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 April 2002
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The Political Officer The crewman looked up, startled. DePuy, that was his name. He jumped to his feet and went all the way to the ceiling. He saluted with one hand, while the thumb of the other flicked to the pause button. "It's A Fire On The Land, sir. It's about the Adarean nuking of New Nazareth." "I'm familiar with it," Max replied. Political Education approved all videos, and practically ran the video business. "The bombing and the vid. Move aside and let me pass." "Sorry, sir, the Chief Engineer said . . ." Max turned as cold as deep space. He reached under DePuy to open the hatch. "Move aside, crewman." "The Chief Engineer gave me a direct order, sir!" "And I am giving you another direct order right now." Damn it, thought Max, the man still hesitated. "Rejecting an order from your Political Officer is mutiny, Mr. DePuy. A year is a very long time to spend in the ship's brig waiting for trial." "Sir! A year is a very long time to serve under a chief officer who holds grudges, sir!" "If I have to repeat my order a third time, you will go to the brig." DePuy saluted and pushed off from the wall. Though he seemed to seriously consider, for a split second, whether he wouldn't rather be locked up than face Chevrier's temper. Max went down the corridor and paused outside the starboard Battery Room. The hatch stood open on the two-story space. One of the battery arrays was completely disassembled and diagrammed on the wall, with the key processing chips circled in red. A small group of men, most of them stripped to their waists, crowded into the soft-walled clean room in the corner. A large duct ran up from it toward the ceiling, the motor struggling to draw air. A crewman looked up and tapped the Chief Engineer on the shoulder. "You!" Chevrier shouted as soon as he saw Max. "This is a restricted area! I want you out of my section right now!" "Nothing is off-limits to me," Max replied. "Fuck your mother!" Chevrier thundered, shooting across the room and getting right in Max's face. Chevrier's eyes had dark circles around them like storm clouds, and red lines in the whites like tiny bolts of lightning. He probably hadn't slept since the spongediver was spotted; no doubt he was also pumped up on Nova or its more legal equivalent from the dispensary. That would explain his heavy sweating. It couldn't drip off him in the weightlessness, but had simply accumulated in a pool about a half inch deep that sloshed freely in the vicinity of his breastbone. Max noticed that the comet insignia was branded on Chevrier's bare chest. The Revolutionary government had banned that tradition, but the branding irons were still floating around some ships in the service. Chevrier was the type who had probably heated it up with a hand welder and branded himself. He jabbed a finger in the direction of the empty spot on Max's left breast pocket. "You haven't qualified for a single ship's system," he said, "and you sure as hell aren't reactor qualified. Now get out of my section!" "You forgetting something, soldier?" Max asked, in as irritating a voice as he could manage. Chevrier laughed in disbelief. "I wish I could forget! I've got a major problem on my hands, a ship with no fucking backup power." Max took a deep breath. "Did somebody break your arm, soldier?" Chevrier's eyes flickered. He made a sloppy motion with his right hand in the general direction of his head. Had Mallove sent word in the other direction too? Did Chevrier know that Max was supposed to leave him alone? "Good. Give me a status report on the power situation." The Chief Engineer inhaled deeply. "Screwed up and likely to stay that way. The crewman on duty panicked—he folded the wings and powered down the Casmir drive without disengaging the batteries first and fried half the chips. We are now trying to build new chips, atom by atom, but you need a grade A clean hood to do that. And our hood is about as tight and clean as an old whore." Max had heard all this already, less vividly described, from the Captain's reports. "Go on." "Normally, we could just switch over to the secondary array, but some blackhole of a genius gutted our portside Battery Room and replaced it with a salvaged groundside nuclear reactor so we can float through Adarean space disguised like background radiation in order to do God knows what." "But you can switch communications, ship systems, propulsion, all that, over to the reactor, right?" That was the plan: dive into Adarean space, do one circuit around the sun running on the nukes while recording everything they could on the military and political communications channels, then head home again. "We've already done all that," answered Chevrier, "but we can't power up the Casmir drive with it. It's strictly inner system, no diving." He suddenly noticed the pool of sweat on his chest, went to flick it away, then stopped. "The Adareans won't scan us if we're running on nuclears, but they wouldn't scan canvas sails either, so we might as well have used them instead. We've got to fix the main battery at some point." "Can you bring the grav back online?" "Not safely, no, and