Shadow of Victory - eARC (44 page)

“Yes, Ma’am! I didn’t mean to imply—”

“And you didn’t, Commander,” she interrupted again, and shook her head. “You’d be more than human if you weren’t reeling a little, and I’m sure seeing me in Captain Whitby’s command chair’s going to be hard, too. But what we have is what we have. We’re all just going to have to dig in and make it work.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“All right.” She inhaled sharply. “In that case, Commander, I think you and I should probably move to the bridge.

“Yes, Ma’am. This way, please.”

Ginger followed him to the lift car, then preceded him into it as he stepped respectfully to one side. She allowed him to punch their destination into the panel—after all, at the moment she was still a guest aboard his ship—and stood with her hands clasped behind her, watching the location display flicker and change.

The trip took longer than she’d expected. There’d been no time to absorb much about her new command’s physical layout—she’d been too busy soaking up all she could about the state of its crew—and Charles Ward was the biggest ship she’d actually served in since Wayfarer’s cruise to Silesia. Her bridge was a long way from the boat bay, and no doubt Ginger’s own trepidation made the trip seem even lengthier than it was. But, eventually, the lift car eased to a stop, the doors slid open, and she stepped out onto the support ship’s command deck.

That bridge was bigger than she’d really expected, too, and it didn’t look like any repair ship’s bridge she’d ever seen. Mostly that was because none of those other repair ships had boasted stations for a tactical officer, her assistants, and an electronic warfare officer. At the moment, however, that huge, brightly lit bridge seemed oddly underpopulated thanks to the holes the Yawata Strike had torn in the ship’s senior ranks.

Only two other officers were waiting for them: an extremely youthful junior-grade lieutenant with engineering insignia and, beside her, one of the most striking women Ginger Lewis had ever seen, with vividly green hair, amber eyes, and the caduceus of a surgeon lieutenant. Both of them came to attention as she stepped onto the bridge, and the enlisted personnel manning the bridge stations rose and came to attention, as well.

“Stand easy,” she said, and crossed to the command chair which was about to become hers. She stopped beside it, touched a key on the chair arm, and listened to the musical tone sounding throughout the ship. She waited a moment, knowing that everywhere throughout the mammoth hull men and women were stopping, turning to face bulkhead displays in response to the all-hands signal. Then she reached into her tunic, and the archaic paper crackled as she broke the seals, unfolded her orders, and looked into the command chair’s com pickup.

“From Admiral Sir Lucien Cortez, Fifth Space Lord, Royal Manticoran Navy,” she read, as five T-centuries of commanding officers had read before her, “to Captain (Junior Grade) Ginger Lewis, Royal Manticoran Navy, Fifth Day, Tenth Month, Year Two Hundred and Ninety-Four After Landing. Madame: You are hereby directed and required to proceed aboard Her Majesty’s Starship, Charles Ward, FSV-Three-Niner, there to take upon yourself the duties and responsibilities of commanding officer in the service of the Crown. Fail not in this charge at your peril. By order of Admiral Hamish Alexander-Harrington, Earl White Haven and First Lord of Admiralty, Royal Manticoran Navy, for Her Majesty the Empress.”

She fell silent and refolded her orders, then turned to Nakhimov.

“Mister Nakhimov,” she said formally, “I assume command.”

“Captain,” he replied, equally formally, and there was more than a hint of relief in his eyes, “you have command.”

“Thank you.” She looked up. It took her a moment to find the duty quartermaster, and she made a mental note to familiarize herself—thoroughly—with the bridge layout at the earliest possible moment. Then she located him.

“Make a note in the log, please, Chief Houseman,” she said, reading his nameplate.

“Aye, aye, Ma’am,” the chief replied, and a shiver went through Ginger’s nerves as, in that moment, she truly became HMS Charles Ward’s mistress after God. She inhaled deeply and turned back to the command chair’s pickup and all the waiting men and women who had just become her crew.

“I know none of you expected to see me in this chair,” she said quietly, resting one hand on the chair back. “I didn’t expect to be here, either. But the Service is bigger than you and bigger than me. When someone falls, someone else steps into her place and finishes the job. That’s the way it’s always been; that’s the way it is today, when a lot of people are stepping into other people’s places.

