James Hawthorne had always been far too prone to try risky endeavors. It meant that if his plans worked, they were brilliant. But if they failed, they were disasters. Who would be blamed for the disaster this time? Not Supreme Commander Hawthorne. No, it would be Blackstone, Hawthorne’s old comrade from the Academy days.
The thought brought a spark of anger to Commodore Blackstone. The spark showed in his eyes and replaced the sadness that usually dwelled there. It momentarily tightened the sagging flesh on his face.
A loud rap against the wardroom door startled Blackstone out of his anger. He flinched as he looked up. The rapping sound came again, and there was a muffled voice that demanded he unlock the door immediately.
The Commodore was hardly aware that he had locked it. He realized belatedly that the Commissar had ordered every door aboard the Vladimir Lenin remain unlocked. Comrade soldiers of Social Unity had nothing to hide from each other. Locked doors implied privacy and that hinted at property and capitalist possessions.
“Enter,” Blackstone said.
The door automatically unlocked itself and swished open. Three-Star Commissar Kursk strode in. She was a fierce woman in an overly tight, brown uniform. She had severe Slavic features that would have appealed to those who lusted after a latex-fetish dominatrix. She wore her cap so the brim was low over her eyes. Those eyes were black, intense and demanding. Surprisingly, she had a flat chest. The rest of her was lean, with just enough curvature to her hips so men turned to watch her walk away. She wore her Order of Solidarity Badge, Second Class. It was big, shiny and pinned on her chest. She’d won it several years ago suppressing individualist mania among the space-welders of the Sun-Works Factory.
Behind her followed two enforcers in red PHC uniforms, natural sadists with agonizers clipped to their belts. Their long-fingered hands never strayed far from their stun guns. These two had strange stares.
Blackstone suspected their stares were from post-hypnotic commands and an over-indulgence of glaze. Blackstone had heard rumors that some Political Harmony Corps enforcers and slime pit operators developed strange psychosis after eliminating too many enemies of the State. Many of them turned to glaze, which helped for a time but eventually made most users paranoid.
“Your door was locked,” Commissar Kursk complained. There was a hint of the agonizer in her voice. It made Blackstone wince.
“Having you been taking your tablets?” Commissar Kursk asked.
The Commodore nodded his bald head.
“You are not above discipline.” Kursk unclipped a keypad and typed until a warning beep sounded. “I have added a mark to your profile. I am also duty-bound to inform you, that another three marks will result in a half-minute of agony.”
Blackstone blinked at her. Could she be so rash? With Supreme Commander Hawthorne’s rise to power, the authority of the political officers had dwindled. It was true that Commissar Kursk commanded an abnormal number of enforcers. She also had a formidable personality. But to use an agonizer on him as the commanding officer of the assault….
Blackstone opened his mouth to protest.
Commissar Kursk planted herself before his desk, putting her hands on her hips. “Forget about that for now. I have something more important to discuss. I have toured three of the newest warships and have spoken with their political officers. What I found amazed me. I know you’ve also toured two vessels. Surely, you have seen the same thing.”
“Everyone needs shore leave,” Blackstone said.
Kursk scowled. “Social Unity is fighting for its life! Shore leave is the least of anyone’s concern. This fleet represents one of the most potent forces left to us. Yet what do I find? There is a sullen quality to shipboard ideological fervor. For too many months now, these warships have sulked like isolationists in dark corners. Instead of yearning to come to grips with our bigoted enemies, they plot how to survive what they see as a catastrophe.”
“The Highborn aren’t a catastrophe?” Blackstone asked.
“Your tone is defeatist. I’m tempted to add another mark against your profile. You are the chief officer of this endeavor. You must exude confidence in order to pour it into your underlings. They in turn must motivate the crews with fierce ideological certainty of our coming victory. Anti-cooperative supremacists cannot defeat a socially aware humanity. I demand that you hold immediate court-martial proceedings and weed out the defeatists. You must stiffen everyone’s spine, Commodore.”
“Yes,” Blackstone said listlessly.
Commissar Kursk’s features turned glacial. “I have been timing the extended periods that you spend alone in here. Your personal misfortunes can no longer be allowed to interfere with your responsibility to Social Unity. The Directorate of Inner Planets has thought fit to use your martial abilities for the betterment of humanity. I recognize that human frailty sometimes worms into our responsibilities. At this critical juncture, however, I will not allow that to happen to you. Commodore Blackstone, the Directorate sent me to instill socially responsible behavior into you. I would be derelict in my duty if I failed to prod you to maximum efficiency in this grave hour.”
“If it’s any consolation,” Blackstone said, “I have been studying the attack plan.” He turned the vidscreen to show her the orbital positions of moons and satellites.
Kursk scowled. “You surprise me, Commodore. You molder in here like an isolationist, thinking that some revelation will elevate you above the rest of us and give you military insights. You should be with your staff, debating ideas and formulas and obtaining a group consensus.”
“No doubt you’re right,” Blackstone mumbled.
Commissar Kursk made an explosive sound as she blew out her cheeks. She leaned toward him, putting her hands on his desk. Her black fingernail polish seemed to suck the light from the room like mini-black holes.
“What is wrong with you? The cyborg battle pods are near, the supply convoy is less than four weeks away and twelve major warships have matched orbital velocity with the Vladimir Lenin. You should have visited each ship, counted supplies and demoted the inefficient. Your malaise is close to criminal sentimentality.”
A flicker of annoyance entered the Commodore’s sad eyes. He sat up, jerked once on his uniform to straighten it and almost lurched to his feet. “You overstep your bounds, Commissar.”
“I’ll trample well outside my bounds to save Social Unity,” she said. “My allegiance is to humanity’s future greatness. That can only be achieved through realizing the perfection of equality, the core of the human spirit.”
She unclipped her keypad and began to type. “You will join the scheduled hum-a-long at 1400 hours and tomorrow at 2600 hours.”
Commodore Blackstone frowned, and he opened his mouth to protest.
“Your malaise increases in direct proportion to your time spent in isolation,” she said. “You must mingle with the soldiers and derive your solace from unity. That will charge you with renewed zeal for victory. I am adamant on this and I will brook no disobedience. Have I made myself clear?”
Blackstone barely nodded.
“I demand an audible affirmation.”
“This is really too much,” he said.
“Commodore, it will pain me to apply it, but I will order my enforcers to use the agonizer on you. You are not alone, either in your pain or in exclusion from punishment. I am your conscience, and I refuse to fail in my duty to you and to Social Unity.”
“Very well,” Blackstone said. “I will join the hum-a-longs.”
“Excellent!” Kursk turned to go, but paused and looked back. “I think you shall be surprised at the hum-a-longs’ efficiency in soothing your pains.”
“No doubt true,” he muttered.
Commissar Kursk snapped her fingers and pointed at one of the enforcers. “See that the Commodore remains here no longer than another twenty minutes. Then call me and we shall implement the punishment.”