Theirs Not To Reason Why: An Officer's Duty Part 21

"Once you're logged in, you'll be able to come and go as you please. More to the point, you'll be able to log others in and out, though for the first five base touches, I'll be overseeing your half of the crew," the commander told her. She pressed a few more keys, then nodded, giving Ia permission to straighten up again. "On board the Audie-Murphy, we run a double crew of twenty-eight: fourteen on your side, fourteen on mine. One com, one noncom, one yeoman to back us up-since you and I are both pilots-and the rest are enlisted.

"On board the Mad Jack, our immediate superior, Captain Yacob, oversees the off-rotation crews for not only the Audie-Murphy, but the Kublai-Khan, the Ed-Freeman, and the Yzing-Chow, our sister s.h.i.+ps. We have our own particular off-rotation pool under him, but we can and do draw from the others if one particular s.h.i.+p gets heavily hit," Salish told her.

"Off-rotation crews," Ia murmured. "That means the ones who are on medical rest, right?"

"Yes, and a few spares. Plus we cycle them out, wounded or whole, for the span of a full patrol every fifth cycle. Those who have healed up get put on the repair crews for the other s.h.i.+ps that call Bay 16 home. We fly patrols for six days at a stretch, and come back here for two, unless we're badly damaged and have to come into port early, like we did this last time," Salish told her. "It'll be your job as pilot to avoid as much damage as possible.

"The same goes for boarding enemy s.h.i.+ps-and out here on Blockade, if it isn't an Alliance military s.h.i.+p, isn't a duly a.s.signed and previously known mining or transport vessel, or isn't being escorted by at least three patrollers from at least two different governments, it's presumed to be, and almost always is, an enemy s.h.i.+p," Salish warned her. The console beeped, and Ia's ident flashed on the screen, updated with her new duty posting information. "Ah, here we go. You're now registered as the second-in-command. Welcome aboard, Lieutenant."

"Thank you, sir," Ia murmured. "So...since I'll be in charge of boarding parties, what are my standing orders?"

"Our priority is, if it's an unauthorized s.h.i.+p and it shoots at us, we disable it if we can, kill it if we must, and blare its location and identification to the rest of the fleet the entire time we're fighting it. If it runs from us, we disable and board it; if the crew fires on us during the boarding, we shoot to kill unless our orders are to take prisoners for interrogation, rather than the other way around," Commander Salish stated. "If it stops and submits to being boarded, we board with extreme caution and search it stem to stern.

"Finding contraband means disabling the s.h.i.+p-you'll want to go over the s.h.i.+p's manual with the list of what qualifies as Alliance contraband, versus what is considered an internal matter, something for a particular government. Then, for all instances, we bind the crew if there are any survivors, and call for a tow so a larger s.h.i.+p can handle the matter. We don't usually take on prisoners, since we only have room for a maximum of four prisoners, and that's only if we cram them two at a time into each s.h.i.+p-half's brig. Mostly, we just shoot at things that run, and board things that don't.

"We also occasionally cut deals with our fellow Delta-VXs, swapping patrol segments at random. It's to try and shake things up, keep the frogtopi from figuring out our patrols," Salish told her. "And we can vary things up within our own routes. Usually it's only by a system or two, but three or more will get you hauled in front of a board of inquiry-at which point, you'd better have found and shot down an enemy s.h.i.+p, if you expect to get off scot-free. I've only heard of it happening half a dozen times, and two of those, the officer who made that decision got a couple strokes of the cane for it."

"You said at least three military s.h.i.+ps, from two governments. Any particular reason?" Ia asked her.

Salish nodded. "Two or three decades back, they got hold of a couple of derelict Solarican military vessels and patched them up enough to be s.p.a.ceworthy, then started 'escorting' s.h.i.+ps through the Blockade. They succeeded twice before the Solarican contingent realized they were using defunct call signs and alerted the rest. These days, you have to get an escort from at least two Alliance governments if you're not a duly authorized work vessel posted to the Interdicted Zone. One of our jobs is to check and double-check with each Blockade member's registry if we see s.h.i.+ps being escorted. Even then, most of the intermittent visitors are well-known. I'll get you a list to memorize, the same with the list of names and faces from our off-cycle crew."

