The Crypt: Shakedown: (A Military Sci-Fi Novel), page 7
“I know there were… problems,” Anne said. “But the mission was a success. Doesn’t that matter?”
He sighed, leaned back in his chair.
“Results always matter,” he said. “We captured a city of ten thousand and suffered only one death, five casualties total.”
Anne knew the stats. Staley had been kind enough to give her the final mission results when he’d visited her in the infirmary.
“One death,” Anne said. “It could have been dozens, if not hundreds. One death because I excelled. I did my job. I got the intel. I softened the target. Weren’t you the one that taught me to get the job done by any means necessary?”
He stood, sharply and suddenly. For a moment, Anne thought he might slap her.
“What I told you was that details… fucking… matter! What I told you was to not… fucking… get… caught!”
Anne flinched away, would have backed up to the wall if her handcuffs hadn’t held her in place. In an instant she was a little girl again, about to feel the wrath of her angry father for dropping an easy out in softball, for finishing second in the swim meet, for having the unmitigated audacity of saying she missed her mother.
Bart Lafferty believed in corporal punishment. And emotional punishment. Probably any kind of punishment there was, as long as he thought it would guide his daughter’s growth.
But Anne knew, deep inside, that his strict, unforgiving discipline was an act of love. He’d worked tirelessly to mold her into a BII operative capable of accomplishing amazing things, of making a difference.
Bart Lafferty sat, blinking madly as he always did when he’d lost his temper and was trying to regain control.
“I can’t get you out of this one,” he said. “This isn’t like the birds and the mice. This isn’t like Boomer. Hell, Lieutenant, this isn’t even like the nanny.”
Anne flushed with shame. She hadn’t been able to help it with the birds and the mice. And Boomer… Anne missed that dog. Missed him so much. The nanny? How could that be Anne’s fault? Anne and the nanny had been close friends. The nanny had gone away.
“Staley went over my head, the miserable prick,” Anne’s father said. “He kept it quiet, but he told the right people. You know he’s getting a goddamn promotion out of this? He’ll be a colonel.”
No surprise there. Staley had commanded a massively successful op. Successful because of Anne. The fact that her father put her on the mission would not be factored in. Technically, a parent couldn’t have direct authority over his own child—that meant the credit for Anne’s success rolled upward to Staley, and there it stopped.
“What you did to that woman,” her father said. “It’s… it’s barbaric.”
Barbaric? No. It had been necessary.
“General, I needed intel to keep our assault force safe. I made an asset of an enemy combatant, and from her, acquired mission-critical information.”
Her father laughed, a hopeless sound devoid of joy or humor.
“Enemy combatant? Olivia Wagner was seventeen years old, a runaway from the Neptune Net Colony. She’d been in Eden for all of four months. She worked at a goddamn pretzel stand, Lieutenant.”
Anne and her father sat in silence. Did he want her to feel bad? It had taken extreme measures to achieve mission success. Anne hadn’t flinched from her duty.
Her father absently rubbed his bald head. “Staley had a full autopsy done. Pathologist said the amputations took place over the course of three or four days.” He sagged in his chair. “The victim had open sores in her mouth from the constant gag. She’d screamed so much her larynx was raw and bleeding. Staley filed charges, Lieutenant. What you did is considered a war crime.”
A war crime—punishable by firing squad or venting, if found guilty.
Her father sat up straight, tried to regain his composure, to be the professional soldier he’d been all of Anne’s life.
“Lieutenant, do you know what you did was wrong?”
Wrong? He’d sent her on the mission. She’d executed the mission. Maybe it hadn’t gone exactly according to plan, but she knew what her father wanted to hear.
“Yes, General. I know it was wrong.”
The ethics of it didn’t really matter anymore. No tapping in her head—the dark impulse was gone. Olivia had been the last. If Anne got out of this spot of trouble, she knew she’d never again be burdened by that urge.
“You are your own worst enemy,” her father said. “You stop yourself from being great. I’ve seen many sailors and Raiders and operatives like you over the years. Well, not like you in that way, but people who can’t control themselves, who can’t master their demons. The difference between mediocrity and greatness is a decision, Lieutenant. You have yet to make that decision.”
