Badger (3 page)

The other captain’s eyes glittered, and he nodded. “So you accept that, do you? I’m glad to hear it. Perhaps now we can see some progress in how carefully you manage your command, Captain Hull.”

Each word was like poison to Jacob’s stomach; he fought down a particularly bitter retort to Upshaw’s condescending comment. “While that damage is my responsibility, Captain Upshaw, I maintain that it was necessary to protect Celostian assets in the system. My destroyers have been tasked with the security of the Tiredel space traffic and trade. Even though this is a border system, we are responsible—”

Captain Upshaw’s face filled with exasperation. “Yes, yes, it is our duty to risk all for the protection of the citizens of the Frontier. Even to the laying down of our lives in the line of duty.” He shook his head. “Captain Hull, I still must remind you that you are responsible for the
judicious
exercise of that duty. You are required to use the ships under your command to secure the greatest benefit for the Celostian government.”

When Jacob opened his mouth to speak, Upshaw flushed red. He held up a hand to stop Jacob before a word could get out. “No, Captain Hull, you will wait for your idealistic diatribe until after I am done. You don’t seem to understand what kind of charge you have been given here as a squadron commander, and I am going to make my best effort to teach you.”

“Do you know how much the damage you did to your ships will cost to repair?” Upshaw clearly didn’t want a real response, so Jacob just shook his head silently. “Over a billion dollars for those ships alone, not to mention the other ships you’ve managed to reduce to yard repairs under your command. Do you know how many personnel died in that little skirmish of yours?”

“Thirteen dead, four wounded.” The answer, delivered in as even a voice as Jacob could manage, seemed to surprise Upshaw. He watched in rising fury as the man ground to a halt, and then bulled onward.

“That’s right. Thirteen people who don’t get to go home to their families anymore.” Upshaw pointed one blunt finger at Jacob as if it were a cattle prod. “Do you know what those freighters were carrying, Jacob Hull? Allow me to tell you.” He held up a sheet of loose paper, obviously a report on the ship’s manifest. “Four thousand pounds of various construction supplies. Thirty thousand cubic liters of water. More to the point, forty thousand metric tons of fertilizer.” Upshaw’s eyes left the paper and locked with Jacob’s. “Manure, Captain. Thirteen highly trained, diligent personnel of the Celostian Navy died for manure.”

In the silence that followed, Jacob struggled to contain his reaction. He doubted it was the reaction that Upshaw had been aiming for. No doubt the pompous little bastard wanted him to be crushed and broken by the news. There was a thread of humiliation running through him, to be sure, but it was mostly the shame of sharing the same uniform and rank with such a useless sack of crap. To hear the sacrifice of his personnel used as some kind of ‘teachable moment’ tool was disgusting to him. Anger was far more plentiful in Jacob’s heart, filling his guts with ice. Jacob clenched his hands tight, fighting the urge to shout, to scream, to somehow reach through the transmission signal and strangle the fat little puss pot with his bare hands. Instead, he said nothing.

After another moment, Upshaw sighed and turned away. “Your people are depending on you, Jacob. Your rank gives you the authority to order them to battle, but you have the duty to make their deaths mean more than this. More than some frontier manure on a rickety merchant barge.” He shook his head. “If you cannot convince yourself to do that, then at some point we will have to reconsider your commission. Perhaps assign you to the Reefhome Guard with others of your…perspective…on the nature of war. Do you understand, Captain Hull?” His veiled reference to Jacob’s frontier upbringing only made Jacob tighten his fists more. The knuckles on his hands stood out white.

Upshaw, glaringly ignorant of the effect of his words, was still waiting. Somehow, Jacob managed to grind out the only appropriate answer. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. I expect to hear better things of you in the future. Captain Upshaw out.” The screen went dark before Jacob could salute, but given his current state of mind that was probably just as well. It was hard to salute when his hands were balled into fists, after all.

Jacob made it partway down the hall when an all-too-familiar voice caught him. “Looks like somebody had a few rounds with a superior officer.”

He turned and saw Lieutenant Isaac Bellworth, the Gunnery command officer for the
Terrier
and one of the few officers on board who had gone through the campaign aboard the
Wolfhound
with him. The red-haired lieutenant smiled and shook his head. “Judging from the look on your face, Captain Hull, the guy’s lucky he came away with his skin intact.”

