A Call to Duty

  How? The word remained unspoken, because there was no air with which to speak it.

  Perhaps his killer sensed the question anyway. Or perhaps he merely had need to gloat. “You shouldn’t have left us alone in the shuttle cockpit,” Eigen murmured in his ear, just loud enough to hear over the now distant alarm and the hammer of blood pounding through Guzarwan’s head. “Or maybe you just didn’t know that military cockpit med kits always include scissors.”

  Guzarwan almost smiled. But there was no air for even that. No air, and no time.

  And then, there was no time for anything. Anything at all.

  “There she is,” Gill said. It really wasn’t necessary to point that out, he knew—everyone on Péridot’s bridge could see Wanderer coming up over the horizon. But the tension inside him was reaching the unbearable point, and he had to say something.

  “There she is, indeed,” Commodore Flanders agreed. Agreeing, or humoring. Gill wasn’t sure which. “Are we ready, Captain?”

  “We’re ready.” Captain Henderson smiled tightly at Flanders from his place in the command chair. “Under the circumstances, Commodore, I think it only fair that you give the order.”

  “I appreciate the offer, Captain,” Flanders said. “But Péridot is your ship. The honor is yours.”

  Henderson inclined his head. “Thank you.” He turned to the forward display and seemed to straighten up. “Tactical officer? Fire.”

  And with a violent discharge of plasma from its capacitors, the collimated pulse of X-ray energy lanced outward.

  One shot was all Péridot’s capacitors could give it. One shot was all it needed. In the distance, Wanderer’s bow disintegrated before the unstoppable fury of the energy beam. The fury continued unabated, boiling through the forward impeller ring, the forward cargo bay, the center of the hab spin section, and into the reactor.

  And then, for a few seconds, the trinary system had a fourth sun.

  The blaze had faded into a fiery glow when the com officer lifted a finger. “Captain Henderson? Shuttle Control reports Marines are geared and packed and ready to fly.”

  “Order them to launch,” Henderson said. “Then signal Guardian and tell them reinforcements are on their way. Whoever the Manticorans have aboard Saintonge, I imagine they can use a little help.”

  “Yes, Sir.” The officer turned back to his board.

  “In a way, it’s almost too bad,” Henderson continued, almost wistfully. “With Wanderer gone, so is our best chance of figuring out who they were and where they came from. Can’t sift much evidence from an expanding cloud of dust.”

  “Oh, I’m sure there’ll be a few survivors left after we retake Saintonge,” Flanders soothed. “And Haven has some very good interrogation techniques. Whatever they know, we’ll get it out of them.”

  “There’s also the bomb your people found in Péridot’s reactor room,” Gill reminded him. “There may be clues in the materials or design that’ll point us in the right direction.”

  “The important thing is that we’ve kept Havenite military technology from being stolen,” Flanders said. Deliberately, he turned his eyes on Gill. “Which reminds me, Massingill. You and I need to have a talk.”

  Gill frowned. There’d been something in the commodore’s tone right then. “Yes, Sir,” he said. “I’ll look forward to it.”

  “Maybe,” Flanders said. “Maybe not.”

  Massingill had been planning to wait until she’d stabilized her position and relative velocity before calling anyone. Boysenko beat her to it. “Colonel Massingill?” the younger woman’s tentative voice came through Massingill’s helmet. “Are you there? We’re picking up a thruster trail about thirty kilometers from Saintonge. Is that you?”

  “That’s an affirmative, PO,” Massingill said. “Nice timing—I was just about out of maneuvering fuel. Where are you?”

  “In the second Havenite shuttle, the one Guzarwan brought from Péridot,” Boysenko said. The relief in her voice was so thick that Massingill couldn’t decide whether to be amused or touched. “Thank God. I thought you were . . .” She trailed away.

  “Planning to go out in a blaze of glory?” Massingill offered.

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Boysenko said, sounding embarrassed. “When you said Guardian didn’t need to send another shuttle, we all thought . . . I’m sorry, Ma’am.”

