Kas decided to examine Starhopper, the freighter that was to take him on his mission. He had to find out what he had to work with. He summoned a sky cab. Luckily, Pankin had been in his fleet HQ office and not the more ornate office he maintained on the grounds of the Palace.
Prime’s Fleet starfield occupies over twenty square miles halfway around the planet from the Palace. It is surrounded by the base housing fleet headquarters. The entire complex occupies more than a hundred square miles.
Prime itself is a bit larger than old Earth, but with a surface gravity of 0.8. Prime’s sun is a bit larger than Sol, and its light tends slightly more toward white. Its overall climate is pleasant except in a narrow band at the equator, where the heat becomes oppressive. Naturally, fleet HQ is on the comparatively low-value real estate of the equator.
As he crossed the shipyard landing field, puffing with exertion and cursing the sweat trickling into his eyes, he cast a suspicious glance at the yellow-tinged pale blue sky. Over the years, he’d become much less uncomfortable with the open spaces of a planetary surface, but Kas still rather disapproved of weather. It seemed such a messy way to do things, compared to the controlled environment in which he’d grown up.
He didn’t know where he’d been born, but he’d grown up in the grimy, sterile corridors of Varner’s World.
Varner’s World is barely habitable. For the two hundred years since its discovery, Varner’s has been locked in a vicious ice age that will continue for centuries. The only reason man came to Varner’s was to mine the extremely rare metals far beneath the glaciers that cover more than three quarters of the surface.
So, the mining companies came, and their corporate structure was recognized by the empire as a government. At the top of the political hierarchy were the execs; beneath them were the senior managers and their staffs.
Since the living conditions were so harsh and competent managers difficult to train and keep, no expense was spared to make certain that the management areas of the mining domes were luxurious. Extremely luxurious. Plush, roomy apartments were provided, and their children got the best educational resources. Salaries were the highest in known space.
The companies were not as considerate of the miners. While company reps used high salaries to recruit miners on other worlds, they neglected to mention the inflated living costs that prevented a miner from leaving. If one was very frugal, ate only basic rations, and lived in a minimum dorm, it was just possible for him to raise his return fare within his two year contract term. Theoretically. The Empire required that.
It couldn’t be done. Basic rations are repackaged military field rations. Men simply can’t survive and, more importantly work, on a diet of basic rats for two years. Their health would deteriorate, and they would start to fall below their quota. There were penalties for that, of course.
Inevitably, a sizable underclass developed on Varner’s, mostly made up of cripples and surviving families unwilling or unable to leave, as well as criminals, the lazy, incompetent, and miscreants of various types, whom the companies “terminated”, then simply ignored.
The castoffs live in the slum. The name is a misnomer. There isn’t a single slum, but one in every mining dome. In the lower levels devoted to maintenance and storage, packing-crate lean-tos and shipping-container shacks spread like an infection over any open space. Their existence is based on theft. Down here, water is plentiful. The warmth of the dome melts the ice outside; but basic rats are worth as much as the cost of a management family’s dinner.
Kas had been a “feral kid,” a child who survived in the slum by guile and theft. Most died young, through mishap or by a patroller’s blaster. Kas had been very determined and very lucky.
When he was about twelve, he stole an exec child’s personal educomp. “Kas” was what they called him, but the “Preslin” had come from the educomp’s original owner.
He’d used the educomp instead of selling it, studying and learning from an exec child’s disgraced former tutor. After several years, he took fleet recruiting exam using forged documents, and qualified for the Academy. When he boarded the recruiter’s small ship, he didn't look back.
At the Academy, he’d worked even harder than on Varner’s. He learned what the Academy had to teach; and learned to live in civilized society, to blend in.
For the last twenty-six years he had gratefully served the emperor and the fleet.
For a while, it had looked as though he’d lose his Fleet refuge. Now…
He pulled his attention back to finding his ship. His ship. He’d been afraid he’d never have a ship again. When he finally saw it, though, his heart fell. The berth assigned to Starhopper was occupied by one of the shabbiest examples of a military-surplus DIN-class that he’d ever seen.
