, or a bookstore near you.(Readers from the United Kingdom and abroad can also find Clouds of Darkness on Amazon.co.uk )
from Chapter 6
* * *
A FEW DAYS LATER, a shuttle hatch lock opened and a slightly disheveled blueshirt stepped into the hangar deck of the Cosmic Guard’s most famous ship.
“Permission to come aboard?”
“Permission granted, Captain Fitzgerald. Welcome to the d’Artagnan.”
Fitz smiled at his pretty young escort, a lieutenant who, as he recalled, was a member of Cook’s bridge crew. His ruddy skin crinkled around his eyes, and he wished that he’d taken the time to change into a clean uniform before leaving the Magellan. After the time spent cooped up on his own ship, he needed a change of scenery, and she was a lass after his own heart—a touch of sauce, ripe for a saucy touch. It never occurred to him that the young lady had her own views in the matter, and an entirely different opinion of him.
“Skipper’s still an hour away,” Mary Mathison said, as pleasantly as she could manage. “They would’ve been back yesterday, but they changed the rendezvous point again.”
Fitz laughed roguishly.
“They had to deliver some briefing papers to him,” Mary continued, a trace of haughtiness creeping into her voice. “By express courier, no less. The rest of the group is already here, now, so I guess the delay won’t really mean much. I mean, the Skipper can attend long-distance, if he wants to.”
Fitz nodded absently, paying less attention to what the young lieutenant was saying than how she was saying it. As they neared the officer’s lounge, he reflected that the d’Artagnan was really little different than any of the other starships in the fleet. The flooring might be a different color, but the corridors were the same hexagons, and the walls were the same standard beige. Passing them in the hallways, the crew looked much the same, though the missies always looked better on somebody else’s ship.
But being on this ship—Cook’s ship—felt different. Whether it was the bearing of the crew, the jaunty pride even the lowliest crewman showed at helping to man the grandest ship in the Cosmic Guard, or something as minor as the slightly subnormal gravitation the ship kept to remind her skipper of home, he couldn’t really tell. But he felt it every time he came aboard. Something about the d’Artagnan set it apart from the rest of the fleet.
Entering the lounge, Fitz smiled to greet many of his old comrades: Tanana; Blake; even Forestall, the group’s senior wing commander. Some he’d known for years, and some he hadn’t seen for ages, since shortly after the war started. But lifetimes passed quickly in war, and he had many friends he would never see again.
“Fitz—!!”
It was Chandler, his old friend from his DemCom days. Chandler looked tired, almost worn out. When Fitz looked at the others, they all had the same haggard, gaunt look. He wondered if he looked any different himself.
“You crafty old bastard! How the hell are you?”
“Same as always,” Fitz shrugged. “How’s life been treating you under Old Blunderbutt? Keeping your backsides safe from harm, I hope. From what we hear, the slimy bugger keeps dropping load after load. And now you groundtoads need help cleaning up the mess.”
Rough laughter filled the room. The warmth of friendship was easy enough to rekindle, Fitz thought. Besides, Admiral Weatherlee was nobody’s favorite commander. All along the front lines, the potshots at him were as thick as the bloodgnats on a Demetrian summer night.
“Those who’re still here can’t complain,” said Drake. “Leastways, not so long as Winnie’s in earshot.”
“Well, you can all rest easy now,” returned Fitz. “Cookie’s a-coming to the rescue—again. But by God, seems it’s bloody well getting to be a habit, don’t you know.”
“This time, Cookie’s got his work cut out for him,” said Forestall, his face turning serious. “The lizards are getting tougher every day. We lost Goddard in the last attack— ”
Fitz nodded sadly. Goddard had been part of the old gang at DemCom for longer than any of them could remember, as free with his money as with his jokes. Willing to do anything for a laugh, or for one of the good old boys. Now, like so many others Fitz knew, he was gone forever.
“— and he’s just the latest.”
“What’s the problem? I thought— ”
“They’re getting smarter, Fitz. We’ve kicked their slimy tails from the Neutral Zone half-way to the end of creation, but they’re starting to pull things together.”
“Cookie’s never put much stock in just bulling past’em,” Tanana interjected, “so you might not have a sense of how dicey things are getting. But they’ve started holding their forces back—pulling in their lines, shoring up their flanks.”
“Most of all,” continued Chandler, “now that their backs are against the wall they’re starting to press the attack.”
“And jumping all over us,” added Forestall, “when we make the slightest mistake.”
As his friends continued bringing him up to date on the enemy’s strengths and tactics, Fitz felt his insides twisting into hard, tight knots. Once again, now that they were set up for the kill, the lizards were fighting like demons. And after the Terran brush with disaster early in the war, they each knew better than to take the lizards lightly. Especially when it seemed like the battle was all but won.
