The Fleet 01 Read online

  “Granted, Over-commander,” said the officer, and issued the necessary orders.

  Among the greatest skills of the Khalia was that of stalking.

  What little they had learned from the wreckage of Chrysanthemum sufficed for them to be able to steal up on Yuriko’s capsule without triggering any of its alarms until they were within a few metres. When that happened the suit jolted her awake and she opened her eyes to see on the outside view-screens—

  Nothing. Except the same bare ground, and the same bushes that were not bushes and the same trees that were not trees. The injured alien was gone.

  So what had set off the alarm?

  After a long wait she decided optimistically that it must have been a wild animal. Certainly there was nothing to suggest a threat discernible out there now. But it was light, and she had much work to do if she hoped to survive. After the usual obligatory necessities she checked her food converter and discovered that it was indeed capable of turning at least some of the local growths into palatable victuals. She made a list of the most suitable, and set off in search of further supplies.

  However ...

  As she rounded the flat-topped rock she found herself encircled, this time not by savages with no more equipment than a baldric and a couple of field canteens, but bearing what were very obviously weapons. Appalled, she raised her arms. Reflex made her think of that gesture as a sign of unwillingness to fight.

  Reflex betrayed her, just as it had Tschweeit. For to a Khalian it betokened grappling to the death.

  But, of course, since they were extremely well trained, and moreover the challenger was the wrong shape, they were able to overrule their instinctual response to her posture. Instead of hurling themselves at her, they merely snared her in a tough and sticky web, and left her to fight in vain against its grip until the powerpack of her suit ran out. After that, they sprayed its air filter with an anaesthetic vapour—based on their study of the captives from Chrysanthemum—and bore her away to their main centre for the analysis of alien weakness. It went without saying that, to them, any alien must be weak. For only the Khalia were strong.

  Only the Khalia were allowed to be strong.

  When Tschweeit recovered his senses, it was to hear a paean of praise for his achievement. He was told his new—adult!—name; he was informed that henceforth he might exercise the mating privilege, or at least as soon as his bodily development caught up sufficiently with his mental, so that he could exude the proper odour of authority. There were means to accelerate the Change in that regard, which would be applied to his body if he so desired. Most important of all, he learned that no fewer than nine ship’s captains had requested he be assigned to them on their next voyage. His dream of faring forth among the stars was to be fulfilled.

  Even as he fended off wave after wave of fawning compliments, however, even as he stammeringly expressed his gratitude, a little voice at the back of his mind was saying, “But it wasn’t like that at all! Not really! That’s not the way it actually happened!”

  Later, though, with the passage of the years, he was able to silence the reproachful voice, and ultimately he too came to believe he had in truth performed a heroic act, an inspiration to his kind, a legend for the coming generations. His reputation spread to every Khalian world, and not only direct members of his clan but distant relatives as well groomed themselves in the light of his reflected glory every time they heard a mention of his name.

  As for the name of Yuriko Petrovna …

  Since there had been a second bomb aboard Chrysanthemum, so well disguised that like the one concealed in the salvaged courier projectile the Nag had failed to detect it, the Fleet ships which tracked Yuriko’ s last message back to its point of origin found nothing save a scattering of dust, somewhat anomalous in composition, but not sufficiently to prove beyond dispute that it represented what remained of a starship.

  The doubts began.

  At first excuses were offered for her, especially by those who had authorised that she be assigned to the search for her brother. Then, though, Khalian raids not only on shipping but also on isolated human colonies grew more frequent, and more captives were taken. (What did Khalians do with human beings? Eat them? Enslave them? Turn them into living computers? Give them to their younglings to play with? The suggestions were innumerable, but there was no evidence to indicate a choice between them).

  And time and again the enemy spotted a weakness, a lack of logic or skill, some vulnerable flaw in the tactics of those who were sent to oppose them.

  Like a fungus spreading its mycelia, misguided conviction took root and grew. It was said, “There’s only one key to this riddle. And it has to be called Yuriko Petrovna. She let herself be trapped in their volume. She must have given up without a fight. Or else she can’t have had the guts to hit her detonator when she should have realised it was hopeless to go on. So what they know of us, they must have learned from her.”

  In mess halls, in bars, in bunk cabins, there were nods of sour agreement, for by this time it was clear there was a war—a running fight, scattered over cubic parsecs, but involving commitment by each side to hit the other hard at every meeting.

  And whenever the Khalia pulled a smarter trick than humans were prepared for, there was one individual on whom all blame was laid: not the squadron commander who had been defeated, not the staff officers who had computer-planned the operation, but someone who must by now be dead.

  A scapegoat. A scape-human.

  Only occasionally did the question cross some person’s mind:

  “I wonder if it really was that way. I wonder if that’s how it actually happened.”

  For a while a few people argued doggedly about her final message, claiming it implied that she might have located Chrysanthemum within striking distance of the Khalian home world. However, thanks to the reputation that had by then accrued around the name of Yuriko Petrovna, when Target was discovered all reference to such a possibility was eliminated from the Fleet’s strategic planning. The war’s nature changed, and from that moment on—

  But that’s another story. Or rather, many other stories.

