A Call to Duty

  “I’ll admit sometimes I’m tempted.” Michael shook his head. “But going backwards never works. Even if I could figure out another way to guarantee the rights of the original colonists over the newer immigrants, I doubt the general population would go along with such a drastic change. Certainly all the barons, earls, and countesses have become comfortable with their titles and their lands.” He smiled. “Though I would guess you’re familiar with that aspect.”

  “A bit,” Edward said, smiling back, freshly aware of the commander’s insignia on his uniform collar. Yes, he knew plenty of men and women in the RMN who were madly in love with their ranks and titles. Some of them were even decent officers. “So that’s it?”

  “Unless you can come up with a brilliant plan of your own,” Michael said.

  “I’ll work on it,” Edward promised, gazing into his father’s face. So very, very tired . . . “Is there anything I can do for you, Dad?”

  “I don’t think so, Edward,” Michael said, reaching over and squeezing his son’s arm. “You have your life, and I have mine.”

  A life, Edward knew soberly, which would someday be his. King Edward . . . “I suppose so.”

  “And now, if you’ll forgive me, I have to get back to work,” Michael said, standing up. “Thank you for coming by.”

  “I’m glad I did,” Edward said, standing up, too. “By the way, is there any chance you can send me a copy of Breakwater’s full proposal?”

  “Certainly,” Michael said, his forehead wrinkling. “I thought copies had been made public.”

  “The basics have been, but not the technical details of the transformation,” Edward told him. “I’d like to see the whole thing, if I may.”

  “I’ll send it right away,” his father promised. “I’ll warn you, though, that it’s pretty long.”

  “That’s all right,” Edward assured him. “We have a fair amount of free time on our hands for reading these days.”

  “I expect you do,” Michael said. He reached out his hand. “Let’s try to get together more often, shall we? I know your sister would like that.”

  “We’ll make it the whole family next time,” Edward promised, taking the proffered hand and squeezing it. Suddenly, for no particular reason, he flashed back to a scene from when he was thirteen years old, sitting silently and listening as his father and grandmother discussed the future of the Star Kingdom and the tasks that lay ahead. For a moment he puzzled at the image, wondering why that particular memory had popped up.

  And then it clicked. Grandma Elizabeth had been seventy-two T-years old at the time, the same age as his father was now.

  Elizabeth had looked old, but she’d also looked bright and fresh, ready and eager to take on the challenges before her. Michael just looked old. Old, and burdened.

  “I’ll see you soon, Dad,” he promised. He held his father’s hand another moment before reluctantly releasing it. “I promise.”

  “Take care, Edward,” Michael said. He took a deep breath.

  And suddenly, the years and age lines seemed to fall away from his face. He straightened, the weight of his office visibly falling from his shoulders.

  Edward caught his breath. What in the name of—?

  His father smiled, a faint, knowing thing . . . and then Edward understood.

  Michael, father of Edward, could be himself in front of his son. Michael, King of Manticore, could not. He had a role to play, and whether he liked that role or not he was determined to play it to the best of his ability.

  “You take care, too, Dad,” Edward said softly. “See you again soon.”

  It was raining when Travis left the classroom building, his head spinning with the latest cubic meter’s worth of information that had been poured into his skull. And there was going to be a test on that very material right after dinner.

  Still, it could be worse. If he only took a half portion and wolfed it down, then used the rest of the time to study—

  His train of thought came to an abrupt halt. Standing five meters directly in front of him was Gunner’s Mate Funk. The petty officer was staring woodenly at Travis, apparently oblivious to the rain water pouring off his hat.

  “Gunner’s Mate,” Travis said, stopping as quickly as he safely could on the wet pavement.

  “Come with me,” Funk said. Turning, he strode away.

