The ethos effect, p.3
The Ethos Effect, page 3
He’d worked on that less than an hour when he was interrupted again.
Commander, there’s a Commander Baile here to see you, ser. RSF commander, I mean, ser, came from Shennen, the female head comm tech, standing quarterdeck watch.
I’ll be right there. Van closed off the small console in the corner of the cubicle that served as cabin and office and stood, moving toward the midships lock.
I’ll tell him, ser. Shennen’s net presence seemed melodic, unlike that of Parnell, who always seemed nasal, or Driscoll, who rumbled.
Thanks. What did the commander want? Van wasn’t even aware that there was an RSF commander in Scandya system, unless he happened to be the military attaché to the Taran embassy. He certainly couldn’t be the commanding officer of the RSFS Aherne—the courier that had just locked at the station, presumably with orders for the Fergus. Courier pilots were always either senior lieutenants or sub-majors, usually women, because couriers were two-person ships, pilot and tech, with cramped space for no more than two passengers. They were ships built around beefed-up propulsion systems for high acceleration in-system and precision jump translations. Compact female pilots generally handled the acceleration and the cramped quarters better than men.
Van slipped from his cabin and dropped back along the ten meters of the main fore and aft passageway past the mess and galley to the two-meter-square quarterdeck—essentially the space inboard of the crew docking lock.
The commander who waited with Shennen was trim, half a head shorter than Van, and with lustrous gray hair. While his face was thin, he bore no wrinkles, and his eyes looked almost youthful.
“Commander,” offered Van.
“Commander James Baile.” He inclined his head to Van. “We need to talk.”
“My cabin.”
Baile nodded. “That would be fine.” As they walked forward, Baile added, “I just arrived on the Aherne.”
A cold feeling settled in Van’s gut. “Then you know what happened here?”
“I read your battle report on the way out. The marshal thought I should be fully briefed.”
Van liked the sound of that even less, and said nothing until he closed the hatch to his cabin. He didn’t bother to offer a chair, since there was only one. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m the one CSO tasked to deliver your orders.”
“Orders?” Van had orders being delivered personally? Why? Because he’d destroyed the unknown cruiser? How could anyone have even known about that at RSF headquarters before his torp arrived? How could they have even found a replacement in something like forty-eight standard hours?
Baile extended a dark gray envelope. “You ought to read them before we talk.”
Van took the envelope, eased open the seal, and began to read. Then he read them again, finally focusing in on the key words.
... temporary duty as RSF liaison to ambassador of Tara to Scandya on Gotland... detached immediately... estimated duration of duty not to exceed twelve standard months...
Van finally looked up at the older commander. “Do you have any idea—”
“Why the CSO is sending a junior commander as a military liaison to the ambassador while a senior commander takes over his command?” Baile laughed ruefully. “It ought to be the other way around. Right?”
“I don’t know what to think.” Van had thought a great deal, and quickly, but none of it was anything he wanted to express. “Can you give me any idea what this is all about?”
“I also have a briefing cube for you. I don’t know its contents. What I think is only an educated guess...” Baile quirked his lips. “Tensions have been high in this sector. The Fergus was attacked. We can’t afford to station a squadron near Scandya, and the Scandyans won’t let us base one here. Because there wasn’t any evidence, except through the detector screens of the Fergus and the torp message you sent, what happens if the Revs or the Argentis or the Kelts claim that you attacked them?”
The whole idea of the antiquated Fergus attacking anything seemed ludicrous to Van, but what seemed absurd in the cockpit wasn’t always seen as such by the various Arm governments.
“They could claim that you attacked a merchanter or a corvette on a peaceful approach.”
“So I’ve been relieved by a more experienced officer?”
“Actually, my presence sends two messages, Commander. First, it’s a way of saying, between the words, that New Oisin thinks you were right, and second, by putting a more senior officer in charge of the Fergus, that the RSF has no intention of backing down.”
“And the marshal can also claim that the RSF certainly doesn’t want to escalate matters, and that’s why a more senior commander has taken over command of the Fergus.”
“Exactly.”
“Why am I being detached as a liaison officer here?”
“Again, I would have to guess...”
Van doubted that there was any guessing at all, but “guessing” allowed deniability.
“First, because you come from Sulyn, you speak Old Anglo, and Revenant and Kelt are both variants of Old Anglo. You also speak Hispyn fluently. Second, you’re not known outside of the RSF. Both the Revs and the Argentis keep dossiers on officers likely to command capital ships or be posted to diplomatic assignments. Third, you look younger than you are. Fourth, you’re black Taran.”
Outside of the first reason, Van couldn’t see that any of the others made sense, and that bothered him even more. “And you? You don’t speak Old Anglo?” That was a rhetorical question, because all RSF officers did, as did most of the Republic. The question was more to express Van’s irritation.
“Oh, I do. I’m from Weathe, and you can’t get more Old Anglo than that.” Baile’s words were matter-of-fact.
“I assume they sent you with operating orders, Commander?” asked Van.
