For a minute, Grantham’s gaze developed a sheen as bright as the stars on the outside of Titan’s fuming atmosphere. His reverie was interrupted by an errant question: “Think they’ll come back, sir?”
Grantham looked hard at Padilla, and carefully said, “I’m not sure. Anything’s possible. Why do you ask?”
Padilla stammered,” Well, uh, if they come back, you could-“
“I could, what?” Grantham asked. “Kill some Kalanuskans? Exact some payback? Avenge my friends, maybe?” He shook his head. “I avenged my friends by outliving the ones that killed them. My continued existence—as well as that of this base—is just another giant middle finger to the Kalanuskanites. And I have no interest in killing any of them out of hand. Hell, I wasn’t even issued a weapon in the last battle. They had our guys on damage control and left the actual fighting to the pilots and the Space Marines.”
“Sir, I-“ Padilla said
“If your reasons for enlisting are to win glory in battle, then you signed up for the wrong specialty code.” Grantham looked around, then shook his head and said, “Never mind that now. We got the conduit ran. I already know what comes next, but I want to hear it from you, make sure you know. How are we running the wire?”
Padilla pursed his lips, moving his thoughts back to the job at hand. “Dirtside, we’d normally use mule tape and be done, but out here, we only have 14 percent gravity. Trying to pull on the mule tape would just pull us towards the building, rather than pull the wire through the pipe. So, we have to grab the wire puller, stake it to the ground, and have it do the pulling.”
“How are you going to stake the wire puller?”
“...Grav boots?” Padilla asked hesitantly.
“We could, if we had bothered to bring them,” Grantham said. “Alas, there are twelve airlocks between us and those boots, and not near enough time in the duty day to retrieve them. But fear not! For there is another way.”
“There is, sir?”
“Well, sure there is,” Grantham said, smiling wide as he gestured towards the trench. “You see, we have this nice, solid run of rigid conduit below us to tie off to, and mule tape that can withstand 1,500 pounds of force ....”
****
“He tied your boots to the conduit?” Senior Spaceman Delgadillo asked.
After hours, there wasn’t too much available to do on Aldrin Station. Sure, there was a little movie theater on base, as well as a gym and a gravball court, but beyond that, the only real place the spacemen stationed at the base could hang out was Ringo’s, a small bar over in Sector Twelve. The tavern was divided into three sections—the club side, the “dive” side, for those that liked their drinks with a side of quiet, and the officer’s lounge. Spaceman Padilla and several other spacemen from the shop had migrated over to the dive side for some fresh air. The club side was fun, but the electronica that they constantly played over there was best taken in small doses.
“He did,” Padilla said, taking a swig out of his mug. “Crazy, but it worked. Took forever to hammer the stakes into the ground, though.”
“Man, Sarge is frickin’ nuts,” Deconinck said, laughing. The big spaceman had a beer in each hand, and was taking turns sipping from each one. “I remember once we were stringing lights in a drop ceiling in zero grav. Crazy son of a bitch attached lights to the end of a roll of metal-clad cable and floated the damn things into place. Then he’d cut the other end of the cable after that and spliced it into a junction box. It was like playing the dumbest game of frisbee golf ever devised, but damn if we didn’t get the job done in half the time we thought it would.”
“Is Space Engineering always this crazy?” Padilla said.
“Not always,” Gershon said. The Senior Spaceman somehow looked bored. Not much of a beer drinker, she was nursing a Long Island iced tea between her hands. “Most of the time, things are pretty routine. Most of what we do is maintenance. Every now and then, we’ll get a project come down the pipe, but unless the Kalanuskanites get froggy, you gotta make your own fun.” She took a sip. “I dunno why Sarge stays in, sometimes.”
“Certainly not for the excitement,” Delgadillo muttered.
“He actually did say that to me today,” Padilla said, draining the rest of his beer. “Mentioned he was here during the Kalanuskan War.”