"I'll have it done by the time we launch," Ia promised. At the older woman's questioning look, she shrugged. "I noticed the departure time listed at the hangar entrance. It won't be any worse than cramming for my piloting lessons. What's your policy on calling home?"

"Never while we're on patrol, and mandatory once per base touch-yes, it's mandatory," Salish told her as Ia raised her brows politely. "Morale is the single most important factor on Blockade. You call someone you like and you talk to them for up to half an hour, that's the rule. You can call out more than once, but only the first one is on the Navy's tenth chit. Or the Marines' tenth, depending on which Branch is footing the bill."

"Good thing Blockade pay is above average, then," Ia quipped, smiling.

Salish didn't quite return it. Her mouth twisted up, but that was about it. "Yeah, well, you'll earn it. We have only two duty s.h.i.+fts, which means we're on alert twelve hours at a stretch-when you're on and we're not at alert, you'll be overseeing four crew on my side of things, while four of yours will be off-s.h.i.+ft and resting or asleep, waiting to be up and awake when it's my side's s.h.i.+ft. We also rotate duty watches every two hours, and all of us are trained for multiple positions.

"So that's two gunnery posts running at all times, at least one of them installed in the bridge, plus a s.h.i.+p's systems post usually run from the engine room, and a spare on the offside s.h.i.+p, with a full crew running on yours," the commander summed up. "The spare is usually the one who ends up cooking for everyone on both sides."

"How many in a boarding party?" Ia asked her.

"With a known s.h.i.+p we're set to inspect, just four. With an enemy s.h.i.+p, eight-that's including you, by the way. That's why our standing order in hand-to-hand combat is shoot to kill. This isn't s.p.a.ce Patrol, Lieutenant," Salish warned her. "There are no closing credits, and unless we get the whole crew back to base alive and unharmed, there are no happy endings. If we're lucky, our problems wrap up at the end of each bad encounter when the tow s.h.i.+p arrives. But unless it's time to head back to base, the very next episode begins without any pauses or commercial breaks."

"Trust me, sir. Even as a child, I knew that the real military was nothing like the way it's portrayed in the entertainment business," Ia promised.

"I hope so. Let's get you settled in and familiar with the controls," Salish offered, s.h.i.+fting out of the seat. Somewhere beyond the bridge, a heavy clunk rattled through the s.h.i.+p. The commander winced and cursed. "G.o.dd.a.m.n techs...If they put an extra dent in my hull and we fall behind schedule, I swear heads will roll."

"You did say a number of them were off-rotation soldiers," Ia pointed out, settling into the chair. Out of habit, she fastened the restraints, even though the s.h.i.+p technically wasn't going anywhere for two more days.

Salish sighed. "Yes, and while some of the techs are Navy, which makes me feel slightly better in regards to their technical competency, some of them are Marines-the ratio will vary, patrol to patrol, depending on who's healed up and ready to s.h.i.+p out the next time their s.h.i.+p's in port. We get rotated out once every five patrols ourselves, for four patrol sets, then on the fifth one we switch to being backups for everyone else.

"Speaking of which, you'll need to meet Commander Jeston and the other lieutenants. They're our backups, this set. The COs of each s.h.i.+p rarely get hit as much as the boarding officers, so there are more lieutenants than commanders running around, taking their turns at getting healed up. But we do get rest weeks, same as the crew-they're mandatory for anyone on s.h.i.+ps as small as ours," Salish told her, "and they thankfully don't count as Leave time.

"My first rotation offside will be on your third patrol. Commander Jeston will take over for that week, and then on your fifth patrol, we'll see who's free among the junior officers to spell you-that's another reason why we're expected to pack light. We'll get you a.s.signed a set of relief quarters on the Mad Jack by the end of the day. You'll need to swap out with other lieutenants, and it'll feel more like a hotel than a home, but at least you'll be able to take a much-needed break," Salish promised. "They don't expect officers to work on the s.h.i.+ps, so you will get some actual rest between patrols."

Ia smiled wryly. "Unless the Battle Platform falls under attack."