The door opened. Master Warrant Officer Sheila Drummond—her father’s long-suffering aide-de-camp—leaned in.
“My apologies, General,” she said. “There’s someone here you need to speak with.”
He slapped the table. “I told you to leave us be. If I have to tell you twice, you won’t be hap—”
“Now, General Lafferty,” Drummond said.
He leaned back, somewhat surprised.
Anne had spent time around Drummond. The woman was a consummate officer. She followed orders to the letter. She pushed back only when she knew doing so was for the good of her CO.
Anne’s father stood and walked out with Drummond, who shut the door behind him. Anne stared at the peaked hat, which he’d left behind. Jet black, BII’s primary uniform color. Silver chain-and-key embellishments on the brim. The silver cap device of the department’s crest, a six-pointed cog with crossed swords behind it, ringed by the words knowledge, discovery, protection.
Her father hated her. She repulsed him. It wasn’t fair. Things got a little out of hand with Olivia, sure, but Anne had needed information. And besides, the tapping was gone. Anne was done with it. It had taken her most of her life to beat it, but finally, she had.
If only that meathead hadn’t cut her.
If only she’d been able to move Olivia somewhere else.
If only—
The door opened. Anne’s father came in, accompanied by a forty-something woman in a charcoal gray Raider service uniform.
He shut the door, no longer looking quite as angry, quite as despondent.
“Lieutenant Lafferty,” he said, “this is Major Maia Whittaker, Fleet logistics.”
Logistics? What was going on?
Anne shrugged. “I’m afraid I can’t stand and salute you, Major Whittaker.”
The woman held a sheet of flexipaper. No, wait—was that real paper?
“I understand, Lieutenant,” Whittaker said. “Word of your successful mission reached my department. I’m here to give you your new assignment. You’re being promoted to Major. You’ll be intel chief on a Fleet warship.”
Anne stared, dumbfounded. A promotion? A command position?
Had her father pulled strings after all? No, no way—he would have told her.
“This is… unexpected,” Anne said.
Whittaker nodded. “I imagine so. There is, however, a condition.”
Anne glanced at the handcuffs holding her to the table. “What condition is that, Major?”
“You must complete a two-year stint aboard a classified vessel,” Whitaker said. “If you do, any and all charges against you will be dropped. If you choose not to serve aboard this ship, you will be immediately prosecuted for your actions at Eden.”
Anne looked at her father. He stood there, rigid, a single tear rolling down his left cheek.
In her twenty-six years, Anne could remember Bart Lafferty crying one time, and one time only—when his wife, Anne’s mother, had died of cancer.
“This is for your own good,” he said. “The ship is the Keeling. You’re volunteering—and you will volunteer—to serve on the Crypt.”
7
Spec-3 John Bennett sat quietly, staring out the tram car’s window at the sprawling vastness of Gofannon Station, and far beyond it, the grayish-tan behemoth of Saturn and its rings. Everything he owned he either carried on his person or was stuffed in his duffel, stashed in the rack above his seat.
Gofannon was Fleet’s biggest dry dock. Fifteen ships were docked within its massive, spider-web frame, including some he’d served on: the heavy cruiser Jakarta; the destroyer Tasunke-Witko; the frigates Vahan and Clipeus. And the heavy cruiser Toronto, site of the worst fighting he’d ever endured.
A few sailors wore dress whites. Most wore either light gray utility coveralls or gray and black service uniforms. The Raiders on the tram were all in cammies, some with sleeves folded to show off the arms they’d worked so hard to bulk up. Three striker pilots in this car, all in dress blues. John wondered where they were going. There were dozens of civilians, too, with their clearance badges openly displayed, and a curious amount of Globals in their various green duty uniforms and fatigues. Weird to see surface-pounders here, as Saturn had neither land nor water on which to operate, and any planetary air wings were probably composed of Harrah pilots operating the spherical voidcraft unique to that race.
“Ship incoming,” one of the civvy techs called out. “Starboard side, about three o’clock.”
