Virtues of War (10 page)

At the very stern of the ship was a spherical pod from which protruded two thin barrels, and Jack realized he was looking at a tail turret.

The fast-attack craft cleared the twin rows of fighters, and pulled in between her two sister ships,
Cutlass
and
Sabre
. With surprising grace, she pivoted around and rolled gently backward into her parking space. The engines hummed for a moment longer, then began to wind down.

Curious to get a closer look at the ship that had caused such a disturbance during his ASW exercise in the Bulk, Jack strolled along the fighter line toward
Rapier
. A ramp lowered from the ship’s belly and several crewmembers emerged. As Jack approached they began setting up connections between the ship and the deck.

Reaching up to touch the black skin, he was surprised at how cold it was. Whenever he returned from a surface run in the Hawk his fuselage would be simmering with residual friction. Considering the punishment
Rapier
seemed to have endured, he’d almost expected her to be too hot to touch.

An indistinct announcement sounded inside the ship’s hull, and within moments additional crewmembers began trooping down the ramp, carrying bags over their shoulders. Jack saw their tired faces and realized that they must have been gone for days.

Jack’s missions rarely lasted more than four hours, including flight time. He couldn’t imagine spending days in the Hawk. Intrigued, he stood to the side of the ramp and peered upward into the dark interior.

Three troopers descended in silence, eyeing Jack warily as they passed.

He smiled automatically. “Hey guys. Good mission?”

“Yes, sir.”

There was no change in expression, no slackening of pace. He’d heard that troopers could be a bit unfriendly, so he didn’t try to further the conversation. Instead he turned to the next blue jumpsuit that came walking down.

And his attention was immediately refocused. The woman had long, wavy brown hair that fell past her shoulders, and brilliant blue eyes that sparked with curiosity when they set upon Jack. Her easy smile made his blood rush, and he felt his own grin broaden. Jack guessed she was probably ten years older than him, but in really good shape for her age.

She reached the deck and turned to face him, looking him almost eye to eye.

“Hi,” she said. “Are you the homecoming guard?”

He laughed. “No, I was just admiring your ship and thought I’d come over and say hello.” He extended his hand. “Jack Mallory. I’m a pilot.”

“Oooh, a pilot—wow…” She took his hand softly in hers, making a show of being impressed. “You like saying that, don’t you?”

He felt himself redden, his thoughts tumbling over themselves under her gaze. “Sorry—I’m still getting used to saying it. Umm, I didn’t catch your name.”

She glanced at the rank on his shoulders. “To you, Subbie, my name’s ma’am.”

He winced. “Right, sorry, ma’am.” Was there any way he could screw this up more?

She suddenly laughed and touched his arm. “I’m just messing with you. Relax, Jack. My name’s Charity Brisebois, but everyone calls me Breeze.”

She resumed her walk toward the nearest exit from the hangar. Jack kept pace.

“You work on board, ma’am?” He gestured back into the ship.

Breeze rolled her eyes. “Oh, spare me. ‘Ma’am’ makes me sound like a schoolteacher. Call me Breeze,
please
.”

“Sure, Breeze. You’ll have to give me a tour one day.”

“Of
Rapier
? Why?”

He shrugged. “It looks cool.”

She gave him a strange look, but seemed amused.

That was good enough for him. “Any chance we could chat over a drink?”

Her amusement deepened as she suddenly re-appraised him.

“Well, I am starving. Let me get the smell of ship off me and I’ll take you somewhere nice. It’ll be good to talk to someone who isn’t fast-attack qualified.”

Jack glanced back at
Rapier
as they exited the hangar.

“Is it stressful on board?” he asked.

“Typical stuff. It doesn’t matter how good the intelligence is before a mission—troopers always find a way to screw things up.” Her gaze was distant for a moment, but then she smiled and refocused on him. “Day to day, it’s like any small unit. When you live in really close quarters, you run out of things to talk about, pretty quick. Don’t you get bored hanging out with pilots all the time?”

He considered. “Well, there’s only two of us on board. The rest are all line officers.”

She smiled. “And we know just how charming they tend to be.”

“You’re not a line officer?”