“I have those orders. They’re sealed. I won’t know what they are until after I relieve you.”
Van nodded slowly, trying to conceal his surprise. Usually, an officer taking command was fully briefed.
“I was fully briefed on the tactical, technical, and strategic considerations of operating in and around Scandya system,”
Baile explained, “but I was told that my orders are included in the command cube.”
“I see,” Van replied. What that meant was that the CSO didn’t want the orders known to anyone until Baile took command—even to Baile.
Baile cleared his throat.
“Yes, Commander?” asked Van.
“There is a down-shuttle to Valborg, leaving in four standard hours.”
Detached immediately meant exactly that. Van nodded. “I’ll be ready.”
“I’ll be back in about two hours. You can brief me on anything urgent then.”
“Yes, ser.”
After Commander Baile left the cabin, Van began to gather his gear. He still needed to tell Forgael and the rest of the crew.
Chapter 6
In less than twenty minutes. Van had changed into a set of travel greens and packed up his gear—two duffels’ worth, plus a shoulder bag. Then he slipped the briefing cube into the console on the small desk that would shortly no longer be his, placing his hand in the authenticator until the console stated, “Accepted.”
The holo image that appeared in the middle of the small cabin was that of a commodore whom Van did not recognize.
“Commander Van, I’m Commodore Wadding, senior advisor to the Chief of Space operations. I’m sure that you’re puzzled at the suddenness of your reassignment to the embassy of the Republic in Valborg. I’d like to assure you that the marshal is not displeased with your actions. A quick analysis of the data you enclosed with your battle report suggests that the vessel was of Revenant construction, but that is all that can be said at present. Your assignment to the embassy in Valborg should not be regarded as a demotion. Successful completion of that duty will put you in line for a major command...”
Van frowned. A major command meant at least a battle cruiser, certainly a step up from the Fergus. But how could one measure successful completion of duty as a military liaison?
“... Commander Cruachan was the previous military attaché in Valborg. He was missing for several weeks, and his body was found just a short time ago. The official report was that he had been knocked overboard while sailing alone just outside the Valborg harbor and drowned... You are junior for such a post, admittedly, but you are known to be quick-thinking and physically well endowed...”
Van tried not to bristle at the words “physically well endowed,” knowing them as a code phrase.
“Normally, attachés have already had some diplomatic exposure, but we need an immediate replacement to assist Ambassador Rogh. As you may have noted from the briefing materials in the Fergus’s netsystem, Scandya is volatile politically, and has been held on a moderate course by the extraordinary political talents of Premier Gustofsen. It would seem that we now need an officer such as you in this post, and since you are already there in Scandya... Your task is both simple and difficult. You are to supervise what few intelligence activities we already have in place, and you are to report any information that might be of use to the CSO, particularly information concerning the intentions, capabilities, and actions of the Revenants, the Argentis, and especially the Keltyr...”
Van continued to listen to the commodore’s specific charges to him, stiffening after more than several minutes of redundancies.
“You are to commit to personal internal netlink the following codes, authentications, and contacts. They will be fed only from a commander’s console, so, if you are using another, please stop here, and only continue at the command console of an RSF vessel.”
Van swallowed and stepped closer to the console, putting on the headset that mirrored those in the cockpit.
The data flowed into and through him, as he routed it into personal storage—as ordered.
The image of the commodore reappeared.
“If you did not commit the data, please reset and do so immediately. You have exactly twenty seconds.”
Van checked the data. So far as he could tell, he had committed everything, not that he knew what it all meant. The twenty seconds passed.
“The cube is now blank,” said the holo image. “The CSO and I wish you well.”
After the image faded, Van tried the cube again.
“The cube has failed,” the console announced. “No information can be obtained.”
Van linked into the speakers and the shipnet. “All hands. This is the commander. There will be a briefing in ten minutes in the mess. All officers and techs are requested to be personally present. During the briefing, the quarterdeck watch will secure the lock door to orbit station.”
By the time he entered the mess, the nine other members of the Fergus’s crew had all gathered there.
“Please be seated.” Van took the chair at the head of the mess table, knowing it was for the last time. Before he began his speech, he ran his eyes over each of the nine, starting with Driscoll and ending with Forgael. “Some of you have probably guessed what I’m going to tell you, but I’d prefer to make it official. I’ve been transferred—immediately—to become the military attaché to the Taran embassy on Gotland. Commander Baile will be arriving in a few minutes to assume command. Neither he nor I know all the details, but apparently the previous RSF attaché in Valborg died unexpectedly in a boating accident, and the CSO needed an officer with command experience.” Van shrugged. “I had the fortune or misfortune to be convenient.”
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with the ‘incident’ out-system, would it, ser?” asked Sub-major Driscoll.
“Commander Cruachan died sometime back,” Van pointed out “The CSO only found out a week ago. I suspect that when we were diverted here to take over for the Collyns, they decided that the simplest solution was to transfer me ahead of schedule.” That was partly true, at least.
“Do you know what we’ll be doing, ser?” asked Forgael.