  Travis’s first, hopeful thought was that they were headed for the mess hall. They passed it by without slowing. His second was that they were going to the Base Exchange. It, too, was soon behind them. Travis kept walking, his eyes on the back of Funk’s neck, the hairs on the back of his own neck starting to tingle unpleasantly. The only structure in this direction was the picnic shelter overlooking the base’s game yard. A yard that was, not surprisingly given the downpour, currently deserted.

  But the shelter wasn’t. As Funk led the way toward it, Travis could see a shadowy figure standing rigidly in the center of the shelter with his back toward them.

  I’m going to die. I’m going to die, and then they’re going to bury me in the sand in the high-jump pit. Quickly, guiltily, Travis chased the ridiculous thought from his mind.

  But if he wasn’t here to be quietly murdered, what was he here for?

  Funk led the way up the shelter’s pair of short steps, and as Travis came up the steps behind him the third man finally turned to face them. He was middle aged, his hair a short-cropped graying blond, his forehead and cheeks lined, his expression neutral. Now, close up, Travis could also see that he was wearing the insignia of a senior chief petty officer.

  “Senior Chief,” Funk greeted the man, his tone formal. “Spacer Third Travis Long, as requested.”

  “Spacer Long,” the man said, just as formally. “I’m Senior Chief Dierken. You’re in a purple-gilled mess of trouble, Spacer.”

  Travis felt his heart seize up. He flicked a glance at Funk, but the other was watching him with the same hard expression that Dierken was.

  “You were told to stay clear of Lieutenant Cyrus,” Dierken continued. “Why the hell didn’t you listen?”

  “Uh . . .” Travis’s brain seemed to shrivel under Dierken’s glare. “I didn’t—”

  “No one ever does,” the senior chief cut him off brusquely. “No matter. Too late now, anyway. You’ve rattled the wrong cage, Long, and your life’s about to change. Drastically.

  “Sit down, shut up, and listen.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  In some ways, Commodore Kiselev mused, his return to academia felt like coming home.

  In other ways, it felt like exile.

  He scowled out the window of his new office in the Casey-Rosewood HQ building. A real window, not a viewscreen, with grass and trees and blue sky on the other side. His office didn’t face any of the main pedestrian routes, but there was a lesser-used walkway in sight and every minute or two someone went striding briskly past. Occasionally, an air car cut across the corner of his view, heading over the top of the building on its way to the landing area or rising over the roof as it headed out again. It was certainly tolerable, even reasonably pleasant.

  But it wasn’t like being aboard a ship. It didn’t even feel, really, like being a proper Naval officer.

  It felt like being a civilian.

  He sighed, a long, frustrated sound that he would never have given vent to in front of anyone else. He still missed Mars, and he was still angry at what was being done to her.

  But the past few weeks had turned the red-hot fury in his heart into a cooler ache in the pit of his stomach. He’d done everything he could to save his ship, and his efforts had failed. Time to let her go. His job now was to usher new spacers through this second stage of their training and prepare them for life in the Royal Manticoran Navy.

  Assuming that the Navy still existed by the time they were ready for their assignments.

  He gave the view one last look, then turned back to his desk and terminal. If the RMN was going to fade away, there was nothing he could do to stop it. But let it
never be said that Commodore Horace Kiselev had been part of its demise. He would do his job; and the first part of that job was to familiarize himself with everyone under his command.

  He’d spent the entire day yesterday going through the officer and instructor files. Today, it was time to look at the students themselves.

  Pulling up the first of the files, he began to read.

  It was just before four in the afternoon when he reached the file of Spacer Third Class Travis Uriah Long.

  Up to now Kiselev had been skimming the reports. Not anymore. This one he read carefully, all the way through. Then he reread two other files, read Long’s again, and followed three of the attached links.

  When he had finished, he sent out a summons for Lieutenant William Cyrus to report to his office.

  He was checking a section of the Uniform Code of Conduct when the yeoman ushered Cyrus into the office.

  The other strode to Kiselev’s desk and came to attention.

  “Lieutenant William Cyrus reporting as ordered, Sir,” he announced formally.