“What happened here in Manticore, in our own home star system, represents the worst defeat in the Royal Manticoran Navy’s entire history. Proportionately, we lost fewer ships in the Yawata Strike than we did in Axelrod’s attack four hundred years ago, but our personnel losses were enormous, our industrial capacity’s been savaged, and the loss of civilian life—the lives we’re supposed to protect, people—was intolerable. Here, in this ship, you’ve experienced your own part of that catastrophe. You’ve lost officers, shipmates, friends, and at this moment, you have to be still reeling from that. Believe me, I know. I was at Monica. I served with Duchess Harrington aboard Wayfarer on my very first deployment. I know what it is to turn around and see the holes where men and women you knew, worked with, respected, even loved are just…gone, and it may be even worse when the ship’s undamaged. When everything seems just like it was yesterday…except that so many people are dead, blotted away when we weren’t even looking. There’s no easy way to deal with that, and the people we’ve lost in the Yawata Strike will be with us all for a long, long time.

“But so is our duty. There’s an ancient ballad—one that goes far back beyond the first day a human being ever left the Sol System. Despite that antiquity, though, I think three lines of it are relevant to us, here, today, twenty-five hundred T-years later.

“I am hurt, but I am not slain;

I'll lay me down and bleed a while,

And then I'll rise and fight again.”

She looked directly into the pickup.

“We’re hurt, people. We’re bleeding. But whoever did this to us made a bad mistake, because we aren’t slain. And as God is our witness, we will rise and fight again.”

She stood there, looking out of the displays all over the ship—all over her ship—for another ten seconds. Then she squared her shoulders.

“Carry on,” she said quietly, and cut the connection.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

The com signal pinged.

Helen Zilwicki frowned as the sound pulled her out of the memo on her display. She’d discovered, rather to her surprise, that she actually liked some of the paperwork coming across her terminal as Sir Aivars Terekhov’s flag lieutenant. Some of it, frankly, was boring as hell, yet there was something…satisfying about managing the Commodore’s agenda and calendar.

And given the most recent news from home, anything she could find to keep her mind occupied was a welcome diversion from simply sitting around and worrying.

The com pinged again and she sighed, then called her expression to order, and opened a window.

“Ensign Zilwicki,” she announced formally, then allowed herself a small smile as Gervais Archer’s face appeared. “How can I be of assistance, Sir?” she inquired formally, since the com request had come in over Quentin Saint-James’ official net, not on her personal combination.

“Good afternoon, Helen,” he replied. “I’m afraid I’m not screening because of anything I need from you.” He seemed to inhale. “The Admiral just received a follow-up on the flash dispatches from home.”

Something icy seemed to congeal in the pit of Helen’s stomach. Something about Archer’s normally cheerful eyes…

“It’s worse—a lot worse—than the original dispatch estimated,” he continued. “We already knew Hephaestus and Vulcan were both gone. Now we have confirmation the bastards took out Weyland, as well.”

Helen winced. She knew Terekhov, Gold Peak, and Khumalo had all assumed Weyland must have been targeted as well—that anyone who could get through Manticore-A’s defenses to take out Hephaestus and Vulcan would have done their damnedest to kill all of the Star Empire’s major industrial nodes. That made the confirmation no less devastating, and she locked down hard on her purely personal reaction to the news.

“Best estimate is over seven million civilian dead and probably close to one-point-six million military personnel,” Archer continued grimly. Then his eyes met hers directly over the com. “And the real reason I’m screening you is to inform you that Hexapuma was still docked at Hephaestus.” Helen felt her face freeze, and Archer shook his head with sad sympathy. “I’m sure not all of her people were aboard, but nobody who was made it out,” he continued softly. “I’m sorry, Helen, but the Admiral wanted to you and Sir Aivars to hear about it before the official briefing.”

“I…understand,” she said after a seeming eternity spent fighting for control of her voice. “And I’ll inform him immediately, of course.” She paused and cleared her throat. “I…don’t suppose you have any sort of breakdown on Weyland’s casualties?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t.” He seemed a bit surprised by the question. “We’ve got confirmation of the station’s destruction, though, and if she got hit the same way Hephaestus and Vulcan did, there can’t have been very many survivors.”