She was 200 meters long, a stubby cylinder 50 meters in diameter. Her inertial drive drive engines were mounted to four sponsons spaced around her stern, along with her landing jacks. The DIN class combat hauler was the largest ship that could land — anything larger was strictly orbit-to-orbit. This one looked as though she’d never lift again. Her antirad coating was scraped and patched, her drive coils corroded. Kas prayed to any god that happened by that there had been a mistake — this couldn't be Starhopper, but he knew there’d been no mistake.
Kas was glumly surveying the decaying hulk when he noticed a ground car speeding across the field toward him. He turned as it lurched to a halt, and a portly middle-aged man climbed out.
“Commodore Preslin?” The man called, “I’m Jad Holtow, Chief Engineer of the shipyard.”
Kas straightened in surprise. “I’m Preslin,” he confirmed. “What have I done to rate the attentions of the chief engineer himself?”
Holtow's brow furrowed with annoyance. “When one receives a vid call from Admiral Pankin himself, suggesting it would be nice if I personally show Commodore Preslin around Starhopper, I hasten to comply.” His eyes travelled up and down Kas’ figure.
Kas could almost read Holtow's mind. “There’s really nothing special about me, Sire Holtow. It’s the mission that the fleet admiral cares about.” He grinned. “So, why don’t we get on with it, and let you get back to important matters?”
Holtow’s hunched shoulders relaxed slightly, his annoyed scowl fading. “To be honest,” he said with a genuine smile, “I don’t really mind. We’re quite proud of Starhopper.”
Kas’ eyes travelled up the dilapidated hull. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same ship? This one looks like she’s being scrapped!”
Holtow’s smile widened. “I’m glad you think so, Commodore. If she can convince an expert like you, she should be able to convince anyone you meet along the way.”
“Actually,” he continued, “she’s in better than new condition. Her hull is about eighty years old. We didn’t want a new hull; it wouldn’t show the kind of wear traces that you can’t fake. It wasn’t easy to get the effect we wanted with the antirad coating and drive coils, either. We’ve spent weeks getting them right.” His tone had become increasingly enthusiastic as he spoke. It may have taken a call from the Fleet Admiral to pry him from his office, but the man was proud of the ship and determined to show Kas every detail.
His pride was justified. Beneath the patched and ugly antirad coating, Starhopper was an impressive ship. Both her jump engines and inertial drives were new, and Alliance imports, at that. All made to look old and worn.
DIN-class haulers don’t run to a full AI, but Starhopper ’s nav comps were also new-and carefully aged. The same applied to her life support and med comps.
Even the cold-sleep units had been made to look shabby and old. The total effect was of a decrepit tramp, but one whose crew kept her clean and in decent running condition. She wouldn’t be condemned by any officious customs inspectors, but they might leave shaking their heads.
“The only thing an inspector might notice is the med comp. It is slightly large for a DIN-class,” Holtow said. “I’d recommend you just say that it was salvaged from an old destroyer. The reason it’s so large," he continued, "is it’s also your battle comp. A concealed switch on your bridge comm panel accesses it, and the comm station becomes the weapons station. We used state of the art Alliance components. You’ve got more battle computing power than a new destroyer.” He caressed the med comp's control panel with paternal pride.
“What does it control? I haven’t seen a single weapon.”
For a moment Kas thought Holtow would jump up and down with pleasure. “Wonderful!” the man gushed. “If a spacer as experienced as you didn’t notice, no one else should!” He scurried off, Kas hurrying to keep up.
Starhopper ’s weaponry consisted of three Alliance light projectile quickfirers concealed between the inner and outer hulls. They were poised to fire through ports covered by concealed retractable doors in the hull. The quickfirers fired a small fifty-millimeter rocket some twenty centimeters long at a rate of 350 per minute. With its collapsed-metal plating, each rocket massed over a hundred kilos in a one-gee field. They were proven weapons, effective against anything up to destroyer class. “You’ll have to maneuver the ship to bring them onto target,” Holtow told Kas. “There was no way to conceal turrets.”