Surrounded by buddies from the old days, Fitz poured a cup of coffee and took a seat. Soft, soothing music sounded over the speakers, and the plush, cushioned chairs in the officers’ lounge did wonders for his stern. It had been ages since he’d taken the time to sit and relax. On the Magellan, he found himself constantly besieged by a million things that demanded his attention. Here, on another ship, his mind could drift like a tramp schooner. He reveled in the freedom it gave him. But even here, he couldn’t escape forever; soon, the war came crashing back into his brain. He found himself caught by the stories of old friends meeting death, or heroics that were passing unsung in the darkness, so far away from civilization. He wondered when it would ever end.
More to the point, he began to wonder when his own com¬mander’s magic would run out, and whether this time Cookie would have any more luck than Old Blunder¬butt.
* * *
“LORD COMMANDER?”
The footfalls of a thousand souls thundered through the Flagship concourse, each proceeding toward the execution of duty. Lost in a cloud of his own concerns, Ga’Glish did not hear his Chief of Tactics calling. Soon, out of breath, Dra’Lengish had overtaken him.
“Lord Commander!” panted the Dralanvengi.
“Perhaps we should reconsider the advice of some of our junior officers,” smiled Ga’Glish, pausing to wait for Dra’Lengish to recover his wind. “Perhaps the conditioning we require of our young soldiers would be of benefit to my command staff, Lengish.”
“It would thin our ranks—appreciably, Lordship,” the Chief of Tactics nodded between gasps, “if only through—accelerating—the mortality tables. Whether that would benefit the Empire remains an unanswered question, I suppose.”
Turning to proceed toward the briefing area, Ga’Glish laughed without cheer.
“You have news?”
“Yes, Lordship. Good news, this time.”
“I am listening.”
“They have waited too long. The Terrans have delayed their offensive for too many days. Our relief force reports clear skies, and has made remarkable progress. Now they are but a few days away. The longnoses no longer have time to secure the planet before the arrival of Ra’Danli. They must retreat or perish.”
“Your confidence is most heartwarming,” Ga’Glish observed wryly. “Of course, it is easy to be confident when we are so far away from the battle, but let us not speak of trifles.”
“Speaking of trifles,” Dra’Lengish said; Ga’Glish sensed his Deputy’s mood shift to one of disdain. “I note that our newest arrival has yet to produce anything of value. He prefers to mouth only drivel and tripe, unbecoming a staff aide to the High Command.”
“Fa’Shenali has barely had chance to unpack, Lengish. Give him time. I am sure that the first time you spoke her name, your mother did not chide you for the paucity of your wit. Besides, he comes highly regarded, and he does seem to learn rather quickly.”
“But he is a—a commoner,” Dra’Lengish whispered. “Worse, his pedigree would offend even the rabble! Oh, Lordship, let us see reason together. This—boy, if you wish to be gracious about his appellation— ”
Stopping to face Dra’Lengish, Ga’Glish held out his hand to silence his Chief of Tactics. “This is a new age, Lengish,” the Lord Commander smiled wearily. “The exigencies of our era demand certain…well, concessions.”
Dra’Lengish kept his face impassive, but Ga’Glish could feel the frustration welling within his subordinate’s breast.
“Besides, the old Castes never did us much good. The philosophers have denounced them for eons.”
“Empty-headed rubbish!” rejoined Dra’Lengish. “They gave us order. And discipline. We knew who we were and what we were. And they never were very rigid, you know. At least, not among— ”
“Not among the masses. I know, Son of the Dralanvengi. But the Oligarchy itself must occasionally admit new blood, or die of its own inbreeding. And truth be known, we have been slowly dying for millennia, Lengish. We simply did not perceive it. For that perception—whatever other crimes they have committed along the way—we must thank the longnoses.”
Dra’Lengish recoiled in horror. “Such talk sounds of—of treason, Lordship.”
Ga’Glish watched in amusement as the color fairly drained from the eyes and gill slits of his tactical chieftain. Reformists like his uncle were long considered mad, he mused, and he was coming to doubt his own sanity, as well. Perhaps a civilization without its madmen simply lacked the energy to thrive. But he had long passed the point of caring about such things.
“Treason or not, the Terrans have made it all quite irrelevant,” he replied. “For the time being, the Empire needs all her sons, from all her daughters, if we are going to survive.”
“Have we really sunk so low as this?” Dra’Lengish breathed deeply; his voice quavered as he spoke. “So low as to need every harlot’s son to beat back the barbarians?”
Ga’Glish patted his subordinate on the shoulder, his smile belying the fire Dra’Lengish felt in the Lord Commander’s soul. “Bigotry ill becomes you, Lengish.”
