TWO
“Did he really say that?” asked Heraclesteban Iarrey, the Nomad’s skinny beanpole of a first officer, wiping the sweat off his neck with a paper towel and throwing the wet tissue straight onto the deck.
The extractors began to recycle the thin paper the moment it touched the metal grille. Someone had decided that the temperature on the bridge of the wrecker would imitate the tropics. It must have been the captain, because none of the regular crew were protesting.
“Really.” Morrisey, sitting in a chair with his legs crossed on the table, continued to examine the files of the five cadets who were standing meekly in a row by the wall beside the food dispenser.
They were all more or less the same height and build, as if those criteria were the reason they had ended up onboard the Nomad.
“And Dredd didn’t kill him?” Iarrey said in amazement, taking another paper towel.
“He would have, as God’s my witness. But the boy was already under my command.” Morrisey waved Nike’s card.
“You were lucky then, son.” The Nomad’s chief navigator, cornet-pilot Annataly Davidoff-Rozerer, the only woman onboard, examined the new arrivals as though they were goods displayed for sale. “If our good old boss wasn’t such a martinet—”
“I promised the old man that for a small fee the turd won’t survive his first job,” Morrisey added casually.
Loud laughter roared through the mess hall. Even Father Pedroberto, the Nomad’s chaplain, chuckled. Only the cadets maintained prescribed silence.
“All right, I owe you a welcome, so here goes—” The reader was finally put away in a pocket and the feet of the Nomad’s captain touched the deck. “My name, as you may well know by now, is Henrichard Morrisey and the rules are very simple and easy to remember.
“Firstly, onboard this vessel I’m more important than God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Secondly, if you thought that Admiral Dreade-Ravenore was the worst cunt in our sector, you’ll soon find out that you didn’t have a clue what real cuntiness is. Thirdly, the work we’ve got to do is in no way easy or safe. The fact that the Nomad needed five new cadets this year ought to tell you a lot about the tasks awaiting us, or rather, I should say, you.
“Recycling Corps third wing, of which we are part, has received from High Command the order to clean up the notorious Victor Sector. So far we’ve managed to do roughly half the job. Now we’re just reaching the Victor 3A13 system, if that name means anything to you. Well?” He glared at the cadets, who nodded fervently. “In that case I’d like to hear a short summary of major battles in this system,” he said and pointed at the first one in the line.
“We gave them a good kicking, sir!” Peterasmus De’Vere had the sixth score—counting from the wrong end, of course, which came as no surprise considering his appearance alone suggested a total absence of gray matter.
“We gave them a good kicking, you say? A very interesting statement … though if you think about it a bit longer, totally wrong.”
“They gave us a good kicking, sir!” The cadet grinned triumphantly.
Morrisey shook his head in disbelief. De’Vere was struck dumb.
“Was it a tie?” he asked in amazement.
“Ties, you pathetic excuse for a cadet, are what judges from the space league call. Perhaps you will tell us about it?” The captain’s finger passed Nike over and rested on the chest of Christopherasmus Carre-Four.
The foolish smile faded from the narrow lips of the aristocratic slim face the moment the cadet understood that the order didn’t apply to Nike.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to—” mumbled the fourth clone of an aristocrat from a second-rate planet.
“You think right, you clone-of-a-bitching spawn!” Morrisey interrupted him unceremoniously, and, ignoring the crimson spots which had appeared on the cadet’s cheeks, roared at the top of his voice, “And what do you, slobs, have to say for yourselves?!”
To that question neither Josephilip Kolczuk, a pimply and taciturn midget said to be the bastard son of a prominent bigwig from Earth, nor his total opposite, Yukitaro Domita, the fourteenth child of a serf from a planet with such a complicated name that no one dared utter it in its entirety, could come up with an answer. Which was actually not so surprising, since—like the first pair questioned—they represented the Academy’s lowest intellectual level and would never have graduated, had it not been for positive discrimination and pressure from the governments of lesser sectors. Not to mention the High Command’s plans regarding the replenishment of Recycling Corps’ crew.
Finally, Morrisey pointed at Nike.
“Victor 3A13 is the catalogue name of the system known in astronavigational atlases as New Rouen. It consists of a single G4-type star and eight planets. It is distinguished by an extremely high concentration of hyperspace tunnels,” recited the recent high-flyer of the Fleet’s best school, standing as stiff as a ramrod.
