and close encounters. The crew went about their duties slowly, as the three gees required, tackling the worst of it. No one met his eyes. He almost skipped the launcher bay, but he always stopped there, and today could not be an exception. Mary's cart was parked in the center of the bay, the young sergeant who'd shot Guns at her elbow. Around the bay, six teams of marines traveled in pairs, one young, the other showing a touch of gray, the beginning of a paunch. So that's the way it is.

“Got everything under control, Captain Rodrigo?”

“Yes sir.” She saluted. So did the sergeant. His eyes were hard, measuring, as if he* expected Mattim to produce a wrench and unbolt the launcher. Mattim ignored him and turned his cart in a slow circle, taking in the work crews scattered around the bay. “Lot of maintenance will need doing when this is over. We can't wait to fix this.”

“Your crew better be fixing what they touch,” the sergeant growled. “I got marines looking over every shoulder.”

“Good.” Mattim smiled. “Better job you marines do, the less the admiral will worry. And I don't like worried bosses.” Still smiling, Mattim ended his circle facing the sergeant. Let the poor bastard figure out what's coming down. I ain't paid to teach. Turning to leave, he had to fight to keep the smile on his face. A bunch of Navy security guards escorted in a work team. The tiny middie rolled up the rear. How'd she get out of the brig? What's she doing here?

She glanced his way ... and winked.

“Captain.” Mattim's comm snapped in the admiral's voice. “I want you in my quarters. Immediately.”

“Yes sir.”

At exactly 0945, Ray was uniformed, bemedalled, and shined. The batteries in his walker were fresh, and the briefcase waited in Santiago's hands. The official limousine arrived on the dot.

The sergeant driver opened the door ... and then closed it. “My orders are for two officers. Who is she?” Ray could not tell if the driver's disapproval was for Rita, or the tight cut of her uniform. Ray opened his mouth, but Rita got there first.

“I am Senior Pilot Officer Mrs. Longknife. I will accompany my husband. And while I may have to wait in the car with you, Sergeant, I've just got to be there to hear everything he has to say after he meets the President.” The stiff officer segued into a gushing girl that got a smile out of even the sergeant.

“Well, I guess it's okay.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Ray said.

As the limo moved off, Ray leaned back in the plush seat. He was prepared to meet the President—and any other god who took an interest in today's hard duty.

“Captain, despite what you may think of me, I am not totally lacking in human qualities. I just sent a message to the rebel forces on Wardhaven inviting them to surrender. I informed them if they do not, we will destroy all major cities on Wardhaven no sooner than twelve hours from now.”

“They've already refused to surrender,” Mattim risked.

“And their government will refuse this one. They don't think we have the guts. That will be the last miscalculation they ever make. But”—Whitebred shared another smile with Stuart that made Mattim's skin crawl—”it will be upon their heads. I offered them peace. They spurned it.”

“Some colonials may not see it that way,” Mattim risked.

“There're always some who can't get with the program. Dinosaurs die, Captain. Pity, but they die. Dismissed.”

Mattim returned to the bridge. “Anything, Ding?”

“Nothing I can't handle, sir.”

Mattim rolled up beside her. “You're making me feel un-needed, Exec.”

“I never noticed that captains were all that needed. Ship's holding up, but we'll need some major yard time when we're done.”

“We all will.” Mattim glanced at a new clock; counting down, it changed—eleven hours, forty-one minutes.

The limo passed several outlying checkpoints before rolling up to a block of stone buildings fit to house the temples of many gods—or one very big one. The driver brought them to a halt in the courtyard. A security guard in a midnight black uniform opened the door. He was backed up by a dozen more in fixed positions and armored vehicles. Everything from assault rifles to laser cannon covered them as they dismounted. Ray had faced these withering shows of disapproval before; he tried to look bored .. . and prayed Rita would not crumble.

She helped him from the car, then clung to him. He noted every guard—all males—paid far more attention to her than him. She stood tall to kiss him on the cheek. “I wanted you to meet our President with a smile on your lips. My husband, I am pregnant,” she crowed. From the guards there was a cheer.

