Command Decision Read online

  “Now what?” Pettygrew asked.

  “Now we can make our final plans, how we want to come in. I’ll send your nav computer the coordinates of our next stop,” Ky said. “On the new channel—” She pointed to her com officer, and the data went out. Argelos’ face appeared on the screen, now split to show both the other captains.

  “Got it,” Argelos said, a split second before Pettygrew.

  “Gretna…,” Pettygrew said, frowning slightly. “It doesn’t have the best reputation with Bissonet traders.”

  “Dodgy repairs? That’s all my company notes say.”

  “They never did sign off on the full Commercial Code,” Pettygrew said. “They pad their station bills, too, according to my database.”

  “A lot of places do that,” Argelos said. “My implant does have a yellow flag, but it’s limited to several repair facilities and a caution about certain subsections of contracts related to the Commercial Code. But three armed ships like ours—unless we find a whole pirate fleet there, we should be able to handle anything we find.”

  “So how do we announce ourselves?” Ky asked. “We have three different flags, and we are all armed. Suppose they take us for pirates?”

  “You want us to decide on an organizational name now?” Pettygrew asked.

  “It might be wise,” Ky said.

  “I think we should wait until we have a chance to acquire some insignia,” Pettygrew said. “Like this, with our ships bearing different flags on their IDs, our crews in different uniforms, no way to prove we do belong together, other than circumstance, I don’t think we’d have much credibility.”

  Argelos nodded. “He’s right, Captain Vatta. I think we’d do better to come in as a group hanging together for security, which is really what we are at this point. We can certainly talk about what we want to call ourselves, and maybe pick up uniforms or patches or whatever at Gretna, but I don’t see that we can afford to look ridiculous right from the start.”

  “I see your point,” Ky said. “But let’s take a few hours to talk over what we are, so we can gather the materials we need with the least waste of time.”

  “We need an organization with a name. We’re not going to get anywhere as an association of privateers. Something solid, respectable. Something-something Defense, Force or Fleet or—”

  “Spaceforce,” Argelos said.

  “United Planets Spaceforce? Needs to be something that makes a good acronym.”

  “Or very dull, and we let any nicknames take care of themselves.”

  “Space Service?”

  “Combined…united…space service?”

  “There’s always Space Patrol…” Everyone groaned. In all the years, however calculated, of human presence in space, no one had ever called a military organization “Space Patrol,” which was inextricably associated with bad children’s programming. “Space Rangers?”

  “Special ops name, Rangers,” Hugh said. “We need a name that implies a solid military force authorized by a legitimate government.”

  “Which we don’t have.”

  “Details.” Hugh grinned. “It doesn’t matter, really. Who’s to know?”

  “So we just do it,” Ky said. “Space Defense Force, how’s that?”

  “Sounds good to me,” Argelos said. Pettygrew nodded.

  “So…we become the first flight, or squadron, or something, of the SDF?”

  “Not first anything,” Hugh said. “We want the opposition to think there’s more of us, including some they don’t know about. Pick another number, not too high.”

  “Third?” Ky said.

  “Third Fleet…,” Hugh said slowly. “About right. When we have four fleets, we can always shift ourselves to first, if that matters.”

  She could see the others trying it out mentally. Finally they all nodded.

  “We need a design, a logo,” Argelos said. “I’ve got a junior engineer who’s talented that way.”

  “How about a spiral galaxy with a formation of ships shooting a bad guy?” Pettygrew asked.

  “Too complicated, but I like the galaxy. Implies more than one system.” Argelos squinted, thinking. “Galaxy and maybe the small formation of ships across it?”

  “Fine,” Ky said. “Now: we need to get our ships marked with the joint-force logo. I’m not talking about re-registration—the original flags are fine—just an indication of our organization. Unit patches as well as ship patches.”

  “Uniforms?”

  “Not worth the expense right now, and to some extent the different uniforms reinforce the idea of a multisystem force.”