“His skin maybe, but not his spine.” Some small sense of self-preservation prompted Jacob to look around and make sure there were no other officers or crewmen about. He had learned the hard way many times over that an indiscreet comment was almost worse than an armed torpedo when it came to the survivability of his career. That education had cost him far too many friends and allies in the Navy. “And don’t Captain Hull me, Isaac. I’m not in the mood.”

His friend came to rigid attention. Isaac’s salute was utterly precise and filled with the particular kind of mockery that had always characterized him. “Yes, sir! I will obey as ordered, sir.” He relaxed into his typical slouch as Jacob walked past him. After a couple lanky strides, Isaac had already caught up, grinning like a loon.

Jacob sighed. “You know, you probably would have made Lieutenant Commander if you didn’t keep up that act.”

Isaac chuckled to himself. “True, but then I would have to worry about the kind of nonsense so-called superior officers have to deal with, like our dear Captain Upshaw. Much better to stay at a spot where all I have to worry about is shooting things.” He shot Jacob a sidelong smirk. “And how is the dear Captain doing? Has he reformed you into the ideal ship captain yet?”

“Don’t remind me.” Jacob shook his head. High Admiral Nivrosky had not needed to consult the opinions of Central Command with regard to Jacob’s promotion, but he had been convinced that a brand new captain with little formal training had needed a sort of chaperone. As a result, Captain Upshaw had been assigned specifically to review his every command decision, and given that Jacob had spent less time reaching captain than Upshaw had to reach lieutenant, their relationship was not a peaceful one.

Deciding that he had been brooding on the matter for far too long, he turned to Isaac. “So, have you heard from Laurie at all?”

“Recently? Sure, every day.” Isaac smiled again; his joy this time was far less motivated by mockery. His pleasure likely came from contacting his wife far more frequently than regulations allowed; his hacking skills had probably helped out with that. “She says Leon’s doing well on the
Beagle
. The crew over there loves him, but that’s probably what we would expect out of a Nivrosky.”

Jacob shook his head. “I still have trouble not thinking of him as Leon Taylor, fellow ensign.”

Isaac smirked. "You mean rather than Leon Nivrosky, heir to the proud military tradition of Alan Nivrosky?" He snorted. "Our formerly humble ensign isn't any different than before. A little stiff, formal, and plenty annoying, but a surprisingly good officer in spite of it all. You know that."

With a glance at the lanky ensign, Jacob smiled. "You know, I've heard similar things about you occasionally." He gave his friend enough time to look mortified, and laughed. "Of course, rather than stiff and formal, I believe they used the words 'undisciplined' and 'abrasive' instead."

He watched as Isaac's smile returned. "Well that's all right, then. We are what we are, after all."

Isaac shrugged easily. Jacob shook his head; his friend had been getting—and ignoring—hints like that for months now, and he obviously had no intent of mending his ways. He sighed.

Isaac glanced at him. "Now what are we sounding so down about, Jacob? Did Uptight Upshaw really ride you that hard?"

Jacob kept his eyes on the hallway ahead. "He felt I was throwing away the lives of my crews by going after the Odurans the other day. That I was failing in my responsibility to make their sacrifices worth something in the end."

"Ouch." The Gunnery officer fell silent for a few moments. "You alright?"

Jacob sighed again and glanced at Isaac. "I don't know. In Reefhome, against the pirates, it was all pretty clear. If we didn't fight the Telosians, we were dead. If we ran or avoided combat, they would have destroyed or enslaved a bunch of helpless colonists. The consequences were clear, whether we wanted them or not."

"Now we can fight the Odurans and lose ships and people. Or we can ignore them, and maybe they'll only hit a few freighters. Or maybe it’s a passenger liner. Or maybe critical war materials." Jacob barely resisted the urge to punch the bulkhead. "How are we supposed to know when it becomes worth it? When is it an acceptable time to risk people's lives, and when is it a foolish gamble?"

Isaac blinked and shook his head. His answer came slowly. "That's a hard one to answer, Jacob. I don’t envy you the need to choose.” He cracked a smile. “Of course, that’s why I will happily remain a lowly lieutenant for the time being.”

Jacob shook his head ruefully. “If you say so. Careful though; any more smart remarks like that and you might end up with a ship or squadron of your own to worry about.” Isaac mimed a horrified swoon, and Jacob found himself chuckling in spite of his poor mood.