  “That’s okay,” Massingill assured her. “I just meant that they didn’t need to send another shuttle because we already had the one you’re now riding in. No, I’m not ready to die just yet. Not while Guzarwan is still alive. I need to at least take a crack at killing him first. So who’s flying the shuttle? Pohjola?”

  “It’s Holderlin, Ma’am,” the sergeant’s voice cut in. “Just relax—we’ll be there in a few.”

  “Yes, thanks, I think I can manage that,” Massingill said dryly.

  “One other thing, Ma’am,” Holderlin said. “Boysenko, you want to do the honors?”

  “Thank you, Sir,” Boysenko said. “Colonel, we’ve just heard from Péridot. Your husband is alive and well.”

  Massingill caught her breath, her vision suddenly blurring. “You’re sure?”

  “Very sure, Ma’am,” Boysenko said. “Commander Metzger says he called and talked directly with her. And the crew found the bomb and disarmed it. There are also two shuttles on the way—Commodore Flanders is sending all of Péridot’s Marines here to assist.”

  “Really,” Massingill said, blinking away the tears as best she could. “In that case, Sergeant, you’d better step on it so we can get back inside. Can’t have the Havenites thinking we’re lazing on the job.”

  “Certainly can’t, Ma’am, not at all,” Holderlin agreed. “Stepping on it now, Ma’am. Anything else you’d like to talk about? We do have a few more minutes.”

  “Just concentrate on your flying,” Massingill said. “The last thing I need now is to get run over by some hotshot who isn’t watching where he’s going.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Actually, yes, there is something,” Massingill corrected herself as a thought suddenly occurred to her. “Boysenko, do you know whose crazy idea it was to ram a shuttle into the radiator?”

  “I believe it was Commander Metzger who came up with the shuttle part, Ma’am,” Boysenko said. “She was giving Commodore Flanders the details. The radiator idea itself . . . I’m not absolutely sure, but it sounded like that one was Gravitics Tech Long.”

  Mentally, Massingill threw Long a salute. Rule-stickler, crazy-idea Travis Uriah Long. Somehow, it seemed fitting and proper that he’d been the lunatic behind this. “Thank you,” she said. “If you talk to Guardian before I get back, please congratulate the XO for me on a brilliantly successful scheme.”

  She smiled tightly. “And tell Long the chocolate-chip cookies are on me.”

  “I trust,” Commodore Flanders said soberly, “that you see the problem.”

  Massingill looked sideways at her husband. Alvis was sitting there quietly, his eyes holding Flanders’s gaze.

  His hand was on Massingill’s lap, gently holding her hand.

  It had been years since he’d held her hand in public. Whatever this problem was that Flanders was about to unload on them, that alone almost made it worth it.

  “Or possibly you don’t,” Flanders continued into the silence. “Let me explain.” His gaze locked onto Alvis. “You’re a civilian, retired from your naval position, yet traveling aboard a Royal Navy ship. You came aboard Péridot, ostensibly as part of a friendship envoy, but with the actual goal of giving Havenite military hardware a good, hard look. The only two reasons for you to do that are, one, to see if our ships are worth purchase by the Star Kingdom; or, two, as actual military espionage.”

  “Yes, I can see how the situation could be interpreted that way,” Alvis said mildly.

  “Well, I can’t,” Massingill said, her heart suddenly thudding in her chest. Espionage? After all they’d done for Flanders, he was going to drop espionage charges o
n them? “And as long as we’re talking interpretation, how does the RHN interpret the fact that we saved its butt here?”

  “Jean,” Alvis said, quietly soothing.

  “No, I mean it,” Massingill said, ignoring the warning. Just because Captain Eigen had given his permission for them to talk to Flanders didn’t mean the commodore had carte blanche to do or say whatever he wanted. “Because on that charge it’s pretty clear we’re guilty.”

  “Please,” Flanders said, raising a calming hand. “You misunderstand. I’m not saying Haven is interpreting your actions that way. I’m suggesting that Chancellor of the Exchequer Breakwater will probably do so.”

  Massingill felt her jaw drop. Of all the names Flanders might have dropped into the conversation—“Breakwater?”

