Virtues of War (8 page)

None of the food options particularly excited her, but she knew she had to start eating properly if she was going to get back into fighting shape. She piled her plate with proteins and vitamins and found a spare seat at a nearby table. Those already seated barely took notice. One Fleet lieutenant did smile at her, but she noticed that his eyes spent more time on her figure than her face, and she ignored his overture. The steak and chicken on her plate was the only sort of meat she was interested in right now.

She was just shoveling the last awkward lettuce leaf into her mouth when laughter from a nearby table caught her ear. It wasn’t the first outburst she’d heard over the general din of the cafeteria, but something familiar about it caused her eyes to snap up.

Two tables away, a group of very young officers was just breaking apart as their meal drew to a close. Little more than children, she reckoned they were less than a year out of the College and probably still in training. One in particular drew her gaze as he rose to his feet, his laughter just fading.

He was stocky in his blue Fleet coveralls, and not overly tall. His brown hair was shaggy by regulation standards, but she wasn’t too surprised as she noticed the single bar on each shoulder and wings on his chest that declared him a sublieutenant pilot. The other subbies at the table were all watching him, hanging on the words he said just too quietly for her to hear. A roar of laughter followed, and he waved in farewell as he turned to leave.

Katja suddenly recognized him—could hardly believe his transformation—and launched herself from her chair to follow him toward the exit. Her movement caught his eye, and his glance lingered upon her slightly longer than it might have. When he noticed her gaze back at him he averted his eyes shyly, and continued to walk.

“Excuse me, are you a pilot?” She strode up, feeling a smile burst across her features, and touched his arm. He turned in surprise, unconsciously looking her up and down.

“Uhh, yeah. I’m Jack Mallory. I’m a pilot.” There was no recognition in his eyes, but he tried to return her smile. “Why would a pretty lady like you want to know?”

She took a step back and put her hands on her hips.

“I’m Katja Emmes. I’m a Strike officer, and I
still
might shoot you if you give me a reason.”

Dawning comprehension broke awkwardly over his features, and his cheeks paled perceptibly.

“Oh… I’m so sorry, ma’am! I didn’t recognize you with…” His voice trailed off as he gestured broadly at her appearance. “Where did you get that hair?”

There was something unique, she suddenly realized, about the bonds formed in combat. Jack was still the punk kid who spent more time thinking about tits than tactics, but damn, it was good to see him.

She reached out and gently touched his cheek.

“I barely recognized
you
, Subbie,” she said. “The plastic surgeons did a great job.”

He moved his head to break physical contact with her, his own hand brushing quickly over his face.

“Yeah… It’s good to be me again.”

Not the carefree response she’d expected. She nodded back toward his table.

“Were those friends of yours from the College?”

“Not friends so much, just some guys a year behind me. They’re in the middle of flight training now, and wanted to hear the war stories.”

“That must be fun, impressing the boys from back home.”

Jack shrugged. “It’s easy to impress folks who weren’t there.” His eyes suddenly searched hers, and she nodded. Trying to tell an outsider what real combat was like…

“It can be hard to talk about.”

“I guess it gets easier?”

This was a thought pattern she had lived in fear of since the day she returned, and she shoved it down quickly. Change of subject.

“Are you just passing through Longreach?”

He frowned. “No, I’m posted to some stupid Research ship. They sent me there because of my operational experience with the Dark Bomb, but as usual nobody’s listening to me.”

“Which ship?”

“
Neil Armstrong
. We’ve been in and out half a dozen times since I joined, but I don’t think we’ve actually done any real data collection—and they just don’t run things like we did.”

Katja listened as Jack described what sounded like a fairly dysfunctional command structure, from the distracted CO to the power-hungry science officer. He lost her pretty quickly when he started to explain the purpose of their core research assignment, which was to investigate the depths of the Bulk and how dark energy could be manipulated in a semi-controlled fashion…. blah blah blah. But Jack’s ship, it seemed, was the Astral Force’s vanguard for Dark Bomb research.

At least he was doing something important.

