Of Fire and Night - Kevin J. Anderson [5]
2
ADMIRAL LEV STROMO
The Manta shot across space to rescue any surviving "dunsel" commanders from the rammer fleet. By now, the sixty kamikaze ships should have smashed the drogues at Qronha 3.
The cruiser's Ildiran stardrive was pushed to its maximum; sweating engineering crews and their Soldier compy counterparts monitored all systems, wary of overloads. Admiral Stromo was seventeen hours behind schedule--before launch, he had insisted on going through every checklist and prep report, as if this were merely a training mission instead of a rushed interception--but the escape pods should have plenty of air, food, and water to last the six token human dunsels for at least another day, maybe two. Stromo had plenty of time.
Itching for a chance to deploy the EDF's new rammers, General Lanyan had seized the chance when hydrogues attacked a Hansa cloud harvester at Qronha 3. Crewed almost entirely by Soldier compies, the massive reinforced vessels were built for the sole purpose of crashing. By design, the token human commanders should have been able to eject to safety, and the retrieval Manta would pick them up. The operation had looked perfectly good on paper.
The Admiral slept soundly in his private cabin, leaving administrative details to the officer-in-charge. When the wake-up alarm buzzed, he grumbled that a grid admiral should be allowed a few extra hours of rest. He climbed out of his padded bunk, rubbed his eyes, and got ready for his shift. He was expected to provide a good example for his troops, though he would rather have stayed home. Stromo's particular skills were in the areas of bureaucracy, politics, and paperwork. Other EDF officers must be eager to make a name for themselves and get a promotion. Wouldn't one of them have been a better choice for the job?
Nevertheless, he was here. He had his orders. He wanted to finish up and go back.
Stromo splashed his face with water from the small basin. When he rubbed his cheeks, he felt a touch of stubble, but decided he could wait another day before taking his anti-beard-growth hormone. The pills often made his stomach queasy, but shaving was a nuisance.
After putting on a clean uniform, he leaned closer to the mirror, increased the magnification. The heavy jaw and round neck showed an unsightly extra chin that matched his growing paunch; even his eyes were puffy, and not from lack of sleep. Maybe he should start an exercise regimen, when he had spare time.
Stromo had never intended to go back into combat, never thought he'd need to be a rock-hard soldier again. But since the hydrogues, few things in his life had gone the way he'd wanted them to. He was aware of much snickering at his expense, the insulting nickname of "Stay-at-Home Stromo" because he preferred a desk job to real military work. But there came a time when the desire for comfort and predictability superseded pride and ambition.
The glowing digits on the bulkhead wall reminded him that he had only a few minutes to get to the bridge if he meant to be there when the cruiser reached Qronha 3. He should be sitting in the command chair for the important part of this bothersome mission. He combed his short iron-gray hair, took a deep breath, and adjusted his bar of medals (most of them awarded for length of service or for being in the right place at the right time). Ready for duty.
He moved at a brisk pace down the corridor, back straight, shoulders square, chin pushed forward as if he were power-walking for exercise. He passed a dozen Soldier compies and nodded a greeting out of habit. He was not surprised that they did not salute or respond. Unlike Friendly-model compies, such niceties were not part of the required military programming.
The Soldier models, designed as replacements for real crewmen, stood almost as tall as a man, with armored torsos and thick arms and legs. Their reinforced musculature and synthetic body coverings made them more durable, less vulnerable to accidents and damage, and stronger than human soldiers. It was a relief to