Chapter 2
“For any successful military unit in existence you will observe undiluted tribal dynamics are work without fail. A continuous string of civilians join this tribe, undergo its rites of passage, and ascend to a sort of ‘adulthood’ within the tribe. For many Citizens this is the first time in their lives where they obtain a comprehensive sense of belonging, suddenly finding themselves whole at last.”
—Dr. Georgette Hester-Vicary, Irresistible Puppeteer: The Motivational Primacy of Tribe
Inga Maru moved through the depths of Hightower, searching, restlessly roving, each empty corridor further persuading her that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong. The lodestone that unfailingly drew Inga seemed more insistent with each step, and though she tried to hasten to Saef’s side, the torturous passages of Hightower seemed suddenly labyrinthine, unfamiliar.
Why were the deck lights flickering? Why had emergency lighting failed?
There! The bridge access lay just ahead, yawning open in the disquieting darkness, and Inga slowed her frantic pace to a more natural stride. She stepped through the access into Hightower’s sweeping bridge to see the backs of Saef and his bridge team there in their usual places, illuminated by the staccato flashes of the corridor’s failing deck lights.
Commander Attic’s broad heavyworld frame stirred at the Nav station, rotating slowly toward Inga. In the yellowish strobe of light Inga saw the haunting curve of Attic’s lips, the dead coldness of his eyes, and her hands moved even as she internally reached for the waiting power of her biotech augmentation. Her fingers slapped on an empty harness, her submachine gun inexplicably gone, as each crew member turned their horribly grinning faces upon her.
Inga backpedaled, grasping for her pistol, then her sword, finding each weapon missing. She saw Saef turn at last, the eyes she had known since she was a child changed, lifeless, those determined lips fixed in that unhuman leer.
Inga cried out in horror, the augmented power of the secret Sinclair-Maru biotech treatment scorching through her at last.
She awakened as her body sprang from supine to vertical in one impossible surge, every nerve in her body blazing with all the superhuman energy her augmentation granted. Time seemed to slow, the arching back of a suddenly startled kitten curving gradually upward, a jettisoned blanket drifting sluggishly toward the deck, as if through water. Inga’s awareness bloomed and she realized the shocking reality: It had been only an unspeakably lifelike dream. The reverberations of her power slowed, then subsided in two sharp breaths.
Cooling the fires of augmented energy, feeling the icy reaction beginning to flow through her veins, Inga fumbled for a food concentrate bar, even as time returned to its full speed, the kitten, Tanta, leaping from the narrow bunk with wide eyes and bristled fur.
“You have startled Tanta, Chief,” the cheerful disembodied voice of Loki informed her. “Is there some threat I have not perceived?”
Inga drew another shaking breath. “No. No, Loki, no threat,” she said, chewing the food bar as she tried to calm the quiver in her hands, tried to push the icy currents back, along with the grim dread the dream had conveyed. “I—I had a nightmare.”
The few seconds’ pause comprised a vast spell of cogitation for a synthetic Intelligence, particularly one of Loki’s unprecedented ability. “Other humans I have observed who suffer from nightmares do not leap about, startling kittens, Chief. Since you sleep so rarely compared to these others, it seems you are not properly suited for sleeping, perhaps. I suggest you abandon the habit entirely and leave it to all these other humans who are clearly much better disposed for this task.”
If the cold horror of her dream did not join the arctic currents of her augmentation, Inga might have smiled at Loki’s transparent attempts to end her annoying habit of periodically sleeping. He preferred Inga’s undivided attention at nearly every moment of every day, her brief, infrequent attempts to sleep constituting rare but comprehensive interruptions in their communication.
Among all the synthetic Intelligences in Fleet, some unknown factor had birthed true sentience in Loki alone, and since Inga had discovered Loki’s actual nature, she had sought to impart or unearth the vital attribute of empathy in him. Since she had purchased Loki’s hardware, extracting him from the decommissioned hulk of Tanager, his fate fell entirely in her hands. Now she employed every art to awaken an empathic connection between Loki and any other being, the kitten, Tanta, constituting her only real ally in this effort.
