The Unincorporated War (16 page)

“Captain,” called out one of the engineers looking intently at a projected asteroid map. “The ships that attacked us are only two days away from Ceres.”

“Understood.”

“What’s the plan, sir?” But before J.D. could respond, her subordinate answered for her.

“Don’t worry, Ahmed,” said Tawfik. “The captain will think of something.” J.D. noted that the rest of her crew began to nod in agreement.

Captain Samuel U. Trang viewed the fleeing ship from the holo-field set in the middle of the floor. His command couch was closest to the main hatch, but other than that the layout of the bridge was up to the latest standards. It was buried deep in the vessel, designed as a sphere, with purpose-built acceleration couches corralling all the necessary command functions. The couches all faced the holo-tank in the middle of the bridge. Trang would’ve preferred to call it the command sphere, but even though the age of wooden warships was half a millennium past, some terms just refused to die.

Although Trang had issues with a few of the functional design elements, the bridge was not one of them. For years he’d been pleading with the government to build ships whose primary function would be military. But the government
had better things to spend its money on than a war fleet with no one to go to war against. So year after year Trang’s pleas had been ignored despite his elite status as a graduate from the only military academy left on Earth, West Point. The academy had been maintained more for nostalgia, but it had turned into a very good school for the mercenary corporations, and almost all the graduates would go on to careers in that risk-laden field.

Trang, though, had always been different in that he owned a bare majority of his personal stock. It wasn’t worth that much, but it had been enough to see him through to West Point, an institution and endeavor seen as inefficient and unprofitable in a war-free and incorporated world. Once he was in the academy his passion for all things military failed to translate into stellar grades. He graduated firmly in the middle of his class and might have risen higher if not for his somewhat adversarial and argumentative nature. Having been part of the much-maligned academy, he could see the writing on the wall, but that still hadn’t dissuaded him from making the military his chosen career. With the armed forces of the Terran Confederation depleted and with such a minuscule bud get to work with there were simply too many captains and not enough ships to go around. And even the ships that did exist were those fixed up after the mercenary corporations had sold them for scrap. In the end the closest Trang ever came to a command was as second officer on a messenger frigate. It was tiny, with a crew of only ten, but whenever Trang had the bridge he would settle in and finally feel at home.

It had been during the quiet and lonely hours on the frigate that Trang had written his life-altering article for the military rag
Corps Times.
The editorial had called for the creation of a new and well-maintained war fleet. Trang had demonstrated that the Terran Confederation could afford to maintain at least thirty ships with a reserve unit of fleet personnel to man them. The fleet’s sole purpose, he argued, would be to counter the unforeseen. He’d titled the paper “Credit Wise, Pound Foolish.”

The article caused a big enough uproar that he was asked to return to Earth in order to present his findings to the Terran Confederation. It had quickly turned into a Political dog and pony show meant to placate the various politicians’ constituents. When the young second officer had finished his presentation he was laughed out of the assembly hall, having been accused of wanting the citizens of the solar system to build a huge fleet just so he could play space captain. Shortly thereafter, it was made clear to him that he’d never be sent out to space again. It seemed he’d pissed off the mercenary corporations who weren’t keen for any governmental competition and the politicians who didn’t take kindly to being called fools. Even if he had the courage to say what everyone else in the fleet was thinking, he also had the naïveté to actually put it into writing. Had he
kept his mouth shut he probably could’ve worked his way up to one of the myriad mercenary corporations and been financially set for life.

It was thus at the age of fifty, unemployed and unemployable in the only profession he was good at, that young Sam Trang was forced into the depths of personal humiliation, having to ask his father-in-law for a job. The old man had never been happy about his daughter marrying a layabout, useless soldier and had predicted that no good would come of it. Still, no man could refuse to help his daughter, especially after having been proved right. So Sam was set up in the family business of alcohol distribution.

