Chapter 41
“Fire refines, it purifies and tempers. It also causes third-degree burns.”
Devlin Sinclair-Maru, Integrity Mirror
Commander Susan Roush stood before the Admiralty Board in her rigidly perfect uniform, but her lip curled in disdain. The last time she stood in this very room, these same admirals had unfairly stripped her of all that mattered in her life, and she wanted nothing more than to make them eat every self-righteous word they uttered that day.
“Commander,” Admiral Fisker said, “you assumed command of Tanager when Captain Sinclair-Maru was disabled, you say. What caused his affliction?”
“It is not clear, Admiral. There was an attack on his person by a ship services rating, and shortly thereafter he was comatose. It seemed possible that the two could be connected.”
“What insanity possessed you to break Fleet protocol and conduct an intrasystem transition?” Nifesh broke in.
Roush clenched her jaw momentarily but her voice remained steady as she answered. “When I last stood before you, my lords, I was chided for my temerity, when I followed the direct orders of my superior officer, rather than violating those orders for the sake of…boldness. I kept your words firmly in mind as I formed every decision. How could I follow a mere efficiency protocol when the life of the captain might depend upon my bold action?”
“How commendable,” Fisker murmured. “It is good to know that our words are so closely followed.”
The questions continued on and on all morning, some dealing with minute elements of command, others dwelling upon the decision to launch Marines down into the well, and into their assault on Delta Three station. For every question Roush held an answer.
“Did you ever think that launching Marines planetside might spark a rather natural defensive response from the Planetary Guard?” Admiral Char asked, although his demeanor throughout the review remained neutral.
“Major Mahdi and I considered the risk to be minimal if the planetary government remained loyal to the Imperium,” Roush said. “And if the rebellion secretly ruled, holding or freeing the regional governor seemed our best chance to escape the system.”
“Six battledress systems?” Nifesh growled. “Never mind how such a little scrub of a frigate managed to field so many, you risked six battledress systems on the off chance they could pull a miracle from your disaster?”
“Eight Marines dropped into the well, Admiral. Six ran battledress, as is their right. We all worked to achieve the success we attained.”
“Success?” Nifesh scoffed. “Success? You bring your ship back little better than a bare hulk, you consumed resources as if they were made to be burned, you lost numerous crew members and Marines. And your written orders specifically stated to observe only! It is a mission of compounding failures, just short of disaster. How can you stand before us and speak of success?”
Roush’s mouth thinned down to a line. “My lords, I have served Fleet for decades, always with the highest efficiency ratings, always with the greatest economy and prudence, only to lose my rank. You may recall how I was chastised for ‘temerity and thrift,’ and encouraged to become, and I quote, ‘aggressive, independent, and courageous,’ willing to ‘take some risks and engage the enemy.’” She looked each of the admirals in the eye, one after the other. “I was aggressive and independent. I took great risks. I engaged the enemy. And, so help me, I kicked their asses!”
* * *
“Captain Sinclair-Maru,” Admiral Fisker began, as the other admirals frowned down at him from her left and right. “We have heard the reports of your officers, we have attempted to review your ship’s log, although the record seems to suffer from technical issues, and we have gathered what intel we could from Delta Three. Taken together, the Admiralty Board is placed in a situation without precedent.”
Saef said nothing, finding the Deep Man. The actions of the Fleet Admiralty could not be predicted. On one hand, they could break him, end his Fleet career, and worse, while on the other hand stood promotion, a new combat command and the all-important issue of his prize: the ship Aurora, crammed full of the galaxy’s most valuable cargo.
Tanager’s officers may have presented an air of indifference regarding the possibility of enrichment, but all, including Saef, internally counted their percentage over and over. If Fleet Articles were adhered to, his captain’s percentage would amount to a purse of some three hundred million credits; enough to largely restore the Sinclair-Maru fortunes, if not obtain the old Family estate adjoining the Imperial Close. Even the lowliest rating on Tanager stood to be enriched by the prize…if the Admiralty simply followed the Articles.