Rita blushed, and Ray felt a warmth in his cheeks. Life and death twisted in his belly—and his gut knotted. When Rita stepped away, he faced the captain of the guard.

“Congratulations, Major. May all wounded war veterans be as successful in their recovery as you.”

“And may their brides be more modest in announcing their accomplishments.” Ray frowned at his wife, but her smile was contagious. One grew on his face, and others on most of the guard detail.

A guard technician cleared his throat. “We seem to have a problem, Captain.”

The guard captain immediately turned to look over the technician's shoulder as the man pointed to an elevated line on his screen. “Ammonia,” the tech whispered.

His heart pounding, Ray tapped the metal walkers under his uniform trousers. “They're hell on my skin. Need an ointment. Rita, did you bring it?” She produced a tube from her purse.

The guard captain passed it to the tech. Together they studied their machine. “Identical,” the technician said.

The captain handed the tube back to Rita. “I will advise the other guard posts. However, Major, I must see the inside of your briefcase.” Santiago opened it and spun up the computer. As he was about to close it, the comm unit beeped.

“Major, this is the Oasis's captain. We are in receipt of a message from Wardhaven.”

“Make it quick, Skipper. I'm passing through security for the President's briefing.”

“Excuse me, sir. The enemy flagship has transmitted an ultimatum. If the planet does not surrender unconditionally in twelve hours, they will bombard all major cities.”

“When was this given?” Ray asked.

“One hour ago. The flag has swung around the sun and Pico and is now on course to Wardhaven at point-oh-three of the speed of light.”

“That sounds fairly slow.” The guard captain tossed the statement off.

“A five-hundred-pound bomb”—Rita spoke through gritted teeth—”will hit with the power of a quarter million tons of explosive.”

“Oh.” The guard captain was impressed.

The Navy captain ended his message with a plea. “Please, Major, explain our situation to the President. We cannot defend against this attack.”

“I will do what I can do, Captain. Longknife out.”

“Only a coward fights like that,” the guard captain snapped. “Honorable men face each other on the field of battle.”

“With artillery and tanks,” Santiago drawled.

Ray studied the guard officer. His tunic was full of ribbons, none of them for combat. “Let us hurry. Maybe the President can spare a moment before the briefing.” Ray had eleven hours to swap a planet's rendezvous with death for his own.

“Captain, follow me,” Whitebred shouted, bolting from his quarters. “I want that man shot.” Mattim followed, not knowing where they were going or who was to be shot.

The admiral gunned his gee cart at full power. Mattim had put miles on his and had trouble keeping up. When he pulled into the launcher bay, Whitebred was already shouting, “Sergeant, shoot that man. He doesn't belong here.”

“What man?” Mary and Sergeant Dumont echoed.

“That man.” The admiral struggled to raise his arm. At three gees, all he succeeded in doing was a wave that covered half the work parties in the bay.

“Who, sir?” the sergeant asked again.

“See down the launcher path. There's a chief near two welders. He doesn't belong here. I want you to execute him, now. I want everybody to watch this.”

“Sir,” the sergeant said with just a hint of derision, “at this acceleration, I can't draw my pistol, much less aim it.”

“Helmsman, slow the ship down,” the admiral snapped.

“Helm,” Mattim quickly cut in, “belay that order.”

Whitebred whipped his cart around to face Mattim. “Is this mutiny? Sergeant, if he says yes, shoot him.”

Eyebrows raised in question, the sergeant wheeled to face Mary. “Can we slow down and figure out what's happening here?” she asked.

“He countermanded my order,” the admiral shouted.

“You can't give the helm vague orders like that,” Mattim said slowly. “Do you want to slow acceleration, or actually slow the ship? That would involve flipping the ship and staying at three gees or higher to actually reduce the ship's speed.”

Whitebred glanced at his shadow. Stuart gave a tiny but quick nod of agreement. “Oh,” the admiral said. “Take us to one gee.”