The ship’s main battery consisted of two heavy lasers in the cargo bays, concealed by packing crates. The crates appeared to be sealed, and were labeled as mining and terraforming equipment. Bringing them into action would require the cargo bays to be depressurized. Then the huge cargo doors could be opened, the packing crates would collapse, and the heavy, cruiser-sized lasers would be moved into position on tracks welded to the deck.
“That was one of the advantages of making her look ancient,” Holtow explained. “Most oddities like those tracks can simply be explained by saying it was that way when you bought her. Everyone knows a ship that’s been kicking around known space for a century or so is going to have all sorts of jerry rigs and modifications. If she looked reasonably new, you might have more explaining to do.”
By the time the tour was completed, Kas was truly impressed. The artificial aging was incredibly effective. He still had to take Holtow’s word that some of the equipment was new, but Starhopper would do. Any inspector looking closely enough to detect the subterfuge would already be so deep into the innards the jig would be up anyway. If his forged documents were as good, and he had no reason to doubt Imperial Intelligence wouldn’t make them so, the plan might just work.
Starhopper ’s crew all arrived the following day. Kas showed them to their cabins, but told them not to unpack yet, then called a crew meeting on the ship’s mess deck
As Pankin had mentioned, all five were outerworlders like him.
Commander Bol Evers, Kas’ exec, was from Arcadia. Arcadia is on the border with the Glory, and her people are painfully aware that if the empire continues to retrench, Arcadia is likely to fall to it. The cruelty and viciousness of the “missionaries” the Glory sent to “spiritually cleanse” newly acquired systems is legendary. Those who could had already left the Arcadia system. Physically Bol was large, burly and dark. Dark haired, and dark complected. He wore a permanent frown and an angry manner. His communication with the others seemed mostly to consist of grunts and growls. Bol’s papers listed him as the ship’s Purser. Froud’s report was not hopeful. “I wondered about the fact that so many of his fitness reports said he had ‘difficulty relating to some others’, and ‘insular attitudes’,” the Captain reported, “So, I called one of his former skippers. It seems he’s something of an outerworld bigot. You’ll have to make your own judgment.”
Commander Toj Kray was from Bulworth, a heavy-gravity mining planet. Like all Bulworthers, he was short, wide, and muscular. He was to be Starhopper ’s engineer. Captain Froud reported he was “very competent technically, but dislikes social situations. He tends to be something of a hermit, hiding out in engineering whenever possible.” As if to confirm the Captain’s words, the engineer huddled in a corner and responded to any verbal advances with grunts and monosyllables.
Lieutenant Gran Telker was tall, lean, handsome, and impeccably groomed. He suffered from nearly terminal cheerfulness. This was deceptive, because Gran was to be Starhopper ’s Gunner, though his papers listed him as second engineer. He would be responsible for the care and maintenance of the cold-sleep units. Captain Froud reported that he “fancies himself something of a ladies’ man. Acts like a social butterfly, but he’s a damned good gunner. He doesn’t take anything seriously, including himself.”
Lieutenant Edro Jans was to be Starhopper ’s comm tech. Small and slight; his constant nervous smile gave him a whipped dog air that bothered Kas. Like Kray, he huddled in a corner and ignored all efforts to engage him in conversation. Captain Froud considered Jans to be Kas’ biggest problem. “It’s ironic that he’s your communications officer, because he barely communicates with anyone. Almost terminally shy. To be honest, he was about to be kicked out of the fleet when I grabbed him.”
The final crewman was Lieutenant Commander Tera Fauss. Tera was a husky, plain woman from Fargone. She was to be Starhopper ’s Astrogator. Captain Froud observed that “she’s an excellent astrogator, and general pain in the backside. Officious and book bound, and not above reminding her superiors about regulations anytime she thinks they’re being violated. Guaranteed to infuriate her captains.”