Salish chuckled. "Well, aren't you a ray of suns.h.i.+ne? Let's hope it doesn't come to that. The s.p.a.ce lanes get awfully cluttered with debris whenever someone goes up against one of these things. A pity they're so expensive to build and maintain, compared to building and repairing a bunch of Delta-VXs..."

CHAPTER 14.

My first day of Blockade service pretty much set the tone for the majority of my time out there. Moments of tedium and camaraderie crowded into the minimum of allotted s.p.a.ce, interspersed with moments of intense tension and frenetic activity. It was very much like the day-to-day life of soldiers patrolling in a war.

Then again, it was a war. The politicians just thought that calling it a Blockade would sound more rea.s.suring to the folks back home.

~Ia JANUARY 4, 2494 T.S.

SS'NUK NEH 1334 SYSTEM

Ia stayed in her bunk for a few minutes past the end-lurch that was the emergence from the hypers.p.a.ce tunnel. Her stomach insisted on it, churning unhappily at having been woken by the OTL klaxons. Worming a hand free of the covers she slapped the b.u.t.ton that locked the narrow, cradle-like bed in a stable position and released the webwork of restraints holding her in place. Everyone strapped in for OTL; going without restraints and cus.h.i.+oning of some sort meant the risk of being pasted against a rearward bulkhead by the abrupt acceleration forces sucking a hypers.h.i.+p into its wormhole.

The one drawback the restraints couldn't help with was the exhaustion of having lived too fast. The side effects for everyone, Ia included, were shaking muscles, dry mouth, nausea, and hunger. The last three did not mix particularly well. Once she was sure she could stand, Ia climbed out of her bunk, then straightened it and restored the webbing. The comm by the door came to life as she padded toward the closet-sized room that served as her private bathroom.

"Commander Salish to Lieutenant Ia, rise and s.h.i.+ne. This is your wake-up call. You have one hour before your duty s.h.i.+ft begins."

Swerving by the doorframe, Ia touched the private return-call b.u.t.ton. "Gee, and here I thought the OTL warning was supposed to be my adrenaline-based wake-up call."

"I like to do both. Private Ryker says breakfast will be ready for the Audie's crew in ten minutes. He likes to cook extra spicy, just to warn you."

"Acknowledged." Ending the call, Ia padded into the head. From the storage cupboard over the toilet-which came with its own set of acceleration restraints, just in case-she pulled the locking boxes that held her "holy beads." She had already showed the untainted ones to Salish. Now, she p.r.i.c.ked one of the veins on the back of her hand, extracting the day's allotted dose of blood with the Triple-S she had washed and pa.s.sed under the sterilizer last night.

Sticking her hand into the box of beads, she extracted energy from the ma.s.s, molding and shaping roughly a quarter of it into a single large glob with a shot-gla.s.s-sized hollow. Injecting the hollow with the blood, she mashed and melded the two with mind and hands, then divided them into beads telekinetically before rehardening them and dropping them back into the padded box in a trickling clatter of crystal on crystal. It took up most of her allotted ten minutes, but breakfast would be kept hot and ready for her in its own warming tray.

Securing the box, she quickly scrubbed and sterilized the extractor and put it away, then used the facilities, scrubbing hands and face and giving a sketchy wash of the other areas. She also dampened her sleep-rumpled hair, allowing her to comb the white locks straight. Once that was done and everything stowed, with even the rag she had used tucked into the sonic cleaner, she exited and dressed quickly in black s.h.i.+p boots with their steady, deck-gripping soles, dark blue trousers, and a light blue s.h.i.+rt.

Her arm unit, Ia clasped over her left sleeve; jacket sleeves had snaps so the units could be discreetly covered or easily accessed, but s.h.i.+rt sleeves were often tucked under the bracer-like devices. Before retiring to sleep, she had pinned her bars and wings on the collar points and boards with the wings centered inside the stripe loop that designated her part of a s.h.i.+p's bridge crew. On the left breast pocket, she added a flat triangle pin with the middle point carefully aimed downward, mark of the upper crew for a Delta-VX patrol s.h.i.+p. Once the tails of her s.h.i.+rt were smoothed into her trousers and a stray fold of sleeve fabric tugged straight under her command unit, she was ready to go.

