A Call to Vengeance (Manticore Ascendant Book 3) Read online

  Breakwater gave a snort. “So RMN officers now go into battle expecting to get their entire crews killed?”

  “Sometimes Navy personnel have to do just that,” Travis said, feeling anger rising inside him. “Especially when our ships are undermanned, underequipped, and—by some—underappreciated.”

  There was a small stir around the table. Travis winced, realizing too late that he’d probably gone too far. “My apologies, My Lords and Ladies; Your Graces,” he said. “I didn’t mean to sound unappreciative.”

  “Yet you did,” Breakwater pointed out stiffly. “Perhaps we should allow you a few moments to collect yourself before we continue.” He turned to Burgundy and inclined his head. “With your permission, of course, Your Grace.”

  “I think we could postpone the rest of Lieutenant Long’s testimony until tomorrow morning,” Burgundy said, peering at his tablet. “We’re approaching the noon recess anyway.” He looked at Travis. “Tomorrow at oh-nine-hundred, Lieutenant. You’re dismissed.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Travis said. Silently berating himself for once again sticking his foot in it, he picked up his tablet and pushed back his chair.

  “Oh, I’m sorry—one last question,” Breakwater spoke up suddenly. “The technique you used to destroy that enemy battlecruiser. Very clever, that. Whose idea was it, exactly?”

  Travis felt his stomach tense. Breakwater knew perfectly well whose idea that had been. “It was mine, My Lord.”

  “Not Commodore Heissman’s?” Breakwater asked. “Or Commander Belokas’, or Tactical Officer Woodburn’s? Yours?”

  “Yes, My Lord.”

  “I see.” Breakwater inclined his head. “Thank you, Lieutenant. You may go now.”

  “Yes, My Lord.”

  Ninety seconds later, Travis was walking down the wide corridor toward the exit nearest the visitor parking lot. Wondering what the hell that last bit had been all about.

  Wondering perhaps a little too strenuously. Vaguely, he became aware that someone was calling his name—

  “So are you ignoring the whole world? Or is it just me?”

  Travis twitched with surprise, guilt, and embarrassment. “No, of course not,” he said hastily. “I mean—”

  “Apology accepted, Travis,” Lieutenant Commander Lisa Donnelly said, the warm impishness of her smile erasing any lingering suggestion that she was actually mad at him. “I’m surprised you have any brainpower left at all after that.” She nodded back behind them. “Let me guess: Chancellor Breakwater was playing his usual games?”

  “Yes—Ma’am,” Travis belatedly remembered to add. Lisa had been his best and closest friend for four years now, probably the only person he’d ever truly been able to relax with. As near as he could tell, she was just as comfortable in his presence as he was in hers.

  But she also outranked him, and here in public the correct forms of military etiquette had to be strictly adhered to. “And I’m pretty sure he won.”

  “Only pretty sure?”

  “Yes. Mostly because I have no idea what the game was.”

  “Ah.” Lisa glanced around and gestured to a set of empty chairs grouped around a small table in a conversation alcove at one side of their corridor. “Let’s sit down and you can tell me all about it. If you’ve got time.”

  “Yes, Ma’am, absolutely,” Travis said, already feeling the tension melting away. He hadn’t had a chance to see Lisa for several weeks before the battle, and the thought of spending even just an hour with her was definitely something to look forward to. “They don’t want me again until tomorrow.”

  “Good.” She glanced conspiratorially to both sides as they headed toward the alcove. “And you know, if we keep our voices down, you won’t even have to call me Ma’am.”

  Travis felt his face warming. Lisa didn’t call him on his strict adherence to rules very often, but when she did she was painfully efficient at making her point. “Yes, Ma—I mean, yes.”

  “So tomorrow, you say,” Lisa said thoughtfully. “Sounds like Breakwater got what he was looking for. Okay, let’s see if we can figure this out. Was there any point where he seemed happier than he was the rest of the time?”

  “Well, he threw in a last-second question as I was being dismissed,” Travis said as they both sat down. “And he went out of his way earlier to remind everyone how his two MPARS ships took out one of Tamerlane’s destroyers.”

