Knight's Move (2 page)

“Hell of a shame, sir,” the pilot said, as they passed a fleet carrier.  She was
Ark Royal’s
twin, Glen saw; she was a veteran of several of the most brutal battles of the war.  And now she was being stripped bare to keep the rest of the fleet operational.  “She deserves better than that.”

“Yes,” Glen agreed.  The sight of a flight deck hanging open to vacuum chilled him, even though he knew that the fleet carrier was unmanned.  “Hell of a shame.”

Luna Base itself was a colossal fortress, defended by heavy weapons emplacements that could have swept most of the orbiting starships out of space within minutes.  Glen watched some of the smaller weapons tracking the shuttle as it came in to land, silently praying that the IFF system worked and the shuttle was correctly identified before it entered automatic engagement range.  The Dragons who had refused to surrender when the war came to an end were known for suicide attacks, including some mounted in captured human spacecraft.  It was unlikely they could do anything to change the outcome of the war, but they didn't seem to care.  Human terrorists had been no less irrational.

The shuttle passed through without incident and came to land on a small landing pad.  Glen nodded his thanks to the pilot, stood and stepped out of the hatch as it hissed open.  Luna Base’s atmosphere greeted him, a faint tang of ...
something
that was unique to the moon, no matter what they did to counter it.  All worlds smelled different, Glen knew, but there was something strange about Luna’s atmosphere.  By now, the smell was a virtual tradition.

“Commander Knight,” a young woman said.  Glen glanced at her uniform and saw that she was a Captain, although not a starship commander.  He couldn't help a flicker of disapproval when he realised that her jacket was tighter than regulations technically allowed.  “I’m Captain Desjardins.  Admiral Patterson wishes to see you as soon as you arrive.”

“Thank you,” Glen said. 

He swallowed the urge to ask questions as he followed her through a series of corridors and a handful of security checks.  It was hard to escape the sense that Luna Base was no longer on a war footing; the last time he’d visited, there had been a physical search and his implants had been ruthlessly interrogated before he’d been allowed to proceed.  The drab bulkheads he remembered had been decorated with paintings of various naval battles.  Glen had to smile as he caught sight of an idealised representation of the Raid on Dragon-93.  He’d fought in that battle and it had been nothing like the painting.  But somehow he doubted that the painter was an experienced naval officer.

A hatch, guarded by a couple of armed Marines, hissed open as they approached.  “Good luck, Commander,” Captain Desjardins said.  “I’ll be waiting for you outside.”

Glen nodded and stepped into the Admiral’s office.  Inside, the walls were covered with certificates and decorations; the office itself was staggeringly luxurious.  Glen couldn't help feeling that Admiral Patterson, who had only recently been promoted to Chief of Naval Operations, was more concerned with his own comfort than actually leading the Terran Federation Navy.  Admiral Webster, who had commanded the fleet during the war, would not have stood for it.  But the war was over and Patterson, who rumour claimed had made a career of accommodating himself to the politicians, was the new CNO.

“Please, be seated,” Patterson said, once Glen had saluted.  “There is much to discuss with you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Glen said.

He sat, gingerly.  In his experience, a senior officer being so polite generally meant one of two things ... and there was no prospect of a suicide mission now that the war was over.  A disturbingly young Ensign appeared out of a side door carrying two mugs of hot coffee, which she placed on the desk in front of them.  Glen couldn't help feeling that she should still be in school, not serving in the navy.  But conscription had pushed far too many young men and women into the service. 

Admiral Patterson was a middle-aged man, slowly turning to fat.  Not a fighting admiral, according to the files in Glen’s implants; his career had largely been spent in the Logistics Directorate, where he’d been highly commended for ensuring that the ships and crews on the front lines got everything they needed from the Federation’s massive industrial base.  Glen wasn't foolish enough to think that
everyone
who didn't serve on the front lines was the enemy, even more than the Dragons, but it still bothered him to see such an officer in command of the Navy.  He might well have no idea of the true capabilities – and limitations – of the men under his command.

And he might well have links that stretched outside the Navy.

“It is the unanimous decision of the Promotions Board that you are hereby promoted to Captain and placed in command of TFS
Dauntless
,” Admiral Patterson said, once he had taken a sip of his coffee.  “
Dauntless
is one of our newest heavy cruisers, fresh from the Mars Shipyard.  She will make you a very happy Captain indeed.”

Glen frowned as his implant received a file.  Quickly, he reviewed it;
Dauntless
was a fine ship, but she was too impressive a command for a fresh Captain, no matter how impressive his career.  A number of young officers had succeeded to command after their seniors had been killed – and had been allowed to remain in command – but that had been during the war.  Now, with promotions slowed down to a glacial pace, he knew that too many people would assume that favouritism had played a role in his promotion.  And, given Admiral Patterson’s former position, it was almost certain that it
had
.

He fought to keep his face expressionless, despite his mounting dismay.  No one would question his assignment to a destroyer, a light cruiser or even an escort carrier.  But a heavy cruiser was too much.  Even if his war record had been staggeringly impressive – and he knew that it wasn't
that
impressive – it would stink like Limburger.  Or the interior of a Dragon starship.

His mind raced as he considered options.  He could refuse the command ... and his refusal would be honoured, at the price of never being offered command again.  The Navy would not question the judgement of an officer who felt himself unsuited to command.  Indeed, it would ensure that such an officer spent the rest of his career somewhere he could do no harm.  All he could do was accept the command and try to make the best of it.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, finally.