Isaac did not leave him long to enjoy himself. “So now that we’ve established which of us is the wiser, how are your communications going? Any news from Lieutenant Commander Al-shira?”

“Commander Al-shira, actually. I believe she qualified for a promotion last month.” Jacob fell silent a moment, wondering why the subject had plunged him back into a more morose mood. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard much from her, to be honest.” He forced a lopsided grin. “One of us has to follows the regs for com traffic, after all.”

His friend smirked. “Sure. You’re just jealous that I haven’t shared my secrets in subverting the message traffic. Still, for the right price, all secrets can be bought…”

“I doubt it would be worth the cost if Upshaw found out, Isaac.” Jacob rolled his eyes. “I can wait like everyone else.”

“Suit yourself, then. Just keep in mind I’m here for you.” The smirk faded from Isaac’s eyes as an ensign appeared along the corridor and approached them. Both officers settled into a more formal and professional attitude as the junior officer drew close.

The young man came to a halt in front of Jacob and made a salute. “Captain Hull, sir. There was a transmission from the flagship. Commander Flint asked me to bring you the recording.”

Jacob frowned, but returned the salute. “Thank you, Ensign Knowles.” The ensign extended a small package, which Jacob accepted. When the ensign had retreated, Jacob sighed and glanced at Isaac. “Looks like it’s back to the grind. Take care of yourself.”

“Of course! Laurie would never forgive me otherwise.” Isaac strode away with a wave and a grin, leaving Jacob standing in the corridor. Then he made his way to his office.

The
Terrier
had been modified compared to the
Wolfhound
’s plan in order to accommodate the need to house the squadron captain. Where the commander’s office and suite had been located in the
Wolfhound
, Jacob had found space carved out for his own duties and living space. Commander Flint’s quarters and office had been squeezed in a bit further back, cramping the cargo holds by necessity.

Still, it was comfortable to have his working space in the same spot where he had spent so much time on
Wolfhound
. Jacob nodded to the Marine on guard duty outside the office, and slid the door closed. Turning, Jacob glanced around to reassure himself that no one had intruded in his absence. Just as the late Commander Rogers had, Jacob chose to keep his office sparsely decorated. A clean, mostly empty desk took up most of the room. Four small chairs were grouped close to the front of the desk, while his chair was squeezed in behind it. A computer and hologram projection unit had been built into the desk, allowing him to access both his data for work and project the various maneuvers his flotilla was assigned by their orders.

Scrunched into the right hand corner was a small, securely locked data storage unit. The sheer durability of the unit, when it had been explained to him, was a testament to the determination of the Navy to guarantee the sanctity of their orders and information. A smug-sounding technician had informed Jacob that without the proper codes, a direct hit from a railgun shell would be needed just to open the unit, let alone access the information. He had been skeptical of the claim, at least until Isaac told him the thing was uncrackable. If Isaac couldn’t hack it, no one could.

Unlike the old office he had used on the
Wolfhound
, this one was meant for him and not simply surrendered to him in a time of emergency. As a result, he felt more comfortable supplying a bit more of a personal touch. A moderately-sized portrait of his family hung against the wall near the doorway; it was brief snapshot from a family reunion two years before the accident that had claimed his parents. It showed a great mass of cousins in a giant, collapsed human pyramid. The trio of siblings in his father’s extended family stood aside from the chaos with their spouses, all three couples looking on with bright smiles. He could pick out a younger, less moody version of himself, along with a disgruntled Catherine, his sister. Jacob found, as Rogers must have, that a picture of home was a good reminder of why he was serving in his current post. During hard times—particularly when having to deal with recalcitrant underlings or frustrating superiors—it was a reminder he sorely needed.

Another picture, this one of the
Wolfhound
, decorated the wall behind Jacob’s chair. It was not a pleasant scene, but it was one that gave him an important memory. A newscaster’s picture had been taken when the Celostian destroyer had made the assisted riftjump back to the nearest naval dockyard after the Battle of Reefhome. The
Wolfhound
had not been in good shape. With hundreds dead from its original crew and a bridge only accessible via extravehicular suits, the ship had taken a brutal beating. Holes and tears in the hull were visible even at the distance the newscaster’s ship had been forced to wait. Each one of those gaps represented another sacrifice by the crew who had followed Jacob against the Telosian pirates under Admiral Dianton, and every time he looked at that photograph, he remembered how lucky he was simply to have survived such an experience.