  “He’s not going to let anyone forget that,” Lisa agreed. “Especially since Cazenestro had ordered the MPARS ships to stand down. If Hardasty and Kostava hadn’t ignored him and moved in anyway, things would have gone a lot worse.” Her eyes shifted over Travis’s shoulder. “Speaking of which.” She lifted a hand and raised her voice. “Townsend? Over here!”

  Travis felt a sudden jolt of tension as he twisted around in his chair to look. Sure enough, the big Sphinxian lumbering toward them was Petty Officer Charles Townsend. Chomps Townsend, to his friends.

  A long time ago, Travis had been one of those friends. Not anymore.

  But Chomps was smart enough not to show animosity toward a senior officer in public. He smiled at Lisa as he came up, gave the exact same smile to Travis, then came to a smart halt and executed an equally smart salute. “Commander Donnelly; Lieutenant Long,” he greeted them. “What heinous crime have you committed, may I ask, to have been hauled into this den of political machination and chaos?”

  “And what would you know about Parliament?” Lisa asked dryly.

  “Oh, I’ve sailed these waters myself of late, Ma’am,” Chomps said. “Two days ago, in fact. Possibly later today, too, if they really want to put themselves through a repeat performance.” He glanced at the wall chrono. “Though probably not until after lunch.”

  “At least you get to go in on a full stomach,” Lisa said. “I’m guessing we’re all here for the same reason.”

  “Which is?”

  “Lieutenant Long and I were just trying to figure that out,” Lisa said. “Care to join us?”

  “Thank you, Ma’am,” Chomps said. “If I may suggest: as I say, it’s lunchtime. Would the two of you care to join me for a small repast? My treat, of course.”

  “Hmm,” Lisa said, her face wrinkled with feigned uncertainty. “I don’t know. Enlisted and MPARS. What do you think, Travis? Can we legally accept such an invitation?”

  “If it helps,” Chomps offered, “we could consider it my apology for calling you by your first name in front of your fellow officers.”

  Travis sat up a little straighter. “What?” he asked carefully.

  “It’s okay,” Lisa soothed him, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “It was on Casca, and the Cascans don’t care so much about proper etiquette.”

  “I was also trying to save my skin, Sir,” Chomps added to Travis. “Which for a while looked like they also didn’t care much about.”

  “But as you see, we made it through,” Lisa said, standing up. “Very well, Townsend, we accept. To the cafeteria?”

  “Or to a little place just around the corner, Ma’am.” Chomps raised his eyebrows at Travis. “It’s Italian, Sir. I seem to remember that you like Italian.”

  “Yes,” Travis confirmed warily, searching the man’s face for some hint of the resentment or hatred he was surely still feeling for Travis and the damage to his career that had been a result of Travis’s damning report about Chomps’s computer hacking.

  But if there were any such emotions there, Travis could see no evidence of them. Chomps seemed genuinely cheerful and relaxed, friendly to both him and Lisa, and not at all ashamed of the MPARS uniform he was wearing.

  But then, Travis had never been good at reading people. For all he knew, Chomps could be planning right now exactly how and where he was going to slip the knife between Travis’s ribs.

  “Travis?”

  He looked at Lisa. She was eyeing him, a questioning expression on her face. As if the lunch thing was his decision and not hers.

  Squaring his shoulders, Travis looke
d back at Chomps. If the other was planning some revenge, they might as well get it over with. “Sounds good,” he said. “Please; lead the way.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Captain Trina Clegg tapped the release, and the hatch into Vanguard’s bridge slid open in front of her. She grabbed a handhold, noting as always the misaligned pair of plates on the inside of the pocket that had yet to be fixed. A lot of these older ships had been slowly warped and twisted over the years from missile launches, high accelerations, and simple age.

  Also as always, she turned her eyes resolutely away as she pulled herself through the hatchway. Vanguard still needed a lot of work to bring her to full fighting strength. Nonvital internal plate assemblies were way down on the priority list.

  The ensign at the tracking station glanced up, stiffened.

  “Captain on the bridge!” she called.

