Guardsmen Of Tomorrow Part 3

"Sir! It's Valorous! And Trimirage! And the rest of the out-system squadron!"

"It's the G.o.dd.a.m.n cavalry to the rescue!" Pardoe shouted. "It's a skekking miracle!..."

"Not a miracle," Hazzard replied, trying to keep his voice from breaking. "Not a miracle. Just very, very good timing..."

"... it is the judgment of this court, furthermore, that Captain Fifth-Rank Greydon Hazzard acted at all times within the very best traditions of the naval service, rendering timely a.s.sistance to four smaller embattled friendly vessels and almost certainly preventing their destruction or capture by the enemy.

"This court of inquiry finds him not guilty of criminal negligence and urges his immediate restoration to com-mand." Admiral-Fourth Howard looked up from his computer display. "Congratulations, Captain."

"Thank you, my lord."

The court of inquiry would have been necessary even if Admiral cy-Dennever hadn't filed charges against Hazzard in the wake of the Battle of Kaden, as it was being called now. After the fight, and the surrender of the Gilaadessera and two of her consorts, Indeterminacy had barely been able to make it to light speed for a long, heart-in-the-throat highs.p.a.ce jump back to Tribaltren. She would be in s.p.a.ce-dock undergoing repairs for at least the next six months. Twenty-five of her crew of three hundred were dead, another fourteen mindless, helpless dissociates.

A h.e.l.l of a butcher's bill to pay. Poor cy-Tomlin. He was one of the dissociates, the circuitry projecting his mind into the s.h.i.+pnet burned out during the final, savage enemy broadside. The poor kid had never had a chance.

Hazzard knew he'd done it to save the other s.h.i.+ps. That didn't make the loss any easier to bear. The loss of his own was like a small piece of himself dying.

A bell rang. 'These proceedings are completed. Dismissed."

Hazzard straightened to attention as the three admirals behind the imposing cliff of a judgment desk stood, turned, and walked toward the wings of the courtroom. One of them stopped, though, at the door, spoke for a moment with the others, then walked toward Hazzard.

"That," Admiral Dalim cy-Koenin said softly, "was one of the stupidest battles I've ever seen played on an after-action report."

Hazzard stiffened. "Yes, sir."

"You should have run as soon as you saw how badly you were outgunned. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"If Lieutenant Lasely hadn't had the bright idea of expending nearly all of Uriel's water reserves in a last-ditch attempt to boost to c using his maneuvering thrusters, it would have been another hour or more before Victor reached you, and you all would have been dead or prisoners by then."

"I only wanted to save those s.h.i.+ps and men, sir. I knew Uriel would win clear to the squadron. I thought I might be able to slow the P'aaseni enough to let some of our s.h.i.+ps get clear."

"Risking your s.h.i.+p and crew that way was misguided at best, stupid at worst."Which was no more than Hazzard had been telling himself since the battle's end. "Yes, sir. I have no excuse, sir."

"Uh. It was also one of the more brilliant pieces of military s.h.i.+p handling I've ever seen. You saved Bellemew's tail, that's sure. You single-handedly brought the Anarchate into the Union camp and without firing on them, though there'll be some hair-splitting over whether what you did const.i.tuted an attack or not. You fought a s.h.i.+p of the line to a battered hulk and were responsible for the capture of three out of six enemy sail and the repulse of the rest. You'll probably be getting a decoration for this one."

"Lieutenant Lasely deserves the medal, Admiral. He's the one that saved all our tails."

"He'll get it. Don't worry." Cy-Koenin placed his hands on his hips and shook his head. "d.a.m.n it, Dad.

Sometimes I despair of you. But... well done!"

Hazzard released the breath he'd been holding in his lungs. His son extended a hand, and Hazzard took it.

Then they embraced.

It was one of the costs of a naval service that depended on near-c velocities for each jump to highs.p.a.ce or for riding the light barrier endlessly on blockade or patrol off the shoals of enemy systems. Greydon Hazzard had ten portwives on various worlds and, at last count, at any rate, had seven children, four girls, three boys, by different mothers. All but three were older biologically than Hazzard now, because most of their lives had been spent groundside... and one, also a Navy captain, was sometimes older, sometimes younger when they met, depending on how much tau-minus each had acc.u.mulated in the intervening subjective since their last meeting.