“We are troubled that your vessel’s activities in the Delta Three system bear no resemblance to the mission detailed in your written orders. On that basis alone this body could and would condemn every action you took, regardless of the beneficial outcome, except for two things: the fact that each step of Tanager’s mission fell subject to exigent circumstances, and the testimony of Commodore Zanka, who assures us that he may have verbally added imperatives beyond your written orders.” Fisker’s expression remained bland although she undoubtedly knew that Commodore Zanka did nothing of the kind. His fat percentage of Saef’s prize depended upon the perceived legitimacy of Tanager’s mission. Zanka would swear to anything at all for sixty million credits.
“With the subject of your written orders aside,” Fisker continued, “we have twists and complications beyond number. We have no record of a wartime captain ceding command due to physical disability, then seizing an enemy vessel before reassuming command.”
Admiral Nifesh snorted derisively and scowled.
“We have no record of a fighting captain spending much of his mission in a coma,” Fisker said, not looking at Nifesh. “And it has been centuries since a Fleet vessel returned to base as extensively damaged as Tanager, fit only for salvage.”
Fisker regarded Saef for a long moment, the other four admirals also staring. “Along with shipping a collection of agent provocateurs or mutineers, and suffering numerous crew casualties, we can only say that there are many troubling marks against you.”
“Running scared, too,” Nifesh grumbled.
Fisker inclined her head. “Yes. Returning to Core System before your own damaged vessel transitioned presents an image distasteful to us. Some might argue that cowardice could be alleged.”
Saef felt his pulse increase, but before Saef opened his mouth, Fisker held up a hand. “We heard the testimony of your officers and Marines who attest to your personal courage. We speak only of appearances.”
Saef still bridled internally. Should he have idled blindly about Delta Three system, risking Aurora’s cargo so valuable to their enemy, while Tanager strove to escape and defend him?
“Still,” Fisker went on, “looking to the positive side of the ledger, Tanager brought us a notable victory in an unequal fight.”
Nifesh snorted. “Frigate actions! No impact on the contest at all.”
“Compared to Fleet’s other great victories?” Admiral Char dryly inquired. Nifesh shot him a poisonous glare, and Fisker continued.
“Ton for ton, this was the finest Fleet victory in centuries,” she said. “And Tanager’s Marines conducted a highly successful raid planetside that I’m told is the new model for all such operations.” There was no more talk of violating Delta Three’s peaceful territory. All communication from Delta Three had ceased shortly before Tanager arrived back in Core system, and their final accusations were now viewed as nothing more than enemy misinformation.
“Now there is the matter of the merchant vessel Aurora, and her cargo,” Fisker said, and Saef’s heart sank. Fisker should have called it his prize, but she refrained from that loaded term. “We recognize the great service you have rendered by denying Aurora’s cargo to our enemy, but some members of this board”—she did not quite glance at Nifesh—“have correctly pointed out that Aurora served as a conveyance for you when your own ship was unavailable.” Admiral Nifesh and his heavyworld comrade shared a satisfied look. “While the war-prize provisions of Fleet Articles were intended for the seizure of enemy vessels in addition to one’s own.”
“So I should have selected another vessel available to me,” Saef offered in a mild tone. “Something faster or more powerful, to make my escape more certain.”
“No,” Admiral Char rumbled. “You did the right thing, Captain. Never doubt it.”
“We are not blind to the services you rendered,” the sole lightworld admiral said, “but the Admiralty must carefully balance many factors in our decisions. The majority of this Board would like to see you in another more conventional combat command, in part a recognition of the Tanager’s victories in Delta Three.”
“Others on this Board see only carelessness, disobedience, and dumb luck!” Nifesh snapped. “So consider yourself fortunate to wear your rank!”
“Nonetheless,” Fisker stepped smoothly in, “every decision of the Admiralty must take into account the long-term impact upon the morale and fighting spirit of all Fleet officers. To leave the successes of Tanager’s cruise and the capture of such a valuable asset unrewarded would sow confusion and dismay among fighting captains throughout Fleet.”
Saef felt the returning glimmer of hope.
Fisker stared down at Saef and he fancied he saw some hint of warmth in her eyes, while Nifesh and his heavyworld companion glowered down at her side. “After considering all available facts and testimony, this Board finds Captain Sinclair-Maru absolved of charges of dereliction, and commends the captain for enabling the smooth operation of the IMS Tanager that resulted in the destruction of the enemy vessels Carthage and Digger.”