“Helm, this is the captain, I have the conn. Maintain course and take us smartly to one-gee acceleration. Have the bosun advise the crew. Wait one.” Mattim turned to the admiral. “Will we be at one gee long enough for the crew to get cleaned up?”

“No. Just long enough to execute that man in cart G61.” This time the admiral did manage to communicate that he wanted Chief Aso. Two marines tooled off to collect him.

“What's going on here?” The damage control officer arrived. “Captain, is there a problem in my spaces?”

“That man is in the gunnery division,” Whitebred snapped. “He doesn't belong here. I want him shot. Somebody get a vid hookup here. Sergeant, as soon as the captain can get us to one gee, shoot that man.”

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant said with a lot less enthusiasm than he'd had with Guns.

The damage control officer rolled his cart right up to Whitebred. “Admiral, that man belongs here. I asked for him and got him assigned to my work parties. He's a damn good ship maintainer and I need him, what with the way we've been hotdogging around space. With our armor down to icing, all the gunnery department can do is sit around on their duffs. I got real work to do and I want that man doing it.”

Whitebred grew dangerously quiet.

“You got a work order to support that?” Stuart asked.

“Yes sir. Let me call it up. Just a sec. Here it is. I'll transmit it to your unit.”

Stuart and Whitebred gave it a sour stare. “Got the commander's chop,” Stuart observed. “Looks okay.”

“I want to see what he was doing,” Whitebred demanded.

“Yes sir. Right this way.” Gandhi led off, the admiral right behind her. It was quite a parade. The welders knocked off as the damage control officer explained. “This launcher is stressed for six gees using a five-hundred-pound round. That translates to just one-point-two gees for the round we've got now. We're doing three gees.”

“But it's been worked on before,” Stuart pointed out.

“Yes, sir, in stages to give us the safety margins I wanted. First we rebuilt the magazines up to three gees for those new two and a half ton bullets, then upped the launcher to two gees. Then we redid the magazine to six gees where I wanted it. Now's the loaders turn. I do what I need when I need it. And I keep this ship undamaged, which is the best damage control you can ask for.”

The admiral and his chief of staff studied the welders' work. Mattim held his breath. Aso and his work party had done a terrible job. The actual welds were as solid as they came. But the welding torches had cut a broad swath, taking the temper off of the main girders. Here and there were nicks. The weld might hold, but the girders would twist and bend in the middle.

They'd done what Mattim had asked. Would they die for it?

“This looks like lousy workmanship,” Whitebred groused.

“Never saw anything like these on any of my ships.” Stuart backed him up. *

Mattim wondered what Stuart had done aboard ship. He didn't look like the type to get his hands dirty. Commander Gandhi didn't retreat an inch. “Ever rip a sack, sir? You don't run a single strip of tape up the tear, you take a couple of strips and spread them out, to spread the pressure. Same with welding,” she lied with a straight face. “Slap some paint on that and it'll look as fancy as any ship you ever rode, Captain.”

Whitebred still looked like he wanted someone shot. Mattim went for the closing. “Admiral, if you want, I can put the chief in the brig. If anything he's worked on breaks when we launch, you can decide what to do then.”

“I really need the help,” Gandhi moaned.

“Not from gunnery,” the admiral ordered. “Okay, we'll do it your way, Captain. But if my marines start shooting, you can bet they won't stop with chiefs.” Whitebred stormed off, leaving Mattim staring at Mary and her sergeant. Neither one looked too happy with the admiral's claim on “his marines.”

A fresh-faced colonel ushered the major into a hall half the size of the 2nd Guard's drill field. Officers, most of them generals, milled about. Ray and Santiago stood stiffly, waiting to be told where their place was. Here begins a whole different kind of combat . General Vondertrip excused himself from a group and hailed Ray. “So glad you could make it. What with the situation on Wardhaven, the President may ask you quite a few questions.”

“The situation is reaching critical.” Ray carefully skirted the boundaries of treason. Assuming they hadn't moved again.

