The silver fleet the com.., p.14
The Silver Fleet: The Complete Series, page 14
“You do have a point,” said Faulkner. “But we do have our orders and we’re honor bound to carry them out. We have twenty-four hours until our departure. I’m sure you have a lot to be getting on with.”
*
LaCruz climbed down from the cab of the truck, pulling her kit down after her. She waved her thanks to the driver and set off on foot. The events of the last two days had been hectic and so, rather than wait to be allocated a spot on a conventional transport, she’d chosen to make her own way to the docks.
Ever since they’d started talking about blockading Piatra, the whole station had gone into over-drive and, while there were plenty of rumours flying around, there was very little actual news. Everyone was clear that they were now operating on a war footing with the Yakutians and yet the language of the politicians – including the president – had been largely conciliatory. There were lots of references to high power talks and yet no one on the USDC side had sat down with anyone from the Yakutian side.
The blockade seemed like a foregone conclusion and it seemed unlikely that the Yakutian’s response would be a measured one. They had occupied Piatra on and off for the last hundred and fifty years. They were hardly likely to surrender it without a fight.
LaCruz had reported to headquarters as soon as she’d disembarked from the Syracuse and they had told her that she would be contacted within the next few days with her new posting. Since then, she’d heard nothing. It was hardly surprising considering the influx of ground troops. The Human Resources personnel were working flat out to place whole battalions with the right ships so it was perhaps to be expected that a handful of unattached Marines would get lost in the mix.
And that was what worried her. If she didn’t get a posting soon, she feared she would be trapped into simply providing security on Lincoln Station itself and that wasn’t how she wanted things to go. So, she’d taken herself down to headquarters and joined the longest queue she’d ever seen. At the end of the morning, and after a lot of waiting around, she’d found herself in a chaotic briefing room. On the wall were images of the various ships which made up their battlefleet, so at least she was in the right place.
No one appeared to be in charge so she went over and spoke to another corporal who explained what was going on. A bored looking sergeant was sitting at a table with three sacks heaped to one side. A large, laminated chart was fixed to the wall behind him. The sacks were divided into general ranks and she had to reach into the one appropriate to her and retrieve a numbered token. Then she had to go over and match her token against one of the ships on the chart. It was as simple as that.
There were countless reasons why the system shouldn’t work as a way of allocating berths but no one seemed concerned about that now. A few weeks earlier, something like this would never have been tolerated. It went to show how much pressure everyone was under as the clock ticked down towards departure. It took a while for her to match her token as the ships weren’t laid out in strict numerical order but grouped oddly.
She found she’d drawn the Makaroff, a four-year-old heavy cruiser. She looked down the ships listings to see who the captain was. When she located the name, it wasn’t one she recognised.
The corporal she’d spoken to earlier appeared at her side.
“The Makaroff?” she sounded envious. “Some people get all the luck.”
“What did you get?”
The woman shrugged. “Drew the short straw on this one. I got the Mantis. Not even part of the main battlefleet. Plus, she’s ancient.”
“I’ll swap you,” the words were out of her mouth before LaCruz could stop herself.
The woman was instantly suspicious. “Why would you do that?”
LaCruz feigned disdain. “No reason. Just don’t like the sound of the Makaroff. Is that Russian or something?”
But the other woman wasn’t so easily placated. Now that she was close to getting what she wanted she was starting to doubt herself.
She tapped the counter into her palm. “I’m not even sure we’re allowed to swap.”
LaCruz motioned back towards the sergeant. “As if he cares. Nothing’s been written down yet so nothing’s official. Though of course, once that happens…”
The other woman let out a sigh and then the pair of them exchanged tokens.
*
Twenty-one hours after his arrival, Webster was back on the bridge. This time, there was no sign of Faulkner anywhere.
When the captain had told him to ‘take her out once she’s ready,’ he had expected that Faulkner would, at the very least, have put in an appearance. That was the main reason he had decided not to sit in the command chair. He didn’t want to have to relinquish it if Faulkner was suddenly to appear. Instead, he’d remained standing as the helmsman readied the ship for departure. It solicited a few odd looks from the other officers but no one drew attention to it.
They were probably all wondering where the captain had disappeared to.
Everyone was exhausted from the preparations to get the ship underway, not least Webster himself who hadn’t slept since his arrival. In fact he couldn’t actually recall where his cabin was located. In his current state, it was probably wise that he didn’t sit down. He didn’t want to risk falling asleep at this stage.
“The port authority has just cleared us for departure, sir.”
Webster stood a little straighter at that.
“Very well. External airlocks secure?”
“Checking now, sir. All airlocks secured, aye.”
Webster could see the ship’s schematics projected onto the main screen. All the airlocks glowed a reassuring green though it was always best to wait for verification. There were a lot of people counting on him now.
