The Oncoming Storm (30 page)

“Of course not,” Davidson said. “At last report, the admiral was planning to grant you the Combat Infantryman’s Badge.”

“Fuck,” Kat said. “I’ll be a laughingstock.”

She felt her fists clench round her mug and hastily put it down on the deck. The coveted award was given to soldiers who had seen combat and, more rarely, spacers who had found themselves fighting on the ground. It brought a considerable amount of prestige, but little else. But, as far as she knew, it had never been awarded to someone who had escaped a bunch of insurgents long enough to radio for help, then hide until help arrived.

“You won’t have to worry about it,” Davidson said. “I don’t think General Eastside will allow the award to go through.”

“Saved,” Kat said. She sighed, then stood. “I really should sleep, shouldn’t I?”

“I’ve already spoken to the XO,” Davidson said. “Your schedule has been altered. You won’t have to stand watch until tomorrow evening.”

Kat hesitated. Under normal circumstances, the watch rota wasn’t vitally important when the starship was orbiting a heavily defended planet. It was generally seen as a good time to give junior officers a chance to practice without too much opportunity to screw up. But on Cadiz . . . she’d insisted that senior officers remain on watch at all times. The Theocracy could attack at any moment.

But she knew she needed the rest.

“Thank you,” she said, finally. She looked down at him, feeling an odd mix of sensations in her breast. “Will you . . . will you stay the night?”

Davidson hesitated, briefly. It would have been unnoticeable if she hadn’t known him so well.

“Are you sure?” he asked, finally. “You could regret this . . .”

“Yes,” Kat said. She wanted to feel alive. “Come with me.”

After a moment, Davidson rose to his feet and followed her into her bedroom.

“You do realize someone will have noticed?” Davidson said the following morning. “I didn’t bed down with the bootlegs.”

“I think it’s none of their business,” Kat said. It had been a long time since she’d kissed anyone, let alone slept with them. The admiral’s son certainly didn’t count. “Besides, we’re in orbit, not on deployment.”

“That isn’t what I meant and you know it,” Davidson said. “There could be . . . problems.”

“Then we will handle them,” Kat said. She reached for her terminal and skimmed through the handful of messages. “The admiral has sent us our deployment orders.”

She read them, quickly. Lightning was to patrol the border, investigate any hints that starships might be crossing the border without permission, render aid to any ship attacked by pirates, etc., etc. Patrol duty was boring, she knew, but it was necessary. Admiral Morrison had even thoughtfully outlined the precise route they were to follow, close to the border but not close enough to cause problems. Or so he clearly hoped.

Every ship follows the same course, she thought after a check of the records. They’re not even trying to vary their flight plan.

“Good,” Davidson said. “When do we leave?”

“Tonight,” Kat said. She tapped a key, forwarding the orders to the XO, then swore as she read the next message. “The spy ship left orbit yesterday.”

Davidson looked up, meeting her eyes. “Coincidence?”

“Perhaps not,” Kat said. “They might well have been there to watch what happened when the admiral’s mansion was attacked.”

“Or it was just a coincidence,” Davidson said. “I’d hate to be the officer who tried to coordinate an operation across interstellar distances.”

Kat shrugged. It didn’t matter. What did matter was that the Theocracy probably had up-to-date sensor readings on 7th Fleet’s condition—and the XO’s old friends had barely started trying to get the fleet combat capable once again. Kat’s most optimistic estimate was that the fleet needed at least a month of uninterrupted repair work . . . and she knew it wasn’t going to get it. The Theocracy would lower the hammer within weeks.

“It does make me wonder,” Davidson said. “Did the Theocracy authorize the operation?”

Kat considered it carefully. By any reasonable standard, decapitating the enemy command network was a reasonable goal in war. But if they’d killed Admiral Morrison and his command staff, she reasoned, they could hardly have hoped for his replacement to be so incompetent. It was unlikely the admiral’s patrons could put someone equally useless in his place. But did the Theocracy know Admiral Morrison was so incompetent? Or did they consider him a typical commanding officer?

“They might have hoped the occupation would collapse in the aftermath,” she mused. Word would have reached Tyre by now. Questions would be asked in Parliament. “That would give them Cadiz without a fight.”

“Maybe,” Davidson agreed. “Or they might have been horrified at losing their chance of taking out 7th Fleet.”

“There’s no way to know,” Kat said morbidly. She glanced at the next message, then froze. It was from her father. “One moment.”

The message wasn’t informative. Her father had been unable to determine just who was backing Admiral Morrison. It took Kat several moments to understand the full enormity of what she’d been told. Duke Falcone commanded a patronage network that touched all levels of the Royal Navy, from the junior crewmen to very senior officers. If he couldn’t determine who was backing Admiral Morrison, it had to be someone very high in the aristocracy.

Or perhaps it’s just someone good at covering his tracks, she thought. But who?

Her father’s note concluded with authorization to call on the Falcone-owned faculties in the system if necessary and order them to assist her. She felt a chill run down her spine as she studied the wording. It was more corporate authority than she’d ever been offered—or expected to wield. Kat hesitated, then forwarded both the authorization and the contact details to the XO. The bureaucrats probably wouldn’t notice if the Falcone-owned facilities started requesting spare parts as long as they were paid. The spare parts could then be forwarded to the starships that needed them without sounding any alarms.

“I hate this,” she said. Frustration bubbled up in her mind, seeking an outlet. “We’re sneaking round our own officers, trying to get ready for war.”

“There’s no choice,” Davidson said. He looked down at the table. “At least some of us will be ready when the shit hits the fan.”

Kat nodded reluctantly. “I’d better get the ship ready for departure,” she said. She felt much better after sex and a good night’s sleep. “And remind the crew I exist.”