Ia didn't have far to go, to get to breakfast; her tiny cabin was attached to the equally small captain's office, with both squeezed between the bridge at the heart of the s.h.i.+p and the galley. Orienting herself more from precognitive familiarity than from the colors banding the placards holding every door and cupboard sign lining the portside corridor, she headed toward the bow and entered the dining half of the galley.

Most of her crew were there. They had departed from the Mad Jack at the start of the Murphy's watch, which had given Ia's half the chance to rest. Eight soldiers, five in the blue of the Navy and three in the brown of the Marines, occupied the s.p.a.ce. All of them wore a shallow triangular pin on their s.h.i.+rt pockets with the middle point turned down, indicating they crewed the upper of the two s.h.i.+ps.

Private Ryker entered behind Ia, dangling a carrying case from one hand. The pin on his s.h.i.+rt had its middle point facing up. He nodded to her. "Sir. Breakfast has been delivered to the Audie four still on watch. Shall I fetch your breakfast now, sir?"

Ia nodded and took her place at the head of the long metal table. At the far end sat First Petty Officer Michaelson, the Audie's noncommissioned officer. Down each side sat most of her crew, save for the four manning the Audie's systems during the off-watch, and one missing soldier. The absent, brown-clad woman came hurrying in a moment later, still tucking her s.h.i.+rt into her pants.

"Morning," she murmured, nodding to the others. She lifted her chin at the Murphy crewman working in the actual cooking s.p.a.ce at the far end of the galley. "Hey, Jack, I'll take a caf', hot 'n black. None of that creamy-sweet v'zuei the officers drink."

"Private Knorssen, your language is highly inappropriate," Petty Michaelson snapped. "Your disrespect will not-"

"Will be tolerated, Petty, before the first cup of the day," Ia interrupted, holding up her hand. She met Knorssen's slightly pink-cheeked glance with a wry smile, knowing the woman had planned to test her new commanding officer this way. "But be advised, Private, only before the first cup of the day. Also understand that I will give as good as I get." Lifting her chin and her voice, she, too, addressed the man in the galley. "I'll take the Marine's choice of breakfast drink, Private Ryker."

"Sir?" he asked, ducking his head enough to look out through the pa.s.s-through between the two s.p.a.ces.

"Milk," she told him, and slipped a wink to the nearest enlisted Marine on her right, who choked on his caf'. "Cold. Straight. You got a problem with that?"

"No, sir." Pulling back, he finished gathering her meal together.

A couple of the crew were whispering and snickering softly among themselves, casting her amused looks. One of them whispered a little too loudly, "Maybe Jack should make that a chocolate milk."

Her petty officer gave her a disgruntled look. Bracing her elbows on the table, Ia loosely clasped her hands together and addressed the men and women around her.

"Over the last two days, we were briefly but formally introduced to each other. Myself as your new lieutenant, and you as the various members of my half of our joint crew. But we were pressed for time in getting the Audie-Murphy turned around, and did not have the opportunity to go into background details," she explained, pitching her voice just loud enough for Ryker to hear. Ia knew he would carry this information to his own crewmates on the Murphy side of things. "Allow me to enlighten you with a few of those details.

"I started in the Service as a grunt in the Marines. I bear more decorations from my two years of service than anyone else outside of a Blockade Patrol. Most of my career in the Corps, I served as a noncom officer. I earned my Field Commission at the battle of Zubeneschamali...and I earned my military nickname from my very first combat three and a half years ago. My CO looked at me standing there before him, covered multiple times from head to toe in Choya blood and Salik guts, and dubbed me 'b.l.o.o.d.y Mary.' I have kept that nickname throughout my career to date, and kept it fresh.

"Call me whatever you want before my first cup of the day, whatever I may choose to drink...but you will learn to call me it with respect the moment we go on duty."

She paused a beat as Ryker came out, bearing one of the multilidded trays the others were eating from. He clipped it onto the table in front of her and tucked a lidded mug of milk into its holder at her side. Opening the compartment with her silverware, she plucked out the fork and snapped that lid shut before opening the next, following the Lock and Web Law of s.h.i.+pboard life even as she dug into her pepper-fried potatoes.