A crew of six was actually more than most traders carried, but not enough so to create suspicion.
“As I’m sure you figured out from the appearance of this ship,” he began as soon as they’d introduced themselves, “we will be on an undercover mission. Is there anyone here that doesn’t know the story of the Vir Rekesh? No? Good. Well, she’s been found, and we’re going to go get her.” An excited babble broke out, and Kas waited quietly until it subsided.
“The Rekesh is drifting unpowered in a system near the rim. The word is out, and the governments of every independent system, as well as the Glory and even the Alliance wants her. We have the advantage of knowing where she is, but they have the advantage of surrounding the system she’s in.”
“We’ll be loading three hundred people to crew the Rekesh, as well as civilians to decontaminate her and get her operational. They’ll spend the trip out in cold sleep. None of the independent systems would give us permission to pass military ships through their space, so we’re going to sneak in.”
“First,” he continued, “This is an undercover operation. There will be nothing regulation about it.” He flicked a glance at Fauss. Her frown of concentration faded as her lips thinned and her face darkened with anger. Uh-oh, Kas thought, but he continued, “From this moment on, you will not address me as "Commodore" until we’re alongside the Rekesh. Call me ‘Captain’ or ‘Skipper’, or even ‘Boss’ like any other trader crew. You will use your first names. If we start now, we’ll get into the habit before we get to the independents.”
“Get rid of those uniforms. You’ll find shipsuits in your cabins. Your uniforms are to be sent ashore. Retain nothing that might indicate that you’re military. I’ll take your ident disks. Don't keep anything that says you’re Empire. The idea of staffing the ship with outerworlders was to make people think we’re from outside the Empire.”
“Hah!” said Bol. “The real reason for using outerworlders was because they wanted it done right!”
Kas frowned. “Would you like to explain that?”
“Sheol, Commodore. It's obvious. Those damned Innies are so effete and incompetent they had to come to us Outies! Why do you think they put you in charge, instead of some Innie fashion plate?”
Kas held his temper with an effort. “I’d like to discuss this with you further… after this meeting.”
He resumed, explaining Starhopper ’s apparent condition and the details of the mission. “We’ll make a detour to avoid stopping in any of the Glory’s systems. We’ll know for sure after Tera, Bol and I begin plotting our course. But we’ll stop in systems belonging to the Alliance and probably several Independent systems. All of them will be on guard so we don't sneak a salvage crew out to the Rekesh.”
The meeting broke up. Tera Fauss and Gran Telker were babbling excitedly to each other. Gran even gathered his courage and called Kas skipper, while blushing furiously. When no eruption was forthcoming, he visibly relaxed. Toj Kray and Edro Jans huddled wordlessly in their respective corners, ignoring overtures from the others. Bol Evers wanted to discuss lading details, but Kas put him off until later.
Tera Fauss was waiting outside his cabin when Kas arrived with Bol Evers. He sent Bol up to the bridge while he dealt with the obviously agitated astrogator.
He ushered Tera into his cabin. Her uniform was meticulously correct, with knife-edged creases. She was struggling to control her temper, red-faced, fidgeting, hands clenching and unclenching. He took his seat behind his small desk, and offered her a chair. She settled into it stiffly, obviously still fuming. “Want to tell me what you’re so angry about?” he asked.
She jumped to her feet. “He told you!" she shrilled. "Captain Ter-Jacon sent you a message along with my record, so you’d have a bad opinion of me. I request an immediate transfer.”
Kas shrugged. “No,” he said quietly. “Your former Captain did not tell me anything about you. What makes you think he did?”