“Yep,” Deconinck said, matching Padilla’s finish by downing both his beers and letting out a proud belch. “Sarge lost almost everyone he came up here with during that battle. Of the three that survived, two of them got medically discharged and sent dirtside, and the last one remaining is Sarge. For some reason, he just doesn’t want to leave.”
“Why?” Padilla leaned forward, curious.
Deconinck shrugged. “Who knows? Anyhoo, I got the next round. Waitress!” he called to the serving girl.
As she walked past, Padilla couldn’t help but notice Stargeant Grantham sitting alone in the back, quietly drinking by himself.
****
“Attention all personnel! Attention all personnel! Ground attacking force inbound! Essential personnel, report to your duty stations immediately. Non-essential personnel, shelter in place! This is not a drill! Attention all personnel….”
Padilla woke up with a start at the message blaring from the intercom at the wall. He wasn’t sure if he was essential or non-essential personnel, and was unsure of what to do. Then he figured that if he was essential, he’d know already, so, acting on that thought, he grabbed the emergency kit off of his barracks wall and hid under his bed. A moment after he secured himself, his phone rang. It was Sarge.
“Hello?” he asked.
“Padilla, Stargeant Grantham. Kalanuskanites are getting froggy again. Where are you at?”
“Under my bed, sheltering in place, sir.”
“Under your bed?” Grantham’s voice sounded puzzled. “Why’re you down there?”
“I wasn’t sure if I was essential personnel or not, sir. I figured that if I was, I’d know about it. Since I didn’t know, I figured I wasn’t.”
“Trust me, kid, you’re essential. Get out from under there, get dressed and get to the shop, pronto. If you encounter anybody from the Defense Force or the Marines, tell them you’re with Space Engineering and are a member of the DART, and they’ll let you through.”
“Understood, sir.”
“And leave your teddy bear in your barracks room.”
****
“Alright gang,” Technical Stargeant Watson said to the assembled electricians, in the shop break room. “No need to worry about our area; we have triple-redundant airlock systems in this sector, so we should be okay. That said, if shit really hits the fan and they make it through the dome and the airlocks, I’ll remind you the emergency shelter kits are in the closet over there in the back.
“Rules are as follows: until we have to roll, we’re all sheltering in here. Grab your toolbags and gear, and keep them in the break room for now, in case we need to roll in a hurry. Which, if we have to roll at all, will probably be the case. Nobody leaves alone, nobody leaves without a suit, nobody leaves without a radio. Beyond that, hunker down, and hopefully our services will not be needed. If there’s any questions, come ask myself or Stargeant Grantham. He’s been here before.”
“Now,” he said, picking a remote and turning on the break room TV, “Who’s picking the movie?”
****
“Stargeant Grantham,” Stargeant Watson said.
“Hmm?” Grantham looked around blearily as Watson shook him awake.
Being on a Space Engineering Damage Assessment and Repair Team was far different from being a frontline fighter. While the Defense Force and the Space Marines were busy repelling the attackers, the DARTs were hanging back, taking shelter until they were needed. One could only sit in silence waiting in nervous anticipation for so long, and as such, bored, nervous spacemen would find ways to pass the time. Sever
al of Grantham’s spacemen were watching the 90th installment of “Fast & Furious” on the break room TV. Others were playing cards, alternating between hearts, spades, cribbage or euchre. Stargeant Grantham, expecting that he was going to be extremely busy in short order, decided to take a nap. Which, given that the NCOIC was waking him up, seemed to be a good call.
“Grab Padilla and get back out to Zone Two,” Watson said. “Errant gravity round from the Kalanuskanites landed between the plasma cannon and the control tower.”
Grantham bolted upright. “They didn’t….”
“Yep,” Watson said. “That nice new power run you just installed and buried? It’s toast.”
Grantham groaned. “Goddamn ‘nuskies.”
“‘Goddamn ‘nuskies’ is right,” Watson said, his voice tight. “That’s the only heavy weaponry we got on the west side of the base. Wing King wants it back up, yesterday.”
“On it,” Grantham said, grabbing his tool bag.