  Gill Kanard scratched his head. He had been scanning the reports of the first Khalian raids for over an hour and he still had nothing there he could use to promote a tax increase. Atrocities may make people angry, but Eire was a long way from Vega or Earth.

  Maybe he was taking the wrong approach. What was needed was a Crag Courage, a real hero. Someone the public would be willing to support.

  Two minutes of inquiries revealed that in a sector far from the Khalia a commodore had been decorated for single-handedly forcing an entire hostile empire into joining the Alliance. Enthusiastically Gill requested more information. He was ecstatic to see the officer was from a well-established Fleet family. It never hurt to make friends among the brass. Better yet, the commodore was the commander of an entire base, meaning whole fleets were involved.

  Leaning back with a satisfied smile, Gill punched in the codes that would call up the relevant reports. This was what he needed. Cannons blazing, fleets maneuvering and the hero diving to certain death yet saving the day. The visuals alone would sell half the people!

  FOR THE LAST seven hundred years every Monthly Mess in the Fleet had always been scheduled for precisely noon. When the Commodore had not arrived by half past the hour the base’s officers shuffled aimlessly around the formally set tables. Each man was in his dress blues with an ornately decorated sword.

  Normally the officers of the Fleet tolerated or even occasionally reveled in their service’s numerous traditions. Had they held their new leader in more esteem, they might have waited respectfully for hours ... but the new commander was a quartermaster, and these battle-hardened soldiers didn’t respect him that much.

  Outside it was a relatively cool day for McCauley, but the temperature was still over forty degrees Centigrade. The
brilliant blue sun baked the walls of the concrete mess building, straining the building’s heat exchange system to its limit. The men in their dress blues were uncomfortably warm.

  “Here he comes,” muttered a captain, squinting toward the compound through several layers of polarized glass.

  Their new commanding officer hurried through the shimmering waves of heat that rolled across the compound from the Communications Center. His uniform clung moistly to his back. One of the planet’s local pests made a few halfhearted efforts to land before being driven off by his flapping hands. White dust was lifted waist high with every step and coated what had been polished boots.

  Commodore Abraham Meier, the tenth generation of his family to serve with the Fleet, was miserable.

  This misery had little to do with the high temperatures or other physical concerns. McCauley’s windless heat made it a wretched post, but he could live with that. He always dreaded the stiff formality of the Monthly Mess, but at least it would be a familiar torture. He could even face as a challenge the opened contact with the seemingly hostile Tripean Visualate. What Commodore Meier could not accept was the printout rustling in his breast pocket. Headquarters had just replied to his urgent plea for reinforcements when the Tripeans’ hostility became obvious.

  “Request Denied. No support available.”

  Evidently the Khalian crisis was tying up every unassigned ship in the Fleet. McCauley’s garrison had been stripped to provide ships for an attack force, leaving Repair and Restocking Base K2/McCauley with less ships than there were planets they were assigned to protect. Meier’s predecessor, a full admiral, had chosen to lead the bulk of his forces against the Khalians.

  Even more depressing was that the denial was signed by his sole living relation, Isaac Meier, Admiral of the White and Commander of all forces in the Eastern Sectors. When he had received the assignment as commandant of the repair and supply facility, Abe Meier had been grateful to his grandfather’s influence for getting him out of Port. He had really hoped grandfather Isaac would provide some help, if only to save the family name from disgrace. Evidently he had been wrong.

  Since his father had died fending off a pirate raid near Freeborn a decade earlier, he had seen little of his grandfather. It hadn’t mattered at Port, when he could see him if he really wanted to. Now it was apparent he had been completely abandoned.

  Beneath the signature was what was probably meant to be a morale-raising addendum in the Admiral’s own handwriting. In this it failed miserably, adding to the tension the young officer felt already. This read, “I am sure you will make do in the finest tradition.”

  By the second time he had read that short, meaningless sentence Abe Meier’s resentment overwhelmed his despair. He was still dwelling on the unfairness of the universe and the Admiralty when he arrived at the door to the officers’ mess. A quick glance at his watch also confirmed that he was insultingly late.

  Not quite sure what to say, Commodore-of-three-weeks Meier pushed open the door. He gladly would have made a bold, inspiring entrance, a tall, lean figure with piercing gray eyes dominating his craggy features. Unfortunately he was short, paunchy, moonfaced and had big brown eyes that had watered constantly since landing on McCauley. He looked very much like what he was, a quartermaster in charge of a supply base.

  Still, as tradition required, the most junior officer present snapped out a loud, “A—lert,” bringing every man in the room to attention. It did not help Meier’s morale that much of his command was comprised of men from the nearby Valquez Sector, all of whom towered over his pudgy frame by half a meter.