  At the front of the compartment, Commander Bertinelli swiveled around. His lips compressed, just noticeably, before he smoothed them out.

  “Welcome, Captain,” he greeted her gravely.

  The words were correct, and delivered in the correct tone. But Clegg wasn’t fooled. As far as Bertinelli was concerned, Clegg was an interloper, a Johnny-come-lately who had no business being on this ship.

  And who certainly had no business being flag captain of the newly restructured Aegis Force.

  On one level, Clegg could sympathize. Bertinelli wanted to command a battlecruiser. Wanted it so badly he probably had fever dreams about it. A few years ago he’d been offered the cruiser Gryphon, but he’d turned it down, preferring to stay on as Vanguard’s XO. His theory, as far as Clegg could tell, had been that he’d somehow thought staying where he was would put him first in line once the position of Vanguard’s captain was finally vacated.

  If so, he’d been sorely disappointed. Six months ago, a slightly doddering Captain Davison had announced his retirement. Bertinelli had probably gone out the next day and ordered the champagne to celebrate his imminent promotion to Vanguard’s captain, and he was probably the only person who’d been surprised when it wasn’t offered.

  Personally, Clegg was surprised his career had survived turning down the cruiser command at all. In fact, she suspected that only connections in high places had prevented his relief and reassignment to the kind of slop duties normally given someone who declined to sit the first time they pulled out the captain’s chair for him.

  Not surprisingly, at least for anyone who knew him, Bertinelli didn’t see it that way. Instead, he blamed Clegg.

  “Nothing to report, Captain,” Bertinelli continued, unfastening his straps. Again, his words and tone were correct, but Clegg couldn’t shake the feeling that he believed the universe’s highly unmilitary state of serenity was also somehow her fault. “Very quiet out there.”

  “Quiet is good, XO,” Clegg told him, giving each of the displays a quick but careful look as she floated past them. “I think our recent exercise demonstrates that, don’t you? Speaking of which, what’s happening with Bellerophon’s sidewall snafu?”

  “Last I heard, they were still working on it, Ma’am.”

  “Which was when?”

  She looked at Bertinelli in time to see another quick twitch of his lip.

  “About three hours ago, Ma’am.”

  Three hours. Clegg managed to not roll her eyes, but she pitched her voice quite a bit crisper as she turned to the com section.

  “Com, signal Bellerophon. I want an update on their sidewall situation.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” Quickly—maybe a little too quickly—the petty officer turned to his board.

  Bertinelli’s face had gone stony.

  “You have a comment, XO?” Clegg asked.

  The commander took a deep breath.

  “No, Ma’am,” he said stiffly. “Except that I already instructed Bellerophon to report if there was any change. I doubt they’ve forgotten.”

  Clegg regarded him thoughtfully, wondering just how stupid he really was. Aegis Force had returned from its most recent underway exercise to its overwatch position in Manticore orbit ten hours ago. There were many arguments in favor of simply staying in orbit and carrying out simulated exercises, but Clegg agreed with Admiral Kyle Eigen that the only way to be confident of a warship’s systems was to actually use them, not just pretend to use them. That was particularly true when the ships in question were as long in the tooth and short of spares as the Royal Manticoran Navy. That consideration had been given an extremely sharp and painful point just three weeks earlier, when too much of the RMN had been reduced to wreckage.

  And when Bellerophon’s captain was forced to report that his Number Two sidewall generator was down for maintenance, Commander Bertinelli had missed the minor fact that Captain Stillman should have reported that before the exercise, not in the middle of it.

  Nor was that the only system failure the exercise had turned up. The ancient art still known as gundecking reports, the practice of somehow failing to note any embarrassing items which might reflect poorly upon ship or officer, was alive and well.

  In the shrinking, underfunded, peacetime RMN, that had been merely contemptable. Three weeks ago, it had also become criminal dereliction of duty.

