Virtues of War (28 page)

“Yes, sir.”

The door buzzed. Chandler signaled for it to open.

Thomas turned his head to greet the visitor, and struggled to rise as he recognized Colonel Korolev. The acting brigade commander ignored him completely.

“Commodore,” Korolev said, “we’ve learned how the Centauri battle cruiser got knocked out of action.”

Thomas felt a hand at his elbow. It was Chandler.

“Mr. Kane,” he said, “it’s good to have you back. Get some rest.”

“Yes, sir,” Thomas responded. He knew a dismissal when he heard one. He headed for the door.

Suddenly Korolev seemed to notice him. “Kane of the
Rapier
?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have a remarkable crew. I think you should stay and watch this.” The colonel’s eyes bore into his with an intent he couldn’t begin to fathom. He held up a tiny recording device.

“What do you have?” Chandler asked.

“The helmet recording of one Sergeant Suleiman Chang.”

* * *

It was another hour before Thomas finally returned to his cabin, but despite the fatigue he couldn’t even think about sleep. As he flopped down in an armchair, his mind was filled with images of savage violence. Not even Commodore Chandler had had much to say, once the recording had completed its run.

Alone in his cabin, Thomas couldn’t help but shake his head in wonder. What had apparently been the beginnings of a court-martial investigation was probably going to turn into a Cross of Valor. Nine troopers had boarded—
boarded!
—one of the jewels in the crown of the Centauri fleet.

Sitting in the dim light, Thomas rubbed weary hands over his eyes.

According to Breeze, word was spreading that
Rapier
had saved
Normandy
, and Chandler himself had said as much. In Thomas’s opinion, the whole thing was overblown. If the laws of physics had been working slightly differently that day, neither Thomas nor his ship would have survived to tell the tale.

You always wanted to be a hero
, he said to himself.
Well, here you go, hero.

There had been no plan—he’d just wanted to get his crew to safety. It never even occurred to him that ejecting the strike pods might save
Rapier
. With his ship—his command—burning up in atmo, and the EF being decimated above him, he had thought it best to cut his losses.

His last words to Katja had been a bluff, something quick to get her to abandon ship along with everyone else. After twenty years in uniform, he’d learned how to lie convincingly.

He’d almost found his peace, almost been ready to die, when he noticed that
Rapier
was gaining altitude. It had been with wide-eyed disbelief, not cool calculation, that he had checked the readouts. Most of the ship’s air had escaped before he implemented damage control. One way or another, he must’ve been determined to get himself killed that day.

Now he was a hero, because he’d let Chandler—and everyone else—believe that he’d had a cunning plan. He tried to laugh, but the sound was little more than a scoff.

On the forward bulkhead he’d hung his professional certificates—his commission, basic line certificate, anti-vessel warfare qualification, basic strike certificate, fast-attack qualification, command certificate. An impressive list for an officer so young, but all the checks required for promotion.

Next step, command of a destroyer. After that, for a streamer like him, perhaps a battleship. And then into the admiralty, one day to be Fleet Marshal, commanding the entire Astral Force. A meteoric rise through the ranks, yet so little time spent in each position that he really didn’t know what the fuck he was doing.

Commander Avernell had advised against the Free Lhasa rescue, and Thomas had gone over her head. Chandler had his own aspirations, and getting promoted in peacetime was such a slow process.

So here they were. Chandler had his field-promotion, and Thomas was a hero.

He let out a weary sigh and looked over at the familiar image, taken on Olympus Mons. Soma, his beloved fiancée—she was part of the plan, too: beauty, poise, an excellent pedigree—she would make a fine Fleet Marshal’s consort. Mixed-race marriages were very much in vogue these days. Even better if they spanned two worlds in the Terran system.

Thomas had no illusions, though. Soma had her own agenda. As part of the Jovian elite, she was thrilled to be marrying a rising star in the Astral Force—one from Earth, no less. That would sit well with the nouveaux riches of the outer planets.