"For those of you who doubt my nickname, and doubt my abilities as either a combatant or a commander, you will have ample opportunity to see both in action firsthand. This is the Blockade, after all." Popping the forkful into her mouth, she chewed and swallowed, then unclipped her mug. "In the meantime, while I may take combat very seriously, I see no reason why our breakfast should be considered a mirth-free zone. Or a conversation-free one. Private Tamaganej, tell me something about your home. Your file says you're from North Mumbai? How long have you lived there?"

"Ah...yes, sir," he said, glancing briefly at the others. Shrugging, he dug into his salsa-slathered eggs. "My family's lived on Earth, in one part or another of India, for...for as long as the Ganges has flowed, I suppose. My family line has been traced all the way back to before the Persian Empire. Or so I've been told."

"You're tryin' to tell me that your family line goes back three thousand years?" one of the brown-clad crewmen across from him asked. "I can barely trace my family line back three hundred, when we moved into Lower New York."

"You lived in Lower New York, Kipple?" Private Nguyen asked, lifting his head from his meal. "I have family in Lower New York, too. I used to spend every summer there, with my cousins."

"You did?" Private Kipple asked him. "Well, h.e.l.l, I've served with you for a tour and a half, and I never knew that. I grew up in Jersey Province, but I used to visit Saint Vinnie's Deli every time I was in town. You ever eat there?"

Nguyen snorted. "Who didn't? Mind you, they couldn't cook pho worth a shakk, but the matzo ball soup was pretty good."

Private Kipple leaned over and nudged Ia's elbow. "How 'bout you, sir? Ever been to Lower New York? Or even the Upper side?"

"Can't say I have. Most of the time I visited Earth, it was either to Australia for Basic, Portugal for the Academy, or Madagascar to visit friends." She unsnapped the lid over her toast and discovered Ryker had dusted it with pepper as well as b.u.t.ter. Plucking one of the triangles from the tray, she gave the man cleaning up in the galley a wry look. "Pepper even on the toast, Private Ryker? This is like eating my brother's cooking! Are you sure you're not a long-lost relative?"

The others chuckled among themselves. She bit off a corner of the bread before the others could try and tease her directly, enduring the tingling burn of the little flakes without any change of expression. This was the real reason why she had requested the milk, to kill the fire of the capsaicin seasoning her meal.

The rest of it was equally spicy, from the cold salad of steamed vegetables in a vinaigrette to the pepper-smoked bacon. Even the cheese had pepper dusted on it. She would suspect a deliberate trick played on her, if it hadn't been for Salish's warning that this was indeed how Private Ryker cooked all the time. At least it was reasonably well-cooked beneath all that fire. Private Kipple, she precognitively knew, could barely slap together edible sandwiches whenever it was his turn in the galley. Which is hardly any better than what I can do...

"Think we'll find anything today, Petty?" one of the Navy privates asked the noncom at the far end of the table.

"Three mining s.h.i.+ps and a petrotanker, all FTL, plus twelve mining skiffs, insystem speed only. That's on the docket for 1334. We board the petrotanker, two of the mining s.h.i.+ps, and a minimum of four of the skiffs, chosen at random by the Lieutenant," First Petty Michaelson stated, nodding at Ia before looking back at the private. "Anything else, we shoot it down, and if there's anything left, ask a lot of questions. The exact same as always."

"Well, sir?" the private asked her next, turning to look at Ia. "Any guesses?"

"The three mining s.h.i.+ps are Tla.s.sian-run, under contract with the Alliance to supply the Salik back on the domeworld of Ss'nuk with basic metals and petroleums in carefully controlled amounts. If the profits weren't so good, between what they mine for themselves, what the Blockade pays, and the premium the Salik are forced to pay, they wouldn't bother. As it is, the Tla.s.sian hate the Salik-they share the common insult of 'egg-suckers,' except that for the Tla.s.sians, it was a very real tragedy of the war. One which the crewmembers of this particular mining consortium have neither forgiven nor forgotten, despite the intervening centuries. I doubt many of them would collaborate with the enemy."