She looked suddenly confused. “He didn’t? I mean… I thought..” she took a deep breath. “I was so sure… All that about this mission not being regulation… Captain Ter-Jacon chewed me out.. ”
Kas nodded. “I understand. And I was warned that you were perhaps overly concerned with the letter of regulations.” She began to cloud up again, and Kas hurriedly continued. “I don’t know if I can replace you at this late date, but if you insist, I’ll try. Understand this. This mission is important to you. You’ve already been passed over for Commander once. One more time, and you’re out. You’ll spend the rest of your career guiding civilian freighters on milk runs. This mission is your chance to overcome those unfavorable fitness reports, and to put you back on the path of a Fleet career. Since it’s such an oddball operation, you’ll have no choice but to conquer your urges.”
She blushed but chewed at her lower lip in thought. “But sir,” she protested, “Regulations are important. They’re the rules we live by!”
Kas frowned impatiently. Tera should have learned this long ago. “They’re important, but they’re not inviolable. They’re more like guidelines. They’re not intended to cover all situations. Junior officers are taught to obey them implicitly because they lack the experience to decide whether an exception is appropriate. If you want to advance to Commander, you need to know when it’s necessary to throw the rulebook out the window and improvise.”
She reddened and opened her mouth to reply, but he held up a hand and continued, “This mission is a good one to teach you that lesson. It’s not traditional. It’s not even a traditional undercover intelligence mission. We’ll be making a lot of it up as we go.” He straightened. “Think about it. If you still want a transfer, let me know within eight standard hours. I’ll see what I can do.”
She was gnawing at her lower lip again with a pensive expression, lost in thought as she allowed herself to be ushered from his quarters. Now for the tougher one.
Kas called Bol to his cabin. “Would you care to explain your remarks?”
Bol shrugged. “There’s nothing to explain. The mission is risky, so they’re sending Outies. The only way they’d send Innies would be if it were for a parade. Everybody knows Outies get all the tough jobs.”
Kas expression turned grim. “Most of the three hundred fifty people in cold sleep will be Innerworlders. How would you like to climb into a cold sleep cabinet, knowing your survival depended upon six strangers getting you through hostile territory?”
He’d been thinking ever since Bol’s outburst in the meeting. “You were assigned to be my exec for this trip. But I don’t think I can use you. Hatred and bigotry are weaknesses. We can’t afford them.”
Bol jumped to his feet. “You’re calling me a bigot? They’re the bigots, constantly harassing and demeaning Outies. I thought for sure that you’d understand, but I guess you got that star by bootlicking and kowtowing to the damned Innies.” He was braced for a blast from Kas, but he was totally unprepared when Kas’ burst into laughter.
When he could compose himself, Kas shook his head. “Sorry. I was just thinking of all the negative fitness reports I’ve received.” He was overtaken by another fit of laughter, but after a moment, he forced himself to an icy calmness. “Bigots come in all flavors. I’m surprised you're still in the fleet, and a commander. You’ve never been stationed in an inner system, have you?”
“At any rate,” he continued, “I can’t use you, and I don’t want you. Get your gear together and report to the bachelor officer quarters on the base. You will remain there on quarters restriction until you receive further orders. You know too much about this operation to be just turned loose.”
Bol flushed, and his hands clenched. “Well, screw you, Commodore! I’m glad I’m not going. If the rest of the crew is bootlicking Innie lovers like you, I don’t belong with them. Someday, we’ll show these Innies — and the traitorous Outie kiss-ups like you!” He jumped to his feet, fists clenched at his sides.
Kas also rose, clamping down on his surging anger. He slowly unclenched his own fists. “You have your orders, Commander," he said in a dangerous tone. "Get off my ship!”
“That might have been a mistake, Commodore,” said the image of Captain Froud a few minutes later, “It wasn’t easy to find an outerworld officer with both warship and freighter experience senior enough to be your exec. I’m not sure we can find another.”
"Then get me an innerworlder," Kas snapped. He took a deep breath, let it out with gusty sigh. "I'm sorry, Captain. I'm still a bit angry But I won’t subject my crew to months of his hate-filled diatribes. I wouldn’t put it past him to sabotage the cold sleep units — he’s that bigoted.” He paused. “You know, using an innerworlder might not be a bad idea, if he’s not from a good family. There are a lot of innerworlders serving aboard traders. As long as he doesn’t have upper class mannerisms, an innerworlder could be an advantage.”