Heads turned. People who were standing and holding handrails leaned over to look out the car’s windows. They wanted to catch a glimpse of one of the galaxy’s most beautiful sights—a ship entering realspace. John’s starboard-side window seat gave him an unobstructed view.
Roughly two klicks out, a dim, purple light began to pulse. It flashed faster and faster, brighter and brighter, grew larger and larger. Like a glove with a hand sliding into it, the light stretched, turning white. Other colors sparkled as the glowing shape took form. A destroyer? No, a heavy cruiser.
“It’s the Chicago,” said a Raider with his gear bag slung over his shoulder. radulski on his fatigues. He had the blue skin of a Satirli 6 native, something you didn’t see often in Fleet. “I served on her for a year. She’s a beaut.”
The glittering shroud tightened around the ship. John could make out the armor-thick prow, then the double-barreled forward artillery batteries—one topside, one bottomside—then the stubby directional thrusters, the rear topside battery, and, finally, the chemjet ports.
The Chicago sparkled like it was covered in crushed diamonds, a piece of high technology dipped in magic. That was the moment when a ship was blind from punching back into realspace, helpless to anyone that wished her harm.
“I never get tired of watching that,” someone said.
The passengers murmured in agreement.
There was something divine about watching ships enter or exit punch-space. John wasn’t immune to the spectacle, not even after decades of service, of seeing dozens—if not hundreds—of ships make those transitions. It wasn’t just the stunning visual display, there was something eternal about it. Punch-space had allowed Humanity to escape the Sol system, ensuring the species could spread out and survive even if Earth itself were to be destroyed.
Punch-drives let man travel the stars—the curvine let him fight amongst them. Two aspects of the same tech, from what little John had bothered to learn. A punch-drive pinched curves of space-time together, drastically shortening the distance between planets. People said it wasn’t actually faster-than-light travel, but that was a semantic argument for eggheads; FTL was FTL, as far as John was concerned. A curvine—shorthand for space-time curvature turbine—allowed a ship to travel along threads of space-time in a manner not all that different from the way the tram car he was in rode along its elevated rail.
To enter punch-space, a ship had to be in a punch-zone near the right kind of planet and had to use the curvine to accelerate at a fixed rate in a straight line for a minute or more. That made them sitting ducks for enemy fire. John had heard of two warships that had taken fire while accelerating for a punch—those ships had never been heard from again.
He watched Chicago’s glitter fade to nothingness, leaving only the ship behind: gray, bulky, heavy, blocky, built for war in the void.
A young Raider standing in the aisle lightly nudged John, pointed at a docked ship.
“Look at that mutha,” the man said. “Ever see a ship that big?”
The Raider—a Spec-2, shamdi on his fatigues—was handcuffed. An MP in LASH armor stood close behind him.
“It’s the Akathaso,” John said. “Biggest carrier ever. I saw it docked at Vishvakarman a couple of months ago. It’s Admiral Epperson’s new flagship.”
That was the way of Admirals—they always wanted the biggest, the best, the newest.
The young man huffed. “Epperson overcompensate much?”
The MP leaned closer to the young raider. “Do me a favor, Shamdi—don’t badmouth the brass. I’d like to get out of this without having to file a statement about your behavior.”
“Don’t get your panties in a bunch,” Shamdi said. “I’ll be out of your hair soon enough.”
Shamdi looked to be about twenty-four. Twenty-five, tops. Maybe the kid had missed muster, and MPs rounded him up. That happened a lot, especially after combat. John had never missed muster, not once, but he didn’t judge when others did.
“I’m heading for the Ishi myself. I’m John Bennett.”
“Nitzan Shamdi.”
John nodded toward the cuffs. “Big night out or something?”
“Yeah,” Shamdi said. “Something like that.”
They rode on in silence, the tram whipping them along the dry dock’s center ring.
John saw the frigate Ishlangu, the ship that would take him to his new assignment.
“Ishi’s a Dhal-class,” he said. “I served on one of those, the Kalkan. Good Raider quarters. Small, but at least we weren’t sleeping on the training deck. Better than the Element class before her. I spent a year aboard the Gallium. Was like living in a toilet. You like the Ishi?”