The Admiral reached into his desk and produced a small black box, which he passed to Glen.  Glen took it and opened it to see a tiny golden starship, representing a starship command.  He couldn't help feeling a frisson of excitement as he pulled it loose, removed his silver XO badge from his collar and pinned the golden starship into place.  No one, but starship commanders wore golden starships.  It was the badge of command.

“Congratulations, Captain,” Admiral Patterson said.  He sounded like he meant every word, the bastard.  “But I'm afraid that your shakedown cruise will be no picnic.”

He must have sent a command into the room’s processor, for a giant holographic starchart appeared in front of them, centred on Earth.  Hundreds of tactical icons, representing Planetary Defence Centres, Orbital Weapons Platforms and Home Fleet itself danced around Sol; even now, with defence budgets being cut, the Federation had no intention of reducing the vast amount of firepower assigned to protecting Earth.  The Battle of Wolf 359 had only been eight light years from Sol.  To civilians, that was an insurmountable distance; naval crewmen knew better. 

The starchart moved, focusing on the former Occupied Zone.  “As you know,” the Admiral said, “the Dragons cut off access to the Fairfax Cluster for most of the war.  The colonies on the other side of the Great Wall were forced to defend themselves.  It has united them, but also bred an independence of mind that now threatens the stability of the Federation.  This situation cannot be tolerated.”

Glen scowled.  Normal space might be placid, but hyperspace definitely
wasn’t
– and the Great Wall, a hyperspace storm that raged through the alternate dimension, was almost completely impassable.  The only place where a starship could travel safely through the Great Wall was the Bottleneck, a gap in the storm that allowed safe passage.  Normally, a storm could be circumvented.  The Great Wall was so vast that circumventing it would take months of travel through hyperspace.  Once the Dragons had blocked access to the Bottleneck, the colonies had been completely isolated.  It had been sheer luck that they’d been left alone long enough to build up their own defences.

“The situation is worse than you might think,” the Admiral said, breaking into Glen’s thoughts.  “There are hundreds of millions of refugees, to say nothing of Dragons awaiting transport back to their homeworlds.  The colonials are ... not too happy about keeping them anywhere near their own homeworlds, let alone the cost of feeding and accommodating them.”

“Understandable,” Glen said.  He’d fought the Dragons long enough to know that he didn't trust them – and that he would
never
trust them.  Their whole society was based around the concept of might making right.  They might not spend time whining about how unfair the universe was, but they
would
spend time trying to reverse the judgement of the war.  “They would represent a potential danger.”

“Not all of them are Dragons,” the Admiral said.  “And, in any case, the Federation has decreed that local governments are responsible for the care and maintenance of the alien refugees until a more permanent settlement can be finalised.”

He cleared his throat, loudly.  “You’ll get a more detailed briefing later, but the essential point is that the Federation wishes to reassert its authority throughout the Fairfax Cluster.  The alien refugees might have caught the imagination of many factions on Earth – the Liberal-Progressives in particular – but there are many other problematic areas.  Tax, the unified Federation law code, the debts owed to founding corporations ... even question marks over the Exile Code.  And the Colonial Militia is still building itself up into a formidable fighting force.”

They have always been formidable
, Glen thought.  If nothing else, they had forced the Dragons to commit a whole fleet to attacking the Fairfax Cluster. 
And
, despite that, the Dragons had never succeeded in crushing the colonials.  By the time the blockade had been broken, the colonials had actually been going on the offensive. 

But he could see the Admiral’s point.  If the Colonial Militia was still being built up, it raised a single obvious question.  Why?

“Your task is to lay the groundwork for the full resumption of the Federation’s authority,” the Admiral said.  “You will transport the Governor to the Fairfax Cluster, where she will start tying the Colonials back into the Federation, then start patrolling the sector and dealing with issues as they arrive.”

Glen nodded, wordlessly.  The orders were vague, but that was to be expected.  Even FTL communications would take up to a week to travel from Earth to the Bottleneck, then into the Fairfax Cluster.  By the time he sent a briefing to his superiors and requested orders, the situation would have become much worse.  It was why commanding officers had broad latitude to interpret their orders.

The Admiral stood.  “Good luck, Captain,” he said.  “And may God go with you.”

Glen saluted, then walked out of the compartment.  A message blinked into his implants as soon as he was outside, inviting him to lunch.  Somehow, he wasn't surprised that the message had entered the secure naval datanet – or by the identity of the sender. 

“Captain,” Captain Desjardins greeted him.  His promotion hadn't gone unnoticed.  “Do you require transport to your new command?”

Glen shook his head.  “I seem to have a date in Armstrong City,” he said.  He was tempted to ignore the invitation, but he had a feeling it would be better to meet with his brother sooner rather than later.  The other reason he might have been offered the command was someone pulling strings behind the scenes.  “I’ll pick up a shuttle afterwards.”

He gritted his teeth as he headed for the tube.  He’d spent years trying to escape his family, yet somehow they always dragged him back.  And now they’d given him one hell of a poisoned chalice.

Bastards
, he thought.

Armstrong City had been evacuated during the early years of the war – the giant domes were hideously vulnerable to enemy missiles – but after the war front had been pushed hundreds of light years from Earth the population had been allowed to return to their homes, where they could resume their normal lives.  Glen couldn't help finding something vaguely surreal in the scene as he walked through the streets towards the Grand Hotel; the legacy of the war was far from over and yet the civilians seemed to have forgotten all about it.  But then, apart from taxes and conscription, what had the population of Earth really endured?