The Ethos Effect, page 2
“Ser... I’d heard of... what you did...”
“But how did I know how to do it?” Van laughed, harshly. “That’s what commanders are for. You learn your ship, what she can do, what she can’t. The Fergus doesn’t have shields like the newer cruisers, but the photon nets and the collectors were overengineered. That was because of the inefficiency of converters when she was built. They didn’t bother to change the nets when she was refitted ten years back. That’s why there’s an intake governor.”
“I’ve never seen anyone squeeze the nets that way.”
“Except for something like that you don’t want to. We lost close to twenty percent of one converter and nearly overheated the fusactor. I’ll probably have to answer for that as well. But it was the only way ... what I did was use all the matter in the nets to overload their shields. Shields don’t care whether what’s corning at them is gas and dust or a torp. The total mass load is what matters. Mass times velocity. I accelerated the mass in the nets, then let the torps punch through.” Van paused. “It won’t work in a fight against more than one, maybe two ships, because you’re basically limited to the power in the accumulators and mass tanks until you can deploy the nets again, and your shields are likely to fail before you can.”
“Oh...”
Commander Van Cassius Albert leaned back in the command couch. In less than an elapsed standard hour, he and the Fergus had gone from heading to a routine picket station in the quietest part of the Taran Republic into a battle in a pivot system. They’d been attacked by an unknown heavy cruiser, almost as if they’d been expected. The Fergus was headed inward to a system that its commander didn’t know for a purpose he also didn’t know, and orders he could only guess at. Van studied the detectors once more, then ran a check on all the ship systems once more, although he doubted he’d find more than the engineer and weapons officer had found.
Still... he’d have to draft a battle report and dispatch it by message torp back to RSF headquarters. He could do that in the twenty-odd hours it would take them to reach Gotland.
His lips curled into an ironic smile. After all the years in service, he still found it amusing that ships could jump between systems near-instantaneously, and yet getting to the jump corridors took hours, if not days. Then, jumps avoided the light-speed limits, which even the most powerful photon drive systems could not.
He took a slow and deep breath before beginning to use the shipnet to draft his report.
Chapter 2
While much has been written about so-called crises of faith in the life cycle of individuals, what is seldom recognized, and even when so recognized, usually dismissed, is that societies also undergo crises of faith.
A societal crisis of faith occurs when the values that produced a particular incarnation of a society no longer correspond to the values held by the individuals and organizations holding economic, political, and social power in that society.
Paradoxically, these value changes seem to occur first on a social level. In reality the changes are already far advanced by the time they appear, because in most societies social standing and mobility lag behind economic and political power. Those with economic power seldom wish to flaunt values at variance with social norms, and those in the political arena prefer a protective coloration that in fact straddles the perceived range of values, while ostensibly preferring the most popular of values….
Although all stable societies rest firmly on a consensus of values, invariably the individuals in those societies prefer not to discuss those values, except in glittering generalities, not because they are unimportant, but because they are so important that to discuss them seriously might open them to question and reinterpretation. Thus, the very protections of a society’s values preclude any wide-scale and public reevaluation of those values and any recognition of a potential crisis of values.
Since “morality” is the sum total of those values, the first public symptom of a crisis of values is usually a series of comments about the growing immorality of society—almost always directed at the young of a society who have absorbed what their elders are in fact doing, rather than professing….
Values, Ethics, and Society Exton Land New Oisin, Tara 1117 S.E.
Chapter 3
The messroom was an oblong box, barely four meters in length and three in width, the bulkheads covered with a permaplast finish that was supposed to resemble walnut, with a table and benches that, in a pinch, might seat all of the crew. The overhead was an off-white that imitated plaster poorly and gave an impression of dinginess, no matter how often it was cleaned. The deck was covered with a permaplast supposed to resemble gray ceramic tile in a diamond pattern. All the furnishings were anchored firmly to the deck.
Van sat at the head of the table, in the sole chair, sipping the strong black café he favored from a dull black mug. On his right was Sub-commander Forgael, the executive officer and chief pilot, dark circles under her eyes. On Van’s left was Sub-major Driscoll, the engineer.
Driscoll had just finished reading the hard copy draft of the battle report, and he slid it back across the table. “It’s accurate, Commander.”
“But too blunt?”
“No, it’s not,” replied Forgael. “Everything in there is factual. HQ won’t like the fact that an unknown battle cruiser attacked a Taran ship, and they’ll send a raft of queries that will suggest that it can’t be unknown and that either you aren’t interpreting the systems data correctly, or that you’ve neglected updating the recognition parameters.”
“So I need to point out that I.S. updated both just before we left Sligo Station?” Van laughed. “Then they’ll find some other way to suggest I screwed up.”
“You did, ser,” Driscoll replied dryly. “The only thing worse than losing a ship to an attack is to destroy the attacker, especially with an older cruiser that shouldn’t win. It’s worse if we need repairs, because they’ll have to fund them.” Forgael winced.