“But— ”
“I shall hear no more of such things,” Ga’Glish commanded regally. His eyes narrowied fiercely, enough to make his subordinate fear for his liberty. “I have made my decision, and so has the First Minister. We are a common People. And the Terrans are a common enemy, dedicated to our destruction. If we cannot put aside our differences now, in the face of such dangers, then we do not deserve to call ourselves civilized.”
They continued down the hall, heading toward the Flagship’s Grand Hall of Congregation, for the weekly assembly of Thanks¬giving. To ones observing, they passed as if related by blood—Ga’¬Glish walking like a family lord, with proud eyes and defiant heart; his tactical chief shaking his head and pursing his lips like a sour old aunt.
* * *
“THEY’RE ASSEMBLED IN your office. The senior line officers from Task Force Alpha, I mean. One of ours has already arrived, so he’s there with them.”
“Who?”
“Captain Fitzgerald.”
Cook shook his head as he and Dexter hurried into the hangar deck lift. They headed toward the Conning Deck, and programmed the lift control for “Express.” The metal grids on the side-panels gave a passing view of the ship’s insides. A small light flashed each time they passed a different deck.
“I might have known,” Cook smiled. “If any of our own people could make it here ahead of us, it would be Fitz.”
“As for current status on the ship—well, aside from the new apprentice navigator....”
Cook raised his hand to interrupt. “Lieutenant,” he said with a weary sigh. “I’ve had a long trip, and I have a lot to think about in the next few days.”
Dexter looked crestfallen. “I only thought.. .”
Cook laughed, more in pity than anything else. “Don’t misunderstand me. I am impressed, Mr. Dexter. You have performed admirably. I have never seen handrails glisten like that, or floor tiles sparkle so brightly. And your initiative in winning certification at the remaining two bridge stations in my absence certainly does not give me any regrets—except that since you’re now eligible to command your own ship, you may be taken away from me just as you’re starting to become indispensable. But you’ve a lot to learn about your commanding officer’s quirks, as our executive officer can tell you. And you can tell Miss Mendelson and me all about it later, after I find out what we’ll be up against.”
Dexter’s eyes bulged. “Mendelson!” he exclaimed. “Oh, Jesus! She’s still— ”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Dexter,” Cook said, looking up at the floor indicator. “She’s a big girl. I’m sure she can find her way back to her room by herself.”
“But we just left her— ”
“As for protocol,” Cook began.
The door opened, and Cook stepped out into the Conning Deck corridor. Concerned about what the Book would describe as a minor breach of manners, Dexter stared ahead dumbly, his mouth open.
“Just tell her you’re sorry, and that it won’t ever happen again. And pray that she’s roped a redshirt into carrying all her bags. She did a lot of shopping on Looking Glass, and I’ll tell you quite honestly that being her valet is no fun at all.”
The elevator door closed, and Cook started down the hallway toward his office. He wondered whether the tactic of apologizing to the ship’s Executive Officer would work better for Dexter than it did for himself. Without fanfare, he entered his office and strode to the seat behind his desk, ignoring the startled animation that greeted his arrival.
“As you were; everyone be seated,” he began. He frowned to see that his desk had been tidied in his absence, and made a mental note to talk to his new executive aide about the pitfalls of mindless efficiency. “We don’t have time to bother with introductions. Besides, I’m sure we all know everyone here.
“I’ve read the status reports and battle manifests on the trip over here. At least, enough of them to give me an idea of what we’re up against.”
“And we’ve got wind of some of your zingers to the brass,” interrupted Chandler. “Must say you’re none too complimentary of our late Leader. Not that he might not be deserving it.”
Cook silenced the growing chorus of chortles with an acid smile.
“My personal opinions are not for public consumption,” he said coldly. “And as far as the past is concerned, I’ve read enough of your own reports, Captain Chandler, to know that there’s plenty of blame to go around. If all this good cheer at the change in commanders reflects the level of support Admiral Weather¬lee received from his subordinates, I may have overestimated what he had to work with—and may well owe him an apology.”
The entire group fell silent.
“As for where we go from here,” Cook continued, “I’ve sent for some of my own people to help us take the planet.”
“It’s about time we got some help,” ventured Forestall. The others nodded.
“Who’s coming to help us?”
“Captain Fitzgerald is already here,” Cook said, nodding toward Fitz. “Captains Ebling and McKinnon should be here in a day or two. We attack the day after they arrive.”
“Three ships? Three bloody ships? The lizards have been beating our butts for nearly a month and you think— ”
“Captain Forestall,” Cook said, his eyebrows arching regally. “I’ve got troubles enough, without any that your rudeness and mouth might add to the pile. Three additional starships—plus my own—should be quite sufficient for our needs. Given our time constraints, and the enemy’s tactical position, anything more would be a waste of resources. In fact, I doubt we really needed any additional help at all, but Admiral Weatherlee had already committed all his starships to the battle. I was afraid that what I have bouncing around my head might not work if the enemy realized that some of you were missing.