“For that reason, during the war, New Rouen was one of the most important transfer points in the Victor Sector. The Federation planned to take control of it at the beginning of the conflict in order to cut off some of the enemy’s distant planetary systems from hyperspace supplies. To that end two strike teams were sent, which were supposed to attack at the same time the installations on Delta, the only inhabited planet in the system, and an orbital transit station, built before the rebellion of the outer colonies. That operation unfortunately resulted in the utter defeat of the Federation’s forces. The enemy, for the first time in the history of space conflicts, planted mines at the predicted entry points around the gateways, thus breaking all known conventions. Moreover, the rebels had gathered considerable space forces to protect the defense command of the entire subsector, which was being established right then on Delta. Admiral Tahomey led his striking force out right onto one of the minefields and lost almost half of his frontline vessels immediately after leaving hyperspace.
“The second task force had more luck during the first stage of the operation, but as it soon turned out, four squadrons of battleships defending the headquarters and the transit station were a tough nut to crack even for the Federation’s most modern vessels. It could be said that no clear victor emerged from the battle. Most of the system’s defensive installations were destroyed, but control over it was not regained. The two fleets inflicted heavy damage on each other in the battle, which lasted almost thirteen hours, and—”
“All right. That’s enough!” Morrisey interrupted the cadet, and placed his feet on the table once again. “Cadet Stachursky has done his homework, which can’t be said about the rest of your little gang. Which is why from now on the remaining honorable cadets will have numbers instead of names. You”—he pointed at De’Vere—“will be One, you”—he aimed his finger at Carre—“Two … No, wait … Mother Nature has already given you a number, you clone-of-a-bitching spawn, so you’ll be, as God and Daddy—forgive me—the Donor wanted, Four. That makes Kolczuk Three, and Mr.—urgh—Sodomita Two. Cadet Stachursky remains Cadet Stachursky, unless and until I have a yen to change it, and will be the liaison between the captain and the numbered crew, meaning that none of you will ever address me directly without my express permission. All of you will communicate with me exclusively via Cadet Stachursky. Furthermore, none of you numbers, unless you are ordered to, have access to the upper deck. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir!” they answered in unison.
If nothing else, at least the Academy instilled discipline into all its cadets.
“And in case anyone wonders what these numbers mean, I’ll explain it right away,” continued the captain. “It’s an old custom in frontline vessels. When I issue the order, for example, to go into open space, I won’t have to point a finger, or call anyone by name. Number One goes first, and if he fucks up—meaning he buys it—he’s followed by Number Two, then Three and so on. Is that clear?”
This time, the response was not quite so unanimous.
“Bog off!” yelled Morrisey. “Cadet Stachursky will stay with us for a moment longer, though.”
“Do you know, son, why I ordered you to stay?” asked the captain after the other cadets had left the bridge.
“No, sir!” answered Stachursky truthfully.
“You really don’t know?”
“Really, sir!” Nike tried to think something up on the spot, but he had no idea what his new commanding officer was getting at.
Morrisey put the cadet out of his misery.
“I’ve seen your file, so I know you’re one of the aces of the fucking orbital Academy. It’s unfortunate that you chose the wrong hole and fucked, ha-ha”—the captain’s laugh turned out to be infectious—“literally fucked up your own life. But you aren’t stupid, quite the opposite, so you’ll quickly find out that not everything they say about the Recycling Corps is true. And since this is the way things are I’d rather suggest a deal right away.”
Iarrey, the navigator, the chaplain, and the lieutenant responsible for the weapons systems, who seemed to be called Bourne—that much could be deciphered from his dirty name tag—and who up till then had been silent, surrounded the disorientated cadet.
“What kind of deal, sir?” Nike inquired tentatively.
“Do you know why all the battles of the Unification War and generally all the skirmishes in space occurred in the vicinity of the Lagrangian points?” the captain asked out of nowhere.
“In theory—” Nike began, deciding to play safe.
“Go on.”
“During our lectures we were told it had something to do with tactics, but the truth is probably that no one was thrilled by the thought of a slow and anonymous death in a cosmic void far from any routes. For which reason the captains preferred to fight in places called libration points or Lagrangian points in honor of—”
“Keep it brief, son,” the captain cut in.
“—to fight in gravitational zones where damaged and annihilated craft will remain for a long time, creating something like asteroid fields or belts, somewhat resembling the rings of Saturn, owing to which one can hope with a fair degree of probability for search and rescue operations. That is also why, since the beginning of the conquest of space, all tactics have involved static warfare. No heavy vessel joined battle at speeds exceeding zero point zero zero four standard light speed, in order not to break out of the Lagrangian point following destruction.”
“And what does it mean in practice?”
“In practice it means that almost all the vessels destroyed in battle are still orbiting in L-points, assuming they haven’t broken out of the gravitational trap as a result of unforeseen circumstances and fallen onto the surface of nearby planets.”