The glimmer in Saef’s chest became a glow.
“Although the Board does not recognize the vessel Aurora as a lawful prize of war”—Saef’s joy flickered—“we do recognize Tanager’s salvage rights.”
The Family barristers had warned that a salvage ruling represented a likely outcome, so the hard figures came immediately to Saef’s mind. The math problem was painfully simple: Every officer and rating aboard Tanager could reduce their lovely fat purse of prize earnings by ninety percent. Saef’s three-hundred-million-credit prize became a mere thirty million, in one blow of the gavel; still one of the greatest purses awarded to a Fleet captain in the history of Fleet.
Any other captain would certainly be overjoyed with such a windfall, but Saef owed heavy debts that he could scarcely repay. He bowed to the Admiralty Board, his mind moving immediately to the very personal nature of the responsibilities before him. A painful path awaited, but the Admiralty left a tool in his hands. He might yet achieve his goals and the goals of his Family.
As Saef entered the fusty hall outside the Admiralty chambers, Inga fell in beside him, her cloak swirling. Saef looked sidelong at her before looking back to the path ahead. “It seems you saved my neck again, Maru. You cloak and dagger marvelously.”
“It’s a start.”
“Now a little downtime before our shot to Battersea or we finagle another ship.”
“No. One more terror to face, I fear.”
Saef stopped and looked at her. “What is it now?”
Inga’s half smile lit her face. “Just a party, that’s all.”
Saef grimaced. “Gods.”
* * *
The White Swan Hotel’s smallest banquet hall held Tanager’s survivors with room to spare. Many still wore the marks of their injuries along with their best uniforms, and Chief Sandi Patel carried one arm bound in a sling, a victim of Tilly Pennysmith’s dueling sword. For a group of people who had just had their potential new fortunes reduced by ninety percent, the cheer among them seemed unabated. This might be due to the fact that even their ten percent still represented decades of Fleet salary in their pockets. The least among them now possessed a considerable nest egg, so even Sandi Patel, reprimanded for various sins, then wounded by the unassuming Pennysmith, managed a degree of ebullience.
Inga Maru perched on the edge of a white-spread table, within arm’s reach of assorted rich snacks, her boot-encased leg idly swinging. She nibbled fruit and observed the interactions of her shipmates, noting Saef’s uneasiness with all the good will aimed his direction. Sergeant Kabir and the other Marines momentarily surrounded him, drinks in hand, clapping him on the shoulder. She watched Saef’s mouth flicker into a rare smile, and she smiled herself. Claude Carstairs had insisted on hosting this celebration despite Saef’s reluctance, and Inga saw the good that it proffered. Forced to interact with all the former Tanagers in his moment of triumph, Saef might reap benefits even now.
“Doesn’t come easy to him, does it?” Major Mahdi murmured from close at hand.
Inga turned to regard the major through her eyelashes, her smile broadening. “My, Major, you clean up rather fine.” The major glanced down at his dress uniform and shrugged, taking a drink from his clinking glass. Inga took another nibble of her fruit and said, “No, it doesn’t come easy to him.” She looked back at Saef in the middle of the room. “He lacks patience for social banter.”
“His life is a mission,” Mahdi observed.
“Like yours.”
Mahdi nodded, musing, putting his glass to his lips. “Like mine.” He eased his heavyworld weight down on the edge of the table beside Inga, prompting protesting squeaks from its straining frame.
“Tell me, Chief, on that station, what did you see? Hmm?”
She turned slowly back to face the major, looking up at him through the fringe of her hair, staring at the side of his face. “Your Marines saw what I saw…ask them.”
“My Marines saw a flock of enemies cut down all about that medical bay.”
“The captain’s lethality is quite well known, Major.”
“And him without a drop of blood on him, I hear.”
Inga smirked and looked away. “Oh hardly, sir.”
“And you, regular baptized in it.”
“What do you wish to hear, Major?”
Mahdi mused for a moment. “Nothing, maybe.” He rubbed a hand over his smooth scalp. “The Admiralty Board wouldn’t touch the nonhuman bit. Ran from it like scared cats.”
“And you think I possess some morsel of knowledge that can force them to face facts?”
“Do you?”
