Кристофер Банч - Fleet of the Damned

Mahoney knew that these messages were important—and almost certainly catastrophic. The first, encoded onto the single-use pad, would most likely be a set of orders. He ignored it for the moment and instead jabbed his thumb down onto the plas box.

Suddenly, in the cellar, standing on a pile of half-burnt dresses, stood the Eternal Emperor. It was a holographic projection, of course.

"Ian," the cast began, "we're in a world of hurt. I know you've thumbed this before you've decoded your orders, so I'll give it to you fast.

"I can't back you up.

"I don't have the ships, and I don't have the troops to send forward.

"I guess you've probably already figured that as a possibility. Hell, a probability—since there haven't been any good guys in your skies for quite a while.

"Real brief, here's what your orders are: I want the First Guards to hold on to Cavite until the last bullet. Only when all possible means of resistance have been exhausted do you have my permission to surrender. Any elements of the Guards that can evade, escape, and continue the struggle as guerrillas have permission to carry on the fight. I may not be able to keep the clottin' Tahn from treating them as partisans, but I'll do my best. You probably expected that.

"I'm sending in ten fast liners to pick up the civilians that are still on Cavite. Get them out. And I want you out with them.

"This is the hard part for you, Ian. I'm going to have to sacrifice your division. But I am not going to sacrifice what the First Guards really is.

"You've got probably six E-days until the liners show up, from the time you've received this. I want you to pull out a cadre. Your best noncoms, officers, and specialists are to be on those liners. The First Guards Division will die on Cavite. But there will be a new First Guards. We'll reform the division on Prime World, and send it out to fight again.

"I said 'we,' and I meant 'we.' You will be the commander of the new First Guards. Which means that I want you on one of those liners.

"That is an order, General Mahoney. I don't expect you to like it, or to like me. But that is what is going to happen. And I expect you to follow orders."

The holograph whirled about itself and disappeared. Mahoney stared at the open space where it had been.

Then he opened his code case and took out the single-use pad—actually a small computer that self-destructed its programming as it went.

Sorry, Your Eternal Emperorship, he thought. I'll follow orders. All of them except the last one.

If you're going to let my Guards die, there is no way in hell I won't be with them.

Sten and the remnants of his command made it back into the dubious safety of the Imperial perimeter without incident.

He faced a future that was without options. Sten knew that his ragtag band would be resupplied, rearmed, and fed back into the meat grinder as the Tahn continued their attacks. He was morosely wondering who would be the last to die. That was the future—to be killed, wounded, or captured.

Sten was as unused to defeat as the Empire itself. But there were no options.

He was only mildly surprised when the officer in charge of the repple-depple gave him unexpected orders. His detachment was ordered to turn in all weaponry except their individual arms and stand by for a special assignment.

Sten himself was to report to Mahoney's tactical operations center. Before reporting, he managed to scrounge a few liters of water for a shave and a joygirl's bath, and found a fairly clean combat suit that was pretty close to his size.

The TOC was still in the basement of the emporium. Mahoney finished briefing a handful of officers, all of whom looked as battered as their general, and motioned Sten into a small office that had been the emporium's dispatch room.

Waiting for them was Admiral van Doorman.

Mahoney tersely brought Sten current. The ten liners were inbound to pick up the Imperial civilians and "selected elements" of the First Guards. They were escorted by four destroyers—all that could be spared—and were, so far, undetected by any Tahn patrol. Their ETA was four days away.

Suddenly the 23rd Fleet needed its technicians again. There were only four ships still spaceworthy: two destroyers, including Halldor's ship, the Husha; one elderly picket ship; and the Swampscott .

They were to be made as combat-worthy as possible, immediately. Sten's surviving techs, highly experienced at improvisation, would be assigned to the Swampscott .

Just assigned the cruiser, Sten wondered? And he also wondered if he would get an explanation.

Mahoney was about to give him one, when van Doorman spoke for the first time. "General, this man is still under my command. I'd prefer…"

Mahoney stared at the haggard naval officer, then nodded and exited.

Van Doorman leaned against the side of a desk, staring into emptiness. His voice was nearly a monotone. "The problem we all seem to face, Commander, is that the older we get, the less we like things to change."

Sten thought he was beyond surprise—but he was wrong.

"I was very proud of my fleet. I knew that we didn't have the most modern equipment, and that because we were so far from the Empire we didn't always get the finest sailors. But I knew that we were a strong fighting force.

"Yes," van Doorman mused. "It's obvious I thought a lot of things. So when a young flash shows up and tells me that all I have are spit-and-polish marionettes, and my command structure is rigid, bureaucratic, obsolete, and blind, I did not take kindly to that officer."

"Sir, I never said—"

"Just your presence was sufficient," van Doorman said, a slight note of anger entering his voice. "I have made it a rule to never apologize, Commander. And I do not propose to alter that rule. However. The reason I want you, and whatever's left of your command, assigned to the Swampscott is that I know the Tahn will hit us hard when we attempt to withdraw with those liners. I assume heavy casualties. Very likely including myself."

A safe assumption, Sten thought.

"I have appointed you as weapons officer of the Swampscott . According to the conventional chain of command, you would be fourth in charge, under the XO, the navigating officer, and the engineering officer. This is not a time for convention," van Doorman went on, his voice flat once more. "I have informed all appropriate officers that, in the event of my being incapacitated, you are to assume command of the Swampscott .

"Very good, Commander. I was wondering if I would be able to penetrate your poker face.

"The reason is that I no longer have any faith whatsoever in those officers I chose to promote to their present position. I think I selected them more for their social compatibility and sycophancy than command ability. And I am not sure that any of them can handle crisis adequately. Do you understand?"

"Yessir."

"I have also informed Commander Halldor that, even though he has a certain amount of time in grade over you, if I become a casualty you are to assume command of my fleet.

"My fleet," van Doorman said in mild wonderment. "Two DDs, one museum piece, and a hulk.

"Those are your orders, Commander. I assume if I survive the withdrawal, I shall face a general court-martial. Very well. Perhaps it is warranted. But I am not going to end my career with total defeat. Make sure the Swampscott is fought like a combat ship, and not some tired old man's private toy." Van Doorman's voice broke, and he turned his back on Sten.

Sten came to attention, the interview evidently ended.

"Oh, Commander. One more thing. Personal. My daughter sends her greetings."