Hazzard had racked up a h.e.l.l of a lot of tau-minus over the objective years. His portwife on Groller, nearly seventy objective years ago, had been one Lauri cy-Koenin.

She was long dead, but their son, Dalim, had gone to the Union Naval Academy at Napola, risen through the ranks, commanded half a dozen s.h.i.+ps in his ill.u.s.trious career, and finally been promoted to admiral.

With far less tau-minus on the books than Hazzard, he was now fifty-eight standard-objective years old and twenty-two years older than his father.

"You know, don't you, that cy-Dennever was right to bring you up on charges."

A pause. "Yes, sir." Reluctantly.

"The Anarchate was this close to declaring war after your little stunt with their PDBs. You're just d.a.m.ned lucky their military council decided to switch sides."

That was news to Hazzard. "I hadn't heard that, sir."

"Just came through on the last dispatch boat from Kaden. Turns out there was a faction of the Anarchate military that had decided to side with the Alliance because they were strongest and, sooner or later, when the Alliance beat us, the Anarchate would be wiped out by the Alliance's human-onlies. They figured that if they joined the Alliance, helped them, the Irdikad might be able to find a place in the new regime, even if only as second-cla.s.s citizens."

"Huh. Maybe their decision wasn't so crazy after all." It made sense, after a fas.h.i.+on, according to Irdikad psychology.

"Yes, well, it seems that our winning that battle against those odds convinced them that we were thestrongest, and therefore the ones to side with. Although..."

"Sir?"

"What they said was, 'Anyone crazy enough to pull a stunt like that is worthy of respect.' A rough translation, of course." He shook his head. "First time a Fleet officer has won a battle and a new ally by being insane."

"I prefer the word lucky."

"Someday, Dad," cy-Koenin said with a grin, "when you're as old as I am, you'll know that relying on luck just doesn't always pay off the way you expect."

"We make our own luck, son. Sometimes, it's just a bit harder and more expensive than other times." He didn't add that often the price was a little piece of your soul. Poor cy-Tomlin...

"You in the mood for a bite to eat, Admiral? Courts of inquiry make me hungry."

"Thought you'd never ask."

Together, father and son, they strode from the chamber.

BLINDFOLD.

by Robin Wayne Bailey

Robin Wayne Bailey is the author of a dozen novels, including the Brothers of the Dragon series, Shad-owdance, and the new Fafhrd and the Grey Mouser novel Swords Against the Shadowland. His short fiction has appeared in numerous science fiction and fantasy anthologies and magazines, including Far Frontiers and Spell Fantastic. An avid book collector and old-time radio enthusiast, he lives in North Kansas City, Missouri.

Chilson Dawes stumbled out of the doorway of Madam Satterfield's brothel and into the dark Martian night. He stank of alcohol and s.e.x. He didn't care. He still had money in his pockets, and pale dawn was hours away. He rubbed a hand over his stubbled chin, drew his cloak about his shoulders, and smacked his lips, thirsty for another drink.

A burly bear of a man in a worn leather s.p.a.cer's jacket leaned near the door. He stubbed out a cigarette with a booted toe. "You're killin' yourself, you know." A note of weariness softened the gruff voice.

"Why don't you call it a night."

Dawes heard the limping sc.r.a.pe of boot soles on the pavement. He groped for an offered arm and clutched it. "Mister Donovan," he said with a cheerful slur, "when I want a medical opinion, I'll call a doctor, not a broken-down washed-out wreck of an Irish freighter pilot like yourself." He patted the hand at the end of the arm. "You're a lousy friend, but like a good old dog always there when I call."

"We are a pair, aren't we?" Donovan said. "So-brothel, bar, or casino?"

That was the problem with a city like Tharsis. Too d.a.m.n much to offer. All the sins and vices a man couldn't get on civilized Earth anymore, pleasures undreamed of for someone with too much money and too much time. Chilson Dawes had both.

"Just walk," he said with a sudden, self-pitying melancholy.