Captain Froud raised a skeptical eyebrow. “If you say so, Commodore. The fleet admiral ordered that you be given a free hand. Let’s see. You want us to find an innerworlder with both freighter and warship experience, senior enough to be your exec, but one who hasn’t acquired any polish along the way. That will be a tall order.”
Kas chuckled. “To paraphrase something the fleet admiral said to me, ‘If it was easy, anyone could do it.’”
Captain Froud struggled to maintain a straight face. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Kas thanked him and started to sign off, then hesitated. “I’d appreciate it if you could keep Evers isolated until we get back, or you get reports that we’ve failed. He’s a hater, and he knows too much. He knows the name of the ship, her captain, and the entire plan. I wouldn’t put it past him to sell or give the information to the Glory or one of the independents just for spite.”
The captain nodded. “I can take care of that. He’ll remain under quarters arrest in the BOQ, with a tap on his vid. Don’t worry. We’ll take no chances."
Captain Froud was right. It wouldn’t be easy to find an innerworld exec with no polish. But this mission was hazardous enough without saddling himself with an XO unable to maintain objectivity. That trait bespoke a lack of discipline that Kas couldn’t tolerate. Then he thought about Admiral Lu-Jenks, and the crunch of the admiral's jaw when he hit him. Talk about lack of discipline…
Kas had watched the others during Evers’ bigoted comments during the meeting. All had looked uncomfortable, and none had made comments supporting his position. Tera Fauss had flushed with embarrassment. All of them had been victims of innerworlders’ discrimination but they hadn’t turned to hate. Judging by the records they compensated by trying to be better at their jobs. He was sure that none of them were as bigoted as the Arcadian.
Meanwhile, the officers destined to operate the Vir Rekesh began arriving. When all twenty-two had gotten settled in the BOQ, Kas called a meeting to explain the plan and their roles.
He watched carefully as they filed into the large conference room. He recognized only a few of them, but watched as heads bobbed and a buzz rose as he was identified to all. Some glanced at him with frank hostility, and several of them looked disturbed. But now was the time to raise neither the issue of Lu-Jenks nor of his Outie heritage. He’d be able to deal with it aboard the Rekesh, assuming they made it that far.
He was relieved to note that none of the officers forming his command staff aboard Rekesh seemed unduly bothered by his identity when he introduced himself. He was sure they’d be able to control their hotheads. And if not, well, a battle cruiser had a good-sized brig.
Many more of them looked disturbed at the news that they’d spend the trip out in cold sleep.
His words to Evers had been the bald truth. Kas wasn’t at all sure that he’d be willing to lie defenseless and unknowing while Starhopper might be fighting for their lives. No, they could scarcely be faulted for being worried. Any that climbed into cold sleep unit could hardly be called a coward.
“The records of the crewmen who’ve volunteered will be available on your terminals at the BOQ,” he concluded. “Review them carefully. If there appear to be problems, please bring them up now. Once we lift, we’re stuck with the people aboard, and the personnel files will no longer be available. We can’t afford to have them on the ship, in case we’re searched. We will have little aboard to link us to the Empire, and nothing to link us to the Fleet.”
A hand went up. “How long will we have, sir?”
Kas shrugged. “I can’t say exactly. We’ll lift as soon as the last of the crew and civilians arrive. Don’t anticipate any opportunity to talk to them until you’re awakened. As they arrive, they’ll be briefed, and then shuttled directly into a cold sleep unit. The shipyard simply doesn’t have accommodations for them.”
Another hand went up. A senior commander this time. “What about these civilians, sir? Are they really necessary?” He was frowning.
Kas grinned. “I’ll tell you what fleet Admiral Pankin told me. We have no choice. The Rekesh has been powered down for more than a century. Even her AI was shut down. Besides that, she’s a plague ship. Do you really want to man her without a medical decontam? Or perhaps have to fight her without a functional AI and with cold fusactors?”
