Authors: Christopher Nuttall
“Thank you,” he said, once the congratulations had died away. He’d skimmed their files, but he would need to go over them more carefully later. Most of them had combat experience; a handful were newcomers, barely out of Luna Academy. The cynic in him knew that they would probably get the experience soon enough. “We have been assigned a complex mission.”
He paused, knowing that he had their attention, then continued. “We are going to fly into a maelstrom of political chaos caused by the aftermath of the war. It will require tact and diplomacy to ensure that the ideals and ethos of the Federation are upheld, without accidentally reigniting the war or starting another one. I expect each and every one of you to do your duty and remember why we’re out here.
“Dismissed!”
The senior officers saluted, then headed for the hatch. Glen watched them go, then stepped over to the command chair and sat down. It was probably an illusion, but he thought he could feel the weight of his new responsibilities settling down on his shoulders as he sat. He keyed a switch, bringing up the image of
Dauntless
, and studied it thoroughly. His new command was a four hundred metre long dagger, floating in interplanetary space. Her white hull was covered in weapons and sensor blisters, ready to track and engage the enemy. The years of hard fighting had taught the TFN how to build warships and
Dauntless’s
designers had taken full advantage of their experience. The next generation of warships would be even tougher.
He scowled, remembering some of the debates about the post-war mission of the Federation Navy. Protecting humanity was important, of course, but so was exploration; the politicians, always keen to discover more human-compatible worlds, were already talking about funding new survey missions beyond the former Draconic Empire. And then there was disaster relief, colony support and a hundred other tasks that could only be accomplished by the navy, a navy whose senior officers had grown to adulthood in the fires of a full-scale war. Tact and diplomacy? It hadn't been part of the navy ethos since the Dragons had started mass slaughter of human populations.
With the ship at rest, the bridge was almost deserted. Glen couldn’t help feeling a shiver running down his spine as he contemplated the empty consoles. On active service, leaving the bridge unmanned was a court-martial offence; here, it was merely a reflection of just how much there was to do to get
Dauntless
space-worthy. He activated his implants and linked into the local processors, then examined the starship’s current status. Sandy had, if anything, underestimated the time it would take to get the ship ready to depart. The yard dogs had not done a very good job.
“
Dauntless
is not expendable,” he muttered to himself, in annoyance. “And we need those problems fixed.”
It was a recurring problem, which was partly why the decommissioned ships in Luna orbit were being cannibalised for spare parts. The shipyards had known that most of the starships they produced at the height of the war wouldn't survive for longer than a few months, so they hadn't bothered to build a long lifespan into their products. It had been a desperation measure, a solution that had produced hundreds of problems in its own right, but it was no longer necessary. Seeing the habit continue in peacetime was worrying. It put lives at risk as well as the Navy’s budget.
He downloaded the yard manager’s contact details, then skimmed through his file. There
were
connections to Knight Corporation, he saw; not enough to be decisive, but enough to ensure that the manager would
listen
when he spoke. The connections that had placed him in a compromised position might as well come in handy, he told himself as he stood and headed towards his office. If he could bully the yard manager into sending additional crewmen to
Dauntless
, they could be ready to depart on schedule. And it would take some of the pressure off his crew.
The Captain’s office was bare; there had been no time to unpack his bags and set up the traditional ‘I Love Me’ wall. It was generally considered a bad sign not to have a display of one’s own medals; it implied that one had
no
medals. But Glen knew that it was very much a low priority at the moment. He could pin his awards to the wall later, once he had some spare time. And the crew knew him a little better.
He sat down behind the desk and activated the terminal. One advantage of being a Captain, he’d already discovered, was that he had priority codes to call almost
anyone
, at least in the Navy. It didn't matter if the manager had his terminal switched on or off; the local datanet would still page him, insisting that he take the call. Glen smiled as the man’s face appeared on the screen. Clearly, he’d been in his office or somewhere else he could answer immediately.
“Good afternoon,” he said, briskly. “My ship requires additional workmen ...”
In the end, he was almost disappointed by how easy it was. A mention of the Knight connection, a hint that there might be more work in the future – or less work, if they displeased him – and the manager started to make arrangements to ship more of his workmen over to
Dauntless
. Glen rolled his eyes as the connection broke, wondering just who in the Navy had decided to outsource starship repair and maintenance to civilian crews. The Navy wasn't
that
strapped for cash.
Shaking his head, he called up a series of personnel files and started to read through them. Lieutenant Commander Nathan Cooke, tactical officer, had a long string of commendations, matched by an equally long string of demerits and reprimands for speaking out of turn. He was a superb tactical officer, everyone agreed, but it was unlikely that he would ever see promotion again. Indeed, it was questionable why he’d even chosen to remain in the service. A mercenary group would hire him the moment he resigned, if he approached the right people. Maybe he was just loyal, Glen decided. God knew
Glen
never wanted to leave the service.
