The Interstellar Navy

Excerpted from The Guardians of Peace by Jeffrey Caminsky, published by New Alexandria Press.

From Chapter 4

ARNOLD WASSER felt his heart racing. He wanted to shout, but didn’t want to make a fool of himself. It was nearly shift change, and there were already several other young officers in the simulation room. The last thing he needed was to attract a crowd to watch him squander another chance to beat the computer.

Freezing the action on the screen, he stopped to consider the problem: the furious battle raging in the middle of his screen. The computer, playing Blue—Isis was always blue; it was the Admiral’s favorite color— was pressing the attack, throwing all its reserves into the center of the Red line. It was the same problem that was giving everyone trouble: the Computer was a master at concentrating its attack and finding the weakest point in the Red defenses. If he moved a regiment of Red frigates from his flank toward the center of battle, he might tip the balance. But if his line buckled, as it always did, one flank would be badly undermanned and no match for a concentrated enemy assault, as every ensign in the fleet had discovered. On the other hand, the center of the Red line was already showing signs of stress; if Blue kept attacking, the enemy forces would eventually puncture his defenses. And yet his own force outnumbered the remaining Blue fleet by a substantial margin. There should be a way for him to beat the machine this time, he thought. There simply had to be a way.

“Save screen,” he told the computer; instantly, the battle etched itself into the vast electronic brain of the Central Computer, letting him experiment with another approach. Shaking his head in frustration, he decided to press ahead.

“Resume—no, freeze!”

Suddenly, Wasser had an idea. No, he told himself—not so much an idea as a hunch. He remembered the informal talk the Admiral had given his training class, and his lesson on the advantage of doing the unexpected. If redeploying from the flanks would lead to disaster, and holding the line would lead to disaster, then the answer had to be something else. Something so obvious that everyone would miss it. Fighting every instinct in his head, he decided to cede the center of the line to Blue and withdraw his ships to either flank. Taking a deep breath, the young cadet entered the order codes, and resumed the battle. As he watched the Blue ships pour through the opening, he suddenly saw how to beat them: with their enemy gone from the center, the point of the Blue formation had nothing to stop it. At once, he gave the command for his ships to attack—and watched as the Red fleet proceeded to destroy the distended enemy line.

As the computer took control, sending the Red ships after the remnants of the Blue fleet, the images of battle faded, replaced by a familiar face.

“Well done,” said the image of Admiral Cook. “This is your second victory over the Blue fleet—or, to put it more precisely, the second time you managed to avoid defeat. And that, more often than not, is what separates the hero from the imbecile, the successful commander from one who dies along with his command.”

“You’ve passed the first major hurdle on your way to becoming a real combat officer. You’ve learned to analyze the enemy’s problem, and see things from his perspective. Now you’re ready to experiment with our side of the problem.

“Your access code will now let you command either fleet—Red or Blue—at your discretion. I know that every young officer wants to do his part to beat back the Terran threat. Now you have your chance. I ask only that you not share your code with any of your comrades. Like you, they have a lot to learn, and little time left to do it. But advancement in my Navy must be earned. If they can’t master the problem from the Terran perspective, they won’t be much help in developing solutions to our own tactical dilemmas.

“One last thing—and I say this only to keep you from getting too cocky. These battle simulations can help prepare you to face the Terrans when they finally come. I’ve devised many of the problems myself, and some of them come from actual battles. You can also set your own battle scenarios from now on, to experiment with tactics, practice problems that are giving you trouble, or see how some of the maneuvers you’re practicing will look when seen in the grander scheme of things. But always remember this: the computer can play at twenty different levels for these simulated battles—and there are five more levels beyond that, requiring my own personal password to enter. Each level is more demanding than the last. You just passed Level Two, and the computer will never let you practice that level again. From now on, the machine will get better and faster with each step. And we don’t know which level will approximate the Terran commander.

“Of course, I have my own opinions about the matter,” the Admiral’s eyes twinkled. “But that’s none of your concern.”

Suddenly the image on the screen, the stern but patient face of Admiral Cook, seemed to look directly into the young man’s eyes.

“Congratulations, once more,” the Admiral said, a hint of amusement in his voice. “ Now, Ensign—enough of this chit-chat. It’s time for you to get back to work.”

As the image faded, Ensign Wasser felt himself soaring through the heavens like a mighty starship. For the next three hours, he kept plotting battle after battle on the screen, never noticing how quickly the time was passing.

* * *

The Galaxy’s bound for disaster

And colder than Death is the Sky,

But I volunteered to be up here

So what kind of prat-head am I?

Isis—Isis

We’ll raise up a bottle to thee, to thee.

Isis—Isis

We’ll raise up a bottle to thee.

ENSIGN GEOFFREY JASON plopped down on his bunk and closed his eyes, the sounds of laughter and singing from the hallway still ringing in his ears. Without doubt, this had been the worst day of his twenty-two year old life. Dragged out of bed while his brain was screaming for sleep, he’d spent the next eighteen hours running in lockstep with a whole company of officer candidates—from drill station to drill station. Without a second to call his own, his brain was pummeled on all sides by formations, protocols, and battle tactics—all attacking relentlessly, giving him no time to absorb what was going on around him. He’d foolishly spent his two hours of free time running a simulator drill, trying to lead the Terran attack fleet against the Isitian Navy, and doing rather a poor job of it. He wondered if he’d been better off hanging out in the galley, instead—though it seemed to him that the mess hall food was designed largely to keep the recruits at the simulators. Now that he finally had some free time, he was too tired to do anything but drift off to sleep.