The Commander smiled grimly. “No, sir. Do you really expect to have to fight her, Commodore?”
Kas’ grin faded. “I hope not. Even if we get her fully operational, her fighting crew strength is over three thousand. We’ll have less than three hundred, plus a bunch of scared civilians, and we’ll be a long way from home. The Alliance, the Glory and every independent system between here and there will want to take her from us.”
“Hah! The Empire wouldn’t stand for any such nonsense!” The voice was anonymous, but Kas decided to answer.
“The Rekesh is located near the edge of known space. To get back, we’ll have to pass through space claimed by the Alliance and half a dozen independents. I’ve tried to chart a course that’ll avoid the Glory, but that doesn’t mean they won’t be trying for us, too. The Empire has no grounds for protest if we simply disappear, and say, the Glory suddenly announces that they now possess a battle cruiser. Since we’ll be violating interstellar law by sending armed military personnel into nominally friendly governments’ space, our ambassadors wouldn’t even be able to ask about us — at least, not officially.”
Silence descended while the officers digested this last information, then a loud murmur arose as the officers considered the implications of Kas' statements. Many of them had been involved in border skirmishes and pirate interdiction combat, but a running fight through others' space in an undermanned ship was a new dimension. The Round Trip Ticket was a Fleet tradition so old it was said to predate star flight itself. Every member of the Fleet, officer or enlisted, learned during their basic training that everyone who joins the Fleet buys a round trip ticket. It was an article of faith that they, or their remains, would be returned to their home planet, regardless of the circumstances. The fleet went to amazing lengths to bring back Fleet personnel or their bodies. This time, if the fleet couldn’t even ask for the personnel or their bodies…
Kas allowed the discussions to go on for a few minutes before recalling the officers to order. He scanned the faces. There was excitement in a satisfyingly large percentage, but he also saw doubt and worry in more than a few. “This mission has to succeed,” Kas continued. “You’re all fleet officers. You’re well aware of what could happen if the Glory or one of the independents suddenly possessed a fully functional stellar class battle cruiser. It could destabilize all of known space. And the Rekesh was only twelve years old when she disappeared, practically a new ship. Imagine yourself on a destroyer sent on one of these interminable border skirmishes we’ve been fighting for the last fifty years. Suddenly the Rekesh shows up on the other side — perhaps manned by swords from the Glory.”
A shudder ran through nearly half the officers. Many of them had faced the fanatical ferocity of the Glory’s Missionaries and Swords of the Lord. Few were ever taken prisoner, and those that were taken with serious wounds would usually attempt suicide as soon as they were able. If they were unable to suicide, most fell into a pathetic apathy, not even responding when offered return to the Glory. Accordingly, the Glory took few prisoners. It was thought that the only fleet personnel taken prisoner were those considered to have been cowardly or otherwise dishonorable.
"We cannot fail," Kas continued. “That’s an empire ship out there. We can’t let it be the cause of interstellar war.”
“Now,” he resumed, “You should have a few days before the first of the enlisted crewmen come aboard. Use it wisely. Fleet Admiral Pankin has given me unusually wide latitude on this mission; if you feel any of your personnel should be replaced, let me know. If we act fast enough, we may be able to replace them.”
By design, the senior petty officers were the first of the enlisted crewmen to arrive. They were assigned quarters, and briefed. Kas was pleased with them. Most were grizzled, no-nonsense veterans. These were the men that would anchor the crew, would provide the stability that would give the men the confidence to climb into those cold-sleep cabinets.
As the rest of the crew arrived, they were hurriedly briefed, given plain shipsuits and their luggage searched for anything that might identify the owner as fleet. That completed, they were marched to the ship, where they surrendered their ident disks before entering the cold sleep cabinets.
The closest thing to trouble that they had involved surrendering their disks. A loud murmur and dozens of hands went up when the men were told because the disks were closely identified with faith in the round trip ticket. A grizzled petty officer stood. “I served with you on the Revenge, Capt… uh… Commodore. Will you, personally, guarantee we’ll be getting our disks back when we wake up? I’ll take your word, sir.”