  “At ease, Lieutenant,” Kiselev said, studying the other’s face. It seemed open and guileless, the face of a man with no strains on his conscience. “I’ve been reading over the personnel files,” he continued. “I like what I see.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” Cyrus said briskly. “We have a good team here.”

  “So it seems,” Kiselev said. “Tell me about Spacer Third Class Travis Long.”

  Cyrus had his expression under good control, as befitted a man who’d had to deal with all kinds of superiors through the course of his career. But the control wasn’t perfect. “Sir?” he asked, his tone suddenly cautious, his face tightening just enough for Kiselev to see.

  “It says here that Long was caught cheating on a test,” Kiselev said, waving toward the terminal, “and that he was subsequently transferred from your impeller track to the gravitics track. In fact, from the date stamps, it looks like he was immediately transferred to gravitics. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Cyrus said. “As you can see, it was on a quiz—”

  “Cheating is a serious offense, Lieutenant, punishable by summary dishonorable discharge,” Kiselev cut him off. “So why didn’t you go ahead and file formal charges? Why was he simply transferred to a different track?”

  “We, uh, were still trying to ascertain the circumstances when he put in for a transfer to gravitics. It was thought that a fresh start—someone must have thought it would be good for him, because the transfer went through immediately.”

  “And you didn’t challenge it?” Kiselev asked. “You and your witness? I assume you did have a witness to this alleged cheating?”

  Cyrus’s throat worked.

  “Ah . . . the suspicion was brought to my attention by one of Long’s instructors, Sir.”

  “The suspicion,” Kiselev said. “Not any actual cheating? Just the suspicion of cheating?”

  Cyrus was starting to take on the look of a cornered animal.

  “Someone apparently thought it was advisable to transfer him to a track—”

  “Yes, you already said that,” Kiselev said. “Would you like to know what I think, Lieutenant? I think that Long’s allegations of cheating in the impeller unit threatened your own record, so you trumped up this charge as an excuse to get him out of your hair. And if that got the kid bounced on his butt with a DD in his permanent record to hang over his head for the rest of his life, that was just too damned bad, wasn’t it?”

  “Sir, I—there were no allegations of cheating,” Cyrus protested. “I mean, he had suspicions, but never offered any specifics.”

  “Didn’t he?” Kiselev countered. “Or did you simply refuse to listen?”

  “He had no specifics, Sir,” Cyrus insisted.

  “That’s interesting.” Kiselev gestured to the terminal again. “Because he filed quite a number of specifics onto the Provost Marshal’s records folder. Including names, times, and methods.”

  Cyrus’s mouth twitched. Apparently, he hadn’t realized Long had done that.

  “I—Sir, I had no idea—”

  “Of course you didn’t,” Kiselev said. “Because the regs call for all such accusations to be dual-filed that way, except hardly anyone ever does. I gather Long is a strict rule-follower?”

  Cyrus seemed to gather himself. “Sir, none of those accusations are provable,” he said flatly. “And even if they were . . . Sir, half the damn class is involved. And you know as well as I do that they’ll all need to be retrained anyway once they’re aboard their ships.”

  “That’s your defense, Lieutenant?” Cyrus asked coldly. “That everyone does it, and that it doesn’t matter anyway?”

  Cyrus’s jaw wrinkled with a momentary clenching of his teeth.

  “Sir, Spacer Long is a royal pain in the butt. He’s disruptive, argues every little damn thing, and irritates everyone around him. I just . . . it seemed better to let the transfer go through without a fuss. Let him irritate someone else for a change.”

  “Someone who wouldn’t put impossible situations into midshipman simulations?” Kiselev suggested. “Oh, yes, that’s in here, too,” he added as Cyrus paled. “So is the link to your many attempts to get BuEng and BuOrd interested in your dual-stage missile idea. Though to be fair, Long didn’t know about those. I dug up that connection myself.”

