An Officer of the Fleet: The Voidstrider Saga, #2

AN OFFICER OF THE FLEET

the VOIDSTRIDER saga

volume two

John A. Underwood

Copyright © 2017 by John A. Underwood

All rights reserved.

Cover Art by Jon Stubbington

jonstubbington.com

Cover Design by John A. Underwood

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or else are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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http://modayode.com

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For my Grandfather,

John Carol Underwood,

whose bookshelves held worlds.

Prologue

Carter Saldana stood before the Hundred Ministers and spoke. He stood at ease upon the rostrum, hands resting lightly on the sides of the speaker's podium. His confident voice filled the Rotunda. Occasionally, a smooth and purposeful gesture for emphasis. He had always been a gifted speaker. There was just one problem. Meredith Taishan saw it. How could the others not? That was not Carter Saldana.

Friends, mistake not, said the man who wasn't Saldana. "We face the greatest crisis our world has yet known. The fearsome weapon I have described in brief, and on which your offices have received more detailed reports, represents a clear threat to all the worlds."

Ten years standard he'd been a member of this assembly. Ten years in office, a prominent member of the progressive party, his face known instantly anywhere in the system. His peers should have seen through the charade. But as she looked about the chamber, Meredith saw only attentive credulity.

I have been in personal contact with General Secretary Marbury of the United Earth Government, continued the impostor. She has given me every assurance this destructive engine was never conceived on Earth. As you know, the UEP command has allowed our inspectors aboard Peacekeeper vessels in order to confirm they are not equipped with this vile armament.

In fairness to her peers amongst the Hundred, Meredith had to allow it was a clever forgery. The physical details were unimpeachable. The voice, in both timber and rhythm, was spot-on. But the mannerisms were just that little bit off, and the tone - of the content, if not the delivery - was all wrong. Perhaps their mutual peers put it down to nerves and the psychological trauma of Saldana's recent experience.

I say to you now, bluntly and unequivocally, Earth is not the enemy of Mars. Earth's government is not the enemy of Mars. Earth's Peacekeeper forces are not the enemy of Mars.

Meredith had known Carter all her life. In adolescence, at the mutual urging of their parents, she and Carter had agreed to betrothal. They'd have been wed by now if Shan hadn't joined the Fleet, leaving his younger sister to take the Family seat. She knew Carter better perhaps than anyone. No wonder he'd been avoiding her since his abduction. Carter had never come back from that captivity. She was certain.

And if they are not our enemies; and if, as I have said, this danger threatens all the worlds; then should we not count the people of Earth as our allies in this hour of crisis?

That drew a grumble from many of the conservatives in the room, but it was muted and self-conscious. None raised any audible objection. None suspected what she knew.

"Yet there is an enemy, an adversary most insidious and foul. The false Saldana frowned. He was the picture of sorrowful disappointment. I personally cannot believe that the people of the Belt, on the whole, wish harm to the two planets."

Here was the real question. Who were these apparent pirates, these rogues who had snatched Carter from his yacht and replaced him with this, this fraud? Who had built and used that unspeakable beam weapon? The only thing Meredith felt sure of was that the false Saldana was not about to provide a true answer.

Surely it is only a misguided few, yet a determined minority. Friends, we must stand firm and we must stand together. We must not give in to petty infighting. We must join hands with our natural allies. We must, I say again, stand together.

It sounded so reasonable. A dire threat required proper response. Yet it ran against everything she and Carter had worked for during their tenure in office. Meredith knew that wasn't Carter, and still she could scarce believe her ears.

It is in hope that, standing together, humanity may yet prevail over its own darkest instincts, I forward this motion. That the worlds come together in alliance against the enemies of peace. That we join our efforts, in mutual defense, and to police the system together until such time as these criminals are brought to justice.

Meredith closed her eyes. She'd heard enough. Too much, perhaps, with Carter's voice still in her ears. She knew it was not him, but the voice... She'd wanted to see where this imposter's reasoning would lead, when she should have taken immediate action instead. Now, her hands trembled and her breath came shaky. She couldn't go through with it. She could not. She must.

Friends, Carter's voice boomed through the Rotunda. "Tongzhi. I do not suggest a changed allegiance. I do not suggest the diminution of Martian sovereignty. Rather a partnership, with Earth - and, eventually, the belt. A partnership of independent equals. A partnership--"

The rhetoric mattered not at all. Meredith knew what the impostor suggested, and it was the opposite of everything the real Carter Saldana had stood for. She drew breath, slow and deep. Her resolve hardened. She slid a hand within her jacket. The gun was cool; her palm hot and damp.