The Heavens hold dangers and sadness

And storm clouds and rocks and debris,

And we all signed up for this madness

So what kind of prat-heads are we?

Isis—Isis

We’ll raise up a bottle to thee, to thee.

Isis—Isis

We’ll raise up a bottle to thee.

Jason took a deep breath to relax, and felt himself drifting—drifting off to sleep....

“Ow—ww!” he cried sharply, awaking to find some idiot’s foot rising off his stomach. Pulling down sharply on the offending leg, he soon found himself engaged in a tug of war with its owner.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” came a voice from the upper bunk.

“Who the hell told you to use my belly for a trampoline?”

“Let go.”

“Come back down here and learn to get up properly.”

“Let go.”

“Come down here, before we’re both washed out of the service.”

As his roommate eased himself off the bunk, and the sleepiness left his head, Jason found himself feeling quite foolish. Obviously, the oaf didn’t mean to wake him. By the looks of it, the poor fellow was just as tired as he was, and probably would have preferred not climbing into an upper bunk.

Taking a step back, the young man smiled sheepishly and extended his hand. “Lund,” he said, his voice carrying a trace of a Highlander accent. “Jay Lund. Sorry if I disturbed you. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Jason grinned and shook the fellow’s hand. “Jason,” he said, shaking his head. “Given the workout they gave us today, I doubt if I’d do much better.”

“Southlander?”

Jason nodded. “New Alexandria, born and bred.”

“I’m from the Hill Country.”

“You seem to have a problem scaling heights, Lund.”

The young man laughed, then took a step back, and leaped up to the top berth with a single bound, giving the bunk quite a jolt as he came to rest. Peeking down from the upper bunk, he laughed roughly.

“I was really trying not to disturb you, you know.”

“What group— ?”

“Company 17, Battlegroup J.”

“I’m Battlegroup A. As in asleep, sound asleep. I hope our schedules aren’t going to clash. I’d hate to go through this every day.”

“I’m too tired to worry about it just now.”

“You’re not the one who’s going to have his stomach trampled.”

“You’re the one who chose the lower bunk.”

* * *

With future uncertain and hazy

The Terries are heading our way.

Invading a planet that’s crazy—

Now what kind of prat-heads are they?

Isis—Isis

We’ll raise up a bottle to thee, to thee.

Isis—Isis

We’ll raise up a bottle to thee.

The warning buzzer sounded, letting Greg Garrity know that his shields were buckling. Trying to ignore the sounds from the nearby bar, he focused his attention on the lone enemy escort, approaching from astern. He’d already given up trying to muscle his way through the exercise once again. Now, he just wanted to keep his streak intact. No other ensign had managed to avoid destruction for more than ten consecutive missions; he’d already passed number eighteen, and had his sights set on twenty. But first, he had to escape the trap the computer had set for him.

The game terminals were a popular gathering spot for off-duty officers and enlisteds. The bar at the other end of the room served the coldest beer and least objectionable food on the base. Once done with their drills and training for the day, those of all ranks never tired of joining one another for food and company. But no matter the hour, there were always one or two young naval officers who couldn’t pass up the chance to show off. Especially when some of the prettier female officers showed up, dressed in civies and ready for a night out.

Greener than green are her forests

And bluer than blue is her sea,

In all of Creation the fairest

And home to such bounders as we—

Isis—Isis

We’ll raise up a bottle to thee, to thee

Isis—Isis

We’ll raise up a bottle to thee.

Pulling his own ship into a wicked turn, Garrity passed out of the killing zone as his last shield collapsed, narrowly missing a full broadside from the enemy leader. Staying just beyond range of the enemy’s wing, he focused his approach on the single escort blocking his escape route. If he could blow past it, he knew, he’d live to fight again, and keep his string going; if not, he had to start over, with a new record to shoot at—this time, his own.

“Look at him,” came a female voice, from over his shoulder. “He’s doing it again.”

“Naw,” scoffed one of his own buddies. “He’s about to self-destruct. Watch.”

Ignoring the distraction, the stocky young ensign concentrated on the escort laying just to port. As it banked over, trying to intercept him, Garrity gunned his engines and veered sharply—first to starboard, trying to get the computer to commit to an attack, then to port, cutting behind the escort and into the open skies beyond. Suddenly, the escort lay directly before him, its open broadside beckoning to his own still-charged guns. Pulling the trigger, he saw the image of the enemy escort explode on the screen. Finally, he steered his own ship through the electronic dust and smoke, and out of danger.

Some things can never be righted

And some things can never be wrong,

So let’s go where all are invited

For laughter, companions, and song.

Isis—Isis

We’ll raise up a bottle to thee, to thee.

Isis—Isis

We’ll raise up a bottle to thee.

“Lucky bastard!” one of his friends shouted, slapping him on the back. “Steps right into it, and still comes out smelling like a rose. I think he’s forgotten how it feels to get his ass kicked.”

Garrity leaned back in his chair, and locked his hands behind his head. “Can’t help it,” he grinned, winking at the young female officer candidate hovering at the edge of the crowd. “Of course, some things you never forget.”

“I have ten credits that say you can’t make it all the way to twenty-five,” said his friend.

“If your money’s as dumb as you are, Randy O’Dell, it’ll be like stealing from a kid.”

“Your luck running out?”

“You’re on.”

“And somebody fetch this bounder a beer—we may need to handicap him to keep down the odds!”


© 2012 by Jeffrey Caminsky