"And that means we search...?" he asked, shrugging. "Which s.h.i.+ps?"

Ia shrugged back. "I'll flip a coin." Checking her chrono, she dug into her eggs. "Eat up and tidy up; our s.h.i.+ft is in forty minutes."

They dug in. The Marine woman, Private Knorssen, leaned closer to Ia and frowned at the heaped contents of her tray. "Hey! How come you get more food than I do? Food is supposed to be strictly weighed and rationed."

"I'm a heavyworlder. We have more muscle ma.s.s, so we burn more calories." Opening one of the untouched lids on her compartmented tray, she eyed the cinnamon roll warily. No pepper flakes, but he had dusted the premade roll with extra cinnamon. "For future reference, Private Ryker, try not to waste excessive amounts of spice. Since I know you are capable of cooking otherwise edible food, I would like you to try following the preparation instructions a bit more closely than this.

"I do expect all of you to toe the line and give your absolute best while you are members of this crew, and on duty," she added, looking around the table. "I know you can do it, therefore you will do it...and it is easier to live up to these expectations than you'd think. All you have to do is put your mind to it, and it'll get done."

"Easier said than done, sir," Private Kipple muttered.

"Not in my experience, Private," Ia corrected him, opening up the compartment that held her eggs. Overspiced or not, she needed to eat. "It's often easier done than said. Just make up your mind to do it, and you'll get it done."

Left hand swooping and flexing subtly, wrapped in the sensor glove that controlled the direction of the twinned stars.h.i.+p, Ia played with the controls. Her right hand tapped and stroked the piloting controls, adding and subtracting the power of thrust from the panels dotting the hull. She didn't pull any high-speed maneuvers, no tight turns or sudden reversals, just moved it enough to get herself used to piloting the s.h.i.+p. With her seat centered in the bridge, which was centered on the middle deck in the upper s.h.i.+p, everything was almost perfectly balanced around her, maneuvering-wise.

Salish put up with it for a few minutes before her voice crossed Ia's headset. The commander's tone was light, though, when she asked, "Are you done playing with the controls, Lieutenant?"

Ia grinned and swooped the s.h.i.+p a little harder, just a quick back and forth, then steadied their course. "Now I'm done, sir. I believe I can handle her."

"Good. I am transferring the off-watch command to you, Lieutenant Ia. Logging the time and control of the Audie-Murphy to you...now."

"Thank you, sir. Have a good night, sir." Closing her end of the link, but keeping the incoming channel open in case the four off-watch crewmembers on the Murphy side needed to talk to her, Ia s.h.i.+fted the current sensor readings to her left secondary screen. She adjusted their heading and read the new results. "ETA to pinging range of the Tla.s.sian mining s.h.i.+p Red Iron Tail...seven minutes insystem. Any sign of unusual activity on the lightspeed, Private Kipple?"

"No, sir," he replied from his position as combined navigator and scanner tech. "They are still in a standard mining orbit around asteroid 75,331, exactly where they said they'd be. Skiffs are still displaying standard mining activities." He shrugged, restraint straps creaking slightly against the pull of his shoulders. "Which means either they're doing exactly what they should be doing, or they're very cleverly concealing their true activities."

"Nice to see you have the proper mind-set for Blockade work, Private," Ia quipped.

"I have been out here for a tour and a half, sir," he reminded her.

"Sir," Private Knorssen asked from her position at the combined engineering and s.h.i.+p's systems post. "Do you want me to give the orders to start warming up the mechsuits for the boarding party?"

"They're apparently law-abiding under the conventions of their Blockade mining contract. I want Private Higatsu to suit up in halfmech. He'll be the only one; Privates Tamaganej and Nguyen will don close-quarters armor," Ia instructed.

"Sir?" Knorssen questioned. "That's not standard procedure."

"Dealing with aliens is a tricky business, Private. Did you read the crew manifest for the Red Iron Tail?" Ia asked in turn. "Almost eighty percent of the crew are warrior caste."

"Yes, I know, Lieutenant, and that's why I'm concerned about your orders, sir," Knorssen told her. "I don't feel comfortable with you going into a s.h.i.+p filled with venom-spitters, sir."