  “Captain Eigen and I had a long talk yesterday,” Flanders said, his voice turning a bit sour. “It’s his opinion that Breakwater’s faction has a vendetta against the Royal Navy, and that they’ll do pretty much anything they can to make you look bad.”

  “That’s a pretty accurate assessment,” Massingill murmured. The politics were a bit more complicated than that, she knew, but the end result was the same.

  “And since there’s really nothing else the Royal Navy did here that can be the least bit criticized,” Flanders continued, “it’s Captain Eigen’s belief that they’ll latch onto Mr. Massingill’s presence and activities.”

  Massingill looked at her husband.

  “Yes, it’s insane,” Alvis said. “But I think the captain is right.”

  Massingill grimaced. Unfortunately, she had to agree. Whether or not this incident ever made it to the general public, Parliament would certainly be told, and Breakwater would never allow it to go into the records untarnished. Even if he had to invent the tarnish and slap it on himself.

  “Captain Eigen also told me,” Flanders continued, “that you two aren’t particularly happy where you are.”

  Massingill frowned at him. That was also true; but what in the world did that have to do with any of this?

  “So let me lay out my cards,” Flanders went on, his eyes steady on her face. “Our reports indicate that the RMN is currently in a state of build-down, with some of our analysts wondering if it may even cease to exist in another few years. Mr. Massingill has already accepted early retirement, and opportunities for you, Colonel, are going to be steadily shrinking.

  “The Republic of Haven Navy, on the other hand, is the up-and-coming power in this sector. We need good people—which you’ve already proven yourselves to be—and you need a service that will give you the opportunity to achieve your goals.” He gestured to Massingill. “Senior rank for you, Colonel—” he shifted the gesture to Alvis “—a challenging, high-level yard or ship design position for you.”

  He cocked an eyebrow.

  “So. What do you say?”

  It took Massingill a few seconds to find her voice. This was not the direction she’d expected this conversation to go. She looked at her husband . . . and only then belatedly realized that her own confusion was nowhere to be found on his face.

  And then, finally, she got it.

  “You two have already set this up, haven’t you?” she asked.

  Alvis shrugged, a little uncomfortably. “We’ve discussed it,” he admitted. “But nothing’s been decided.”

  “But it could be?”

  “It could be,” Alvis agreed. “But only if you’re on board. If you don’t want to go, we don’t.”

  Massingill took a deep breath, exhaled it slowly. “And Captain Eigen’s all right with this?”

  “He doesn’t like the thought of losing us, no,” Alvis said. “But he understands our position, and freely admits that Haven can offer us more than Manticore can right now.”

  “What about the politics?” Massingill asked, a small part of her mind noting that worrying about Breakwater and his cronies was a ridiculous thing to be doing right now.

  “The captain concedes that Breakwater can still pick on me,” Alvis said. “But it’s going to look exceedingly petty when I’m not there to defend myself. More to the point, he’s going to have a hard time accusing us of spying on Haven when Haven’s just hired us.”

  “I suppose,” Massingill said. “And this is really what you want to do?”

  “Haven is the cutting edge of ship design and construction, Jean. It’s the sort of thing I wanted to do on Manticore. It’s basically what they promised I could do. Only Parliament won’t let the RMN do anything.”

  He squeezed her hand a little tighter.

  “It’s a big step,” he said quietly. “I want to go—you already know that. But if you don’t, we won’t. We’ll go back to Guardian, and I’ll never say another word about it.”

  Massingill took a careful breath. Serving with the bright, shining star in this part of the galaxy. No more of Parliament’s close-fisted, short-sighted stupidity. Alvis happy. Her happy.

  Yard dog and ship designer Alvis Massingill. Brigadier Jean Massingill.

  “One request,” she said. “Marine Squad 303, part of the team that helped us take back the Saintonge? Once I have my command, I’d like them assigned to it.”

  “I can certainly put in the request,” Flanders said, frowning. “But I’m obligated to point out—how shall I put this?—that 303 isn’t exactly the best Haven has to offer.”