As she watched him, she began to notice something very strange. His face had been rebuilt by Astral surgeons, no doubt to match his appearance before his capture and torture, and while his features possessed perfect symmetry and form, she realized that there was something lifeless about them. His eyes still shone as always, and every part of his face moved as it should, but without vitality. It was like looking at a particularly clever simulation.

It was hard to watch without remembering the violence that had caused it. This kid had been forced to bear the psychological scars of war for the rest of his life. Apparently he would bear the physical scars as well.

The nightmare started to seep into her conscious mind again, and she angrily fought it down. Maybe hanging out with her wartime colleagues wasn’t the best thing for her right now. She clasped him in a quick hug.

“Listen, I gotta go,” she said abruptly. “Take care of yourself, Subbie.” Barely feeling his hands brush against her, she turned and fled. His face, the memories, the dreams.

She suddenly hated her new dress and comfy shoes. She hated the smell of product in her hair. She hated her entire existence. As soon as she got back to her room she was canceling the rest of her leave and heading back to that administrative backwater to which she’d been posted.

Understanding five-dimensional spacetime wasn’t easy. Sublieutenant Jack Mallory knew this well enough. He also knew that a single combat tour and a bachelor’s degree in Physics & Philosophy didn’t make him an expert. Nevertheless, he wasn’t used to feeling quite this useless.

He scanned the flight controls of his Hawk, glanced at the inactive monitors for his extra-dimensional sensors and, with a sigh, stared out again through the cockpit polyglass at the starry abyss. He’d always imagined that he’d learn to recognize the different colonies by their starscapes, but after training in Terra, deployments to Sirius and Centauria, and now back on home turf, he’d come to the sad conclusion that stars looked the same no matter where you went. Even this far south of the Solar System’s ecliptic, billions of kilometers from the usual shipping lanes, he might as well have been sitting on a rooftop on Earth.

Behind him, in the main cabin of the Hawk, the scientists were starting to raise their voices at each other. Jack guessed the package still wasn’t ready for deployment. They’d launched from the
Neil Armstrong
more than three hours ago, made a quick sprint to clear from the ship’s gravimetric signature, and then set up to launch a series of probes. But apparently there was still disagreement over the settings for the receivers. Still, after three hours.

There wasn’t even anything for him to keep busy with as the pilot. The engines were idling, the ship drifting on inertia so as not to hinder the experiment with any accelerations. His usual flight sensors were set to their lowest power setting, capable of little more than telling him when the Hawk was about to crash into something. The hunt sensors, his primary warfare suite, were completely powered down.

The day’s experiment was designed to test some ivory tower hypothesis about massive interactions in the Bulk—that hidden, fourth spatial dimension invisible to the regular human experience—and the scientists didn’t want any military sensors “mucking things up.” Jack had learned to trust his hunt controls with his life, and he doubted anything the scientists had was any better.

At least they were finally doing an experiment that actually involved the Bulk. It had been pretty exciting to learn that he’d been assigned to a Research ship charged with uncovering the underlying warped-geometric laws that had been revealed by his little idea during the breakout from Centauria. He’d expected to join a team of extra-dimensional specialists keen on hearing about his real-world experience, but so far, after three weeks on board, all he’d seen was a bunch of people who argued a lot and seemed to spend most of their time working on research for improving power generation.

Listening to their discussion now, he wondered whether he should dust off one of his first year Physics & Philosophy texts, and start providing some education.

The waiting was getting painful, and it suddenly occurred to him how even he, a humble pilot, could help move things along. He did another routine sweep of his controls, then unstrapped from his seat. It wasn’t like there was much traffic way out here to worry about. He swung himself around, and peered back into the main compartment.

He had three passengers today—the best and brightest of
Armstrong
’s science staff—all moving with the awkwardness of those used to the comfort of a ship with artificial gravity. Chief Lopez was floating near one of the control panels, typing instructions. He had a tight, red face. Lieutenant Helena Grey hovered over him, watching the screen very carefully. She was the ship’s science officer, which apparently made her the most brilliant scientist too. At least, it seemed as if every academic discussion eventually went her way.