“Yes, but do not forget the most important part, my young friend.” As the general approached, his voice lowered. Beside Ray, his voice was little more than a whisper. “The offensive is what matters to the President. Wars are not won on the defensive. 'Attack, attack, always attack.'“

Ray glanced around. Like the general, most of the people within earshot were whispering. “Is that why the Navy has not come to the aid of Wardhaven?” he asked.

“You will get nowhere attacking the Navy. The President is tired of interservice rivalries. And yes, the Navy is up to its ears supporting three offensives. Wardhaven has thirty million men under arms. If you can not stop the Earth stooges with that, you don't deserve to breathe.” The general's voice took on the accent and cadence of the President as he recited the often-repeated phrase.

“No line of brave infantry can stop a relativity bomb.”

“Oh, that. You have heard that bit of bragging. So they have the space above you. They can do nothing until they land and meet us face to face. They dare not use their bombs. They are the ones with the vast populations and crammed industry. If they start such folly, we will bake them in their own pudding. The President has announced that they are only bluffing. In ten hours, you will see.”

“Where should I sit? The briefing begins at one.”

“No need to rush; the President is never here before two. He does not like anyone new sitting near him. Despite all our loyal protests, and the endless guards we must pass, he fears bombs. You will sit at the end of the table, but I have arranged for you to be across from him. You will have a good view.”

“Thank you, General. I have never met the President, and my wife will want to know everything he does.”

“Yes, I understand you are in the family way.”

“Does anything move faster than a woman's whispered word?”

“Not even light, my young friend.”

“Could you show me to my seat? I have prepared a briefing, as your letter asked. It would be a shame if your computer could not interface with mine.”

“We have the latest system, but be careful. The President has a short attention span for briefings. You must give him the highlights quickly. If he begins to speak, sit down. Never interrupt.”

“As your note said.”

“Here is your place, I have never understood these machines. My mother always said if God had meant for us to have computers, we would have been born with one.”

“I thought that was what our brain was,” Santiago quipped to the general's departing back.

“I doubt the general believes in them either,” Ray answered softly. “Can you plug us in?”

“It requires a physical hookup! Ancient technology. But there are several cables in the briefcase. Let me see.”

“You do this. I will find the restrooms. My stomach.” Ray began a quick walk across the marbled floor, hoping he could control his roiling gut long enough to find the necessary room. Death would come easy. Keeping his dignity was a fight.

Mary sat in her high-grav cart—enjoying herself. Dumont and his teams rushed up and down the launcher, looking over the shoulders of every sailor working on the accelerator. Every ten or fifteen minutes they'd denounce some worker as a saboteur. Mary and the damage control officer would motor over to review the case. The chief of the work party would explain what they were doing, and the commander would assure them that it was part of the critical upgrade of the system. Dumont began to smell a skunk with Gandhi always going last, so he demanded she go first and the accused chief go second. Either they were telling the truth, or chiefs were just as good at whoppers as Gandhi was. Either way, Dumont was none the wiser.

Mary had spotted a few untruths so far. That one about welding arcs needing to heat up the surrounding area was one of them. She'd learned how to weld in a nonunion   shop. You keep a good, tight bead—the smaller the better. Yep, there was a whole lot of lying going on.

Dumont turned back from the latest fracas. “Damn it, folks, you got just as much to gain from this as we do. You.” He pointed at a youngster, two slashes on his uniform. Mary took him for a Navy corporal of some sort. “You think what they teaching you in the Navy'11 get you a job when this war's over? If you don't got a friend in a very high place, you'll be back in the street with the rest of us again.”

“Hey, man, they drafted me and sent me to school for two months. I know enough to carry the petty officer's toolbox. I can't tell you what he's doing,” the Navy kid answered— in too-perfect English. Mattim had told her how kids fresh out of college had helped him get his ship back home. She wondered what this kid's degree was in ... and told Dumont nothing.