“I’m sure none will dare disobey the martial arts artist,” Davidson said.

“Thanks,” Kat said sourly. “I’ll be expected to try out for the martial arts team next.”

“I have the bridge,” the captain said.

“I stand relieved,” William said as he rose from the command chair. Two days of patrolling the border had turned up nothing, apart from some additional navigational data that would be forwarded to the weathermen when they returned to Cadiz. “With your permission, Captain, I have disciplinary matters to attend to.”

The captain nodded. William took one last look at the display, then walked off the bridge and headed down towards his office. The designers had clearly not seen the value in placing it right next to the bridge, but he had to admit it was sometimes useful to have his private space right on the edge of Officer Country. He knew crewmen who would hesitate to walk onto the command deck, no matter the cause.

Shaking his head, he stepped through the hatch and tapped instructions into the terminal, alerting the senior chief. He’d put the matter off for far too long, hoping and praying that it would resolve itself before he had to actually take action. But it hadn’t. If anything, he noted as he looked at the figures, it was growing worse. Something would have to be done before a handful of promising careers were ruined. He sat down behind his desk and waited. Ten minutes later, the hatch beeped. Someone was waiting outside.

“Enter,” he ordered.

William looked up as Crewman Third Class Jonny Steadman entered the compartment. He was a fearsome brute, as muscled as a marine, without the discipline that separated the Marines from the common spacers. His bald head and bare arms were covered in tattoos that pushed the limits of what regulations allowed—but then, Steadman knew he was unlikely to see promotion. If he hadn’t been good at his job—and he was, according to the senior chief—he would have been discharged long ago.

Steadman saluted. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

“I did,” William confirmed. He’d known enough men like Steadman in his career to know that the slightest hint of weakness would be fatal. “Sit.”

He studied Steadman for a long moment, contemplating his options. The man seemed to be trying to decide which of his offenses had led to the summons, but it was impossible to tell if he knew which one had caught the XO’s attention. Most disciplinary issues below decks were handled by the senior chief, with the XO only becoming involved if matters were serious. Which one, Steadman had to be wondering, was serious?

“You’ve been running a gambling ring,” William said finally. “Haven’t you?”

Steadman’s eyes narrowed for a brief second. “Gambling isn’t against regulations, sir.”

Bingo, William thought. Steadman wouldn’t be trying to mount a defense if he hadn’t realized why he was in the shit. And he might already have worked out just what had gone wrong—and why.

“Of course gambling isn’t against regulations,” William said. “Of course gambling is common on a starship. I am shocked, shocked, to hear that there might be gambling going on below decks.”

Steadman smiled at the quote. It vanished a second later as William glared at him.

“Gambling is tolerated as long as it falls within acceptable limits,” he said. “And you’ve been breaking the limits, haven’t you?”

He allowed his voice to become contemplative. “A young officer, fresh out of Piker’s Peak, untried in the ways of the universe . . . wouldn’t you say she was easy meat? A young officer, trying her hardest to be liked by the rough crewmen under her command, partaking in gambling with her subordinates. And a young officer, too naive to realize that the game is rigged—that the game is always rigged—losing her salary to her subordinates . . .”

Steadman’s face suddenly went very cold.

“Oh, don’t be an idiot,” William said sharply, before Steadman got any ideas about retaliation. “I monitor bank accounts on this ship, you ninny. She didn’t come crying to me. But once I noticed the pattern . . .”

He allowed his voice to trail off meaningfully. Steadman rose to the bait.

“We didn’t ask her to play, sir,” he said. “And we didn’t encourage her to keep playing.”

William lifted his eyebrows. “Are you trying to tell me you didn’t want such a poor player to keep playing?”

He pressed his hands against the table and went on before Steadman could say a word. “It’s already getting out of hand, isn’t it? She can’t give you more money . . . how long will it be, I wonder, before you start using her debt against her? Will you ask her to help you with your less-than-savory activities? Or merely to cover your ass when you get into trouble? Or will you simply try to get her into bed? I’m sure that would give you bragging rights below decks.”

Steadman looked as if he wanted to say something, but common sense was keeping his mouth firmly shut. William was almost disappointed. He had no proof of anything that could be used to throw the book at Steadman, beyond his own suspicions and the details from the bank accounts. And Steadman was right. Gambling wasn’t against regulations. But William knew, all too well, just how easily it could lead to real trouble.

This is why more officers should be mustangs, he thought. They’d have some experience at handling problem cases before they became officers.

He glared at Steadman. “I will not order you to return her money,” he said. “You won it legitimately. What I will order you to do is to refrain from inviting her to play any more games. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” Steadman said.

“In addition,” William added, “you are not to gamble—ever—for anything more than petty cash. If you want a high stakes game, you can go to the casinos on Cadiz and play there.”

William sighed. Money wasn’t the only stake in shipboard games. Everything from duty rosters to games and pornographic datachips could be included, if the gamblers were willing. But they tended to cause far too many problems. He’d seen crewmen try to hold down double or triple shifts because they’d gambled and lost. It could not be tolerated.

“I will have my eye on you,” he warned. “Step out of line just once more and it will be the Captain’s Mast.”

Steadman flinched. Even if he wasn’t—technically—guilty of breaching regulations, a Captain’s Mast could destroy his career. The captain had wide authority to determine what constituted a crime and issue punishment as she saw fit. Steadman might be able to convince higher authorities to overturn Captain Falcone’s decision, but it would be a major black mark on his record. And he would almost certainly never take up another posting on a starship.

William rose to his feet. “Report to the senior chief,” he ordered flatly. “I dare say he has some work for you.”