“In the commander’s cabin aboard the JFK.”
I rubbed my hand beneath me and felt cool synlon. “What happened?”
“We were hoping you would tell us. We recovered you from a derelict Firewitch, seventy-two hours ago. You disappeared through a jump eight days before that in a Scorpion.”
I rubbed my eyes and sipped water from a plasti he handed me. “Thanks. God, I get tired of waking up in strange beds. Who’re you?”
“Lieutenant Commander Maxim Shaloub.”
He ran his hand through black hair, what military barbering left of it, that curled like steel wool. I eyed his collar brass. “Judge Advocate General’s Corps?”
“I feel morally obliged, though I’m not legally so obliged, to tell you that this interview is being holo’ed.”
“Why?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether you were serving as an officer who disobeyed standing orders or you were a civilian stowaway who misappropriated government property. Your status remains unresolved.”
I rolled my eyes and sighed. “Whatever. If you think I’m gonna tell you what happened, the problem is I don’t know half of it.”
He pointed behind me, to the top of my bedframe. Jeeb perched there, diagnostics purring. “Wouldn’t your mechanical have recorded something?”
“You tell me. Your techs have had seventy-two hours to download it.”
He smiled. “Don’t think they haven’t tried. You’ve evidently programmed it with a secure download algorithm. Which of itself raises questions about what you have to hide.”
I sighed and closed my eyes. “Jeeb. Rewind. Spill the beans.”
Jeeb didn’t move. I added, “Please.”
Jeeb whirred, then the flap in his carapace that covered his download port opened.
Shaloub frowned. “Oh.”
Jeeb spilled the beans, as requested.
According to his records, as I collapsed, I aborted Silver Bullet’s detonation, with all of four seconds to spare.
The attending Slugs loaded me and Jeeb into a Fire-witch, which stood off from Planet Archie, while he lit off his Cavorite express. Jeeb’s holo couldn’t do justice to the spectacle of an entire planet accelerated from its orbit by the most powerful engine ever conceived, at least in this universe.
When Archie left on his orphan’s journey, his Fire-witch shot back through the jump with Jeeb and me. Then it did what Archie’s detached instrumentalities had always done when cut off from his direction. It just drifted. The last thing on the recording was Archie’s mechanical voice. “Archie does not want Jason to die, either.”
The JAG prosecutor stepped back and leaned against the cabin’s desk. “We won the war. You won it.”
“No. Both sides won. We’re alive. The Pseudocephalopod is alive. Still want to court-martial me for desertion? Or try me for treason?”
He blinked. “It’s not up to me.”
“No, it isn’t. I’ve been through this kind of thing before. By the time we get home, the politicians will pin medals on you and me and everybody involved and claim credit for the result.”
He crossed his arms and shrugged. “Probably. But it’s not up to them, either. We’re fourteen months from Mousetrap. The vessel captain is the law out here. As a matter of law, you’re more likely to get summarily executed than get a medal.”
Medals. I stared at the ceiling’s blank whiteness trying to remember all the heroes of this war that had consumed my life, trying to remember all their sacrifices. A lump swelled in my throat. There were too many, and the remembrance too painful. There would be time.
Finally, I sighed. I cocked my head at the JAG officer.
“You said this is the JFK. The JFK isn’t scheduled to enter service for two years, even from now.”
He rubbed new paint that covered old on the bulkhead. “This isn’t the new JFK. This is the original John Fitzgerald Kennedy. They demothballed her two years ago. Maximum effort and all. She’s so old that we move between jumps on antimatter bottles. We fell so far behind the fleet that we were authorized to turn back, but the skipper wouldn’t. Still, we got here too late.”
I smiled at him. “Not from where I’m lying.”
He managed a thin smile. “There are a lot of people aboard who would say that. Because the skipper didn’t turn back, we were able to pick up survivors from a half-dozen ships. We have people hot-bunking in the companionways. A Colonel Hibble sends his regards, by the way. He’s splitting bunk time with Admiral Duffy. The brig’s already converted to a dormitory, so the skipper opted to confine you here, surprisingly.”
“Why surprisingly?”
The prosecutor shook his head. “Because there’s no pricklier commander in the fleet. They say the skipper actually had to beg for this rust bucket and runs it tight so nobody can take it away.” He rolled his eyes. “Don’t expect leniency from Admiral Ozawa.”
Capitol City Statesman
The Clear Voice of Roth’s World
Harvest 16th, 2116 Standard
Herd on the Street
Today the Rancher’s Club of Roth’s teams with the Historical Society to welcome guest speakers from the Inworlds. At the speakers’ request, the club has been opened to the public, and the buffet will be provided with the speakers’ compliments. There are ’goon ribs and there are the Rancher’s ’goon ribs, so arrive early!
Mr. Jason Wander is a true-born Earthling, and one of the last surviving veterans of the Slug War. So is his lovely wife, the former Mimi Ozawa, also true-born, who will speak, too.
Your Social Editor caught up with the Wanders yesterday, while they rode the Stepper out to see Ruby Falls. That view never gets old!
The Wanders are, Mrs. Wander says, “About sixty years old, subjective.” But, because of near-light travel dilation, they are “a bit older, standard.” On the Wanders’ wedding day, the entire Human Union was just fourteen worlds, Mrs. Wander says!!
Perhaps, but your Editor should look so good! Mrs. Wander says they have visited one hundred forty-four worlds, counting Roth’s. They have no plans to stop traveling.
The couple married late, so they never had The Blessing. But, Mrs. Wander points out, on some worlds the problem is too many children. The War orphaned Mr. Wander, but he says that his life has taught him that all the people of the Human Union are his family. And the Wanders travel with Jeeb, a lap-sized Mechanical as old as they are, which “we spoil like our own child.”
Both Wanders will tell about their experiences in the Slug War, which Mr. Wander says were “average.”
But he says the true reason they speak on the outworlds is so no one ever forgets the sacrifices, made by so many soldiers, that saved two races and brought peace to the galaxy.
It sounds like a good story.
Acknowledgments
Books, they say, are marriages. Of ink to paper, of author to material, and of reader to story. Orphan’s Triumph is for some of us an anniversary and for others a spring wedding.
So, my thanks. To something old (child-bride appearances notwithstanding), senior editor Devi Pillai and agent Winifred Golden, both present at the creation, and Alex Lencicki and Jennifer Flax, veterans of the reissued series. To something new, my U.K. editor Bella Pagan and marketing executive Darren Turpin. To something borrowed, the U.K. ’s gift to Orbit U.S., publishing director Tim Holman. And something blue, Calvin Chu, who outdid himself with Triumph’s icy, cerulean cover. And to everyone else at Orbit for their great work.
And, as always, to Mary Beth for anniversaries past and better ones to come.