Donovan obeyed. Dawes, with a secure grip on the Irishman's arm, listened to the sounds around him asthey wandered. The streets were alive tonight: music gus.h.i.+ng from the open doorways of taverns; a woman's coa.r.s.e laugh; a pair of boastful s.p.a.cers drunk as Dawes himself; the rattle of what might have been a blowing newspaper; the soft rustle of his own cloak. A harlot called his name and an offer as Donovan led him on. Strong whiff of perfume. He waved a hand and grinned, wondered who she was.

"The moons," he said quietly, feeling the Martian wind in his hair. "Are they up yet?"

Donovan slowed his pace only a little. Chilson Dawes imagined the big man staring upward. "Deimos is, swollen and full, like a ripe tangerine."

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Dawes muttered.

"Something else is up, too," Donovan whispered. His hand closed over Dawes' as he subtly increased the pace. "We're being followed."

Dawes frowned, his heart quickening. This was a rough part of Tharsis, but he was known here. The locals protected him and left him alone. Still, he trusted Donovan; he did his best to keep up. He had enough money on him to make robbery tempting. Maybe someone had followed him from Madam Satterfield's.

Donovan led the way quickly through the streets, around comers, down winding alleys into new streets.

Carnival sounds swirled; cotton candy smells and body stink, urine, trash can noises, conversation, laughter. Another turn, and a quieter street.

Donovan stopped suddenly. A rush of footsteps. Donovan pushed Dawes' hand away and turned. A grunt, harsh intake of breath, sound of body falling.

A rough hand grabbed Dawes' shoulder. Not Donovan's-he knew that familiar touch too well. Angry, concerned for his friend, Dawes leaned sideways, twisting even as he thrust out a foot. Someone went flying over his leg. Someone else caught his wrist. He heard his name; so they knew him! With his free hand he s.n.a.t.c.hed the attacker's wrist, twisted hard, heard bone snap as he dropped to one knee. A sharp, deep-throated scream of pain, another flying body.

His name again, then an energy whine, heat-sizzle past his ear, and an explosion of stone and brick behind him. "Dawes!"

An ozone reek filled the air, and he rose cautiously. He knew a warning shot from a laser pistol. He groped for the still-warm wall, leaned against it, fingered the catch of his cloak nervously, and huddled inside its folds as he waited.

"d.a.m.n you, you've injured two of my best men."

From either side new pairs of hands gripped his arms. A loud electric crackle, and anguished gasps.

"Four," Dawes corrected with a horrible grin, as two more bodies fell groaning. He relaxed a little; he recognized the voice that had addressed him. "Next time you want to see me, Colonel, make an appointment-like everybody else." He paused. No one else tried to grab him, so he touched the catch of his cloak again, deactivating the microcircuitry hidden in its weave.

"You've been inventing again."

There was a certain pitying sympathy in Samuel Straf's voice that irritated Dawes. "A stun-cloak," he said. "What the h.e.l.l did you do to Donovan, and what the h.e.l.l do you want with me? I've got nothing to do with your d.a.m.ned Stellar Guard anymore.""I'm okay, Chil." Donovan's voice said he was a little less than okay, but alive at least. "Just too slow on this b.u.m leg. I turned into a left hook."

"He threw the first punch," Straf said. "Understandable, I guess, since we're not in uniform, but you don't wear those in this part of the city. You haunt a bad neighborhood, Chilson."

As if Chilson Dawes gave a starman's d.a.m.n what Samuel Straf thought. The Guard had dismissed him and s.h.i.+t-canned his last civilian research project on Straf's recommendation. "Stuff it, Colonel." He held out his arm for Donovan, instructing his friend, "Get me out of here before this skunk stinks up the place."

"I've got a job for you," Straf said stiffly. "You're still drawing a Guard paycheck. Technically, you never retired."

Dawes gripped Donovan's arm. "You fired me when you canceled the Sabre."

"I put you on medical leave," Straf shot back. "You're blind, Chil."

Chilson Dawes felt his heart freeze. "Stay away from me, Sam," he said through clenched teeth. "Just stay away!"

"I'll give you back the Sabre," Straf said. A controlled but unmistakable urgency filled in his voice. "I'm authorized. It's fueled and ready."