It didn’t take long for abject depression to set in. Trang would’ve sold off his majority for enough to study a new profession, but his valuation was so low that he couldn’t have trained for anything better than the job he already loathed. Thus his black mood deepened day by day until the greatest calamity in human history saved him. He was in a transorbital pod, otherwise known as a t.o.p., leaving St. Louis. He’d just lost yet another account and was wondering how he was going to explain it to his father-in-law when the news of revolution from Ceres was announced. One month later Samuel U. Trang was recalled to ser vice in the fleet.

The government had soon come to the realization that without a fleet they couldn’t actually enforce the law beyond the orbit of Mars. Orders were quickly drawn up for fifty ships to be built—twenty more than Trang had initially suggested. With no battle cruisers extant it was decided that the mercenary corporations would be hired to pick up the slack while the newer ships were being assembled. Unfortunately for the government, a significant minority of the mercenaries actually supported the Outer Alliance and jumped ship—in some cases actually taking the ships with them. Trang was shocked at how many academy-trained officers had gone Belter. The idea of mutiny was almost as foreign to him as the finer subtleties of alcohol sales and distribution. Nearly 40 percent of Trang’s fellow graduates had refused the offer to return to the fleet and had instead taken their ships out of Terran-controlled space. In retrospect Trang had come to realize that the mutinies made a certain amount of sense. The academy was made up almost exclusively of majority holders, a commonality shared with the Belters. But it was still disquieting for the newly promoted captain to think that he’d soon have to fight the very people he’d lived, learned, and trained with. The best solution, he’d prayed, was to have the war end quickly; and with the fleet the government was building, it would be possible.

Trang’s initial elation soon changed to dismay as he found out that he might not actually get a ship to command. It was particularly frustrating given the fact that he was one of only a handful of people in the entire solar system who had the academic, if not the actual, experience in commanding warships larger than
frigates. But the commands were going to men from the mercenary corporations because the government didn’t really trust its own officers’ competence. It didn’t help either that Samuel U. Trang had committed the ultimate sin as far as his government superiors were concerned. Publicly and verifiably, he’d been proved right.

But Sam Trang’s father-in-law had fortunately known someone at Fleet HQ and had managed to pull a few strings on his son-in-law’s behalf. All it took were a couple of cases of non-synthetic bottles of single-malt scotch and Sam Trang was on his way to commanding a newly built courier/scout frigate. The favor hadn’t been done out of love but rather self-preservation. With Sam in the family business the old man was losing clients faster than he was gaining them. The favor also solved a sticky Political problem for the navy in that almost no one wanted the frigate to command, preferring to wait for the more prestigious and vaunted battle cruisers.

The ship Trang had landed was not what his training and academy rank should have awarded him, but it was still bigger than almost any of the merc ships in main operation. The vessel also didn’t have much in the way of armament, but she could accelerate her mass faster than any other ship in her class and the scanning/communication rig was top-of-the-line. Being the ship’s first captain, Trang should have had the right to name her, but the newly appointed Fleet Admiral thought different.

Marvin Tully was an academy graduate who’d gone on to a brilliant career in the premier mercenary corporation, GuardCo. He’d done so well for himself he’d even managed to get a seat on the board. It may have been true that he’d done far more of his fighting in the Political and corporate arenas, but he looked and sounded every inch the warrior. And as far as the President of the Terran Confederation was concerned, that was good enough to name the man Fleet Admiral. Tully would never admit it openly, but something about Trang always grated on him. As far as Tully was concerned, the little loudmouth wasn’t worth spending the Political capital on to keep out of the fleet, but he did arrange for another officer to “temporarily” take command of Trang’s frigate, go out to the shipyard, and name what was only at the time a frame and a thruster mount. So that made Trang officially her second captain even though he’d ultimately be the first to fly her. The intended slight hadn’t mattered one iota to the new captain. He’d finally gotten what he always wanted. Plus Trang rather liked the name chosen: TFS
Strident.

