Кристофер Банч - Fleet of the Damned

Sten had arrived at the hotel in a sweaty panic, nearly twenty minutes late. He had been escorted to the lower of Doorman's three hotel suites, reported to the snotty flag secretary at the desk, and been told to sit down.

And he waited.

He was not bored, however. Awful amazement would have been a better description of Sten's emotional state as he eavesdropped on the various conversations as officers came and went in the huge antechamber:

"Of course I'll try to explain to the admiral that anodizing takes a great deal of work to remove. But you know how he loves the shine of brass," a fat staff officer said to a worried ship captain.

"Fine. We have a deal. You give me J'rak for the boxing, and I'll let you have my drum and bugle team." The conversation was between two commanders.

"I do not care about that exercise, Lieutenant. You've already exceeded your training missile allocation for this quarter."

"But sir, half my crew's brand-new, and I—"

"Lieutenant, I learned to follow orders. Isn't it time you learn the same?"

Real amazement came as two people spilled out of a lift tube. They were just beautiful.

The ship captain was young, dashing, tall, handsome, and blond-haired. His undress whites gloved his statuesque body and molded his muscles.

His companion, equally blond, wore game shorts.

They were laughing, enjoying the free life.

Sten hated their guts on sight.

Chattering away, the two sauntered past Sten, down a corridor. The woman suddenly made some excuse, stopped, put her foot upon a chair arm, and adjusted the fastener on her sports shoe. And her eyes very calmly itemized Sten. Then she laughed, took her companion's arm, and disappeared. She had a figure that made it nearly impossible not to stare after. So Sten stared.

"That's definitely off limits, Commander," the flag secretary said.

Not that he cared, but Sten raised a questioning eyebrow.

"The lady is the admiral's daughter."

Sten wanted to say something sarcastic, but he was saved by the buzzing of the annunciator. He was escorted into the admiral's office.

The term "office" was a considerable understatement. The only chambers that Sten had seen more palatial were some of the ceremonial rooms in the Imperial palace. Always the cynic, he wondered if the suite had been furnished with Doorman's private funds or if he had fiddled something.

Fleet Admiral Xavier Rijn van Doorman was equally spectacular. This was a man whose very presence, from his white coiffed mane to his unwavering eyes to his firm chin to his impressive chest, shouted command leadership. This was a leader men would follow into the very gates of hell. After ten minutes of conversation, Sten had a fairly decent idea that was where most of them would end up.

It could have been said about van Doorman, as it had been about another officer centuries earlier, that he never allowed an original thought to ruin his day.

But still, he was the very image of a leader: fit to address any parliament, soothe any worried politician, address any banquet, or show any banner—and totally incompetent to command a fleet that Sten knew might be only days from being the first line of defense in a war.

Van Doorman was a very polite man, and very skilled in the minefields of social inquisition. He must have scanned Sten's fiche before Sten had entered the room. Certainly he was most curious about Sten's previous assignment—at the Imperial palace itself, as CO of the Emperor's Gurkha bodyguard.

Van Doorman was proud that he had managed to attend several Empire Days and had once been presented to the Emperor himself as part of a mass awards ceremony.

"I'm sure, Commander," Doorman said, "that you'll be able to bring us up to speed on the new social niceties. The Fringe Worlds are somewhat behind the times."

"Sir, I'll try… but I didn't spend much time at ceremonial functions."

"Ah, well. I'm sure my wife and daughter will help you realize you know more than you think."

Clotting great. I am gong to have to be polite to the whole family.

"You'll find that duty out here is most interesting, Commander. Because of the climate, and the fact that all of us are so desperately far from home, we make allowances in the duty schedule."

"Sir?"

"You will find that most of your duties can be accomplished in the first watches. Since I don't want my officers finding this station boring—and boredom does create work for idle hands—I make sure that qualified officers are available for those necessary diplomatic functions."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"Oh, there are balls… appearances on some of the minor worlds… we have our own sports teams that compete most successfully against the best our settlers can field. I also believe that all duty makes Jack a very dull officer. I approve of my officers taking long leaves—some of the native creatures are excellent for the hunt. We provide local support for anyone interested in these pursuits."

"Uh… sir, since I've got brand-new ships, where am I going to find the time for those kinds of things?"

"I've received a request to provide as complete cooperation as possible to you. That goes without saying. I'll ensure that you have a few competent chiefs who'll keep everything Bristol fashion."

Sten, at this point, should have expressed gratitude and agreement. But as always, his mouth followed its own discipline.

"Thank you, sir. But I'll still have to pass. I'm afraid I'll be too busy with the boats."

Seeing van Doorman's expression ice up, Sten cursed himself.

Doorman picked up a fiche and dropped it into a viewer. "Yes. The boats. I'll be quite frank, Commander. I have always been opposed to the theory of tactical ships."

"Sir?"

"For a number of reasons. First, they are very costly to run. Second, it requires a very skilled officer and crew to operate them. These two conditions mean that men who should be serving on larger ships volunteer for these speed-craft. This is unfair to commanders of possibly less romantic craft, because men who should become mates and chiefs remain as ordinaries. It is also unfair to these volunteers, since they will not receive proper attention or promotion. Also, there is the issue of safety. There is no way I can be convinced that service on one of your, umm, mosquito boats could be as safe as a tour on the Swampscott ."

"I didn't know we joined the service to be safe and comfortable, sir." Sten was angry.

And so, even though it showed only as a slight reddening around his distinguished temples, was van Doorman. "We differ, Commander." He stood. "Thank you for taking the time to see me, Commander Sten. I've found this conversation most interesting."

Interesting? Conversation? Sten got up and came to attention. "A question, sir?"

"Certainly, young man." Doorman's tone was solid ice.

"How will I go about crewing my ships, sir? I assume you have some SOP I should follow?"

"Thank you. All too many of you younger men lack an understanding of the social lubrication.

"You'll be permitted to advertise your needs in the fleet bulletin. Any officer or enlisted man who chooses to volunteer will be permitted—after concurrence from his division head and commanding officer, of course."

Clot. Clot. Clot.

Sten saluted, did a perfect about-face, and went out.

Van Doorman's last, when translated, meant that Sten could recruit his little heart out. But what officer in his right mind would allow a competent underling to volunteer for the boats?

Sten knew he'd get the unfit, the troublemakers, and the square pegs. He desperately hoped that the 23rd Fleet had a whole lot of them.

Space is not black. Nor can spaceships creep along. Nevertheless, that was what Commander Lavonne visualized his ship, the Imperial Destroyer San Jacinto , doing as it moved into the Erebus System.