not with the reactor. It's a power hog. Too many things to go wrong." "Lasers?" Chevrier ground his teeth. "You could talk to the Captain, you know. He sends down here every damned hour for another report, asking the same exact damn questions." "Lasers?" repeated Max firmly. "I recommended other options to the Captain, but if you want to turn some Outback ship into space slag, I'll give you enough power to do it. As long as you let me comb through the debris for spare parts once you're done. Might be the one way to get some decent equipment." "Fair enough. How are your men holding up?" "They're soldiers." He pronounced the word very differently than Max had. "They do exactly what they're told. Except for that worthless snot of a mate who apparently can't even guard a fucking sealed hatch properly." Max didn't like the sound of that. Chevrier couldn't keep pushing his men as hard as he pushed himself, or they'd start to break. "Men are not machines," Max began . . . "Hell they aren't! A ship's crew is one big machine and you're a piece of grit in the silicone, a short in the wire. With you issuing orders outside the chain of command, the command splits. You either need to fit in or get the hell out of the machine!" Chevrier jabbed his finger at Max's chest again to punctuate his statement. This time, he made contact with enough force to send the two men in opposite directions. It was clear that he didn't mean to touch Max, and just as clear that he didn't mean to back down. He glared at Max, daring him to make something of it. Aggressiveness was the main side effect of Nova. It built up until the men went supernova and burned out. On top of that, Chevrier also had that look some men got when things went very wrong. He couldn't fix things so he wanted to smash them instead. Max could bring him up on charges, but the ship needed its Chief Engineer right now. And if Mallove had promised his friends in government that he would protect Chevrier . . . Max decided to ignore the incident. For the time being. "I'll be sure to make a record of your comments." Chevrier snorted, as if he'd won a game of chicken. "If you have problems with any of the big words, come back and I'll spell them out for you." He flapped his hand near his head again, turned and went back to the clean hood. The other men scowled at Max. That was the problem with anger—it was an infectious disease. Frustration only made it spread faster. He continued his tour, looking into the main engine room and then at the nuclear reactors. Nobody was in the former because there was nothing to be done there, and nobody was in the latter because radiation spooked them. One man sat in the control room, reading the monitors. Max hovered near the ceiling a moment looking over the crewman's shoulder, comparing the pictures on the vids to the layout of the rooms. The crewman stared at the monitors intently, pretending not to see Max. Yes, thought Max, anger was very infectious. You never knew who might catch it next. The hapless mate DePuy still guarded the hatch, whipping the vid behind his back as he snapped to attention. Max ignored him. Accidents happened. Some idiots would just slab themselves. He went back through the Black Forest, acknowledging salutes from a pair of shooters, the Tactics Officer's mates. He swam through the air to the top level, and down the main corridor, past the open door of the exercise room. He turned back. If grav was going to be offline much longer, he needed to sign up for exercise time. Physically, he needed to stay sharp right now. Max pushed the door open. The room was dark. It surprised him briefly that no one was there, but then, with the six-and-sixes, and all the drills, the men were probably too busy. He hit the light switch. Nothing came on. He moved farther into the room to hit the second switch. Something hard smashed him on the back of the head. He twisted, trying to get a hold of his assailant but there was no one behind him. He realized that the other man was above him, on the ceiling, too late, and as he twisted in the dark room, he suddenly became very dizzy, losing any sense of direction, any orientation to the walls and floors. A thick arm snaked around his throat, choking off his nausea along with his breath. Max got hold of a thumb and managed to pull it halfway loose, but he had no leverage at all. He swung his elbows forcefully and futilely as black dots swam before his eyes like collapsing stars in the darkened room. Then the darkness became absolute. He experienced a floating, disconnected sensation, like being in the sensory deprivation tanks they'd used for some of his conditioning experiments. Max had hated the feeling then, of being lost, detached, and he hated it now. Then light knifed down into one of his eyes and all his pains awoke at once. "Do you hear me, Lieutenant Nikomedes?" "Yes," croaked Max. His throat felt raw. The light flicked off, then stabbed into the other eye. "That hurts." "I should imagine that it's the least of your hurts. Has the painkiller worn off completely then?" "I hope so, because if it hasn't . . ." His throat felt crushed and his kidneys ached like hell. The light went off and Max's eyes adjusted to the setting. He