“I require some sleep to survive, Loki,” Inga said, finishing the food bar as she scanned through Hightower’s security feeds, images marching through her UI with reassuring constancy. She sought these fleeting moments of rest within the refuge of her shuttle, Onyx, where it nestled in Hightower’s dark pinnace bay. It sheltered Loki’s hardware componentry, Inga’s scant possessions, and Tanta. Only here did Inga feel entirely secure from monitoring.
“Are you quite certain you require sleep, Chief?” Loki persisted. “You already sleep much less than other humans and yet you are notably more efficient than any human I have observed on Tanager or Hightower. Perhaps if you abandon this wasteful practice of sleep entirely…”
“It would kill me eventually, Loki,” Inga said, gathering her cloak around her slender frame, shivering as Tanta eyed her suspiciously for a moment before leaping in an inexpert manner upon the bunk, padding closer to Inga, his cream-colored fur smoothing, his chocolate tail regaining its sinuous nature.
“I do not wish you to die, Chief,” Loki said, giving Inga fresh hope for a burgeoning sense of empathy. “I do not wish to be alone again.”
After the first battle of Delta Three, Tanager’s shattered hull had been decommissioned, leaving Loki alone in isolated darkness for far too many empty days, his bottomless curiosity starved to a point near feral insanity.
Inga took another deep breath, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. “No matter what, Loki, you will not be left alone again.” As she said these words, she hoped that somehow she spoke the truth.
* * *
The N-space transition from Skold brought Hightower and Mistral, along with their fresh captures, back to Delta Three system intact. After Erik Sturmsohn’s grim warning, Saef had commanded the captured Tidewater merchant craft be vented entirely to vacuum, a skeleton crew in ship suits bringing her through the transition, evidently without untoward incidents.
Delta Three planetside lay ahead, a point of gleaming light in the visible distance, the orbital defenses Saef had left—a fully capable Python of 15,000 lethal tons, along with the badly damaged hulks of Dragon and Pallas—waiting in their loose orbits, as Hightower led the way in-system.
While Delta Three system had proven to be a rewarding field of conflict for Saef personally, first in the miserable little frigate, Tanager, then commanding Hightower in a second mission, he felt nothing but uneasiness as he contemplated the system unfolding across their screens.
Hundreds, or perhaps thousands of noncombatants met a gruesome end on Delta Three’s orbital station, their fate discovered by Tanager’s Marines. It seemed a long time ago now.
The mindless slaughter of Delta Three did not end there. When Saef later received orders to extract Imperial Legionnaires trapped planetside on Delta Three, he brought Hightower’s powerful force of Marines to bear, once again finding a slaughter awaiting, this time of historic proportions not seen since the Slagger War. A substantial fraction of Delta Three’s human population—men, women, children—lay moldering, reaped in an inhuman harvest, their corpses stacked to the height of a multistory building.
While Saef had managed to snatch a full measure of victory—and prize money—from the heart of these horrors, he had only done so by heeding the preternatural cunning of Inga Maru, and by deliberately exceeding Admiralty orders at every turn. Even this most recent, modest success in the Skold system only arrived through this same risky strategy, and the growing reality oppressed Saef: Their nonhuman foes seemed to know all official Fleet orders practically as soon as those orders were signed. He felt a rising conviction that, even before considering his primary duty to his Family, they must determine some path away from this gradual, creeping defeat that he currently perceived.
These grim thoughts could only oppress Saef for a moment before Hightower’s Sensors officer snapped erect at his station. “Captain, I’m getting something on tachyon…transition signature, out-system, but tight on us—there! Two contacts, zero-eight-zero left azimuth, zero-three-three positive ecliptic, range six-hundred fifty-thousand.”
“I see them,” Saef said, his sudden spike of adrenaline falling silent under the secret tool of his forebears, the so-called Deep Man excluding him from the effects of fear through Saef’s long conditioning.
How had the enemy predicted Hightower’s return to Delta Three when Saef operated so far outside Admiralty orders?
“Lot of delta-vee, Captain,” Sensors said. “They’re maneuvering.” The temperature of the bridge seemed to plummet.
“Ops: shields, dampers, and heat sinks online; Weps, charge point defenses.” Saef made a rapid calculation. “Tight beam to Mistral and the prizes: Full emergency acceleration.”
The bridge access opened, Inga Maru entering, her characteristic cloak swirling about her.
