War of Alien Aggression 5 Cozen's War Read Online Free
Author: A.D. Bloom
ship didn’t sign up after the war started. At least we didn’t mean to sign up. I mean we all got shanghaied through Staas Company General Order 1633. Contract had some crap in it about ‘time of war’ and ‘extraordinary need’. And that's not just us. That's most Privateers. All the attack carriers, anyway. We didn’t sign up, we got drafted."
" So you didn't sign up either," Tig said.
Wambach thumped his own forehead. " No, idiot. That's not the point. What he's saying is: if we got the royal shaft like that and if we can shut the fuck up about it so we can win this war and get it the fuck over with, then you can have the fucking decency to shut your yap about some alien propaganda bullshit story about who started this war and why. That shit does us no good." Wambach stood up so his chair shot out behind him. He ignored the shouts from the company marines behind him as he made for the hatch.
Tig looked at the mangled meat in the middle of his burger-filled bun. "But..."
" History," Parker said. "I’ve studied a lot of history. It's who we are. Change the past...change what people know of it, and you can get away with anything."
"Why does he have to lay into me so hard over it?"
"You're telling him there's a chance he's not who he thought he was, Tig. He’s pissed."
"And he’s saying it isn't my past that got changed because I wasn’t signed up then? That's bunk."
She nodded.
Chapter Four
From the bow guns’ observation port, Commander Ram Devlin, XO of the Staas Company attack carrier Hardway looked down railgun barrels so long they appeared to converge. He could just make out the bronze sculpture Harry Cozen had welded to the topside bow plate of the ship. It was priceless and putting it on the bow of a warship had been his message to the crew that their individual lives were just as important. ‘Bird in Space’ by Constantin Brancusi. 1926.
The sliver of metal still curved elegantly enough, arcing through space with the grace of a bird’s path in flight. That part of the sculpture’s visual metaphor had survived the ordeal of riding welded to the bow of a warship like a figurehead. Other elements hadn’t fared so well. The gleaming, reflective surface that had once made the 1.85m bronze seem to streak like a thing in fast flight was gone, pitted with spatter from particle streams or endless impacts with stray atoms and nuclei of the stellar medium. This 239 year-old bronze got patinaed with an ablative bath of exotic particles every time the carrier pierced the membrane of a hypermass transit to ride the passage to the next system.
That Brancusi had been beaten up, but it was still glorious. It was, in fact, a different work of art now then when it had been cast. The artist had made many of these, Ram knew, and those polished surfaces all communicated the glory of flight as this one still did, but the surface of this one was scarred and pitted with a different truth of flight, the one only flying things can actually know, the one that makes them envy the restive creatures on the ground.
He rode the lift down the tube to the ship's spine alongside a crew of railgunners swapping out for the 3rd shift. "Mr. Devlin," two of them muttered in acknowledgment. The other three stayed silent, eyes on their boots of their exosuits. This was the Staas Company Privateers and not some UN fleet ship. They didn’t have to salute or call him sir. But the way none of them met his eyes made Ram think there was something they didn’t want him to see in theirs.
Before the lift hit the carrier’s spine, he made up a question to ask them regarding the readiness of the bow guns, the answer to which he already knew and imagined would be something they’d be proud to report. The Chief who answered him had heavy-lidded, bruise encircled eyes. At first, Ram thought the light he saw behind those eyes was dim with the same wear the sculpture on the bow had taken. Then he saw he was
" So you didn't sign up either," Tig said.
Wambach thumped his own forehead. " No, idiot. That's not the point. What he's saying is: if we got the royal shaft like that and if we can shut the fuck up about it so we can win this war and get it the fuck over with, then you can have the fucking decency to shut your yap about some alien propaganda bullshit story about who started this war and why. That shit does us no good." Wambach stood up so his chair shot out behind him. He ignored the shouts from the company marines behind him as he made for the hatch.
Tig looked at the mangled meat in the middle of his burger-filled bun. "But..."
" History," Parker said. "I’ve studied a lot of history. It's who we are. Change the past...change what people know of it, and you can get away with anything."
"Why does he have to lay into me so hard over it?"
"You're telling him there's a chance he's not who he thought he was, Tig. He’s pissed."
"And he’s saying it isn't my past that got changed because I wasn’t signed up then? That's bunk."
She nodded.
Chapter Four
From the bow guns’ observation port, Commander Ram Devlin, XO of the Staas Company attack carrier Hardway looked down railgun barrels so long they appeared to converge. He could just make out the bronze sculpture Harry Cozen had welded to the topside bow plate of the ship. It was priceless and putting it on the bow of a warship had been his message to the crew that their individual lives were just as important. ‘Bird in Space’ by Constantin Brancusi. 1926.
The sliver of metal still curved elegantly enough, arcing through space with the grace of a bird’s path in flight. That part of the sculpture’s visual metaphor had survived the ordeal of riding welded to the bow of a warship like a figurehead. Other elements hadn’t fared so well. The gleaming, reflective surface that had once made the 1.85m bronze seem to streak like a thing in fast flight was gone, pitted with spatter from particle streams or endless impacts with stray atoms and nuclei of the stellar medium. This 239 year-old bronze got patinaed with an ablative bath of exotic particles every time the carrier pierced the membrane of a hypermass transit to ride the passage to the next system.
That Brancusi had been beaten up, but it was still glorious. It was, in fact, a different work of art now then when it had been cast. The artist had made many of these, Ram knew, and those polished surfaces all communicated the glory of flight as this one still did, but the surface of this one was scarred and pitted with a different truth of flight, the one only flying things can actually know, the one that makes them envy the restive creatures on the ground.
He rode the lift down the tube to the ship's spine alongside a crew of railgunners swapping out for the 3rd shift. "Mr. Devlin," two of them muttered in acknowledgment. The other three stayed silent, eyes on their boots of their exosuits. This was the Staas Company Privateers and not some UN fleet ship. They didn’t have to salute or call him sir. But the way none of them met his eyes made Ram think there was something they didn’t want him to see in theirs.
Before the lift hit the carrier’s spine, he made up a question to ask them regarding the readiness of the bow guns, the answer to which he already knew and imagined would be something they’d be proud to report. The Chief who answered him had heavy-lidded, bruise encircled eyes. At first, Ram thought the light he saw behind those eyes was dim with the same wear the sculpture on the bow had taken. Then he saw he was
Readers choose
Andre Norton
Tawdra Kandle
Chad Huskins
Christine Danse
Kazuo Ishiguro
Christine Feehan
Linda Mooney
Selina Rosen
Neil Postman