“Intelligence,” she said. “What do you mean when you say there’s only two pilots on board?” She gestured back toward the hangar. “You guys must wear out planes pretty fast.”

Jack felt a moment of unexpected regret, then realized that he had been secretly hoping Breeze would think he was a strike fighter pilot.

“No, I’m just visiting from
Kristiansand
,” he said. “I fly a Hawk.”

“Oh, so you’re doing the medical supply run.” She seemed to take this information with interest. “Nice.”

“How did you know that?”

She smiled playfully. “Intelligence.”

They strolled down one of the many broad, reinforced passageways that tunneled through
Normandy
’s bulk. The decks were bustling with activity as the afternoon watchmen came off shift. Jack still hadn’t learned all the rank insignia, but he knew that if the coveralls had markings on their sleeves, it was an enlisted rank, and bars on the epaulettes meant officer. In the pilot world ranks didn’t mean much—everybody just did their job.

“So, have you been in the Fleet long?” he asked.

“Five years—I joined a little late. I did my subbie tour here in Cerberus as an analyst, and then did a couple of years in the diplomatic corps as a flag lieutenant.”

“Wow, that must have been cool.”

“Oh, yeah. The cocktail parties sometimes went to four in the morning.”

Jack glanced at her, and saw a sparkle in her eyes. “And now you’re fast-attack. I thought that was only for the intense. The Fleet guys who wished they were Corps.”

“Mostly,” she agreed. “But it’s also for the Fleet guys who don’t want to waste their lives as anonymous staff officers scrambling to try and outdo each other with pettiness. I’ve seen what old Fleet guys become—bitter, bored, and fat—and I don’t want to be that way. Fast-attack is a ticket on the express train.”

She fell silent for a moment, her last statement hanging in the air. Jack could hear an edge in her voice which was at odds with her casual demeanor.

They reached officer country. Breeze stopped at a particular door and tapped in her entry code. The door slid open.

“Home sweet home,” she said with a smile.

He glanced through the opening, and saw a typical single cabin—oversized, fold-down bunk, comfy chair and bulkhead-mounted entertainment unit, desk with foldout chair and a door that presumably led to the ensuite.

“I think the best thing about getting promoted one day,” he said, “will be getting my own cabin.”

She entered and tossed her bag on the comfy chair.

“I never would have gone fast-attack if they hadn’t provided us proper quarters on the invasion ship. You think your cabin is small? You should see the shoe box I squeeze into on
Rapier
.”

“Basically a shelf to sleep in?”

Breeze glanced over her shoulder. “A shelf for
two
of us to sleep in.”

The lift of her eyebrow got his attention. “Another charming intelligence officer?”

She laughed. “A butchy Corps officer, actually. We get separate bunks, but I’m sure she wouldn’t mind a little snuggle.”

“Nice.”

Breeze sat down on her bunk and pulled off her boots. “Oh, that feels good.”

She slipped off her socks and stood, wriggling her toes on the rug. With her boots off she was short enough to have to look up at Jack, and she did so now with playful eyes.

“Honey, I gotta have a shower. These lieutenant cabins may be big, but they’re not that big. And we’ve just met. How ’bout you head on down to the star lounge and get a drink? I’ll be there in about twenty.”

“Sure. Take your time.”

He stepped back out into the passageway and heard the door shut behind him. Movement drew his attention to the right.

Turning, he saw a compact woman striding down the passageway, a green bag over her shoulder. She had very short, blonde hair and pale skin that made her big, dark brown eyes even more prominent. Her gaze bore through him, her expression not welcoming.

But Jack was riding a wave of confidence, and his smile burst forth unassisted. The bag over her shoulder gave him a cue.

“Hi there,” he said. “You from the fast-attack craft?”

She slowed, and looked surprised by his greeting. “I’m Lieutenant Emmes,
Rapier
’s strike officer. Can I help you?”

He thrust out his hand. “I’m Jack Mallory. Can you tell me where the star lounge is?”

She nodded down the passageway. “Two frames up, one deck down.”

“Thanks. Hey, I just met your shipmate, Breeze. We were going to rendezvous at the star lounge in about twenty minutes—you want to join us?”