  “If Gretna’s got munitions, they’re bound to have someone used to turning out military insignia,” Hugh said. “Even a rough sketch should be enough.”

  Greater Gretna’s advertising started at the jump point: WELCOME TO GRETNA, GUNS FOR THE GALAXY! blared from the welcoming beacon as soon as they had cleared downjump scan turbulence. ALWAYS A FAIR DEAL! A SAFE PORT IN ANY POLITICAL STORM! HONEST TRADERS WELCOME; TRAMPS AND LAYABOUTS STAY AWAY! YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE!

  “That’s an interesting combination,” Hugh said. “Safe port in a political storm, but only for those we already know and like?”

  “Did your company ever trade here?” Ky asked.

  “Not that I know of. We bought our munitions from a dealer in our headquarters system. They might have bought here, for all I know, though. I wasn’t in that end of things.”

  For such a supposedly busy marketplace of a system, there was little traffic showing up on longscan. Shuttles between the planet and space station, four small insystem cargo haulers on logical routes to the other planets, all with Gretna ID beacons, and a single inbound cargo ship whose beacon identified her as Dryas, from Polson. Ky queried her implant and found no information on Polson. The ship was barely crawling along, an approach that would give her plenty of time to gather information about system defense. Was this a shipload of pirates disguised as traders? Ky checked the course and alerted her weapons crews, though she didn’t think a single pirate ship would attack three armed ones traveling much faster.

  Shortly after that, Greater Gretna’s insystem militia hailed them. Ky answered, as they had agreed.

  “Vanguard, eh?” the uniformed man on the screen said. He was one of the palest humans Ky had ever seen, with ice-blue eyes and hair of an unattractive pale yellow. “We don’t have you in the database…Cascadian registry? Don’t see many Cascadians out here. You’re the ones all touchy about manners, aren’t you?”

  “Cascadian registry, yes,” Ky said. “Ship was salvage; I had to repaper her.”

  “Ah. And those with you—don’t they have functioning coms?”

  “Yes, but since we’re traveling together it would save your time to talk to just one of us—that’s Sharra’s Gift, Slotter Key registry, and Bassoon, out of Bissonet.”

  “And you’re traveling together because—”

  “The universe has gotten dangerous,” Ky said. “We were attacked by pirates; we got away but we need to resupply. If we’d been solo…”

  “Ah. Well, you’ve come to the right place. We’ve got the best prices—and the best quality—you’ll find anywhere. Now, the rules are, we don’t tolerate troublemakers or people who can’t pay their bills. We have a nice place here and we intend to keep it that way. You’ll all need local ID, whether you’re staying on the ship or out on the station: Port Security will take care of that for you. Fifty credits a head, and don’t try hiding anyone or it’ll be a stiff fine. No transients downplanet…and don’t think you can sneak past our security.” He grinned, a very unpleasant grin. “You’re not going to fit in.”

  “What was that about?” Ky said to nobody in particular when she closed the connection.

  “I think they’re Fishbellies,” Lee said.

  “Fishbellies?” Ky said. Then she remembered. Some systems had been settled not by the usual mix of human types, but very deliberately by those of one phenotype or one religion. A few of these had
populations with minimal melanin, and the rude term for these, among more…she tried not to think normal…societies was “Fishbellies.” “My family didn’t use that term,” she said to Lee. “Though—if he is one—I can see where the name came from. Seems an odd choice…but then phenotypy always does, if there’s not a good environmental reason for it. Maybe there’s something on their planet to explain it.”

  “Fishbellies are strange,” Lee said. “I met two of them once in a bar on Allray, years back. Sat there the whole time complaining about mixing—finally got a fight started, and then told the station police that it was everyone else’s fault.”

  “Oh, any inbred group will do that,” Hugh said. “There are some strains of genetic humods who go out of their way to be pushy and then complain. I don’t suppose Fishies are any worse than anyone else.”

  “I hope not,” Ky said. “If these are…er…Fishbellies, we have to deal with them.”