****
“Holy Toledo,” Padilla said, observing the crater in shocked awe.
“Ain’t nothing holy about it, kid,” Grantham said, shaking his head.
The Kalanuskanite gravity round had probably been aimed at the sentry control tower, yet despite missing the target completely, it had somehow by not-quite luck managed to hit another vital target. The missile impacted the trench for the plasma cannon’s power run almost dead-on, and penetrated at least five feet down into the sandy soil. Grantham didn’t even have to completely uncover the conduit to know it was absolutely trashed.
What’s more, there was still fighting carrying on in the distance. Padilla and Grantham were in their survival suits, which could protect against most of the light weaponry that the Kalanuskanites were firing, but if another gravity round hit near them, they were toast.
“How long do you think it’ll take to repair?” the base tactical officer asked tightly.
“Give me 45 minutes, tops,” Grantham said. “We’ll trim the conduit back, splice the line, and turn it into a proper handhole later. Won’t be pretty, but it’ll work, sir.”
“Copy,” the TACO said. “Let me know as soon as you’re done.”
****
“Hacksaw,” Grantham said to Padilla, reaching his hand for the tool.
The pair had been working as quickly as they could to get the massive cannon back online. Being very careful not to nick the wire inside, Grantham had managed to trim a foot off the broken end of the conduit leading to the cannon, leaving just enough wire to strip back and splice to. After the battle, they’d have to re-pull all the wire, but at least they’d be able to get the cannon running for now. Grantham was just about the trim the other side, the side leading back to the panel, when the TACO came in over the radio.
“DART One, what’s your status?”
“Almost halfway done,” Grantham commed back, puzzled. They’d only been at work for ten minutes.
“Any chance you can speed up your timeline?”
“Negative,” Grantham said. “Why?”
“Look out to the west.”
Grantham and Padilla poked their heads out of the crater. Beyond isolated pockets of fighting, just outside of the station’s security perimeter, both men could make out a sizable force, maybe two, three hundred Kalanuskanites, cresting the hills on the horizon.
“Oh, fu……foxtrot,” Grantham said over the radio.
“‘Foxtrot’ is right,” the TACO said. “We need that cannon up, yesterday.”
“Um, give me one mike.” Grantham started looking out frantically. Finally, he spotted something on the side of the control tower, and grinned. “Padilla, I got a solution, but I want to make sure you’re tracking. What do you see on the wall over there?”
“Um, a convenience outlet, Sarge?”
“Exactly,” Grantham said. “We don’t have time to strip back the other conduit and splice new wire in. But fear not, for there is another way!” He commed back to Stargeant Watson. “Electric One, DART One. We’re going to need a bunch of extension cords ....”
****
When Delgadillo and Deconinck showed up, they didn’t just bring a few extension cords. They’d brought every single one they could find in the shop. Delgadillo passed the cart off to Padilla before splitting off to go repair damage elsewhere on the perimeter. Meanwhile, Grantham was frantically checking outlet circuits inside the control tower.
Padilla pushed the cart into the mech room. “What are you doing, Sarge?”
“Trying to find outlet circuits I can tie into,” Grantham said. “I need each one to be on a separate phase to get the three-phase power that cannon needs. But I only can find two.” He looked around. “Pick three extension cords. Lop off the female ends, strip them back, and cap off the neutral and ground wires. Quick.”
Padilla pulled out his wire strippers and immediately got to work, though his hands were shaking. “Sarge, how long until the Kalanuskanites get here?”
Just then, there was a loud sound of impact from outside. The control tower rattled, and the lights flickered.
“If they’re close enough to make the lights flicker, I’d say they’re pretty close,” Grantham said, then he paused. “Wait, that’s it! Lights!”
He quickly pulled out an eleven-in-one screwdriver and tore open the light switch to the mech room, then checked it with his meter. “Ha! Found our C phase!” He turned the light switch off, then lopped the male end off an extension cord and began stripping it back with his own set of wire strippers. He jammed the end into the bottom end of the switch.