Van took another swallow of café and nodded. “The Home party will claim that it shows we don’t need more and newer ships, and the Liberals will insist that it demonstrates that RSF officers are bloodthirsty rock apes who torp innocents on sight. And the Marshal’s Council won’t be happy either way.” Especially not with Commander Van Cassius Albert “I don’t see who had anything to gain.” Forgael smiled. “I didn’t express that quite correctly. Who didn’t have something to gain, I meant.”
The three officers nodded, almost simultaneously, although none spoke.
Everyone would have gained something with the loss of the Fergus—except the commander and crew. The Taran Republic would have gotten rid of a near-obsolete ship and a difficult commander, as well as have obtained a demonstration of why newer and better ships were needed. Both the Argentis and the Revenants could have blamed each other for escalating border tensions, and gained political and popular support. The Eco-Tech Coalition could have breathed a sigh of relief that they wouldn’t have to fight another war against the Revenants. Scandya could have played everyone off against each other.
But... with the success of the Fergus, the whole situation merely degenerated into a problem and embarrassment for everyone. The RSF would be blamed for having a torp-happy commander going off uncontrolled, and all the others risked either embarrassment for incompetence or for lack of knowledge about the situation. Even the Scandyans wouldn’t be happy, not when an obsolete cruiser potted an intruder outside their own system, suggesting that one antique cruiser was more effective than the entire Scandyan space force.
Van rose. “Thank you both. I’ll need to make some changes before I send this off.” He took the cup to the adjoining galley, where he emptied it, racked it in its place, turned and left the galley, then the mess. As he eased into the main passageway fore and aft, behind him, he could just catch the whispers.
“You don’t think it was an accident...”
“With the commander... after the Regneri incident? ... planned as potted palms...”
That was what Van thought as well, but he said nothing as he walked the few meters forward to the cubicle he rated as commander. There he revised the battle report, then fed it into the message torp.
He accessed the shipnet, linking to Lieutenant Moran. Lieutenant?
Yes, Commander?
I’m about to release a message torp to RSF Depot. Report on our encounter entering the system. Just wanted you to know. Yes, ser. I’ll log it.
Van keyed the release, then monitored the torp from the shipnet until it jumped and translated back toward the depot off Sligo Station.
Then he stretched out on the narrow bunk. He hoped he could sleep before he had to relieve Lieutenant Moran on the controls.
They had another eighteen hours before they reached Gotland. By then, the message torp would have reached the RSF Depot, and the marshal and his council would begin to decide what to do with the Fergus and her commander.
Chapter 4
In the darkness of the damped cockpit, Van continued to scan the passive inputs from the detectors, waiting, watching. The lieutenant in the couch beside him said nothing.
A line of light, merely a representation of a lase-search, swept across the virtual repscreen toward Van and the ship.
Detection probable. Detection probable.
“I know that,” muttered Van to himself. “It’s what they think we are that counts, not that we’re here.” Detection probability at unity.
Van ignored the shipnet warning. His shields were down. Playing like an inert hunk of metallic asteroid was far safer than broadcasting his presence with their energy field. The converted terraforming vessel—a ship that amounted to a heavy cruiser—could crush his shields as if they didn’t exist with its particle beams and torps. He still had no idea what the renegade Vetachi was doing where it was—or why. But he had to do something because it was bearing down on the colony ship that lay in-system of Van.
Detection probability at unity.
Waiting in the darkened and damped cockpit, sweating, Van took in all the data as the larger vessel swept toward him.
Then, in the moment when his ship was between the inner and outer shields of the attacker, he triggered off his torps, in sets of two, as fast as he could—then lifted shields and accelerated.
The huge ship, seemingly looming over the corvette in the out-system darkness, shuddered as the third and fourth torps actually penetrated the hull.
Then... torps and debris flared everywhere.
Van watched, openmouthed, as an errant torp flared toward the Regneri, and as the colony ship split into fragments...
“NOOO!!!”
Van bolted upright in his bunk, almost cracking his head against the low overhead. His heart was racing, and his body was covered with sweat.
Ten years, and he still had nightmares about it. The Board of Inquiry had exonerated him, even recommended him for a commendation in taking out the raider, probably a Revenant “black” ship, but the commendation hadn’t happened. No one wanted to commend a corvette jockey whose actions had cost the lives of three hundred highly trained colonists—even if it had been a freak accident that couldn’t have been duplicated if the situation had been replicated a hundred times.
From then on he’d received one difficult assignment after another. After the Inquiry, it had been the Gortforge, the last of the Niamh class, with an entirely new and green crew because the former officers and crew had been court-martialed for refusing to fire on the Keltyr merchanter carrying the escaping rebels of Coole. After reading the report, Van had sympathized with the crew, since more than three-quarters of those on board the Bonnie Prince had been women and children. The Marshal’s Council doubtless hadn’t seen it that way, because the rebels had been Keltyr sympathizers who had destabilized Coole so much that riots still occasionally broke out.
After he’d completed two tours on the old Gort, and after RSF had decided to retire the ultralight cruiser, he’d been given command of the Fergus, yet another ship plagued with problems. Except there hadn’t been any in the two years he’d been commander.