  “I wouldn’t trust them a centimeter,” Lee said. “They give people like me a bad name.” He gestured at his shock of yellow hair.

  “They’re merchants,” Ky said. “At least the ones we’ll be dealing with. As long as we make sure the merchandise meets specs and they know our money’s good, we shouldn’t have a problem. Though I will be alert, of course.”

  Gretna Main Station had ample docking spaces—trade was down here, too—but the stationmaster refused to assign the three ships adjoining berths, on the grounds of station rotational balance. It made sense, but Ky felt a twinge of uneasiness. From the aft external monitors of Vanguard, she could not see even the aftmost tip of Sharra’s Gift or Bassoon, though there were no ships between Vanguard and them.

  Port Security waited at dockside, ready to issue local IDs to the entire crew and collect the fee. All of them were as pale as the face Ky had seen onscreen before; though some had more pink color than others, all had pale eyes and hair. They were efficient about taking information and issuing IDs; tags with name, ship’s name, and a local code number spat out the end of a machine in just a few seconds.

  “You’re now free to move about the station,” the one with the most glitter on his uniform said. “You must wear the ID tag clearly visible at all times.”

  Ky nodded; his assistants pulled a cover over the tag-making machine, and they all left dockside.

  “That was odd,” Hugh said. “No welcoming speech, nothing.”

  “I’m going to call the others,” Ky said.

  “Ansible?”

  “No. I know that’s the most secure method we’ve got, but I want to know how the station’s own system works. We’ll need to meet. There’s bound to be some central location…Captains’ Guild, if nothing else. Let’s get our security monitors mounted dockside—”

  “Right away,” Hugh said, nodding. “Munitions draw thieves on the most law-abiding ports.” From his tone, he’d already decided that Gretna wasn’t one of those.

  Law-abiding port or not, Gretna Station had a Crown & Spears branch office just two doors away from the Captains’ Guild. Ky found that Vatta Transport had a sizable balance there, drawing minimal interest, and the manager accepted her identity without question. He ushered her into his private office and set an obvious privacy device on his desk, flicking it on. “Trading in munitions?” he asked then.

  Ky wondered why he didn’t trust the privacy devices no doubt built into the entire branch, but that was not something to ask. She shrugged. “Trade goes where the profit goes. In these unsettled times—”

  “Of course,” he said. “If you want advice, I’d go with General Munitions instead of Gretna Munitions Outlet—”

  “Thank you,” Ky said. “That’s the recommendation in Vatta’s records as well; the notation is that quality control is better. I’m glad to have recent confirmation. I need to pick up medical supplies as well—any recommendations there?”

  “Supplies alone or medically trained personnel? You might be able to pick up some of the latter at the local indenture auction house.”

  “Indenture auction house?”

  He looked down, running his finger along the side of his desktop display. “You haven’t been to Gretna before…there’s a long-standing tradition of indentured labor here.”

  “You mean…slaves?”

  “They prefer not to call them slaves. Criminals working off their court costs and fines, is the way Gretnans look at it. Recently, with less trade coming through, it’s become more obvious. At any rate, if someone buys out a contract, they can get contracted labor fairly cheaply. I happen to know there’s a surplus of medically trained personnel right now. The listing’s available.” He cleared his throat. “And you probably noticed…the native Gretnans are pretty much all of one phenotype, and they distrust those of other phenotypes. With your…uh…I’d be careful, if I were you.”

  With her darker skin, he meant. Ky scowled. “So why does Crown & Spears deal with them?” But the answer was obvious and she said it along with him as he shrugged. “Trade and profit, I know. All right—but I thought there was a prohibition in the Commercial Code about slavery.”

  “There is. Gretna isn’t a signatory to the full Code and as I said, they don’t call it slavery. Under their legal system, working out a debt or a sentence is quite legal. We asked about that before opening a branch office here; our legal staff have reviewed it regularly, and they say it’s within the law as it now stands.”

  “Do they make up charges against transients—ship personnel, for instance?”