  But not everyone seemed to have gotten that particular memo, which was why Clegg had requested end-of-the-watch updates from Bellerophon—and every other ship in the squadron—on the status of any major equipment casualties, including state of repair, estimated time of completion, and actual time of completion. Since the watch had changed over an hour ago, Captain Stillman’s report should have been waiting in her message queue when she entered the bridge. And an XO who could find his rear end with both hands and approach radar should already have asked Stillman—respectfully, of course—where it was.

  And should then have referred the matter to the squadron’s flag captain. Who could be just a bit less respectful when she asked for it.

  “There’s probably been no change,” she acknowledged. “But it never hurts to make sure of that.”

  In your long and illustrious naval career? Bertinelli didn’t actually voice the comment, but the sentiment was plastered all over his face.

  “Understood, Ma’am,” he said, again managing to keep his tone sufficiently north of insubordinate. “May I point out—?”

  “Bridge, CIC,” Lieutenant McKenzie’s terse voice came from the bridge speaker, interrupting Bertinelli. “Commander, we’ve got a hyper footprint at zero-eight-nine by zero-zero-two, relative to the planet. Range is ten-point-six-two LM—call it one-niner-zero million kilometers.”

  “Acknowledged, Lieutenant,” Clegg replied. “Commander Bertinelli, I have the ship,” she added formally, grabbing the handhold on the back of the Missiles station and turning her casual drift into a human missile vector. Bertinelli had just enough time to get himself clear of the command station before she hit the back of it, did a stop-and-corkscrew maneuver that she’d developed back when she was a lieutenant, and shoved herself into place. “Astro, plot me an intercept course. Engineering, bring impellers to immediate readiness, but do not bring up the wedge. Com, alert Bellerophon and Gryphon of the situation. Order them to Readiness Two, but inform both of them that they are not—repeat, not—to bring up their wedges or transponders.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  Taking a deep breath, Clegg flipped up the protective cover. She touched the Alert key, blasting the earsplitting klaxon onto the ship’s intercom system. She gave it three seconds, then turned it down to a background buzz.

  “General Quarters, General Quarters,” she announced. “Set Condition Two throughout the ship. Repeat: set Condition Two throughout the ship. Admiral Eigen, please report to the bridge.”

  She keyed her mic back to the dedicated Combat Information Center channel.

  “Talk to me, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” McKenzie’s voice replied. “We don’t have a firm count, but it’s definitely five-plus. I can’t say how many more there
are until they get closer or spread out enough for us to see past the leading wedges to the trailers.”

  “But your minimum number is solid?”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” McKenzie said firmly. “Tracking is confident of at least five impeller signatures.”

  Clegg’s earbug pinged. “Bridge, Eigen,” the admiral’s voice came. “What do we have, Captain?”

  “Unknown ships have entered Manticoran space, Sir. They’re approximately thirty thousand kilometers outside the hyper-limit and about two degrees above the ecliptic. That’s all we’ve got right now.”

  “Have you alerted System Command?”

  “No, Sir, not yet.”

  “Well, they probably already have as much information as we do, but go ahead and give them a heads-up anyway. You’ve informed Gryphon and Bellerophon?”

  “Yes, Sir, and moved them to Readiness Two.”

  “Good. Plot us a running intercept and have CIC start squeezing the ether for everything they can get. I’ll be there in five.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  The admiral keyed off, and Clegg looked over at Bertinelli, hovering stiffly in the cramped space between her and the helm.

  “You were about to say something, XO?”

  His eyes flicked to the display above her head as it changed from engineering status data to full-on tactical.

  “No, Captain,” he said. “Nothing at all.”

  Clegg nodded and shifted her attention to the maneuvering plot, a hollow sensation in the pit of her stomach. She’d been aboard Vanguard three weeks ago, supervising the battlecruiser’s recent work, when Admiral Tamerlane blew into the system, demolished Janus Force, and came within an ace of doing the same to Admiral Carlton Locatelli’s big, fancy Aegis Force. Vanguard’s meticulous reconstruction work had instantly shifted to an insane scramble to get the wedge up so that Clegg could take the unarmed, undermanned, paper tiger of a ship out to face the attackers. Pure bluff; but combined with the unexpectedly brilliant defense thrown together on the fly by the Navy and MPARS, it had done the trick.