Meredith Taishan opened her eyes. The false Saldana stood beneath the bust of Kuan-Lin Liu, calling for an end to independence, an end to freedom. She rose to her feet, the motion swift and fluid. The gun caught briefly on her jacket. Then it was free. No going back. She had to be quick. She could not let anyone stop her.

Three rapid steps and she was at the base of the rostrum. Liu's stern, basalt visage looked down at her as she raised the gun. Carter turned his head toward her in surprise. No, damn it! It was not him. Carter was dead.

Meredith pulled the trigger.

1.

Seen from orbit, the planet Mars was a dusty jewel. Shan Taishan had never been so ambivalent to the sight as he was now. He had come home. It was not a relief.

The shuttle rolled and the world of his birth slid from view. Shan adjusted his harness in anticipation of the imminent braking thrust. He'd been on the float since shortly after clearing the small craft bay of the heavy cruiser MFV Hamish Sankov, but in a moment gravity - of a sort - reasserted itself.

It was a weak pseudo-gravity, barely sufficient to shift his mass ever-so-gently against the web of the harness. It lasted only a handful of seconds before the thrusters cut out again. As the shuttle settled on the pad, all that remained was the negligible pull of Deimos, a thousandth of a single Martian gravity.

For the average Fleet officer - those not assigned to the shipyard, at any rate - there were only two occasions to visit Mars' sole remaining natural satellite: to witness the ceremonial first launch of a new Fleet vessel, or to report for duty on that same ship. For Century Brats, there was a third circumstance.

Touchdown complete, he unclipped the harness and got up. He didn't bother with the magboots yet. He was comfortably accustomed to the float, and this might be one of his last opportunities. He'd come to Deimos to get drummed out of the Fleet.

Three senior officers awaited his arrival, seated behind a sturdy table bolted to the deck. Behind and above their heads hung photographs of the First Hundred. The idea was that the accused should feel the full weight of their failure. At least one of their ancestors looked down from those photos, sharing in the judgment.

Captain Shan Taishan, reporting as ordered. He braced to attention and gave a crisp salute. The three members of his court martial did not rise. There was another captain, Arturo Paz. Shan did not recognize him. Probably a permanent staffer at Deimos. The second member of the court was Admiral Belinda Yau. He had not realized she'd left Hamish Sankov. The third member, however, presented a much greater surprise.

At ease, Captain, said Fleet Marshal Shao-Moran, supreme commander of the Martian military. There's no need to make this any more painful than it has to be. Wouldn't you agree?

Shan relaxed his posture somewhat. He made no reply other than, Sir.

Scions of the Hundred Families tended to rise quickly in the Fleet, but never without merit. The so-called Century Brats were held to an excruciatingly high standard, and rarely afforded second chances following even the smallest misstep. The Fleet tolerated the de facto aristocrats, but only on its own terms. Shan Taishan was a captain who'd lost his ship. His career had ended at Ceres. He wanted to get this over with.

It seemed he was not alone in that desire.

Is there anything you'd care to add to your official report, Captain Taishan? Shao-Moran held up an official tablet and then set it aside in a way that clearly indicated the desired response was no.

No, sir.

Shan kept his face neutral, telling himself it was not a lie. Shao-Moran had not asked if the report was complete, only if he had anything to add. Anything he cared to add. He let his gaze flick briefly to Admiral Yau. He was not sure of her. He could not be sure of anyone.

Estevan Tsai-Liu had been compromised. Not only in his loyalty, but in his very humanity. Shan had left that out of his report, which had been far from comprehensive. Until he could be sure - damn sure - there were things Shan meant to keep to himself.

Have you anything else to say to this court?

I have not, sir.

Very well. Then you shall hear our ruling. Shao-Moran's eye never strayed. There was no glance, however brief, to the other members of the court. No need. Judgment was pre-ordained. Shan Taishan, you are hereby dismissed from your duties as an officer of this Fleet.

He expected it, the outcome never in question. It hit him hard nevertheless. Concluding formalities washed past him, incapable of penetrating the sense of dejection he felt. Shan Taishan was no longer an officer of the Fleet.

Everything he had worked for, his entire adult life, gone in an instant. Two instants, really. This one now, and the moment he hit the self-destruct command on Willis's flight deck. He had known what it would mean. He hadn't had a choice.