Inga smiled broadly, taking a bite of fruit. “Nothing will make them face these facts…yet.”
Major Mahdi nodded, staring into the distance. “That’s the next mission. The fools.”
“Chief Maru?” Claude Carstairs strode up, his slender figure resplendent in gold and white. “It is ‘chief,’ right? Not a military man m’self, you see—Oh, I say!” Claude broke off to stare at Inga’s tall boot still idly swinging. “However do you get such a gloss? My own boots seem shabby things by comparison.”
Major Mahdi regarded Claude with lowered brows, but Inga gave him her wide-eyed smile. “You must have top-secret military polish, I daresay?” Claude continued, transfixed. “Classified info, eh?”
“Not at all,” Inga said. “I just soak my boots in the blood of my enemies.”
Claude’s eyes bulged. “In the blood…? What a ghastly thought. Glad I’m not Fleet, despite the damned fine uniforms! Got no stomach for it, you know?”
Mahdi stifled a chuckle as Claude wandered off into the small crowd, murmuring, “Blood? Gods!”
“Teasing the poor fellow,” Mahdi said, “just when all us Tanagers could likely use his fashion advice, now that we’ve all got a little coin to spare.”
Inga shook her head and sipped from her glass.
“What?” Mahdi said, looking down at her. “Aren’t you going to indulge a little in your new wealth?”
Inga stared out at Saef, still holding his own among the cheerful Tanagers. “No. I already spent all mine.”
Mahdi stared, surprised. “Already spent…?” He considered the odd, reserved chief perched beside him, and kept himself from asking, What in blazes could you have spent it all on so quickly?
* * *
After an internal struggle that lasted hours, Susan Roush slipped into her dress uniform and stood regarding her reflection, displeased with the sneer she observed upon her own lips. Only when her eyes rested upon the rank tabs did the sneer melt away. She could not resist touching the captain’s bars, and cursed herself for nearly weeping.
Yes, despite her pride, despite everything she had said in moments of burning indignation, she had to go. With her sword and pistol in place, Susan Roush hailed a skimcar and set off for the White Swan.
When she arrived, Captain Roush nearly yielded to misgivings yet again. She stood at the entrance of the banquet hall and scanned across the collection of her most recent shipmates, all celebrating together. In her decades of Fleet service, in scores and scores of challenging floats, she had never been a part of a crew with such cause for celebration. And there stood that proud Sinclair-Maru upstart, bathed in the adulation of an increasingly lubricated crew, when he had spent so many of the critical hours far from Tanager’s command seat!
Saef’s eyes looked past the crowd surrounding him, locking onto Susan Roush. He quickly hushed everyone, never looking from her, and raised his glass. Captain Susan Roush, veteran of the greatest space battles in recent history, hero of the Delta Three conflagration, stood transfixed, absurd butterflies in her belly.
“Tanagers!” Saef boomed out, a slight flush visible on his cheeks, “I give you Captain Susan Roush, the finest captain in Fleet, and whom we all may thank for our good fortune and our lives!”
The Tanagers roared their approval, and Susan Roush felt lost in the waves of conflicting emotions. Someone placed a full glass in her hand and she saw the faces of her bridge crew passing by in a swirl of good will. There was that fearful Che Ramos, who held together through it all, Lieutenant Ruprecht, Tilly Pennysmith, Deckchief Church, and there was Julie Yeager, now out of uniform, moving to civilian life with her new fortune. For a moment the image of that competent chief, Phillipa Baker, and the surprisingly heroic Farley both came to her eyes, both gone now, lost, but the next instant Saef Sinclair-Maru stood before her. An island of isolation seemed to open around them, and Roush found the words that she had so dreaded coming easily to her tongue.
“I told you I would never thank you, upstart!” she said, and Saef solemnly nodded. “But, gods damn it all, thank you! Thank you.”
Saef smiled as she scowled around at the small crowd all talking at once. “That’ll have to do,” she called over the noise, “’cause you’ll never hear it again, you understand?”
“I understand,” Saef said. “Captain.”