Although they weren’t at optimal staffing levels, they were well within their tolerance. It had been Webster who had been charged with filling the last few slots as soon as he’d come aboard and he’d not found it easy. He’d managed to arrange for the arrival of ten new crewmembers but had struggled when it came to filling the more central roles. He had said as much to Faulkner and it had been Faulkner who had put him in touch with someone named Davies. Webster had provided him with a list of six essential roles he’d so far failed to fill and Davies had promised to do what he could.
Subsequently, Webster couldn’t believe it when, over the next couple of hours, four men and two women appeared, each one fully qualified for their roles and equipped with solid references. There was no telling the true quality of the newcomers though, Webster reflected. He hadn’t even met half of them, though it would be his responsibility to see that they were settled in their various departments. Faulkner had been delighted when he’d heard the good news. Flying without certain crewmembers in place didn’t bear thinking about.
“Release all umbilicals on my mark,” Webster said. “Helmsman, are you ready to take her out?”
“Thrusters are on-line, aye.”
He was about to enquire about the state of the engines when Davitz’s voice cut in.
“Main fusion drives operating at recommended levels. Gravity regulators are operational. We’re good to go.”
We’re good to go.
No wonder so many people disliked him, Webster mused. Though he personally found Davitz’s lack of respect deeply irritating, he refused to let it distract him from the task at hand.
“Release umbilicals.”
An imperceptible tremor signalled that the ship had cleared the dockside. The view screen provided a panoramic view as the huge ship began its slow turn, picking out the array of moorings, antennae and solar panels crowding in on all sides, each presenting a distinct test of the helmsman’s skills. But he eased his way through them using a deft combination of thrusters and the ships own angular momentum, somehow managing to ensure that the ship was at all times perfectly oriented.
Webster was impressed. While he had his fair share of experience at the helm, it was nothing like this. For him, anything coming within ten kilometres was just too close. These kinds of pin-point manoeuvres only served to highlight just how skilful these people really were.
It was just a shame that Faulkner wasn’t there to witness it.
Webster started to relax a little as they began to pull clear of the station. He had worried initially that he might have second thoughts about agreeing to Faulkner’s proposal but all that was washed away by the simple thrill of being back on the bridge. The Mantis might not be the fastest ship in the fleet but she was easily the most distinctive. The newer ships were thinner and sleeker, lacking the heft of the Mantis’ solid armour. The only question now was: how would she fare against those more modern Yakutian ships?
For long periods, it seemed as though, in the vastness of space, they weren’t moving at all, only the tell-tale vibration of the thrusters giving them any sense of their progress. Webster eventually stopped looking at the screen and concentrated on the display readings instead.
They’d passed the three-kilometre mark a while back. Another two and they’d be clear.
“Mr Davitz?”
“Readying main fusion drive.”
The bridge had gone deathly silent in anticipation of what was to come. Everyone remembered the Bellfield, supposedly one of the most advanced ships the navy had ever built. One of her fusion drives had gone critical while they were still within sight of the station. The ship had been lost with all hands. There was a large element of risk involved in any kind of interstellar travel and, the bigger the ship, the greater the element of risk.
Webster waited for verification from Navigation, the shipboard computer and the helmsman that they were beyond the five-kilometre marker before giving the command.
“Okay, Mr Davitz. Engage main engines.”
The thrum of the ship’s engines deepened in pitch but there was little else to indicate their sudden increase in speed other than a slight feeling of displacement as the gravity regulators came online.
After several minutes, Davitz’s voice was heard again.
“Engines registering at forty three percent. Coolant systems are well within acceptable limits.”
“Thank you, chief. Lieutenant Silva, set a course for the Florentine Gate.”
Silva had been watching him in anticipation of this order, and gave him an effusive smile in return.
“Aye, sir. Setting course now.”
Her console suddenly came alive.
“Well, that all went very smoothly,” a voice came from behind.
Webster spun around to see Faulkner standing just inside the doorway. There was no way of knowing just how long he’d been there.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It took them ten days to reach the Florentine Gate. In that time, Webster had set himself the task of meeting all two hundred and fifty crew members and attempting to learn their names. He prided himself on having an excellent memory but he also had a number of mental tricks at his disposal which he hoped would give him the edge. Even so, he struggled to remember all of them. Eventually, he worked up a system whereby he would review the photos of the crewmembers in a particular department just before he visited them, hoping to get a sense of who they were that way.
Sometimes, this approach worked admirably. As he was being introduced, he’d often take his cue from the person’s rank so that, nine times out of ten, he’d instantly be able to recall their name. It was surprising how much good grace this, and a firm handshake, could generate. The only place where this approach failed him was, rather predictably, down in engineering. For some reason, the engineers all seemed to be in their mid-twenties, with identical buzz-cuts who seemed to spend a lot of time in the gym. He got so confused in the first few minutes that he eventually just went back to smiling and nodding. He feared that he’d played into Davitz’s hands, simply confirming the crew’s beliefs that all staff officers existed purely to prop up the mindless bureaucracy of which the navy was so inordinately proud. If Webster wanted the engineers’ respect then he was going to have to find some other way of earning it.