Trang watched in awe as the pared-down ship in his holo-field used the shock wave from the blast to accelerate away faster than the speed of the fleet. Part of
him was rooting for the ugly hunk of metal to hold together. That much ingenuity should be rewarded. But most of him wanted it to crumple like aluminum foil because that much ingenuity—especially by an enemy—should be destroyed. It was looking more and more like the ship was going to make it.

“Commander Liddel,” ordered Trang, “bring the main thrusters online and rig for max acceleration.” His orders were followed quickly. Though none of his crew was academy trained, he’d been able to work them up to what he considered acceptable levels.

“Captain, all systems are ready; crew is secure.”

Trang knew he should wait for proper orders, but every second that passed allowed the escaping Alliance vessel to increase the gap between them. He’d made the decision to go and would worry about getting authorization mid-chase. But before he could give the order his communication board lit up with an incoming transmission from the flagship
Ledger.
Trang wasn’t too worried, figuring that getting the OK would only be a matter of protocol; that is, until he saw the expression on Admiral Tully’s face.

“Captain Trang,” barked the admiral, “would you mind explaining why your ship has powered up main thrusters without permission?”

“Sir, we’re preparing to pursue the Alliance vessel.”

“Negative, Captain,” came Tully’s terse reply. “There’s no need. Better to let the cripple go and spread fear at Ceres. That ship limping to Ceres is better for us, psychologically speaking, than destroyed here.”

Trang smiled stiffly, knowing that every second he played this Political machismo game his prey moved farther and farther away.

“That is indeed a possibility, sir,” answered Trang, “or the Cerians may take hope from the fact that twenty brand-new, well-armed TFS starships could not destroy a single jury-rigged and mangled mineral hauler.”

From the beet red look on his commanding officer’s face Trang realized that once again he’d opened his mouth big enough for his foot to slip down past his stomach and kick his own ass. It didn’t help that someone on his bridge actually had to choke back a laugh by turning it into a cough. “It is probable that you are correct, sir, but given the slight improbability that you are not, I propose we capture or kill the captain of that ship.”

“An interesting proposal,” answered Tully with a vicious scowl, “but for the fact that Com confirmed their captain and first officer were on the bridge when we attacked. The very same bridge that was blown up, exposed to space, and then incinerated in a nuclear blast. Would that be the captain you were referring to … Captain?” he finished with a contemptuous smile, which brought a few chuckles from the bridge crew of the
Ledger.

“Sir,” answered Trang, ignoring the folly of arguing further, “that makes whoever’s
running the ship
now
even more dangerous. Whoever it was took command of a crippled vessel, came up with a plan of escape while under attack, and predicted our every move perfectly in order to pull it off.”

It was only when Trang had stopped talking and the admiral failed to answer that he realized the jig was up.

When Tully’s face finally returned to a more acceptable pallor he smiled stiffly. “We’re glad to hear about your concern for the Terran Confederation, Captain Trang. I think we need to put that concern to where it can best be used. The rusted collection of junk the Belters call a fleet has just left Mars. No doubt they noticed our convoy the second we employed normal drive. They should be heading for Ceres right about now. But it would be very useful for a Confederation ship to show up in Mars orbit, offer assistance, clear the atmosphere of anything nasty left behind … that sort of thing.”

Trang remained calm. But it wasn’t easy. The admiral was going to cut him out of the first and possibly last major battle of the war. Once Ceres was taken, the Alliance would likely fold. And even if the Alliance’s ragtag fleet decided to fight, it would be cut off from its supply and repair base on Ceres, making it only a matter of time before his fleet or a new one from Earth achieved unparalleled victory. To make matters worse, as a precondition for unfettered logistical and tactical support the mercenary corporations had stipulated that any ships, bases, or goods captured would be sold at auction and the profits shared out among all vessels involved. Trang didn’t give a crap about the credits but knew his crew would. His big mouth had just cost them all a fortune.