Nike thought of Dredd and his eighty-year odyssey in a rescue capsule. Had it not been for that tactic, the Admiral would long ago have become a lump of frozen meat drifting through the unending void, or a gorgeous meteor slicing through the sky of a distant planet.
“Excellent,” Morrisey laughed heartily. “A very apt conclusion, Cadet Stachursky. And what does that mean for us?”
“We don’t need to work our backsides off.”
“That’s true, but—”
“—but a smart, pretty boy like you ought to know by now that one can make a good living out of it.”
That was the moment Nike understood why the lieutenant responsible for the weapons systems seldom spoke. Bourne’s high-pitched, squeaky voice was particularly hard on the ears.
“We’ll offer you a small share of the profits in exchange for total and complete obedience, and looking after that trash.” The captain nodded toward the elevator door through which the remaining cadets had disappeared a moment before.
“A share of the profits, sir?” repeated Nike.
“You really don’t get it, do you?” Morrisey, just like the other crew members, seemed sincerely amused. “If you play by the High Command’s rules you live a quiet life. If you play by ours, the job may be fucking dangerous”—he held up his hand, showing his electronic prosthesis—“but fucking profitable, too. You’ll do your time onboard the Nomad and a tasty bonus to your pension will be waiting for you.”
“And the numbers will do most of the dirty work for us anyway,” added Iarrey.
“The fact is we have specialized robots,” explained the captain, “but they are bloody expensive. Destroying a machine like that means tons of detailed reports, which often go beyond the investigative department. The death of a lowest rank cadet means only a letter to the parents, a medal, and, very rarely, some paltry financial compensation—”
“Plus, the greater the losses in action, the better,” whispered Annataly almost sensually, leaning toward Nike’s ear.
“The more dead, the more moronic are the people willing to work in the Recycling Corps,” Morrisey took up the subject. “But no one weeps over the casualties, particularly not top brass who get a tidy bonus from our scam. Especially considering that we save them a bunch of hassle with … let’s not beat about the bush … academic refuse.”
“If I understand right,” said the candidate for shareholder in Nomad & Co., “first we penetrate and then we destroy?”
“Penetrate? I like the way your mind works, Nike.” The captain smiled at his own thoughts. “Spatial archaeology is a wonderful field of science, particularly if you have backup in the form of top-secret maps and access to all the Fleet’s archives …” Morrisey trailed off. “Are you in or not?”
“What will happen if I turn the offer down?” Nike asked cautiously.
“I made Dredd a promise, and I’m a man of my word.” The calm, even humorous answer was a clear threat. “I only break a promise when it’s in my interests to do so.”
“I get it.” Nike looked his commanding officer in the eye and nodded. “I’m in. That only leaves one matter—”
“Two,” the captain interrupted him bluntly.
“Two?” Nike said in surprise.
“Yes. First of all, the financial aspect. To avoid misunderstandings. You know what they say: let’s love each other like brothers, but reckon up like clones. You’ll get ten percent of the profit from all joint operations and fifty percent from your own.”
“Okay.” The offer seemed fair, and anyway in his current situation Nike would have agreed to any deal, even much worse.
Morrisey suddenly grew serious.
“Second, boy …” That boy sounded ominous. “Lieutenant Davidoff-Rozerer is the only woman onboard, and as you probably realize, she’s mine, and only mine. I’m not good ol’ Uncle Dredd and I won’t spend half a semester wondering how to whip your arse in a sophisticated manner. If I discover just one—never mind how tiny—trace of your presence in her, I’ll—” He made a gesture with his prosthesis which might have meant anything. “Got it, Mr. Daughterfucker?”
Nike glanced furtively at the navigator’s jumpsuit—or more precisely at the body, which the tight piece of shiny material was covering. Then he looked straight in Bourne’s twinkling eyes. He did not smile back.
“Got it,” he nodded, and reached for his kitbag. “By your leave, sir.”
“Just a moment …” The captain’s searching gaze was still on him.
“Yes, sir?”
“Your name. Nike. Why don’t you have a standard double-barrel, like every decent person?” Morrisey asked.
“I do, sir,” Nike answered.
“So why don’t you use it then?” Annataly looked genuinely shocked.
“I do. It’s formed from Nik and Ike.
“Ha, I know an Ikenneth, but I’m sure Nick’s spelt differently,” Iarrey butted in.
“My father’s family came from the New Russian sector, which is why the first part’s spelt differently,” Nike explained. “After some famous—God knows how many ‘greats’—grandfather. He was supposed to have been a successful author on Earth around the end of the Old Era.”