Screwing a wire nut onto the remaining unused wires of the cord, he commed the tactical officer. “TACO, DART One.”
“Go.”
“Got a solution, we’re going to have you up in a couple of minutes. However, this is the field expedient repair to beat all field expedient repairs. So you’re probably only going to have the one shot. Once we get you up, make it count.”
“Copy. Standing by.”
“Padilla, give me the cords you cut,” Grantham said. “Then, start plugging extension cords together. I’m going to wire these guys in.”
“On it, Sarge,” Padilla said.
Grantham took the cut cords and ran over to the crater. A grav round hit about a hundred meters outward from him, and the strike was powerful enough to send debris flying all the way to his feet. He cursed to himself as he dove for the safety of the crater, then began splicing the cut cords into the power feed for the cannon. Once that was done, he ran back, still cursing all the way, and helped Padilla get all the cords plugged together. Their effort was rewarded when they heard a loud, audible hum coming from the plasma cannon.
“Yes!” Grantham said, pumping a fist. “Padilla, get back inside the mech room!” As the pair began to run for cover, Grantham commed the TACO. “Cannon is live! I repeat, cannon is-”
Before he could finish his transmission, the world suddenly turned white. Grantham saw stars that had nothing to do with the universe. He came to a moment later, when Padilla, who apparently hadn’t been harmed by the strike, dragged him into the mech room. Just as the plasma cannon turned toward its assailants and fired a fourteen-thousand degree Fahrenheit reply.
A blinding white light erupted forth and tore into the amassed ranks of the Kalanuskanites. Padilla couldn’t really make out what they looked like from where he was standing, but the wailing and screaming of the mortally wounded was vaguely humanlike in nature. Roughly two-thirds of the attacking force were simply gone. The rest scattered.
Also, almost immediately after the cannon fired, the main breaker for the electric panel in the control tower blew out, knocking out power to not only the tower, but a good portion of Zone Two. The mechanical room went dark, just as Stargeant Grantham’s vision did.
“Electric One, DART One, we need medical assistance to the Zone Two Sentry Control Tower!�
�� Padilla frantically commed as he tried to reset power. “Don’t worry, Sarge, we got ‘em ....”
****
“I still can’t believe this shit,” Padilla said, obviously annoyed.
The battle hadn’t lasted long after the medical teams arrived to haul Stargeant Grantham to the infirmary. The base defensive forces, initially caught off-guard by the attack, had managed to rally and repel the Kalanuskanites after the cannon shot, and regained control of the area by morning. The regional commander had come down a day later, and several medals for heroism had been handed out that day. Unfortunately, after having suffered five broken bones and a concussion, the only thing Grantham had received for his trouble was another Purple Heart, and a pending transfer back dirtside.
“You win one Purple Heart, kid, you’ve won them all,” Grantham said from his hospital bed, shrugging. “After all, ‘Shoot me once, shame on you; shoot me twice, shame on me….’”
“Seriously, not even commendation medals? We at least warrant those,” Padilla said, crossing his arms.
“Stargeant Watson got the Commendation Medal,” Grantham said drily. “After all, he was the lead for the Electrical DARTs.”
“I don’t get it,” Padilla said. “Is this really all there is to Space Engineering? Sacrifice yourself for the mission and get sent back to Earth unceremoniously once you have nothing more they can take from you?!” The young spaceman was growing increasingly angry.
For a moment, Stargeant Grantham looked at Padilla, a sudden weight on his chest. He flashed back to the days where he wasn’t a jaded old Space Stargeant, when he’d been as happy-go-lucky as Padilla normally was. He remembered how the young spaceman he once was eventually became a cynical grouch of a man, and he could see Padilla slipping into the same path he once did.
Taking a deep breath, Grantham looked at Padilla. “Padilla, I’m going to tell you something. All that stuff you’re talking about is incidental. You did good work out there, but if all you’re focused on is medals and recognition, your career is going to be a long and lonely one.”
Space Force: Building The Legacy Page 11