Still, his visits had helped him develop a solid understanding of how the ship actually functioned. He thought he had a solid enough grasp of that during his time on the Syracuse but this was a whole different proposition entirely. There were also things going on which he just didn’t fully comprehend - such was the spread of different technologies within the navy.
He had approached his visits with one rule in mind: he wouldn’t refuse any reasonable invitation. And that had provided him some interesting moments. He knew that some section heads would delight in inviting a senior officer to explore the dirtiest, most inaccessible spaces in the ship’s hold but Webster had been determined to meet such challenges head on. His biggest problem came when faced with those small, confined spaces. He was borderline claustrophobic, so much so that on his first posting he had experienced a string of dis-orienting ‘coffin dreams.’
It’s a fairly common occurrence for crewmen, especially when they find themselves on an unfamiliar ship. Personal space is at such a premium on most vessels that each bunk only has a few inches of clearance and so it’s quite common for crew members to experience at least one ‘coffin dream’ during a deployment. It’s a terrible, debilitating experience waking up in a state of sheer terror, firmly believing that you’ve been buried alive. On his first posting, Webster had experienced it three times in the first week and there had even been talk of putting him off at the next station.
Luckily, the ship’s doctor had been very supportive, providing him with a sedative he could take prior to going to bed. At the same time, the doctor had assured him that no mention of the sedative would appear on his medical notes. No one wanted to blight his career before it had even begun.
That was one of the reasons why Webster took such care over the handling of new recruits. He knew firsthand just how difficult the whole process could be.
His priority now was to check up on the six recruits Davies had helped him find. He’d gone over all their records as soon as they were underway, expecting at least one of them to have proved unsuitable but, to his great surprise, he found them all to be well disciplined and hard working. They appeared to have settled into their various departments with a minimum of fuss. All had reasonable service records, although one of them had been demoted previously for his tendency to resolve problems with his fists. But then, Webster mused, who was he to judge? Just a few days earlier, he’d been the one facing a court-martial.
So far, everything seemed to be going smoothly. The only thing that was causing him any concern, ironically, was the captain.
Webster still hadn’t reconciled himself with Faulkner’s odd behaviour the night they’d left Lincoln Station. If he was being generous, Webster liked to think that Faulkner’s actions had shown how much trust he had placed in his new XO, letting him assume full responsibility for taking the ship out of port. His more pernicious side, however, suggested that the older man had been testing him, trying to get a true sense of his capabilities.
He still wasn’t sure whether Faulkner had really wanted him as his executive officer or whether it was a decision borne of necessity. Surely, having a half competent X.O. was better than having none at all. It wasn’t an ideal situation for either one of them but Webster was committed to making it work. He might have lost his place on the Syracuse but he was damned if he was going to make the same mistake here.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The featureless, suffocating black of N-space gave way to the rich lustre of a regular starscape as the Mantis emerged into the Fermata system.
Faulkner sat in the command chair with Webster on his right. He took real delight in seeing the warmth of Fermata’s sun. They had only been traveling through gate space for eight hours but it had seemed like a lot longer. He’d ordered that the external screens be turned off until just before they re-emerged. It was too easy to lose yourself in the shapes that seemed to lurk out there. As a race, humankind is designed to search for patterns in the emptiness, to find the camouflaged threat lurking in the great yawn of N-Space. It was similar to standing on the edge of a building and looking straight down –there was always the chance that you might over-balance. Some people were more susceptible to this effect than others, often suffering from a debilitating sense of dread. Most of those affected were weaned out at the Academy but not all, and he couldn’t risk his crew being unnerved by some half-glimpsed nightmare creature. He had enough to worry about.
Faulkner, personally, experienced a strange sense of disassociation whenever he was obliged to look into ‘the kaleidoscope’, as some called it. It was as if something cold and insidious was looking right back at him. He knew it was all nonsense, of course, but he couldn’t completely deny the anxiety that was sparked in his primordial brain. In comparison to the utter vacuity of N-Space, the calm of regular space felt hugely comforting.
While there was little to do in N-space, Faulkner resisted the urge simply to sleep. He’d done that just once as a young man and, while he couldn’t remember his dreams afterwards, he had been filled with a looming sense of foreboding which had stayed with him for weeks after. No, he liked to stay focussed during those times between gates and endeavoured to give himself lots of fairly simple tasks to complete. Anything, rather than dwell on what it was that the ship was actually doing.
He quickly scanned through the surge of new data which had assailed the ship’s sensors upon their arrival: the sudden wash of radiation, the background chatter of the system’s numerous communication channels, the ping of warning beacons massed around the gate’s approach. There was nothing new there; just the re-assurance that life was still out there somewhere, quietly going about its business. It calmed him in a way that he couldn’t quite describe.
Pacific Station itself was far enough away that it appeared only as a pulsing blue and white circle of light.
Faulkner spoke directly to Engineering.
“Engage fusion drive.”
“Engaging fusion drive, aye,” came the reply. “Fusion drive currently operating at 43 percent.”