"You're full of it," Dawes answered. But he listened. And shortly, he found himself sober on an atomic-powered tram from Tharsis City to the Guard starport at Valles Mari-naris.

In two hundred years of starfaring, humans had discovered no other intelligent races. Recently, that had changed. Only a year after Dawes had lost his sight, the first exploratory s.h.i.+ps had ventured past Vega into a sector named Burnham s.p.a.ce after the astronomer who had mapped it. It was in Burnham s.p.a.ce that the earths.h.i.+p Lancelot, under the command of Captain James Murray, first encountered the Kaxfen.

"Murray barely got his s.h.i.+p back to our outpost on Orth," Colonel Straf explained to Dawes over cups of steaming coffee. "The Kaxfen weapons weren't necessarily superior, but their numbers were. They swarmed over the Lancelot like insects."

Donovan spoke from the window that overlooked the starport. "If you've got a name to call them by, you must have established some kind of communication."

"Nothing face-to-face," Straf answered. "Only voice communications. They've warned us out of Burnham s.p.a.ce. They're claiming it as their exclusive backyard, and they're quite territorial about it. They promise to destroy any s.h.i.+p that ventures near it."

Dawes sipped from his cup. "So humans have finally found neighbors in s.p.a.ce, and managed to make enemies of them in our first meeting. I guess some things never change." He leaned forward, felt for the edge of Straf's desk, and set his cup down. "What do you expect me to do about it?"

There was a brief silence. Straf cleared his throat. "You brought the Sabre home like a sighted man, Chil," he said. "Even with your optic nerves burned out. n.o.body knows that s.h.i.+p's systems, controls, or capabilities better than you. n.o.body's touched her since you. No one dared."

"You can't be asking what I'm thinking," Donovan interrupted, his voice turning angry.

Straf's boots scuffed as he came around the desk closer to Dawes. ''I'm asking if you think you can pilot the Sabre."Donovan exploded. "G.o.dd.a.m.n you, he's!..."

"Shut up, Donovan!" Dawes yelled. His thoughts whirled. When Straf had mentioned giving him back the Sabre, Dawes had a.s.sumed the colonel had meant in an advisory or research capacity. Could he pilot her? Did Straf realize what he was offering? He answered, "h.e.l.l, yes!" Then he settled back in his chair, suspicious. "But you haven't told me everything, Sam. The Sabre's, only a prototype, not a wars.h.i.+p."

"I wasn't exactly truthful when I said no one had touched her," Straf admitted. "I've had her outfitted with the new Kleinowski planet-killer lasers. She's not totally defenseless."

"Or without offense either," Dawes said. "But what's this all about?"

Sound of paper rattling, and a light breeze fanned over Dawes' face. He envisioned Straf shaking a sheaf of pages as if Dawes could see them. It stopped suddenly, and Straf cleared his throat again. "We've got a cryo-s.h.i.+p..."

"An ice-wagon?" Donovan said from the window. "Who the?..."

"Don't be crude," Straf said, then he continued. "A cryo-s.h.i.+p. Yes, they're antiquated, but certain religious groups prefer them to translight travel."

Dawes nodded. "Because they think the laws of nature and G.o.d don't apply to hypes.p.a.ce, they refuse to go there. They'd rather travel like a tray of ice cubes."

Straf cleared his throat again. "They're ent.i.tled to their beliefs. But we've got a problem. The Via Dolorosa launched from Earth fifteen years ago, well before we knew about the Kaxfen. It's carrying a complement of five thousand New Hope congregationalists all in deep sleep to a new m-cla.s.s planet in System 2X-185. Their course skirts right across the edge of Burnham s.p.a.ce."

Dawes frowned as he leaped ahead of Straf's slow explanations. "Like most ice-wagons, the Via Dolorosa is operating only on computers. It's also totally defenseless. You want me to save some fundamentalist b.u.t.t."

There was more than a hint of indignation in Straf's response. "My parents are on the Via Dolorosa" he answered. "I've pulled strings to give you back the Sabre, Chil. And if that's not enough incentive, I've got another trick up my sleeve."

A brittle click as Straf thumbed an intercom switch on his desk. A moment later the door opened. By the whiff of lavender perfume and a soft tread, Dawes guessed that a young woman had entered the room.