He didn’t ask why she’d asked, and she bit her lip—hard—in gratitude for a moment. Then her nostrils flared as she inhaled deeply.

“Thank you, Gwen,” she said. “I know you didn’t enjoy telling me that. And please thank Lady Gold Peak for me, too. I’m sure the Commodore will feel the same.”

* * *

“Enter!” Sir Aivars Terekhov called as the admittance chime on the flag bridge briefing room’s door sounded. He looked up from his conference with Commander Pope and Lieutenant Commander Lewis and smiled as the door opened. “Helen!” he greeted the newcomer. “Already finished beating the schedule into submission?”

“I’m afraid not, Sir,” she replied, and his smile vanished instantly as her tone registered. The adjective which came most readily to mind where Helen Zilwicki was concerned was “sturdy,” and in far more than merely physical terms. Yet today she seemed…brittle, and her eyes were suspiciously bright.

“What is it, Helen?” he asked in a much gentler tone, feeling Pope and Lewis look at each other and then at him and his flag lieutenant.

“Lieutenant Archer just screened me with a message from Admiral Gold Peak, Sir,” she said in an unnaturally level voice. “We’ve received amplification on the flash dispatches from Manticore. Apparently, the original casualty estimate was low.”

She paused, and something about her manifest unwillingness to continue sent an icy chill through Sir Aivars Terekhov. He’d had two T-days to come to grips—intellectually, at least—with the devastating attack, but all of them had been dreading the more detailed dispatches they knew would follow once the Admiralty and the Grantville Government had time to begin sorting out the true extent of the damage.

“How low?” he asked.

“According to Lieutenant Archer, we lost between eight and a half and nine million people, Sir, and Weyland’s destruction’s been confirmed. And—” her voice wavered ever so slightly “—so has the Kitty’s.”

“What?”

Terekhov heard his own voice ask the question, but he didn’t remember telling it to. All he could do was stare at his flag lieutenant, understanding—now—the bright sheen of unshed tears, while his mind tried to cope with the totally unanticipated shock.

Why are you so surprised? a corner of that mind asked itself. You knew she’d be in yard hands for months. Where the hell else did you think they’d send her for that? Of course she was at Hephaestus! You just didn’t want to think about that, did you?

No, he hadn’t. But now he had no choice, and he drew a deep, steadying breath that seemed to help remarkably little.

“Personnel losses?” His question sounded preposterously calm in his own ears.

“Total, Sir.” The first word came out in bits and pieces and she blinked hard, fighting to control her voice. “Some of her people were probably out of the ship,” she continued huskily. “I don’t know how many…or who. And even if they were,” despite her hard-held control a single tear trickled down her cheek, “they were probably just somewhere else in Hephaestus and…”

Her voice trailed off completely, and she stood there, gazing at him through a silvery shimmer of tears.

Terekhov’s jaw tightened. He seemed about to reply, but then he stood instead and crossed the briefing room deck in two strides. Her eyes began to widen in question, but his arms went around her before she could speak.

She stiffened. Embracing one’s flag lieutenant wasn’t exactly forbidden by Regs, but the service’s traditions came pretty damned close to that, for a lot of reasons, most of them very good ones. But Terekhov didn’t seem to care, and all Helen felt in that moment were the arms of the father who couldn’t be there for her—the father who was all too probably as dead as the men and women of HMS Hexapuma. She tried to draw the Navy’s formalities about her, reached for the armor of an officer on duty, and they crumbled in her hands.

“I know, Helen.” His voice rumbled in her ear, and the tears burst free as one hand rose to gently cup the back of her head. “I know.”

* * *

Alcohol was only one of several substances prohibited in a naval officer’s private quarters. That prohibition did not apply to flag officers and captains, of course, but then again, flag officers and captains presumably found it more difficult to drink themselves into a drunken stupor without anyone’s noticing. It wasn’t that the Royal Manticoran Navy prohibited off-duty drinking; it was simply that the RMN prohibited drunkenness, whether on duty or off. It was that distinction which prevented the private possession of alcohol—among other substances—from becoming a court-martial offense unless it was abused. At which point, as Abigail Hearns’ father was fond of saying, “Hell wouldn’t hold” the consequences for the officer in question.