  Stiffly, trying to not look as uncomfortable as he felt, the Commodore hurried to his seat. The back of his jacket felt clammy as the perspiration evaporated in the artificially cooled air. It made his back feel vulnerable, exposed. He rushed to his seat at the head of the long table before the liveried messboy, whom tradition dictated would assist him with his chair, could hurry across the room. Anxious to end the silence, Meier threw himself into the chair, scraped it forward, and looked up at the officers of his command. After a moment’s hesitation they also took their seats, a few glaring their displeasure. Quiet conversation began to buzz and waiters emerged to pour wine and place small crystal bowls of sliced fruit at each place. The Commodore busied himself with the tart fruit and no one nearby ventured to start a conversation.

  Abe Meier was so lost in his thoughts he barely looked up from his food. He ate slowly, forcing those officers who had finished ahead of him to wait in their seats, as tradition again demanded, until he was through. To pass the time these officers drank more wine or ordered glasses of the dark green liquor which had recently become popular at Port. A few drank more than might be considered wise and their voices became noticeably louder. Finally the young commander finished a tasty but unnoticed custard dessert and reluctantly looked up. With that he began another tradition, the Hour.

  For one hour at the Monthly Mess all the prerogatives of rank and command were waived. Here, with at least no direct consequences, any officer could question another. The commanding officer was not exempt, and he had been dreading this session for days. True, too impertinent a question from an ensign to an admiral had been known to stifle the young officer’s career, but Meier was painfully aware he held in reality no higher rank than most of the men and women in the room. Several had made it obvious they knew he was in command solely due to the influence of his grandfather.

  The first few questions were polite enough, primarily regarding personalities at Port. Then one of the tall, Valquez scoutship commanders who had been drinking more than usual rose carefully and braced herself against a chair. Gesturing widely, she weaved in place as she spoke.

  “When are you going to let us teach those Tripes a lesson? ... sir.” The “sir” came softly and after a long pause. “We’ve been here for two weeks an’ not lifted one ship off this pesthole supply dump. Ain’t it our duty to protect this sector, not your spare parts?” By the end of her little speech the officer’s voice sounded angry, even if her words were slurred. She sat down with a thump and took another long drink of wine.

  The commodore felt his face flush red. It was clear from the expressions around him that everyone else in the room wondered the same thing. What could he tell them? Why did the Tripes have to be discovered just as he took command? Why couldn’t they have been friendly, or at least less belligerent? His thoughts ran in tightening circles.

  “A review of the situation will help clarify my decisions,” Meier stalled, wishing he had some decisions to be clarified. His only thought had been to scream for help and that had been refused.

  “The first contact with the Tripes ... er ... Tripean Visualate was made while I was actually in transit to McCauley.” He hesitated, that sounded too much like an excuse. “As the Alliance expands it is not unusual to find races, including some formerly unknown, which have carved out their own petty empires. The Tripeans, based upon First Empire records, had an animal power level of culture when the Dark Millennium began. Since then they seem to have learned quite a bit. I have been studying all of the intelligence reports. What we do know comes entirely from independent merchants and one official, uh, encounter with one of their merchant vessels.”

  By the mother of all, what was he going to say? Even to himself Meier sounded as if he was rambling. Then he remembered one of the first rules of command: If things are going badly, pass the responsibility.

  “Harlan, you head sector intelligence. A few of these officers have just arrived. Please brief all of us on what we do know about the Tripeans.”

  The intelligence chief had a reputation for telling everyone more than they needed or wanted to know. An admirable trait considering his job, but a bit annoying on so small a base. He was obviously happy to oblige, took a self-important breath and began.

  “McCauley was primarily a scout base until a year ago. Then it was decided the secto
r needed a Class E repair facility. This was before the Khalian action drew off so many ships to the far side of the Alliance. We are then left with a half-completed repair facility and enough general stores for a full fleet. Before he left Admiral Duane ordered that the remaining scouts explore those areas outward from the sector. Less than a week after the 197th Squadron and about half of the base personnel left to join Admiral Esplendadore, we found the Tripes.”

  Harlan Kramer paused here, savoring the attention. When the silence became noticeable, Meier smiled encouragingly and asked him to continue.

  “The Tripes appear to have been a non-spacegoing culture until a hundred years ago. Now understand. This is mostly hearsay from a few tramp captains we found who had been dealing with them.”

  “Sellin’ guns and ships, I’ll bet,” a voice inserted bitterly from the back of the room. Several more officers murmured their agreement. There was little love lost between the Fleet and most indies.

  Trying to look as if he didn’t hear the interruption, the intelligence officer continued. “The Tripean Visualate consists of six planets, ruled by a Council of Families. There are nine or ten main families, each of which maintains its own fleet. In times of war they appoint a military leader who assumes overall control. They currently seem to be in the process of electing one. We know nothing about him at this time, not even his name.”

  At this point two waiters entered, one carrying two pitchers of the green liquor and the other a tray of glasses. They began distributing them, and Harlan hesitated until they had finished. As they left, several of the younger officers in the back of the Mess had already emptied their glasses and gestured for refills. The intelligence officer glared at the hapless waiter until he abandoned the pitcher and fled the room. When he resumed speaking there was at first a touch of annoyance in the officer’s voice.