  “They say not, but I would say it’s happened. Recently, with ansibles down and trade in decline, I suspect it’s become more common. More often, a ship runs out of funds, can’t pay the docking or air charges, and they seize the ship and crew. Under their law, anyone on such a ship is equally guilty.”

  “I don’t have any notations about that in the Vatta database,” Ky said.

  “No—well, Vatta’s always maintained a healthy balance, as you see, and usually unloaded, loaded, and was out of here in just a few days. They don’t prey on the prosperous who can always pay a few extra charges. We’ve tried to tell the Gretnans they’re damaging their own economy—fifty years ago, they had much more trade coming through and even some outside investment—but they don’t want advice from outsiders, they say.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Ky said. “I have no intention of overdrawing our account. Do you know if they’re trading with this current crop of pirates?”

  “I couldn’t say, really. We have a very small staff here, and there are security concerns…I’ve been told not to pry.” His expression said more. Ky could easily imagine the pirates dealing with Gretna for those confiscated ships. Or their crew.

  “There’s another ship in the inbound lanes,” she said instead. “I didn’t see anything about its arrival time on the notice boards. We looked at the beacon as we passed them, and it said Polson. I wondered if it was pirates.”

  “I doubt it.” He grimaced. “Polson’s a very small colony—we don’t have a branch there yet—mostly genetic humods, like a lot of start-ups. Humods aren’t popular here. There’s been trade in the past, but the current situation has made everyone more jumpy. Word is they’re not being allowed to dock without special inspections and restrictions, and so far they’ve refused.”

  That sounded more like pirates than legitimate traders to Ky; she wondered why the manager didn’t think so. She had just opened her mouth to ask when his comunit beeped. He took the call then turned to her. “I’m sorry, Captain Vatta, but there is another matter I must attend to. Please don’t hesitate to contact me again if we can assist you with your trading.”

  Within four hours, she had compared her balance with the daily dock charges and the prices listed at General Munitions, determined how much she could afford, and settled in for a meal at the Captains’ Guild to discuss with Argelos and Pettygrew how the purchases should be allocated among ships. The Captains’ Guild was almost empty; three pale-skinned officers, obviously local, sat at the fa
r end of the dining room, well out of earshot. Even so, despite the telltales glowing on their table to indicate that its security block was on full, Ky felt uneasy enough to put her own privacy device on the table.

  “We’re going to need medical as well as munitions,” she said. “How are you fixed for that?”

  “I have eight medboxes and a small operating theater,” Pettygrew said. “We have two surgeons and nine other medical personnel, mostly direct patient care but one specialist in medical imaging. I think that’s all my ship needs, really.”

  “That’s more than I have,” Ky said. “I’m impressed.”

  “More than I have, too,” Argelos said. “I have five medboxes and two Spaceforce-trained medics. You’ve been on that merc ship—what did they have?”

  “It looked like a military hospital,” Ky said. “Operating suites, trauma sets, lots of medboxes, lots of personnel. I’m assuming also lots of equipment, though I didn’t see all of it, by any means.”

  “Was it a specialized hospital ship?”

  “No. One of their larger warships, somewhat larger than Vanguard.”

  “Hmmm. I can see if we get in more battles, we may really need additional medical capacity, but I don’t know where I’m going to put it. I guess we could move some functions outboard to one of the cargo holds…”

  “If we become the force we’ve talked about, the only cargo we’ll be carrying is our own necessary supplies,” Ky said.

  “You’re right,” Argelos said, scrubbing his head with both hands. “I guess I’m still thinking like a trader-privateer.”

  “I had the same problem,” Ky said. “It took a round of food poisoning to make me realize what was missing.”

  “So—do you think this place has anything in the way of medical supplies?” Argelos asked.

  Ky told them what the Crown & Spears manager had told her about the Gretnan labor market. “I looked,” she said, “and they list forty-six medical personnel, including two trauma surgeons, three surgical nurses, a medical imaging tech, a neuropsych specialist, and others. I hate the thought of buying people, but—”