If the woman’s expression changed at all, it became even harder. “No thanks.”

The glint of gold off her left chest caught his eye. It was the strike officer qualification badge. “You’re Astral Corps. That’s interesting. Maybe I could ask you a few questions about what you do?”

“Is this how you introduce yourself to everyone?” she asked.

“No, not everyone.” He laughed. “At least I didn’t tell you I was a pilot right away.”

She dropped her gaze with a scornful sniff. “Oh, well,
now
I’m impressed.”

She walked off without further comment.

Jack found himself standing alone in the passageway again, a frown on his face. After a moment he started off for the lounge.

A
s soon as the door shut behind her, Katja threw her bag down on the chair as hard as she could. The burst of rage felt good, and some of the tension eased from her stiff body.

Strikes and boardings she could handle. Days fighting space sickness in zero-g she could handle. Even sharing a cabin with Charity Brisebois she could handle. But being chatted up by one of Breeze’s little boy toys—

That was too much.

She stood in the middle of her cabin for a long moment, relishing the quiet and the gravity. A few long, slow breaths, and the last of her anger subsided. Kicking off her boots and activating some Mozart, she reached over her desk and accessed the queue of incoming mail flashing on the screen. Mostly routine administration messages from the regiment—she skimmed the subject lines and deleted as appropriate.

There was a personal message from her sister-in-law, and another from her mother, both reminding her that it was her niece’s birthday in a couple of days. She made a note to write some suitably auntie-like greeting tomorrow.

The last message in the queue was from an official Corps address, but she smiled at the subject line:
Levantine Jihad.

It was a colorful note from Lieutenant Scott Lahko, her oldest friend in the regiment. He dispensed the usual hacks about her spending too much time with the Fleet, then invited her to the monthly trooper social gathering, known affectionately as the Jihad. She glanced at her watch and saw that it had already started.

The fatigue that had weighed her down upon leaving
Rapier
suddenly lifted. Having a few drinks with people she understood might be just the thing to relax.

A hot shower helped work out the knots of tension in her shoulders. She lingered a few moments in the steamy water and let the music caress her ears. Every basic space course taught the importance of conserving air and water—and a career in the Corps had drilled the same principles into her—but it didn’t take anyone long to figure out that a ship the size of
Normandy
didn’t operate under the same rules.

Every ship recycled about ninety-nine percent of its air and water, but that one percent lost was critical when the nearest resupply was several billion kilometers away. In an invasion ship, however, the sheer volume of water and air it carried meant that nearly half could be lost before rationing took effect.

Katja had long since outgrown any sort of heroic notion that military service should always be hard. Like soldiers since the time of Troy, she’d learned very young to grab ahold of good times when they came, because there was no guarantee they’d come again.

Fresh clothes felt soft on her skin, and the green Corps jumpsuit was a welcome change from Fleet blue. When she emerged from her cabin she felt a new skip in her stride, and smiled easily at the people she passed on the way to the star lounge.

She heard the low murmur as soon as she descended the steep staircase the Fleet called a “ladder.” Ahead, the wide opening to her destination beckoned.

The star lounge was the largest communal space where officers could socialize. Taking its name from the broad, deck-high windows that offered a magnificent view of the cosmos, it offered a full bar and café at the forward end, an area of comfortable chairs and couches at the other, and an open central area that was used for events as diverse as dances, military parades, and fancy-dress mini-golf tournaments. The lights were dimmed in the bar and café area, but even as her eyes adjusted Katja could easily make out the group she sought.

The Levantine Regiment was
Normandy
’s reason for existence—at least for this deployment, as the regiment rarely used the same invasion ship twice—and had been Katja’s professional home since graduating from the Astral College. It boasted six infantry troops, including Katja’s own Saracens, as well as a pair of armored troops and another pair of engineers. Like all regiments it had a strong tradition and identity, and it was the fundamental unit to which all troopers felt their allegiance.

Katja was proud to call herself a Saracen, but if ever she saw trouble approaching a Crusader, an Ottoman, a Spartan, or a man from any of the other troops, she would quickly make that trouble her own. Back on Earth the troops were scattered by distance and different routines, but on deployments they always drew together.