  “Sir—”

  “Bottom line, Lieutenant Cyrus,” Kiselev said, dropping his voice into the cryogenic temperature range. “Did Spacer Long cheat, or didn’t he?”

  Cyrus’s throat worked again.

  “No, Sir.”

  Kiselev let the words hang in the air for a long moment.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said at last. “We’ll be talking again later. Dismissed.”

  He stared at the closed door for a long time after Cyrus left, simmering with anger and frustration. And wondering what he was going to do about this.

  Because the hell of it was that, on one level, Cyrus was right. The bright-eyed students here would have to be retrained once their theoretical schooling slammed head-on into the real world. The dirty little secret was that the training school’s main purpose was merely to give them the basic background they would need to build on once they reached their ships, along with the intellectual techniques required to assimilate new information. The rest of the bookwork was essentially meaningless, especially here in the RMN’s declining days, when more equipment and techniques were cobbled together than were taken shiny out of the box. Exposing the students’ cheating to the light would merely kick out a bunch of perfectly adequate spacers and open the RMN to a scandal it couldn’t afford.

  Worse yet were the specific students who would be thrown out. The Navy might be in its twilight days, but that hadn’t stopped the rich and powerful from sending their sons and daughters to try to grab some glory and command rank for themselves before the end. The Academy was always the first choice, of course, but when the midshipman slots were filled the next choice was Casey-Rosewood and the hoped-for petty officer track. The names on Long’s list of offenders weren’t the biggest on Manticore, but they were big enough, and their high and noble families would not take kindly to having those names smeared across the center of a scandal.

  And the last thing the Navy needed was more names on its enemies list.

  Which meant that for the good of the Service, Kiselev was going to have to sweep this one under the rug. No punishment for the students, no overt punishment for Cyrus.

  And Spacer Long would be left hanging in the wind.

  Kiselev scowled at his terminal. Maybe, but maybe not. Long had been in the center of his impeller class—a decent enough showing, considering that most of those above him were habitual cheaters, but on paper hardly spectacular. In contrast, in the gravitics track where Cyrus had sent him he was second of eleven students. A much better showing, probably helped along by Lieutenant Krauss’s practice of allowing her students to use notes during tests. Her argument,
delineated in full in her file, was that a lot of on-board gravitic work was done via ship’s computer, where relevant formulas were always available, and therefore those formulas didn’t need to be memorized. A reasonable enough teaching philosophy, Kiselev had concluded, which also had the benefit of making most cheating superfluous. Long would rise or fall there on his own, and it looked like he was rising just fine.

  And really, gravitics was as just good a specialty as impellers. All Long had lost in this whole deal had been a little pride and a little face, and most of that had been between him and a handful of others, since Cyrus had needed to keep the details of his plot private.

  Besides, deep down, Kiselev could sympathize with Cyrus’s motivation. Strict rule-followers tended to be staid, petty, and colorless, usually with little humor and no imagination. They were the invisible ones, plugging along at their jobs and keeping things running, but seldom attracting the attention of anyone higher than their division head. They stayed strictly on the lines, never daring anything new or deviating from the precise rule of regulations and orders. Long would do his years in the Navy, collect an unimpressive list of unenthusiastic commendations, and be promoted on schedule until he reached the end of his career. At that point, he would retire to sit in the shade with his grandchildren, as colorless at the end of his life as he’d been at the beginning of it.

  Assuming he ever had grandchildren. That personality type didn’t exactly draw husband-seeking women.

  So Spacer Long was set. Which left just one loose end Kiselev still needed to tie up.

  Senior Chief Dierken responded to the summons faster even than Lieutenant Cyrus had. Almost, Kiselev mused, as if he’d been expecting the call.

  “Good to see you, Senior Chief,” Kiselev said after the official greetings were out of the way. “It’s been a while.”

  “Three years two months, Sir.” Dierken grinned lopsidedly. “And no, I had to look it up. Congratulations on your promotion, by the way.”