He leaned his head back to gaze at the overhead light. No doubt his parents were proud of him. They would have told their friends exaggerated stories about his space adventures every month at the booster clinic. The number of giddy messages he’d received from Mom about the wedding plans reassured him that they approved of the match.

At least
they’d
be happy.

But sitting alone in his dim cabin aboard the invasion ship
Normandy
, somewhere in the deep blackness near the star Sirius, Thomas Kane concluded that his entire life was a sham.

He peered over at his mini-fridge, wishing that regulations permitted alcohol in the cabins. He needed a drink, and debated if he had enough energy to walk to the star lounge.

The door buzzer startled him. He blinked heavily, shaking off the mental cobwebs.

“Come in,” he said.

The door slid open. Katja peered in. “Hello?”

His attempt to rise melted into a long stretch.

“Hey, OpsO,” he said, stifling a yawn. “Come on in.” She stepped into the cabin just enough for the door to close behind her.

“Sorry, sir,” she said. “I should have known you’d be asleep. I can come back.”

He rubbed his eyes and pushed himself up. “No, no, not at all. I wasn’t sleeping.”

She stared at him for a long moment; he couldn’t make out the expression in her dark eyes.

“It’s good to see you,” she said finally.

A single ray of happiness penetrated his inner gloom, and he felt himself smile.

“Thanks. It’s good to see you, too.” Her appearance was… strange. She looked tense, and so small and vulnerable. “I just saw the report—about what you did,” he said. “It’s unbelievable, Katja.”

Her expression relaxed, and she stepped forward to lean one hand on the corner of the desk built into the aft bulkhead.

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” she said. “I just didn’t want your sacrifice to be for nothing.”

“My sacrifice?”

“Getting us off the ship, and risking yourself to save
Rapier
,” she explained. “I don’t know if I could have done something like that alone, sir.”

He was amazed at the admiration of her expression, and was reminded of those last moments on the bridge—when she had leaned in and kissed him. The moisture of her lips against his had been a surprise.

But a welcome one.

He knew he should tell her—of all people—the truth. Instead he shrugged, and heard the lie come out of his mouth.

“I was just doing my duty, Katja,” he said, and he thought it sounded sincere. “Nothing more.”

She inched closer, dropping her gaze. He couldn’t remember ever seeing her so unsure of herself. But he liked it. He also liked the way she looked, very trim in her blue jumpsuit.

“I really didn’t think I was going to see you again,” she said, “the last time we spoke.”

“I wasn’t sure either.”

She seemed at a loss for what to say next. He stepped toward her, running his own fingers along the desk. Under his jumpsuit he was beginning to rise to the occasion.

“I think when we said goodbye,” he said, “we didn’t get a chance to finish our conversation.”

She was very close now, and she looked up at him with dark, beautiful eyes. “Sir, about that…”

“Don’t apologize.” He reached out and gripped one of her shoulders, sliding his hand down her slim, muscular arm. “It was what got me through the ordeal.”

She stepped into him, and he felt her small fingers climb up his back. The heat of her body pressed against his as his hands roamed across her. The jumpsuit dampened sensations just enough to heighten the anticipation.

“Really?” she asked.

He knew his life was already a lie. Cheating on a fiancée who didn’t love him seemed rather appropriate.

“Really.”

He grabbed her and lifted her onto the desk, kissing her. She responded with surprise, then intensity. As he started to unzip her jumpsuit, he had a sudden thought that it was unprofessional to have sex with his subordinate. But she was hot and willing. And he needed a release.

F
or the first time she could remember, Katja woke up with a smile.

She stared up at the close bulkhead of her sleeping cabin, luxuriating in the feel of gravity pressing the sheets down on her body. Her reach to turn on the lamp turned into a long stretch clear across her rack, fingers and toes extending out as far as they could go.

Upon her return to
Normandy
she had immediately contacted Commander Vici, her troop commander, to let her know she was still alive. Vici had acknowledged, but since Katja still belonged to
Rapier
, she sent no further instructions.