  “You’re right, they’re not.” Massingill smiled tightly. “But they will be.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Travis didn’t recognize any of the vehicles parked along the street or in the drive of his mother’s house. But that was hardly surprising, given how little of his mother’s life he’d shared recently.

  Or really, shared ever.

  So why was he here?

  For a long moment he sat in his rented air car, amid the small cracklings as the engine and body cooled down from the flight, listening to that question as it echoed through his brain. His mother probably wasn’t expecting him to show up for her birthday party. She probably didn’t even know he and Guardian were back from Secour. In fact, he would give long odds that she didn’t even remember that he’d gone to Secour.

  His mother wouldn’t care. Most of the other guests wouldn’t know who he was. Travis’s half-brother Gavin probably would be here, but Travis couldn’t decide if that was a vote for or against.

  There was a tap on his passenger window. Travis frowned, peering out at the woman bent over at the waist looking in at him. Her face was sideways at that angle, but she did look rather familiar . . .

  With a sudden rush of warmth, he jabbed at the switch and unlocked the door. She pulled it open—“Petty Officer Long,” Commander Metzger said, nodding in greeting. “May I join you?”

  “Of course, Ma’am,” Travis said. “I’m sorry—I didn’t recognize you in civilian clothing—” He winced, belatedly realizing how stupid that sounded.

  Fortunately, Metzger was nothing if not gracious. “Don’t worry about it,” she assured him. “Faces out of context. Happens to everyone.”

  “Thank you, Ma’am,” Travis said. “Ah . . . may I ask . . . ?”

  “What I’m doing in the neighborhood?” Metzger gave a little shrug. “The Massingills used to live nearby. I’m helping some of their friends pack up their things for shipment to Haven.”

  “Oh,” Travis said, feeling a sense of the universe tilting around him. A senior officer helping with the mundane job of packing was a scenario he’d somehow never imagined before. “I thought . . . shouldn’t there be people to do that?”

  “Senior officers are people, too, you know,” Metzger said dryly. “But you’re right. If they were still in the service, some yeomen would have been assigned. As it is, they have to rely on friends.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” Travis said. He somehow hadn’t imagined senior officers having friends, either. “Do they, uh, need any more help?”

  “Thank you, but we’ve got it covered.” She gestured out the window. “I was told you were c
oming here today. I’m glad I was able to catch you before you went inside.”

  “Actually, Ma’am, I’m not sure I am going in,” Travis confessed. “The main reason I came . . .” He stopped.

  “Was to tell your mother and brother about your citation?”

  Travis sighed. “Yes, Ma’am,” he admitted. “I mean . . . I heard about it yesterday, and Captain Eigen seemed to think it was going through. I didn’t know until I got here a few minutes ago and checked my mail . . . I know, it’s petty of me.”

  “It’s petty, all right,” Metzger said, a sudden hard edge to her tone. “But the pettiness isn’t yours. Do you know why the First Lord denied Captain Eigen’s request?”

  Travis shrugged uncomfortably. “Probably because I didn’t really do anything,” he said. “I had a couple of ideas, but you and Lieutenant Donnelly and Colonel Massingill were the ones that made everything happen.”

  “True,” Metzger agreed. “But everything starts with ideas, and whether you were officially part of the team or not, you went above and beyond. No, the reason you were passed over was because of politics.”

  “Politics?” Travis said, completely confused now. “But I never—did I break some regulation, Ma’am? Or offend someone?”

  “You, break regs? Never,” Metzger said with a wry smile. “Change offend to drive people crazy, and that one’s a maybe. But I’m not talking about your politics. I’m talking about your brother’s. Were you aware that he’s part of Breakwater’s anti-Navy coalition?”

  “Uh . . .” Hurriedly, Travis searched his memory. Now that she mentioned it, he had heard Gavin’s name mentioned in conjunction with the Exchequer’s. “I didn’t realize that he was that much against us.”

  “Well, he is,” Metzger said sourly. “And the people most annoyed by that are also fully aware of your blood relationship to him. Apparently, those same people think that any honors or citations awarded to you will somehow bleed over onto him and raise his status even higher among his peers.”