Sitting in his bunk, still sweating. Van blotted himself dry, then stretched back out, hoping he could sleep. After a while he did doze off, without nightmares, but with disturbing dreams he couldn’t quite remember when he woke.
He climbed back up into the cockpit, after a small meal— breakfast, he supposed—bolstered with the evil-tasting Sustain.
Forgael slipped out of the command couch with a grace that Van had always admired and envied. Her smile was as ironic as ever, but then, given that she was a good ten years older than Van, with a solid record that had never been adequately rewarded, the irony was more than understandable to him.
“Nothing new, Commander. The Rev cruiser hasn’t moved. EDI suggests stand-down. The Argentis are headed out-system, but not along our corridor. They’re pushing it, looks like a solid two-gee acceleration.”
“You think they had something to do with that cruiser?” Van eased into the command couch and took over the screens and net “No. I’d bet either Rev or Keltyr. Kelts would still like to make us pay, and the Revs want Scandya system.”
“The Argentis are heading home to spread the word? Or bailing out before they get embroiled?”
“Both,” she replied.
Van nodded.
“I’d estimate another thirty minutes to switchover. Not enough to get any sleep.”
“No. Not much.”
Thirty-seven minutes passed before the Fergus neared the restricted area off Gotland. By then, Lieutenant Moran had taken her place in the second couch, since two pilots were required prior to and after translation and when nearing restricted spaces.
“Switchover checklist,” Van ordered.
“Nets and collectors to ten percent,” Moran stated.
“Stet.”
“Detectors to full sensitivity...”
Once the checklist was complete, Van swept the area in-system before the Fergus, one last time, because once the Fergus shut down her nets in so close to Scandya’s sun, he’d be limited to the power in the accumulators. He was also limited to the fractional gee power of the unaugmented ionjets. The detectors only showed the Scandyan ships, the Rev battle cruiser, still in stand-down, and the RSF courier.
Van checked the ship systems again. The starboard converter was still only at eighty-five, a trace better than after the encounter out-system, but not good enough for another fight or sustained high-speed in-system operations. The port rear quadrant shield was out of the amber, but by so little that it might as well have been amber. Any significant strain—even a small chunk of space debris—would probably blow the shield.
“Switching over,” Van announced.
The Fergus continued to creep—or so it seemed—toward Gotland orbit control.
“Gotland orbit control, this is RSFS Fergus, inbound from Galway. Request orbit clearance.”
“Stet, Fergus. Request duration of orbit.”
Van thought for a moment That was hard to say, but he’d never been parked anywhere for more than a standard week. On the other hand, he didn’t know how long it would take Sub-major Driscoll to repair the damaged converter and shield generator—if he and his techs even could.
“Orbit control, estimate three weeks. Maintenance required.”
“Fergus, request purpose of visit, and payment method for services.”
“Orbit control, purpose is maintenance, port call, and message pickup. Payment method is intersystem credit transfer, Taran military subset”
“Stet, Fergus.” The slightest pause followed. “Interrogative excessive EMP in outer system.”
“Orbit control... source of excessive EMP noted, but Fergus was unable to determine source.” That much was true.
“Fergus... Scandyan System Defense Force requests any additional data you have on source. At your convenience.”
“Stet, orbit control. If we have any data, will send.” He wasn’t about to give the Scandyans the data and report he’d dispatched to RSF HQ. “Request lock assignment”
“Fergus, your lock is Orange three.”
“Orbit control, understand Orange three. We have the beacon.”
It was almost an hour later when the Fergus slipped into the dampers.
“Orbit control, Fergus is secure. Request power changeover.”
“Lock crew has it, Fergus. Welcome to Gotland.”
“Orbit control, thank you.” Van wasn’t so certain he’d be welcome. He took the fusactors off-line. The cockpit lights dimmed, then brightened as station power—and full one-gee gravity—filled the Fergus. Van eased out of the command couch. The back of his shipsuit was damp, as it always was. And now, he’d have to deny having any data. The Scandyans couldn’t force it from him, and RSF certainly didn’t want him to provide it to anyone.
Chapter 5
After the Fergus had locked in to Gotland orbit station, Van had undertaken a thorough post-flight and systems check. That had taken hours. After that, he’d approved the crew rotation for both maintenance duties and release time aboard the orbit control station. Then, back in his cabin, he’d written up his notes on maintenance requirements.
With those in hand, he and Major Driscoll had met and decided on what actually could be done—such as repairing the converter and the ailing shield generator—while they were at Gotland orbit control, and as they waited for whatever orders might be headed their way. No such orders had arrived during the next day, but it had taken them almost the entire day to track down the contract maintenance chief of the orbit station, and another half day to work out the arrangements.
Then, once those details had been settled, he and Driscoll had returned to the Fergus, and Van had begun writing the maintenance request report that he was required to dispatch back to RSF HQ. HQ would be less than pleased with the projected costs of the repairs, but they’d have no choice but to approve them, since, if anything happened to the Fergus, no one would want to explain that maintenance had been denied.