At the moment, she didn’t much care about Regs, and she lifted the bottle of Silver Falls Select and refilled Helen Zilwicki’s glass.

“I don’t really drink, you know,” Helen told her.

“I know. That’s why this is the last glass you’re getting.” Abigail smiled faintly. “Under the circumstances, though, I don’t see how it could hurt.”

“I’m not drunk,” the ensign replied, although her very careful enunciation suggested that might not be entirely accurate.

“I know that, too,” Abigail reassured her, capping the bottle she’d borrowed from Mateo Gutierrez and sliding it back into a drawer. She was glad Mateo’s taste in liquor was so good, although her own glass still contained a centimeter or so of the warm, golden glory she’d poured into it at the beginning of Helen’s visit.

She settled back into the chair in front of her small desk and picked up that glass to take another tiny sip while Helen sat on her neatly made up bunk. Then she smiled again, sadly, at her guest.

“Might not be the worst thing in the world to get you a little tipsy, though, Helen,” she suggested. Helen looked at her, and she shrugged. “I’m just saying you’ve been carrying a lot around with you ever since we heard about Green Valley. Piling this on top of everything else…”

She let her voice trail off, holding Helen’s gaze.

“I’m not the only one who’s lost people,” the younger woman said almost angrily after a moment. “Everybody’s lost someone! For that matter, you and the Commodore lost just as many people aboard the Kitty as I did. Why can’t I just…you know.” She waved her whiskey glass vaguely. “Why can I just…deal with it like he does? Like you do?”

“I’m not going to bring up anything about faith, or the Test, or any of those other Grayson notions about how to deal with loss,” Abigail said calmly. “Mind you, I’ve found they really do help me at times like this. But don’t think I’m ‘dealing with it’ as handily as you seem to assume. And neither is Sir Aivars. I do think, though, that it’s hitting you—and him—even harder than it’s hitting me or Captain Kaplan. We’ve lost the Kitty and all of our friends who were with her; you and he have lost a lot more than that. Your father, his entire squadron at Hyacinth. You’ve got more to deal with than we do. Including what happened to Weyland.”

Helen had been looking down into her glass. Now her eyes snapped back up to her friend’s face, and Abigail shook her head.

“Of course you do,” she said softly. “And I wish I could tell you he’s fine. But I can’t, and you know no one else can, and somehow, Helen, you’re going to have to deal with that until you do know, one way or the other.”

“But I never had time,” Helen half-whispered. “I never really had time to tell him.” Tears welled, sliding down her face, and her lips trembled. “All of them, Abigail. All of them! And I never had the time to tell him. I think…I think he knew, but I should’ve told him. I knew how much he distrusted…personal relationships. I knew why, and…and I didn’t want to…to scare him off by going too fast. But I should’ve told him, and I didn’t. And now I’ll never be able to, and…and…”

Her voice broke, and Abigail put her glass back on the desk. She crossed to sit on the bunk beside her friend and drew her into a fierce embrace.

“You don’t know you’ll never be able to, not yet,” she said softly, fiercely. “Maybe you won’t, and maybe the Tester will let you. But, trust me, Helen. I know exactly why he’s always ‘run scared’ where anything like the way the two of you feel is concerned. I’d probably feel the same way if I knew I’d been genetically designed as a ‘pleasure slave’ by those Mesan monsters. Of course it’s hard for someone like him to trust his own emotions, much less anyone else’s! But don’t forget, I was your training officer in the Kitty. I got to know all of ‘my’ snotties pretty darned well before we got back to Manticore, and whatever else Paulo d’Arezzo may have been or not been, one thing he wasn’t was stupid!” She smiled a bit mistily through her own tears, hugging her weeping friend with one arm, stroking her hair with her free hand, and shook her head. “You may not have told him, honey, not in so many words, but trust me, he knew. I promise you, he knew.”