Lieutenant Helena Li, helmswoman, had shown a talent for both flying through normal space and navigating hyperspace at a very young age, hence her streamlining into advanced navigational courses at Luna Academy. Once she'd graduated, she’d helped chart the hyper-routes leading into the Draconic Empire, laying the groundwork for the eventual invasion of their home system and the Battle of Sphere Prime. Her assignment to
Dauntless
made sense; the far reaches of the Fairfax Cluster had never been properly charted and the hyperspace monitoring service had no stations there. She might make the difference between life and death if
Dauntless
was caught up in a storm.
Lieutenant Commander Douglas Stocker, Chief Engineer, was ...
His thoughts were interrupted by a chime from his terminal. “Captain, the Intelligence Officer assigned to
Dauntless
has just come onboard,” Sandy’s voice said. “She requests to speak with you at your earliest convenience.”
Glen scowled. Intelligence Officers, in his experience, were pains in the ass. Maybe there was a decent one out there, but the ones he’d met kept claiming to know everything even when it was clear that their intelligence had been badly faulty. Inserting spies into Dragon-held territory had been tricky, to say the least. The handful of Dragons they’d managed to turn into spies hadn't been able to report much back before they’d been detected by their fellows. God alone knew what had happened to them then, but Glen could guess.
“Please escort her to my office,” Glen said, even though he wanted to postpone the meeting as long as he could. “I’ll speak to her now.”
He blanked the terminal and sat upright as the hatch hissed open, revealing Sandy – and a stunningly beautiful raven-haired girl. Even in a standard naval uniform, she looked astonishing; Glen would have bet half of his shares in the family corporation that crew and officers alike had turned to stare as she walked past. He groaned inwardly a moment later; Intelligence Officers might be a law unto themselves, but her appearance was going to be shockingly bad for discipline.
She does it on purpose
, he thought, remembering some of the corporate spies and agents his brothers had handled. Thankfully, Glen had been too young for those games.
Every little advantage they can take, they will take. And young men will talk freely to a pretty girl
.
“Welcome onboard,” he said, pasting a fake smile on his face.
“Thank you, sir,” the Intelligence Officer said. Her voice was low, almost sultry. Judging from the look Sandy shot at her back, the XO didn't like her either. She took the seat facing him without waiting for permission. “I’m Commander (Intelligence) Cynthia Smith.”
Glen shook her hand automatically, thinking hard. Was she related to his old CO? Probably not, he told himself;
Smith
was a very common name. But Intelligence Officers had sealed files, files even starship commanders couldn't open and read. She might hope that he would jump to that conclusion ...
“Thank you, Sandy,” he said.
Sandy nodded and withdrew from the compartment, leaving him alone with Cynthia. Glen studied her for a long moment – her uniform was a size too tight, something he would bet was uncomfortable even if it was also sexy – then leaned back in his chair. Judging from her appearance, she wasn't here to tell him about alien threats, but to keep an eye on the crew.
Wonderful
, he thought, sourly. He hoped that no one else would make that connection, yet he was fairly sure that was a fool’s hope. Sandy was far from stupid; there was no point in wearing a uniform that skirted the boundaries of regulations unless seduction was in mind ... and it was unlikely that a human could seduce a non-human. There might be a whole series of tasteless pornography showing just that, but Glen had never encountered anyone who actually claimed to have done it in real life.
“Commander,” he said. There was no point in trying to cross verbal swords with an Intelligence Officer. They tended to be better at it than regular naval personnel. “I shall be blunt. Why have you been assigned to this ship?”
“I have been ordered to be completely frank with you,” Cynthia replied. If she was surprised by the question, she didn't show it. But chances were that she had been trained to show only what she wanted to show. “There are ... factions that are concerned with the Fairfax Cluster, who believe that it is rapidly becoming a powder keg.”
“More of a compressed antimatter bomb,” Glen observed. He’d barely had a chance to read some of the intelligence summaries, but the ones he
had
read suggested that matters were not improving after the formal end of the war. In places, the war was still going on. “And your mission is to ...?”
“Establish a formal intelligence network and keep an eye out for secessionist sympathies,” Cynthia said, bluntly. “And monitor your crew for ... questionable viewpoints.”
Glen felt a flash of anger. “My crew?”
Cynthia didn't flinch at his tone. “There are some among your crew who may have divided loyalties,” she said bluntly. “My orders are to monitor them and report back to my superiors.”
“Really,” Glen said. He fought to keep his growing anger under control. “I was under the distinct impression that nationalism was part and parcel of the Federation, despite the fires of war.”
“But there are too many problems in the Fairfax Cluster to risk allowing such sentiments to go unmonitored,” Cynthia countered. “That sector isn't somewhere that might grumble, but remains part of the Federation.”
Glen had to admit that she had a point. The nationalist blocs were largely committed to the Federation in any case, if only because they had enough weight in the Federation’s councils to ensure that their interests were protected. There was more to gain through cooperation than outright warfare, as long as the Federation didn't become too powerful and started to overshadow the nationalist blocs. But the Fairfax Cluster hadn't had such strong ties to the Federation even before the war. Now, they thought they’d been abandoned and left to live or die on their own.
“There are rules,” he said, shortly. “You will respect my crew. I expect to see each and every one of the reports you send back to your superiors. And if I think you’re crossing the line, I will put you in the brig for the remainder of the deployment. Do you understand me?”