“This is an undercover operation,” Kas replied. “If we’re searched, they may insist on waking a few of you for questioning. That’s why it was important that you be briefed on the cover story. You’re street scrapings recruited from the jails and slums of a dozen Empire worlds.
“Now, I’m sure that most of you can carry off that story — but not if you’re wearing a Fleet ident disk. Yes, I’ll give you my personal word that your ident disk will be returned. Believe me; I’m no happier than you about taking mine off. We’re sure to be searched at least once. So mine will be hidden with yours.”
Once again, Kas was impressed with the caliber of fleet personnel. Only half a dozen refused to enter the cold sleep cabinets, and were hurriedly replaced with other volunteers.
Kas was getting nervous. The last of the volunteers were being shunted into the cold sleep cabinets, liftoff was fast approaching. Kas still had no replacement for Bol Evers.
Provisioning was nearly complete and liftoff only twenty hours away when Kas was summoned to Starhopper ’s personnel lock. A youngish man lounged there, in the ill-fitting uniform of a Lieutenant Commander. As Kas approached, he straightened, and awarded Kas a sloppy salute. “You’d be Commodore Preslin, I’m thinkin’,” he drawled. “I’m Rom Reffel. Cap’n Froud sent me over.” He proffered an official envelope.
Kas looked him up and down, clamping down on his surging anger at the man’s casual manner. Rom was short, and powerfully built. His uniform was wrinkled and creased, as though just pulled from a suitcase. But it was clean and in good repair. He was clean shaven, and his hair neat and clean. Finally, Kas took the envelope. The note inside was handwritten, and signed “Froud.” “Commodore,” it began:
This will introduce Lieutenant Commander Rom Reffel, Empire Fleet Reserve. With you lifting soon, I thought it unwise to send his entire service record, but to summarize: Reffel was on active duty for some fifteen years, culminating in an assignment as Executive Officer of Ranger, a Destroyer. He resigned, and for the past five years has served as purser on an independent trader. He is familiar with rim space and a number of the independents. He is also unmilitary and insubordinate; but he’s the best we’re likely to get. His commission has been reactivated for this mission. Good luck.
Kas crumpled the note and again regarded the man. His anger was cooling, and he barked a laugh at himself. He was getting angry because a man who was supposed to pose as a civilian was acting unmilitary. “Come along, Rom,” he growled, and led him aboard.
After talking with Reffel, Kas was happier. The man might not be a book officer, but he certainly knew DIN class traders, and was familiar with quite a number of the independent systems.
Kas briefed Rom on the mission, and told him to change his uniform for a plain shipsuit.
Rom relaxed with a huge sigh. “I’ll tell ya, Skipper, when Cap’n Froud tol’ me I’d be posin’ as a civilian aboard a DIN class wi’ a fleet crew, I wasn’t too happy. Th’ Fleet ain’t much good at cloak ‘n dagger. If yer’ve an outie crew, and if this ship is any example, we’ve a chance. Long as your outies c’n resist marchin’ ‘n salutin’ ‘n all!”
Kas smiled. “I don’t know if they’ll ever be as unmilitary as you are, Rom, but they’re working on it.”
Rom returned Kas’ grin. “Yar, well, It’us the military folderol that run me out. Seems as soon as some people gets a little braid on ‘em, they turns inter parade ground sojers! Long as yer don’t ‘spect that from me, I can be good at m’job. Yer’ll see!”
Kas’s smile widened to a delighted grin. Their chances of pulling off the deception had just doubled. “We lift in just under twenty hours. Change out of that uniform, and I’ll introduce you to the rest of the crew. Most of our lading is complete, but you’ll want to look over the manifests and stowage yourself. Let me know if anything doesn’t look right, or just doesn’t ring true. Once we boost we’ll have three days to our first jump point to get things straightened out.”