Saef, focused upon the converging traces, only glanced at Inga before turning back to say, “Weps, prepare full patterns. Sixty-four-gauge missiles, and bring the barrage battery online.”
“Aye, Captain; sixty-fours and cannon, up,” Pennysmith said.
“Ops, how are we?”
“Shields and heat sinks, green, Captain,” Deckchief Furst said, his voice tight.
Saef looked right toward the Sensor post. “Ash, got any metrics yet?”
Ash worked over his panel, looking up, his pale skin gleaming. “Looks like both vessels are about thirty thousand tons, Captain.”
Saef clenched his jaw, thinking through the rapidly shrinking options. “Nav, belay acceleration.” More than one face turned toward Saef in surprise. “Give me a clean yaw…one-four-zero right azimuth, and begin transition calculations, intra-system.”
Inga stepped near, her gaze touching upon the displays with a frown, seeing the new threats on one side, the five small traces of Mistral and the prizes on the other, racing away.
Hightower rotated until her main engine output faced directly at the potential enemies, offering a slender target and a dazzling focal point to draw an enemy’s attention away from the smaller craft fleeing.
“Weps, you ready to engage?” Saef asked, the bridge awash with tension, breaths seeming loud in the still half-light.
Pennysmith nodded, her hand curling around the barrage cannon’s manual control. “Ready, Captain.”
Inga twitched, her eyes flickering. She spoke in a soft voice, barely audible to Saef though she stood at his shoulder. “They’re Fleet…two destroyers.” Loki monitored Hightower’s instruments with obsessive curiosity, and his ability to ferret out the identities of vessels remained without compare.
“Captain!” Specialist Pim gasped. “Signal from the contact at—at—the unknown contact, sir.” Pim looked back at Saef. “They’re giving the private signal…a solid handshake.”
Inga’s teeth bared and Saef glanced up at the sudden curl of her lip. “You are being superseded…the sods.”
Pim made a sound very like an exhale of a long-held breath. “They’re hailing us on tight beam, Captain.” He looked back again, this time with an unreadable expression. “Commodore Scarza…for you, sir.”
* * *
Saef entered the new flagship of the Delta Three squadron, IMS Cerberus, accompanied by Inga and Commander Attic, joining the other commanders of their battered task force.
Despite the series of wholly unexpected shocks, and the likelihood of a humiliating interview with his new commanding officer, Saef’s thoughts returned to the puzzling advice Inga proffered before they disembarked from Hightower.
With fresh orders to attend a squadron meeting aboard Cerberus, and a frigid comm call with Commodore Scarza presaging trouble, Inga had spent a considerable spell in rapt concentration, her blue eyes distant, lips parted, before an expression of comprehension had dawned.
“I see only three levers to protect your interests, Captain,” she had said at last. “We attach the optical and sensor feeds from the Skold raid to your log entry; that’ll keep our battle-damage assessment from conveniently disappearing.”
Saef had immediately nodded, perceiving the wisdom of her insight. Past experience had demonstrated a great willingness to alter facts to suit a political narrative within the Fleet hierarchy, and they must prepare for any such step.
“Second,” Inga had continued, “list the Skold prizes and prisoners as provisional, awaiting a review from you.”
That stroke from Inga had shocked Saef with its devious convolution. By waiting to condemn the prizes, Saef would lose half his prize percentage—his commodore percentage—to the new commodore. If Scarza tried to invalidate Saef’s raid in the Skold system he would endanger his own prize purse, which might form a tidy sum. Better to have Scarza as an ally, through the simple bonds of greedy self-interest.
“Third,” Inga had concluded, “grant that Thorsworld prisoner, Sturmsohn, his parole—to you personally.”
Of Inga’s three suggestions, the final point remained wholly inscrutable to Saef, even as he made his way to the council aboard Cerberus. The press of urgency had allowed no chance to discover Inga’s purpose for this third action, but Saef knew from prior experience to do as she suggested.
With minutes to spare before the shuttle launched, bringing Saef, Attic, and Inga to Cerberus, Saef had personally attended to the matter of Erik Sturmsohn. The Marine guards had pulled Sturmsohn from his segregated cell in the brig, and delivered him to the vacant officer’s cabin where Saef had impatiently waited.