Shan had gone into the situation at Ceres with bad information. Not merely incomplete, but completely inaccurate. He'd been lied to, and not only by Estevan Tsai-Liu. He'd been deceived by an old friend. The reasons for the lies were, he felt sure, political.

He'd joined the Fleet to avoid politics. So much for that.

"A moment please, tongzhi Taishan."

Shan stopped and turned in the middle of the corridor which led to the surface docks and the shuttle waiting to take him home. The formal term of address, though he should have anticipated it, was a shock. No longer tongbao, compatriot in Guanhwa; now he was tongzhi, a word carrying the same literal meaning but bearing an additional weight of connotation. Shan Taishan had become a political entity.

It was Fleet Marshal Shao-Moran, come alone after the disgraced former officer. Shan supposed that was no surprise. He waited for his fellow aristocrat to reach him, then fell in step at the older man's side.

What can I do for you, sir?

You can share information, if you have it.

Shao-Moran answered him in Guanhwa. Shan had spoken Lingwa, as they had at the perfunctory court-martial. Shan blinked at the transition. He nearly missed a step as his mind balked at the task of dredging up the old schooling. So few people actually spoke Guanhwa, it might as well be considered a dead language. Yet Shao-Moran had chosen it. Why?

As I indicated before, sir, I add nothing to my official report. The words came out stilted, much of the tongue's lyricism ruined by disuse. Shan hadn't used Guanhwa - except to curse - in over a decade.

That business is finished, said Shao-Moran, using an extremely formal syntax.

Then, my apologies. I know not to what you refer.

It was not a long corridor. Shao-Moran had better come to the point, Shan thought. He could already see the hatch that would take him into the underlevels of the surface docks. He was curious what this was all about, but not sufficiently so to delay his departure.

The matter of Carter Saldana, Shao-Moran said at last. His murder at the hand of your sister.

Shan halted again. Shao-Moran carried on for two paces before stopping to turn and face the junior man. The Fleet Marshal's face was grave. Shan waited, saying nothing.

Her motive remains unclear, the older man said.

To me also.

Which was true: Shan did not know for sure why Meredith had done it. He did, however, know one very good reason she might have done. Saldana had been suborned by the same mysterious agency which turned Tsai-Liu traitor. Machines in his brain, doubtless implanted during Carter's brief captivity two weeks earlier, had controlled him. Meredith must have somehow seen through the deception.

He was not about to tell that to Eduar Shao-Moran. He didn't know where the man had been. What he could be sure of was that the commander-in-chief hadn't come to Deimos just to sit in on his tribunal. This conversation was why Shao-Moran had come.

That fact told him nothing of the older man's deeper motives. What did Shao-Moran wish to hear? This was no Fleet operation they were discussing. The issue lacked the clean, straight lines of military thinking. It was politics. But which side, and of which argument, did Shao-Moran represent? That was politics as well.

It is a strange and unprecedented occurrence. Apparently conceding that Shan could tell him nothing, Shao-Moran sighed and turned halfway back toward the far end of the corridor. Your shuttle awaits, countryman. I will see you again soon in Bradbury.

Shan nodded politely and resumed his course. This time, Shao-Moran made no move to keep up. Shan was nearly to the hatch when the Fleet Marshal called out after him:

"Good luck, tongzhi Taishan."

2.

Shan Taishan took out his handset and accessed the planetary network as the EDL shuttle departed Deimos. He was strapped in snug for the next ninety-eight minutes, most of which would be spent on the float or near enough. The actual descent phase would take only a hellish four minutes. For now, he had time to get caught up on events.

He ignored the more salacious headlines as obvious tabloid clickbait, with titles like Cancel the Honeymoon and The Wedding is Off! There were plenty more to choose from. Carter Saldana's death was the top story on every local feedsite. That was no surprise. The assassination of one of the Hundred Ministers, in the Bradbury Rotunda itself, was an unprecedented occurrence.

Then again, so was the invasion and pacification of Ceres. He found little mention of that on any of the major feeds, and none at all regarding the roughly concurrent events at Vesta. Mars One downplayed the former as a friendly misunderstanding, and the brief, misleading story was relegated to a subpage off the main feed. Carter's death hoarded all the attention.

Shan had viewed the video several times on the journey back from Ceres. He'd frozen frames and zoomed images and searched his sister's face for answers. Why had she done it?

Shan wanted to believe Meredith had recognized the impostor, but he knew first-hand how convincing the illusion had been. He'd sat and talked with the imitation of Carter Saldana and never realized something was off. So what did she know that he had not?