“Besides,” Cook smiled coldly, “ I didn’t really want to embarrass Admiral Weatherlee, or the lot of you, any more than necessary.”
“But— ”
“As for our precise plan of attack...,” stifling a yawn, Cook leaned back in his chair. He fought off the drowsiness that tried to intrude into his routine from time to time. Wing commanders had little enough time as it was. Weariness simply had no place on his duty schedule.
“I need to give things a bit more thought. I’ll have something in writing for you by tomorrow. I trust you’ll all have it mastered by the end of the day.”
“But— ”
“You’re all free to return to your ships, or to stay on board here, as our guests. But be back here—in my office—tomorrow at 200 Hours, sharp.”
“But— ”
“Dismissed.”
The squadron leaders filed out the door. Their shuffling feet dragged noiselessly on the carpet, and they each kept a sullen silence. Cook watched them carefully as they left. He suddenly realized that he’d worked with very few of them. From what he could see, they were hardly the sort to inspire innovation in a commanding officer. As the last of them neared the exit, he spoke again.
“Captain Fitzgerald, I’d like to speak to you.”
Fitz made his apologies to his friends, and promised to meet them in the officer’s lounge. When the door closed, Cook motioned for Fitz to take a seat.
“Well, Maestro,” Fitz laughed, plopping onto the overstuffed guest chair to Cook’s right, “looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you. The lizards—sorry, the Crutchtans—are giving our people fits here. And you’re sure as hell not making any friends with the locals. In fact, I’d say you’ve taken it upon yourself to prove to the rest of the Fleet that Weatherlee can’t even beat you when it comes to driving people crazy.”
Cook leaned back in his chair and laughed. “Ah, Fitz, honest to a fault. You’d fail completely as a diplomat, you know.”
“In this room, I think I have the market on tact cornered right now. What’s on your mind?”
Cook changed the programming on the overhead speakers, filling the room with the ancient, spritely music he used to help forget his troubles. He smiled wanly as Fitz winced at the change in programming. Clasping his hands behind his head, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, savoring each ebb and billow of the string section for the next several moments.
“You know these guys, Fitz,” he said at last. “Tell me about them.”
“Well, I— ”
“And not the stuff I’ll find in their service records.” Cook sat up in his chair, laughing softly at his own private joke. “I mean—who’s sailed with whom; who discovered what; who’s gotten which medal. That’s about as helpful as finding rocks in a rockpile.”
“Well, if I knew— ”
“I need to know what’s inside them.” Cook pointed to his heart. “How much can I trust them to do exactly as I say? And how much fight do they have in their bellies?”
“They’re all fine officers,” Fitz interjected hotly, as annoyed at having to defend his friends as at having to fight his way into the conversation. “Among the best I’ve served with.”
“You’ve seen none of them in battle, though? I mean—lately.”
Fitz shook his head warily. “Not since the First Battle of Lagrush. Forestall was in the next squadron over during the ambush. The others? I served with them all at DemCom. They’re all first class officers. I’ve never had reason to think that any of them are—you know—squeamish.”
Cook smirked, the same Isitian smirk that had made enemies all along the front lines. Cook’s smugness was annoying enough in the past, and Fitz often got sick and tired of defending him. Now, even Fitz was reaching the end of his patience.
“Never mind, ” Cook sighed. “Go join your buddies, Fitz. They’re probably half drunk by now, and I’m sure you don’t want to be left behind. Not this close to a battle.”
“Dammit Cook! I’m not a bloody mind reader. And I don’t much care for being laughed at. It might help if you told people what the hell you wanted to know, every once in a while.”
Cook lifted his head to look at the ceiling. He took a deep breath and chuckled mirthlessly to himself. When he spoke at last, there was a note of sadness in his voice that Fitz recognized, one that never failed to send a shiver down his spine. He’d heard it often enough. Always just before a battle. Just before Cook sent people off to die.
“If you had to pick one of them for a mission you had just doomed to fail—one that may kill thousands, on the chance that it might save thousands more,” Cook looked Fitz straight in the eye. “Which of them is most likely to come back alive? And who would bring the largest number of his people back with him?”
Fitz swallowed hard. His stomach tightened like a steel drum, and his gaze dropped to the floor. When he looked up, he saw Cook smiling the loneliest, weakest smile Fitz had ever seen.
“Not easy being a commodore these days, is it?”
Fitz said nothing; his face turned a deep crimson.
“Don’t worry, Fitz,” Cook said at last. “I’d never make you choose between your friends.”
© 2011 by Jeffrey Caminsky
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