“I don’t have time to muck about, Mister, uh, Sturmsohn,” Saef had stated without preamble, “so I will press to the point: On your pledge of honor, I will grant your parole—to me personally. Will you give your pledge, sir?”
A slight narrowing of his eyes had been Sturmsohn’s only indication of surprise before he had simply asked, “Why do you do this thing?”
Saef hadn’t known what to say, and he couldn’t very well admit that he had no idea, so he had offered the only thing that occurred to him. “I…believe that our true enemy is not, er…human. It seems you believe this, too. But who else holds the same conviction?”
Erik Sturmsohn’s response had been refreshingly simple and immediate. Rather than addressing Saef’s question, he said, “Upon my honor and the honor of my Family, you have my pledge, grundling.”
Now, stepping into the council room aboard Cerberus, Saef still did not know Inga’s purpose with their heavyworld prisoner, but the deed was done.
Commodore Scarza waited with his XO and a Marine colonel flanking him. Commander Holgren of Python already sat at the utilitarian conference table, and Commander Hill of Mistral followed on Inga’s heels. Evidently Commander Sung of Dragon had been excluded from the conference along with Lieutenant Kraft, who served as the commander for Pallas, a once-mighty enemy cruiser that now resembled a near-derelict orbiting Delta Three, battered and burned during the process of its liberation from enemy forces.
Saef did not know Commodore Scarza, though, thanks to Inga, he had quickly perused a compact bio on Scarza’s decades-long Fleet career. Scarza appeared to fit a common mold among so many senior Fleet officers, a native of a heavyworld, building his career through a careful attention to efficiency, a scrupulous adherence to orders and the absolute avoidance of risk. His dark, closed expression revealed nothing to Saef, but Saef anticipated unpleasantness for any number of reasons.
Commodore Scarza’s first words comprised a distinct surprise: “Captain Sinclair-Maru,” he said in a colorless baritone, “I give you joy in your victory, securing Delta Three. It was a notable accomplishment, sir.”
Saef inclined a shallow bow. “Thank you, Commodore. We were very fortunate.”
“That you were,” Scarza continued, his voice low and even. “And while I cannot argue with your success, I must tell you, I am no friend to innovation.” Scarza came to a full halt here for a moment, steadily regarding Saef. “Nor can I ever sanction the liberties with Admiralty orders that seem to surround your every action. Victory or no, Fleet is built upon a command structure that demands absolute adherence to our orders.”
Even as Saef remembered Captain Susan Roush being shamefully demoted for her absolute adherence, there could be no graceful answer to the commodore, so Saef merely executed another shallow bow, choosing to remain silent.
After waiting a moment for any further response from Saef, Scarza glanced as his XO, a line-of-sight message passing between them. The commodore turned back to Saef. “Your most recent orders commanded you to dispatch a reconnaissance mission to Skold system while maintaining and fortifying Delta Three planetside.”
“Yes, Commodore,” Saef said. “I have executed those orders. Our reconnaissance summary was transmitted to Fleet via QE comm less than an hour ago, and the fortification of Delta Three continues despite the lack of resources and personnel.”
Scarza stared at Saef. “Am I to understand, Captain, that you took Hightower, an expedition carrier, for a recon mission?” he demanded, his expression of displeasure mirrored on the faces of his XO and the Marine colonel on either side of the commodore.
For days Saef had known this moment would arise, whether the question came from an admiral or some other superior, and his composure remained untouched.
“Yes, Commodore. Hightower and the frigate, Mistral, conducted the mission.”
Scarza possessed more control over his emotions than his XO at his right hand, but the XO’s shocked, horrified disbelief found a subdued reflection on Scarza’s face.
“A two-hundred-thousand-ton vessel—!” the XO began to say when Scarza cut her off.
“Have you any idea of the vast expense you pissed away, Captain? Casting Shaper fuel to blazes in that way, when a small frigate would serve better for the task?”
“Yes, Commodore.”
Saef’s interlocutors were momentarily stunned into speechlessness, seemingly denied a verbal purchase by Saef’s unwavering confidence.
The Marine colonel spoke up after a moment, wagging his head. “You will face charges for such wanton waste, Captain.”
“I very much doubt it, Colonel,” Saef replied, seeing Commander Hill of Mistral growing pale where he sat, silently sweating. “My Admiralty orders left broad discretion in our execution of the reconnaissance. I exercised my initiative and we achieved measurable results.”