was in the sickbay, with the Doc hovering over him. His name was Noyes, and he was only a medtech but the crew still called him Doc. The service was short of surgeons. Command didn't want to spare one for this voyage. "Your pupils look good," Noyes continued. "There's a ruptured blood vessel in the right eye. It's not pretty, but the damage is superficial. We had some concern about how long you'd been without oxygen when you came in." Yeah, thought Max. He was concerned too. "So how long was it?" "Not long. Seconds, maybe. A couple of the shooters found you unconscious in the gym." "And so they brought the Corpse to sickbay?" "You know that nickname?" Noyes administered an injection and Max's pain lessened. "Whoever attacked you knew what he was doing. He cut off your air supply without crushing your windpipe or leaving any fingerprint type bruises on your throat. You're lucky—the shooters did chest compressions as soon as they found you and got you breathing again." So this wasn't just a warning. Someone had tried to kill him, and failed. Unless the shooters were in on it. But who would do it and why? His hand shot up to his breast pocket. Gordet's note with the secret codes was still there. "What's that?" asked Noyes, noticing the gesture. "A list of suspects," replied Max. He wondered if someone had followed him from Engineering. "Did you hear the one about the political officer who was killed during wargame exercises?" Suspicion flickered across the Doc's face. "No," he said slowly. "They couldn't call it friendly fire because he had no friends." Noyes didn't laugh. He was young, barely thirty, if that. But his face was worn, and he had a deep crease between his eyes. "Can I ask you a direct question?" "If it's about who did this . . ." "No. It's about the ship's mission." "I may not be able to answer." "It's just the crew, you know what they're saying, that this is a suicide mission. We're supposed to sneak into Adarean space, nuke their capital, and then blow ourselves up, vaporize the evidence." "Ah," no, Max hadn't heard that one yet, though he supposed he should have thought of it himself. Sometimes there were disadvantages to knowing inside information; it limited one's ability to imagine other possibilities. "We could blow up their capital, but their military command is space-based, decentralized. That kind of strike wouldn't touch them at all. That doesn't make any sense, Doc." "It doesn't have to make sense for the service to order it." Noyes laughed, a truncated little puff of air. "I was scheduled for leave, I was supposed to be getting married on my leave, and I got yanked off the transport and put on this ship without a word of explanation, and then found out I was going to be gone for a year and a half. So don't tell me the service only gives orders that make any sense." Max had no answer for that. He knew how orders were. "Is this a suicide mission?" asked Noyes. "Tell me straight. The shooters think that's why someone tried to kill you, because they don't have to worry about what would happen when they got back home." And they could die knowing they'd offed an officer. There were definitely a few of that type on board. But Max didn't think it was that random. "And if it is a suicide mission?" The medtech's face grew solemn. "Then I want to send some kind of message back to Suzan. I don't want her to think I simply disappeared on her. I don't want her to live the rest of her life with that." Noyes couldn't be the only one having those thoughts. No wonder there was tension on the ship. "This isn't a suicide mission," Max said firmly. "Your word on that?" "Yes." This was a rumor he would have to try to kill. Even if it were true. Max touched his pocket again. What exactly were the secret orders? He thought he knew them, but maybe he didn't. Noyes shook his head. "Too bad you're the Political Officer. Everyone knows your word can't be trusted." He handed Max a bottle of pills. "The Captain wants to see you on the bridge right away. Take one of these if you feel weak, or in pain, and then report back to sickbay next shift." Max sat up, and noticed his pants pockets were inside out. So someone had been searching him after all, and the shooters had interrupted them. Unless that too was part of the ruse. For now, he'd stick to the simpler explanation. Noyes helped him to his feet. "I ought to keep you for observation," he said. "No," replied Max. "I'm fine." I'm as rotten a liar as Rucker is, he thought. He wondered if the First Lieutenant had changed his mind. Or changed his allegiances. The door opened and Simco waited outside. His bulk seemed to fill up the small corridor. He snapped a crisp salute and whipped his hand down again. "Captain assigned me to be your guard, sir. He asks you not to speak about this incident while I'm investigating it. He also requires your immediate attention on the bridge." "The assignment comes a little too late apparently, Sergeant," murmured Max. Simco smiled, and Max gestured for him to lead the way. "You first, sir." Trouble never came looking for him face to face, thought Max as he led the way through the corridors. It always came sneaking up behind.
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