That was it, really. The admiral had the power of authority. The marines had the power of the gun. But Mattim and his crew had the power of knowledge. She and her miners had played their part. Lek had taken away the admiral's stranglehold on their tongues. They had come together. What were they creating?

Mary glanced around the launch bay. Did anybody know who was doing what? Come launch time, this bay was gonna be damn dangerous. Mattim, you didn't want any more dead. Can you get this place evacuated? Mary suppressed a snicker. Was Dumont smart enough to be very far away from here in—she glanced at her chronometer—eight hours?

Ray stared at the ceiling and struggled to control his gut. Three hours ago, the President had marched into the room in his bright red space marshal's uniform and began to orate. Watching him on vids, Ray had been mesmerized. Now he saw him in person; no wonder human space trembled when he shook his fist.

The power of the man's eyes, voice, body held Ray. The President was father, mother, lover—all at once. If Ray hadn't faced the harsh reality of death, the President would have held him in the palm of his hand.

But Ray had watched rockets from the wrong end. Ray had made the hard choices of life and death. Ray had chosen life, and today he was choosing death. While other officers in the room hung on every word, Ray eyed the man with a dispassion he suspected was rare.

In the three-hour rambling monologue that had yet to pause, there hadn't been one reference to the present situation. Still, no general interrupted.

Ray kept his face a worshipful mask. Inside he roiled. This was theater, nothing more. They were the audience, he the center stage. Once, a general had become more involved; he'd been singled out for his department's failure to reequip troops as the President wanted for an offensive that failed. He received the President's full attention for an hour, struggling to answer questions in the brief moments when President Urm paused to catch his breath. It ended only when the general collapsed and was carried out on a stretcher. A trained lifesaver would have begun immediate heart massage; the guards did nothing.

As Ray watched his President in action, the disgust that had grown over the last two months boiled. Men were fighting and dying, struggling to make real this man's dreams. Here, the man who should have provided cohesion and direction strutted about like an actor—a world-class actor, but an actor no less. Only the guards kept Ray from reaching for his briefcase.

Guards were everywhere: by the doors, behind the President, even roving around the table, assault rifles ready. The table remained as broad—and empty—as the plain the 2nd Guard had attacked across. If Ray was not careful, his attack across this table might be as much a failure. The monologue ended abruptly as the President turned and strode toward the exit behind him. “Restroom break, at last,” General Vondertrip muttered. “Did I warn you to go light on the coffee? Did you see the President glance your way before he quit? You will be next.”

“My stomach.” Ray struggled to stand.

Santiago came to his aid. “The war wound,” he said. “Where is the nearest restroom?”

“Oh, yes. I forgot. The nearest will be mobbed.” The general looked around. “Try that exit,” he said, pointing. “Take the first corridor on your left. It should not be too far.”

The exit looked miles away; Ray marched as fast as his stomach and braces allowed. Gladly he would have traded this for an advance into battle.

“Hell of a situation when the can looks like heaven,” he snorted when he'd reached his goal.

“Yes, sir.” Santiago let go of his arm and retreated, briefcase in hand, to stand beside a sink. Ray closed the door— no lock. Security everywhere for the President and you can't even lock the bathroom door!

“Captain, comm here. We've got a general announcement from the government of Wardhaven due in a minute or so.”

“Helm, open a view on the main screen.” It showed a room full of reporters. Before them, a man in a green uniform spoke. “People of Wardhaven, we will never surrender.”

“That cuts it,” Mattim sighed. Between the government of Wardhaven and Whitebred, there was no middle ground. The Sheffield could shoot around the system forever. Sooner or later, a relief fleet would show up to drive them away, and the Sheffield was in no shape for a fight. They'd won the bet, but the other side was just thumbing their nose at them.

Bomb us or bugger off.

That wasn't the way it's supposed to be!

The door to the admiral's quarters opened. Whitebred grinned from his cart. “Six hours. Six hours and we show that bastard who's got guts and who doesn't.” The door closed behind him. Whitebred had no problem; bomb them. The problem was Mattim's; if he didn't bomb them, what was he going to do?