Scarza found his tongue at last, his tone restrained. “We shall see about that, I daresay, Captain Sinclair-Maru. I’ve seen Fleet officers broken for far less, but the Admiralty lords will be your judge and jury, not me, thankfully.” Commodore Scarza’s voice remained measured, his composure only wrinkled by a hint of smug confidence in Saef’s impending, hideous fate.
Saef said nothing and Scarza only paused a moment before saying, “Enough on that topic for the moment. Hightower will answer to my orders now, whomever commands her, and we will have no more of these wasteful capers.” Scarza looked firmly into Saef’s eyes, then Commander Holgren’s and poor, sweating Hill’s. “I suppose your reconnaissance of Skold system was thorough at least, considering you expended ten times the resources you should have.”
Before Saef could speak, Inga’s line-of-sight message pinged into his UI: Slowly. Crumbs first, one bite at a time.
Saef took a breath, contemplating her advice, the commodore’s XO showing a hint of a smirk at what she thought to be Saef’s discomfiture.
“I believe it was thorough, Commodore,” Saef said, “although we haven’t sifted through all the sensor data and vidcapture from our optical scans as yet.”
Scarza placed one burly hand on his chin, a skeptical light in his eye. “Standard Fleet recon protocols…thirty-million klicks standoff, your optical scan will resolve precious little. At that range did you even detect their orbital stations optically? Or pick out orbital vessels?”
Saef shook his head. “There are no functioning orbital stations or orbiting vessels at Skold, Commodore.”
The commodore and his XO shared a look. “Of course there are, Captain. The last surve—”
“Well, there were two small gunboats and two fairly humble orbital stations, and just a few mercantile craft.”
The commodore’s eyes glittered as he suddenly fixed his gaze on Saef, and the Marine colonel made a sound, covering his mouth behind one hand.
“Those four slow-bellies you may have noticed with Mistral, we captured them but unfortunately we couldn’t take the gunboats. Both were destroyed, and Major Vigo’s Marines swept and mined the orbital stations. We haven’t had a chance to sift through the intel and prisoners Vigo seized, but our quick barrage on Skold planetside uncovered some ammunition stores and the like. They detonated most dramatically, Commodore. You should see the vidcapture. It is quite spectacular.”
“You bombarded surface targets? You destroyed their orbital stations? On orders to conduct a recon mission?”
“Yes, Commodore. It makes for very solid intel gathering, especially once we sift the prisoners and captured vessels.”
The Marine colonel looked down, seeming to hide a smile, but the commodore shook his head, momentarily speechless. Saef knew the thoughts that must be colliding within Scarza’s mind, for the same thoughts had occurred to him at the outset: If the Skold mission had resulted in nothing more than a close-range fly-by and perhaps an ineffectual exchange of shots between Hightower and the Skold defenses, the Admiralty would have condemned Saef’s every action, and levied harsh penalties. Only success had insulated Saef from that fate.
“Four prizes captured. And how many prisoners?” Scarza finally managed to say.
Saef glanced to his left at Commander Attic. “I think nearly sixty prisoners have survived their wounds, right, Commander? And...and the four captured vessels are only provisionally prizes, Commodore.”
Scarza’s expression remained unchanged, but Saef saw the XO’s eyes jerk up and lock onto Saef. “Provisional, Captain?” Scarza said.
Inga’s line-of-sight message illuminated Saef’s UI: Gently. Gently.
Saef put his tongue to the corner of his lip, interpreting Inga’s message to the best of his ability. The XO couldn’t hide her grin now. “I…In the press of my duties, Commodore, I haven’t had a chance to, um, formally condemn these captured vessels or prisoners as yet.”
Commander Attic couldn’t entirely stifle his reflexive sidelong glance, and Saef understood his reaction. Saef’s “oversight” had cost every officer aboard Hightower and Mistral half the head money for prisoners, and half the prize purse from the captured vessels and their cargo, those funds now shared with the newly joined vessels.
Commodore Scarza wet his lips and interlaced his burly fingers on the table before him. “Certainly understandable, Captain. You have been very—shockingly—active, anyone would agree.” The XO composed her features and nodded in an affirmative manner. “We will attend to these trifling administrative duties, Captain Sinclair-Maru. Your prisoners will be transferred to Cerberus and those prize vessels will be officially condemned before the squadron departs Delta Three.”