Shamdi shrugged. “I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.”
So much for John’s guess that Shamdi was late for muster. But if that wasn’t the kid’s ship, why was he heading there in chains?
The tram continued to roll along Gofannon’s outer ring, closing in on Ishi. While significantly smaller than Chicago or Toronto, Ishi was no lightweight. Like all Dhal-class frigates, she was 150 meters from front armor to her rear chemjet ports, 19 meters at the beam, and 23 meters high.
Ishi’s main offensive power consisted of two Type24 guns, one mounted flush bottomside, the other topside on a barbette that let it shoot over the ship’s single-layer superstructure and the clear, shallow dome of her bubble-deck. The 127-millimeter, 54-caliber weapons were a mainstay of Fleet frigates and destroyers. While not as insanely powerful as the bigger artillery pieces found on cruisers, assault ships and carriers, the versatile 24s packed a world of hurt.
The tram slowed to a stop at pier four’s station. The arrival chime sounded. The doors slid open.
John grabbed his duffel and stepped out onto the platform’s metal-grate deck. He could see down through the grate to the station’s main level, and to the wide pier against which the Ishlangu was docked.
Up and down the tram’s four cars, men and women stepped out, duffle bags slung over their shoulders. Raiders in fatigues, including the blue-skinned Radulski. Sailors in dress whites or service grays. Two men in BII black. No striker pilots or crew, which wasn’t a surprise considering frigates like Ishi didn’t carry voidcraft.
Five of those people, Shamdi included, were handcuffed and accompanied by a LASHed MP. Spec-1 Raider mafi, so big John wondered if he could fit in standard armor. Red-haired Spec-3 medic watson, whose darting eyes made John think she might be a druggie. Spec-3 Raider taylor, a crawler tech’s insignia on her collar. Warrant Officer bang, a smiling, sunglasses-wearing Raider pilot so casually confident she made her handcuffs seem like a fashion choice rather than restraints.
Five people in chains. All, apparently, headed to the Ishi. What the hell was going on?
Everyone filtered to the updowns and dropped to the station deck, where a Raider master sergeant waited in front of a scuffed muster line painted on the pier. He wore an eight-pointed cover, bent bill set low over his eyes.
“Raiders,” he said, “fall in!”
John recognized the voice, like steel wool for vocal cords, then the face—Francis “Book” Sands. Small universe.
“Step on the line when I call your name.” Sands read from a flexipaper. “Laior. Perry. Mafi. Sarvacharya. Bang. Bennett. Taylor. Shamdi. Oneida. Radulski. Abshire. Honored guests from the military police, kindly line up behind your charges.”
As most of the tram’s passengers headed down the pier, John got on the line along with ten other Raiders.
Oneida, Perry, and Abshire had the wide-eyed look of soldiers just out of boot. Laior as well, her expression all the more comical thanks to her big blue eyes and bleach-white skin.
Sands tucked his flexipaper under one arm.
“I am Master Sergeant Francis Sands. You will refer to me as Master Sergeant Sands. You will not refer to me as Top. For those of you who arrived in restraints, I have the right to keep you in them as long as I deem necessary. I trust that if I, in my infinite wisdom and boundless benevolence, decide to let you out of those chains, you will behave like proper Raiders and will not be stupid. Am I correct in that assumption?”
“Yes, Master Sergeant,” the chained Raiders called out in unison.
“Magnificent,” Sands said, stretching out the first syllable. He looked at the ranking MP. “Release these warriors on my recognizance.”
The MPs undid the restraints, then headed for the updowns.
“We will board Ishlangu shortly,” Sands said. “Ishi will take us to our assignment. Do not ask me or anyone else where that assignment is. Do not ask me or anyone else how long it will take to get there. You are passengers. Act accordingly. The platoon’s commanding officer is Lieutenant Lindros. The platoon’s exec is Warrant Officer Winter. If any of us three tell you to do something, you do it. Have I clearly educated you as to your immediate chain of command?”