“No. Commander Baile has sealed operating orders for the Fergus.”
“Starscut...” muttered someone at the end of the table.
Shennen’s lips tightened, but she said nothing.
A Commander Baile is at the lock, announced the shipnet.
Someone will be right there, Van link-replied.
“The commander is here,” Van said. “Any last questions?”
The mess was silent Van rose and left them, leaving the mess and reaching the quarterdeck in a few strides. There, he opened the lock.
Baile stood there with one slim duffel and a shoulder bag.
“Welcome aboard, Commander. I was briefing everyone on the change of command.”
“You finished that?”
“Just as you arrived.” Through the net, Van could sense Forgael, and he half turned. “Commander Baile, this is Sub-commander Forgael.”
“Pleased to meet you, ser,” replied Forgael pleasantly.
“I’m looking forward to working with all of you.” Baile’s words and smile were both warm and youthful-sounding.
Van envied the warmth, for he’d never had that quality. After a moment, he said, “We’d better get on with the change in command.”
“Lead on, Commander,” Baile said.
Van did, turning left off the quarterdeck and making his way forward to his cabin.
The two stepped inside, and Baile set down the duffel, looking to Van. Van stepped to the console and placed his hand in the authenticator. Change of command.
Insert new CO’s cube.
Commander Baile inserted his cube into the commander’s console.
Accepted, subject to approval of Commander Van, the shipnet announced.
Van linked with the net, running down the protocols, the codes, and the command accession protocol. All was in order.
Approved, Van stated, keying in his approval as well.
Command transferred.
Van felt suddenly isolated, as his access to the command protocols dropped away, and he could only access the shipnet in a general sense, not even so much as the most junior tech aboard the Fergus. “She’s all yours, Commander.”
“Thank you, Commander. I wish you well in Valborg.” Baile smiled, professionally.
“We’ll do what we can.” Van slipped the shoulder bag in place, then lifted both duffels and stepped from the cabin that had been what home he had for the last two years.
The new commander of the Fergus followed him.
As Van neared the small quarterdeck, Forgael stepped forward. Her smile was sad. “We’ll miss you, ser.”
Ser—no longer commander. Despite the vague assurances of Commodore Wadding, he wondered if he would ever command another ship.
“I’ll miss all of you.” And he would, Forgael especially.
Then, with a salute, he stepped from the quarterdeck out into Gotland orbit station.
He had not taken three steps away from the lock when the station system intercepted him.
Inquiry? Name, destination? The stationnet “sounded” officious and obnoxious.
Van supposed that was necessary to get attention, but he politely replied with his identity, and immediate destination—shuttleport two to Valborg. He kept walking along the main corridor.
Purpose of trip to Valborg?
Take up duties at Taran embassy.
The feel of the net changed. Commander Van... would you please explain?
The previous military attaché died in a boating accident several weeks ago. I’m being transferred to take his place.
For several minutes, as Van walked by two empty lock ports, the stationnet was silent Please report to the out-system personnel office opposite shuttleport lock one before embarking on the Valborg shuttle. It should only take a moment, Commander.
Stet, station.
There was no response from the stationnet not that Van had expected one.
The corridor—or thoroughfare—that linked all the lock ports was a good ten meters wide and five high. The corridor bulkheads provided planetside vistas that changed in real time, presumably scenes from Gotland, although Van did not know that. He walked down a projected street that ran between gray stone buildings, with rust-colored tile roofs. The lighting suggested early morning, with long shadows.
He passed a replica of a café of some sort, but only two women in uniforms he did not recognize were seated at a table under a holo umbrella. By the time Van had walked another two hundred meters along the gently curving corridor, less than a twentieth the circumference of the station, the scene had changed. Ahead, on the bulkhead to his right was a vista that looked seaward across a small fishing harbor. To his left were warehouses set back from piers.
When he left the locking areas, the scenes vanished, replaced by arches containing various establishments—a cantina whose flashing holo sign advertised every legal beverage in the Galaxy, a bookseller whose far more discreet sign claimed the ability to load any published work into any reader used in the tech worlds, a clothing shop that suggested the traveler stop and obtain the proper wear for the culture ahead.
Van smiled. Military shipsuits and uniforms were standard enough anywhere, and accepted as such.
Another three hundred meters finally brought him to the section of the station devoted to the planetary shuttles—just three locks, as opposed to the number available at an orbit station for a larger system such as Tara, where there were eight locks, half busy at once.
His destination was clearly marked by the flashing red banner above the inboard archway opposite shuttle lock one: employment clearance—out-system origin. With a smile in place, Van stepped through the archway. His implants easily picked up the scan from the concealed detectors. To his right, a burly man was gesturing at the gray-clad Scandyan entry control officer. “I tell you, I do have an exim permit!”
“Just come this way, ser. If you please. We’ll straighten this out in no time.” The Scandyan entry control officer smiled pleasantly.
“You’re not putting me away in some back room to rot! I know your kind.” The man started to turn, then, abruptly, sagged where he stood.
