He took another breath as the shuttle’s gravity field faded away. It had been years since he’d exercised in zero-g, but the body never forgot. He found himself smiling as Askew took hold of the nearest handhold and led the way towards a distant hatch. It felt good to relax, just for a moment, and smell the clean air. The asteroid base might be old, but it wasn’t on the verge of breaking apart. His superdreadnought might never smell so well again.
“In here,” Askew said, opening the hatch. “I think you’ll like what you see.”
Lights came on, so bright that Admiral Zaskar winced. Inside, the chamber was crammed with supplies . . . Theocratic supplies. He stared in disbelief, trying to understand what it meant. Someone had raided a supply dump . . . or was this a supply dump? The asteroid settlement might easily have been raided by the Theocracy, once upon a time. Or . . . his mind spun as he tried to understand what he was seeing. The supplies in front of him were familiar.
He pulled himself after Askew. “Where the hell did you get these?”
“It’s a long story,” Askew said. “Suffice it to say that they fell into our hands.”
Admiral Zaskar glared, but Askew refused to be drawn any further. Instead, he led them on a brief tour of the asteroid, pointing out supply rooms, refreshment chambers, and everything else they needed to repair and operate the fleet. Admiral Zaskar doubted his forces would be able to keep the fleet going indefinitely—there was a distinct shortage of machine tools and anything else that might make them self-sufficient—but the supplies would definitely give them a new lease on life. They might even be able to survive long enough for the Commonwealth to withdraw.
“Well?” Askew smiled at them. “What do you think?”
“A gift from God,” Moses said.
Admiral Zaskar wasn’t so impressed. “But at what price?”
“I told you,” Askew said, patiently. “Keep the Commonwealth tied down.”
“We have no choice,” Moses said. “We accept your offer.”
“But first, we have to repair and rearm our ships,” Admiral Zaskar said before Moses could promise an immediate attack on Ahura Mazda. The last report had stated there were four enemy superdreadnought squadrons based there. His ships wouldn’t stand a chance if they risked an engagement. “And then we can begin our campaign.”
“Yes, Admiral,” Moses said. “But at least we have hope!”
His words echoed in Admiral Zaskar’s thoughts as his crews sprang to work, some reopening the older asteroids while others transferred the spare parts and weapons to the fleet. He felt good being able to throw out old components once again, even though Admiral Zaskar was ruefully aware they could probably be repaired with the right tools.
Slowly, day after day, his fleet started to heal. Once his missile tubes were reloaded, he even became a little more confident in his ability to win an engagement against a numerically equal force.
And yet, the question of just who Askew actually worked for hung in his mind, taunting him while he tried to sleep. Askew couldn’t be a Theocrat, no matter how he looked; he simply didn’t have the attitude of someone who’d grown up in the Theocracy. And yet, he’d either liberated an old supply dump or transferred the supplies to the base from somewhere else. But where? Admiral Zaskar had assumed that they’d be given spare parts with no fixed origin, but instead they’d been given Theocratic spare parts. The more he thought about it, the more he wondered: Could Askew be working for someone in the Commonwealth?
It made no sense, yet . . . the thought refused to go away. The Theocracy hadn’t been able to sell spare parts on the galactic market before the war, hadn’t even been able to give them away. So where had the spare parts come from? If the Commonwealth had overrun a supply depot, the supplies could have been sold onwards . . . but who would buy them? Even the missiles weren’t worth that much on the market. Pirates were about the only people who’d want them. Anyone else could buy more advanced weapons on the open market.
If someone in the Commonwealth is backing us, he thought, why?
He tried not to think about it as he inspected his fleet, stalking the decks and listening to the commanding officers as they assured him that their ships were ready for battle. He’d tried hard to impress upon his subordinates that he preferred honesty to worthless promises, but he didn’t know just how well the lesson had taken. Too many commanders had grown up knowing that they could be executed for failing to accomplish the impossible. Even Admiral Zaskar himself once had problems. But they could no longer afford to force men to choose between lying or losing their heads. They were at war, in dire straits.
“Well,” he said a week later, “we seem to have made a reasonable start.”
He allowed his eyes to survey the compartment. He’d invited his commanding officers to attend, either in person or via hologram. He was oddly gratified to see how many had chosen to attend in person, despite the claims on their time.
“Our ships are generally in better condition now,” he added. It would be a long time before they were back to peak form, if indeed they ever were, but at least they were on the way. The cynic in him noted that they might last five minutes, instead of one, if they encountered a numerically equal force. “And our crews are well fed for the first time in weeks.”
“They’ve certainly started attending services again,” Moses commented. He was about the only person who would dare interrupt the fleet’s commanding officer. “God has truly blessed us.”
“Indeed he has,” Admiral Zaskar agreed, concealing his annoyance. He was the fleet’s commanding officer, but who knew which way his subordinates would jump if he moved against the cleric?