The restraint webbing pressed against Shan's chest, several times his normal weight briefly asserting itself as the spaceplane used a short burn to decelerate. After five seconds they resumed coasting. The pilot had just initiated the transfer to lower orbit. The next burn would come just before the true descent began.

Shrugging off the momentary crush of the maneuver, Shan turned back to the feeds. He still had more than an hour, and he wanted to know what had been happening at home over the past few days.

Popular support for Saldana's proposed biplanetary alliance had surged in the wake of his death, a fact Shan found ludicrous. It would never pass the Hundred. Most of the pundits agreed.

Conservatives and reactionaries would see it as a tacit surrender to old mother Earth's grasping imperialism. Even the most open-minded of progressives had to be leery of a proposition that would effectively tie the Hundred to EarthGov.

But proponents downplayed the political side of the proposed coalition, highlighting instead the benefits of mutual defense. Earth's Peacekeepers, though technologically inferior to the Martian Fleet, were still the largest military force in human history.

Furthermore, they said, the alliance would loosen immigration restrictions. Mars needed new blood quite literally. There had never been a time when it was otherwise, but interplanetary tensions and the arrogance of the Hundred Families had put an end to continuing waves of colonization long ago.

The arrogance of the Hundred Families.

Shan read over that bit again, not quite believing it. The Martian press was free to print what it chose, of course. But this was a story on one of the major feeds, openly criticizing the Families. Not any particular minister or specific agenda; the Hundred Families themselves, as institution, the bedrock foundation of Martian civilization.

He felt a chill, and an unexpected weight on his chest. It took Shan a moment to realize the weight was not imagined. The shuttle's thrusters had fired again. Ahead of schedule.

The passenger cabin had no windows as might be expected on a civilian spaceplane. It made no difference. The precision required for atmospheric entry was not something that could be judged by the naked eye. Shan would have liked to be able to see out just the same.

He tucked his handset away. There was a com panel set near his left hand. Shan reached for it just as the acceleration pressure eased and weightlessness returned. Probably just a minor correction.

Except this was no civilian shuttle or private yacht, and certainly no amateur pilot. This was a Fleet transport, and Fleet efficiency ruled out minor corrections.

Shan keyed open the comm channel to receive-only. He had no need to bother the pilot, who was surely busy. This was the Fleet. Someone else would be on, wanting answers. He didn't have long to wait.

EDL flight four-four-two, what is your status?

That was the ground control station, which had assumed responsibility for the flight from the time initial descent began. There was no reply. Several seconds ticked past. Ground control got on the horn again.

EDL flight four-four-two, respond. What is your status? Are you in distress? Respond!

Shan slapped at the release catch on his safety webbing. Ground control would keep demanding an answer. Sooner or later, Deimos would get on the line. Orbital skiffs would change vector and come sniffing. He didn't need to wait for all that. There was a problem, all right.

He still wore a standard Fleet-issue shipsuit. The helmet was racked beside the acceleration cradle. He snatched it up and slapped it on one-handed, reaching with his other arm for an overhead grab bar.

Sudden, hard acceleration lifted him off his feet despite the magnetic lock of his boots. He was torn from the deck and hurled upward against the overhead. Shan had just enough time to shift position and brace before striking the cable-threaded ceiling. The painful impact drove the wind from his lungs and reignited the fading pain of half-healed injuries from Ceres.

EDL flight four-four-two, respond! Genuine alarm sounded in the voice from ground control, still squawking over the open comm channel. We read you on sharp descent, accelerating. What's going on up there?

Shan was pinned to the overhead by g-force. Felt like four, maybe five standard gees; as much as fifteen Martian gravities. The acceleration pushed him up and somewhat toward the rear. Powered dive with the nose angled only slightly downward.

Grunting with the effort, Shan reached out for the nearest grab bar ahead. He was lucky: he'd managed to hit the overhead on his back. Facing the deck, the g-force was mostly coming at him laterally. That made it easier to bear, and at five gees a trained spacer like Shan was in no danger of G-LOC.

Still, he wished he had on some vac armor. If nothing else, he could have used a stim injection. It would have made the next part at least feel easier. His hand found the grab bar. He dragged himself forward, already stretching his other hand for the next hold.

His cradle was near the front of the compartment, just aft of the main hatch. Four meters from his seat to the forward hatch and the flight deck beyond. Just four meters...

Shan reached for the third U-shaped handhold. It was getting harder to stretch his hand forward. The shuttle's nose must be tilting