Departs?
Saef saw Inga’s head tilt even as he absorbed the new revelation. The XO formed a sloppy gestural and Saef’s new orders registered within his UI. “The squadron is moving out, Commodore?” Saef looked from the XO to Scarza. “But who will defend Delta Three? The, er, puzzling enemy installation we discovered planetside is—”
“That installation will be fully analyzed, Captain, don’t you fear. And Delta Three will be defended by Dragon, Pallas, and Python for the moment.” Scarza pursed his lips, gazing dispassionately at Saef. “You’ve worked a genuine wonder with those hulks, I grant you. You’ve given them teeth, and they can provide the needed defense.”
Saef ignored the compliment, staring. “You have noticed we reported irregularities with Hightower’s synthetic Intelligence, Commodore, and those issues must be surveyed and corrected, in my view.”
“I did notice this, and I notice you still felt free to take Hightower gallivanting to Skold, so your view seems a trifle flexible, Captain.” Saef held no answer to that observation and Scarza continued. “You will collect Hightower’s Marines and her interface fighters. Mistral and Hightower will join Cerberus and Sabre, and we will transition en masse de guerre to the target system as soon as is humanly possible.”
Target system…Saef quickly connected the pieces: It would be someplace very hazardous, heavily defended; a system requiring a pair of destroyers in escort simply to keep Hightower alive long enough for…? For what?
Commander Holgren’s face revealed a new pallor. Python, under her command, would become the most effective, most lethal vessel remaining in defense of Delta Three. Despite Scarza’s self-serving compliments, Dragon and Pallas could not provide much comfort for Holgren in the site of such historic butchery.
Saef inclined his head. “Yes, Commodore. We will recall our Marines and fighters immediately.”
Scarza rapped his knuckles with finality. “Please do.” He paused. “I take it Hightower’s resources are not stretched thin despite your jaunting about? Shaper fuel and such, I mean.”
Saef suppressed an urge to smile at the commodore’s words. “Hightower remains well supplied with captured resources, sir.”
“Oh yes, I daresay,” Scarza said, clearly visualizing the wealth of Shaper fuel cells Saef had pillaged from the enemy complex on Delta Three.
As Scarza dismissed the assembled officers, Saef said, “Oh yes, Commodore.…One of our prisoners from Skold was paroled under my authority and will remain in my custody.”
Scarza’s brow lowered. “Hmm. And what rank does this individual hold?”
“No military rank, to my knowledge, sir.”
“Oh?” Scarza’s brow cleared. No rank meant no head money from Fleet. “It is an…uh…odd sort of thing isn’t it, Captain? This parole?”
“Somewhat, sir,” Saef said, feeling Attic’s sidelong stare again close beside him. “The prisoner is…a rude sort of fellow, Commodore, from Thorsworld.”
The commodore’s expression underwent a subtle transformation, a knowing look gradually shifting to one of a fellow mentally calculating an unexpected windfall of prize money, all thought of prisoners and paroles fading. “Thorsworld? Oh yes, I see.”
When Saef defeated a Thorsworld native in a duel some months prior, it had created quite a stir—the first non-heavyworlder to best a Thorsworld duelist with a blade in a century or more. The connection between that duel and some rude Thorsworld Nobody needn’t be too clear for it to provide less interest to Scarza than his new financial windfall.
As Saef, Inga, and Commander Attic walked back to the shuttle Onyx, Attic mused, “Our new orders don’t reveal a target system yet, it appears, Captain. I—I wonder where we could be bound…”
“Ericsson system, probably,” Saef said, and Inga looked sharply over at him, a warning in her eyes. The synthetic Intelligence of Cerberus heard every word. “Well…someplace well-fortified, you can be sure,” Saef amended.
Commander Attic nodded even as they entered the lock for Onyx, looking at Saef with an odd light in his gaze. “Captain, I…I must say I think it wise how you handled the prisoner, Sturmsohn.”
Saef averted his eyes from Attic’s intense scrutiny, resisting the urge to look toward Inga for some analysis, some suggested response.
What did Attic mean? Who was Erik Sturmsohn to Attic? To anyone?