Jack stole a glance at his third passenger, Sublieutenant Amanda Smith. She caught his eye and smiled, her bright eyes revealing a mixture of apology and sad humor. He smiled quickly and looked away. A subbie like him, she was about his age and was one of the only people who actually chatted with him when off-duty.

“Hey, guys.” He drifted slowly aft into the main cabin. “I had an idea about how I could help out.”

Helena looked up in irritation. “I’ll tell you when we’re ready.”

Jack gestured back toward the cockpit. “We’ve only got so much fuel. I was just thinking that maybe I could start sowing the probes now, while you get set up.”

Helena rolled her eyes. “No,” she said. “When you set up an experiment you don’t mess with the environment. You don’t start it with fluid parameters and you wait… Until. Everything’s. Ready.”

Jack fought down his frustration and glided back to his seat. If he’d waited until he was “ready” before launching gravi-torpedoes on the Centauri stealth ships…

He checked the flight controls, hunt controls, and the visual. Then he noticed Amanda floating into his peripheral. She still wore a pretty smile, even though her face was heavy with fatigue. Between work, standing watch, and studying, Jack doubted she had any time to sleep.

“Don’t worry.” She placed her hand on his shoulder. “They don’t listen to me either.”

He tried to laugh. “Maybe when you finally get your PhD you’ll be taken seriously.”

Her smile vanished. “Point taken.” Looking more tired than ever, she pushed off and retreated into the main compartment.

He sighed, amazed anew at his ability for obtuseness, and nervous habit drew his hand across his face. Even six weeks after the surgery, he still expected to feel the unnatural bumps of re-knitted bone. No scars, the doctors had said. No one would ever know.

He saw his reflection in one of the blank screens on his hunt controls. His unruly brown hair was the same, his eyes were still his, and the muscles in his reconstructed face all moved appropriately… but it
wasn’t
him. It never would be again.

The scream of the collision alarm jolted him from his thoughts. A small craft was bearing down on the Hawk at high speed.

How long had it been there?

There was no time to assess.

He grabbed the stick, yanked hard to starboard and pushed the throttles forward. G-forces tried to wrench him from his seat and he vaguely heard crashes and shouts behind him. The incoming craft flashed past. He reversed his turn and hauled around to port, straining to get a visual. He saw a single, obscuring shadow moving right to left against the backdrop of stars, and he tightened his turn to intercept, flipping his external communications circuit.

“Unknown vessel, this is Terran Warship Eagle-One,” he said tersely. “State your intentions, over.”

No response filtered through the faint crackle of deep space, but he saw sunlight flicker off an edge of the shadow, indicating an aspect shift. A new alarm flashed on his console. He was being radiated.

He flicked open the countermeasures switch and pressed the button. The Hawk’s hull shuddered three times as chaff and flares roared from their launchers. Somebody behind him screamed.

“Unknown vessel,” he repeated, “this is Terran Warship Eagle-One. Break off your approach or I will fire upon you.”

A tiny voice at the back of his mind reminded him that a Hawk didn’t really rate being called a warship, and more importantly this research bird didn’t carry any weapons. Jack ignored it, activated his hunt controls, and swept into a diving attack vector, calculating when to release flares so he could hit the target as he passed. A hand grabbed the back of his seat. Helena pulled herself, wide-eyed and sweating, into Jack’s view.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Jack didn’t take his eyes off the target. “Unknown vessel came at us on a collision course, no response to hails, lit us up with possible fire-control radar. I’m warning him off.”

Helena sputtered something incoherent. Jack looked at his flight controls and refined his timing for the flare launch. The enemy craft broke away suddenly and increased speed. Jack confirmed that it was heading away from
Neil Armstrong
and pulled back from his attack. It seemed like his bluff had worked, and since he didn’t actually have any weapons, there was no sense in pushing his luck.

Helena was staring at him with something that looked almost like fear. It took her a long moment to find her voice.