* * *
Any citizen observing Saef Sinclair-Maru’s trip into the prestigious Medical Specialties Center might quickly place three facts together, and come to a very understandable conclusion. Everyone knew the young captain from the history-book family had made a fresh mark, winning a small fortune doing it. Nearly everyone knew of the Sinclair-Maru’s fading fortunes, the un-rejuvenated aging of their more recent generations. Thus, nearly anyone might assume that Saef Sinclair-Maru entered the Medical Specialties Center to spend a few million of his new wealth obtaining the first-level rejuv treatments. Certainly for most Vested Citizens, the only purpose for high-risk employment was the eventual promise of rejuv treatments.
Saef entered the center alone, moving past the opulent admission rooms, with all their glowing advertisements of youth and beauty, continuing down a lengthy hall to a small room guarded by two Family security operatives. They both looked at Saef as he drew near, then looked past Saef, tensing.
“Captain,” the sultry voice of Winter Yung called out as Saef turned. Winter Yung looked weary, Saef immediately realized. Tired and…disturbed? “May I…may I accompany you, please?” she asked.
Saef felt a strong inclination to refuse this request, but the hint of frailty defeated him, quieting the anger that stirred in him toward Winter and all that she represented. “Very well, Consul.” They turned and walked together between the two security operatives, Saef nodded to them as he led the way.
The lump of cellular matter trailing tubes and wires bore only vague resemblance to a human being, but Saef knew that he beheld all that remained of Bess Sinclair-Maru, shattered and dismembered by enemy weaponry. They both stood in silence beside the bed.
“So I have you to thank for this?” Saef asked, staring down.
Did he speak of the costly life support that maintained the flicker of life? Or did he refer to the horrific injuries Bess had sustained?
“Yes,” Winter said.
Saef nodded, and they stood together in silence for some time, the whirring and sighing of machinery the only sound. “What have you done to discover who did this?” Saef asked at last.
Winter drew a breath. “Everything. Every damned thing.” She stepped from Saef’s side to gaze down at an arcane medical monitor. “I have broken laws, shattered people. I have sifted House Barabas until little remains.”
“And?” Saef asked quietly. “Do you yet know who pulls the strings?”
“I think so.” Winter nodded slowly, her face a bleak plane.
“They are not human, are they?”
Winter looked away, her mind filled with an indelible image of a grinning man, shackled down, his body a ruin, calmly observing every action of his interrogators. “At the very top, no. It does not seem they are human.”
“And yet the Admiralty ignores my report? They do not even touch the topic in my Board?”
“I know.”
“You realize what the slaughter of Delta Three station means?”
Winter turned to look at Saef, waiting.
“There may be no one left alive on any of the rebel-held worlds. They may all be dead, harvested, or…turned…infected…whatever it is called.”
“Only those with implants, it seems,” Winter said.
“What is the connection to the Shapers?”
Winter shook her head, her gaze distant. “Parasites?”
“Parasites?”
“Who can say?”
They fell silent, both gazing down at the remaining bits of Bess Sinclair-Maru. “Thank you,” Saef said at last. “I don’t understand why you did this for Bess, but…”
Winter shrugged, her porcelain features drawn. “I’d have done more, but they say she needs a full rejuv to have a chance at reconstruction.”
“Expense account tapped, Consul?”
Winter shot a pained look at Saef, to his surprise. “Never mind,” he said. “My responsibility, anyway.”
Winter’s expression changed to one of incredulity. “I thought you came to… You’re going to buy her reconstruction? You realize that even then she may never fully recover?”
Saef nodded.
“You understand the expense?”
Saef nodded again. “I also begin to understand the war that we are in. We are losing.” He paused, frowning. “You think Bess was the first assassination by them?”
“The Emperor’s assassins,” she said. “Yes. It has been in my thinking these last days.”
“Roush, Mahdi, you…and the House of Sinclair-Maru…we need allies.”
“And Bess?” Winter said.
“If I can regain her, she’ll understand where Cabot will not,” Saef said. “She’ll gather support.”
Winter hoped he was right, hoped that Bess might still be herself after reconstruction. She nodded. “And you?”
Saef stared at Winter Yung with grave intensity. “The fools gave me another ship,” he said.
Winter perceived that strange Sinclair-Maru solidity, an unreal calm in the midst of swirling terrors. She felt it, but she could not grasp the dimensions of Saef’s internal fortress.
“I will be fighting,” Saef said, at peace within the Deep Man.