Her next order of business had been to meet with Chief Tamma to ensure the well-being of the crew. Being a pilot, Tamma had been unable to resist sweeping Katja up into a huge hug, but otherwise had been his usual pillar of professionalism.
Rapier
’s surviving crew had been assigned to the
Normandy
manning pool until they received permanent orders. Master Rating Oyenuga was still in sickbay with life-threatening wounds. Squad Leader McKevitt was also in sickbay, but was expected to recover. Next she had reported to her commanding officer.

And promptly had sex with him.

Perhaps not the wisest of moves, but it didn’t stop her from smiling this morning. It was great to feel like a woman again, and even better to know that she had the love and respect of a man like Thomas Kane. If
Rapier
was out of commission and they weren’t serving together, maybe a relationship would be professionally acceptable.

Jumping out of bed, she switched on some music—some Handel, to match her mood—and climbed into the shower. She sang along with the notes as the hot water caressed her, closing her eyes and remembering the surprise ending to her visit to Thomas’s cabin last night.

It had been quite the ending to a very full day.

As she wrapped a towel around herself and walked through into the main cabin, a colder part of her brain whispered to her that she really shouldn’t be so happy, considering everything that had gone down in the past few days. But no negativity was going to shake her emotional high.

She hadn’t gone to his cabin for that purpose—she had just wanted to tell him how happy she was that he had survived. But things had gotten out of control really fast, and his obvious desire had been flattering. She was content just hearing that he admired her military prowess—that alone would have made the visit glorious—but to learn that he cared for her as much as she did for him…

It had been intense and incredible, but she hadn’t stayed the night. Seeing that Thomas needed to sleep, she had decided to return to her own cabin to recharge.

That—she realized, looking at the clock—had been sixteen hours ago. Good thing no one was looking for her. She got some water boiling for tea, and started getting dressed.

Often when she was aboard
Normandy
, she wore the green coveralls of the Corps, just in case anyone was tempted to mistake her for Fleet. But as she reached into her closet she hesitated, then grabbed for the blues. She was still a member of
Rapier
’s crew, and to wear green would be to dishonor that.

She conducted along with the music with one hand and made tea with the other, savoring her last few moments of freedom. She knew that as soon as she sat down at her message console she would have to become Lieutenant Emmes again. So she sipped her tea and listened, eyes closed, as a particular minuet danced to a finish.

Her screen had a long list of messages. Most were old and routine, and she ignored anything that had been sent before the attack. There were several tactical updates from yesterday which gave no useful information, and one sent this morning from Astral Headquarters in Terra itself.

Her mug dropped to the desk, splashing tea.

Centauri forces had invaded Terran space.

All thoughts of Handel or Thomas Kane vanished from her mind. That cold part of her brain grabbed hold and pushed out everything else. This wasn’t just an isolated battle—it was war. Terra’s oldest colony was in open rebellion.

Suddenly all the sensations flooded back—
Rapier
going down, Hernandez splattered under APR fire, the panicked cries over the radio from Assad and Jackson, the blackness as she was blown out into space. She blinked away the moisture in her eyes and took short, sharp breaths.

There was one other message. From Sergeant Chang. It described briefly the status of the strike team and the fact that they would be servicing their armored suits in the main Corps hangar all afternoon. She glanced at the chronometer. It was mid-afternoon ship time.

Without another thought she was out the door.

* * *

Most Fleet people never made it down to the bowels of the ship where the Corps lived. In peacetime everyone Fleet seemed to think the strike-fighter hangar was the center of
Normandy
’s existence, with its shiny spaceships and vast heights. But the real heart of the vessel—its reason for existence—was the massive Corps hangar way down on Fourteen Deck.

Katja showed her ID to the pair of armed troopers at the door and was allowed to enter. She stepped through and cast her gaze wide, drinking in the sight.

The Corps hangar was longer and wider than the Fleet hangar, but not as high. And unlike the clean, orderly lines thirteen decks up, it was filled with a menagerie of dedicated instruments of war. Flush against the outer hull on both sides were the fifty drop ships—the much larger cousins of
Rapier
’s strike pods—which delivered troops planetside a platoon at a time.