by Nick Webb
Ben’s eyes told Jake all he needed to know.
Jake nodded, but pointed towards the building Velar was taking them into. He agreed with his friend’s reluctance, but it was their only choice at the moment.
He made a mental note to start listening more closely to his paranoid buddy.
***
Senator Galba ducked behind a corner at the approach of the footsteps. He wasn’t sure why—he supposed his nerves were just getting to him. Leaning up against the hallway’s bulkhead, he placed a finger against his neck and felt his pulse.
It pounded. Just like his head. The migraines were getting worse—if only he were back on his beloved Corsica and had access to his personal physician.
The footsteps grew louder, echoing off the composite wall panels. He crouched down to lay his tool bag on the floor and turned his back to the intersection with the other passageway where the steps were coming from. Busying himself with rifling through the bag—or at least making the best effort to maintain the appearance of busyness, he waited as the steady clicks grew louder.
They paused at the intersection. He resisted the urge to turn around to see who it was. Probably some nameless blue-shirted ensign or yeoman, staring at him slack-jawed, an expression frustratingly common to all Old-Earth inhabitants.
“Can I help you?”
The voice was young. And female. He risked a glance backward, careful to show only the bandaged half of his face.
Young, and female, yes. But otherwise nothing to look at. Frazzled red hair. A horse-shaped jaw. Flared nostrils. He shuddered at the thought of bedding her. Turning back to his tool bag he sighed.
“No, yeoman,” he hoped he got the rank right, “Just trying to find the damn omni-spanner. Carry on.”
The steps started again, slower.
“Good luck,” came the young, hesitant voice once more, and then she was gone.
He took a deep breath and lurched at the wall panel to pull himself up. His knees creaked and his head throbbed. Great gods, he was far too old to be crouching down like that.
Satisfied that the young redhead was long gone, he returned to the hallway he’d fled from, and aimed towards engineering. This time he’d have to be a little more ingenious. He hadn’t thought about the fact that there would be redundancies in the coolant lines.
Still, he’d caused some damage. He’d knocked out the ship’s long range shifting, at least. Time to knock out the rest of the navigation system. That way, the next time Trajan came looking for the Phoenix, it’d be a sitting duck.
And he’d be free.
And The Plan could continue.
He grinned to himself. Of course, the Emperor and the Admiral were probably still well engaged in carrying out the other aspects of The Plan. Even though the Resistance was essentially crushed and discredited, pockets remained on Old Earth. Pockets of independence. Gumption.
And ironic that out of all the planets the upstart young Captain could have fled to with the Phoenix, he’d chosen Destiny. Home to the Twilight Project. One of the vital elements of The Plan. For his own sake, the blustery young fool had better steer clear of Dr. Stone and his research at the Imperial Cybernetic Institute.
The Institute was well hidden though. And Dr. Stone had the sense to stay out of the public eye. Especially with his … aberrant habits. The man liked to bleed things. Animals. People. Whatever. And control them. The perfect man to head up the Twilight Project. But it was good that the Emperor had shuffled the good Doctor and his Institute off to some anonymous frontier world where no one would notice his abominations. Where he could conduct his research in peace.
Before long, the hallway ended in a set of metal steps that descended to the deck below, and he stepped slowly down. The recreation deck. Right above main engineering. He turned the corner down the hallway that ran parallel to what he knew would be the vast engineering bay below, and walked smack into another man.
“Damn you, watch the hell where you’re going,” he snapped, stooping over to pick up his spilled tool bag. The other man reached down to retrieve a few tools that had cluttered to the floor near his own feet. The hand bore bloody scars and gashes. No doubt from the battles of the previous week, supposed Galba.
“Maybe if you didn’t walk with your head straight down you might see where you’re walking, old man,” the stranger said, a familiar accent to his voice. Galba glanced up.
He was Asian-looking, and the accent was distinctly inner-Empire. Maybe even Corsican. The man’s face was bruised and beaten, one eye puffed up purple and the other nearly swollen shut. He offered the tools to Galba and sneered a smile. “Here. Be more careful next time, crewman.”
Galba accepted the tools and turned to continue down the hall, towards the emergency access room that lie at the end of the deck, but stopped, and glanced again at the sneering face. “Where are you from, soldier?”
Indeed, the man wore an Imperial marine’s uniform, bearing insignia that the Senator recognized as special ops. Some type of urban assault battalion.
“Provincial World Number Eighty-Seven,” said the man in a slow, dry voice. “Private Ling. And tell me what pussy-barren province of Old Earth you crawled out from.”
Galba ignored the insult, knowing that it was intended for some yokel Resistance tech, not for him, a Senator of the Empire. What was more interesting to him was the presence of an Imperial marine on board a Resistance ship. “Eighty-Seven? Yonggan? I know it well!”
Private Ling looked at him suspiciously. “And how would a syphilitic Terran rat like yourself know anything other than the fuckhole that is Old Earth?”
Galba glanced down to his feet, remembering he was supposed to be playing an uneducated, uncivilized tech. “Oh, just stories. Maps. I like geography, you see. Look at pictures of other—“
“You like looking at pictures? Did the pictures have words? Did you read them? Or did you pay your whore of a mother to read them to you?” The private spat on the deckplate at Galba’s feet, and, even though the Senator knew the words were not truly meant for him, he momentarily snapped.
“No, Private. On the serendipitous occasion when I can draw my attention away from far weightier affairs than you can hardly fathom, I order one of my Yongganian harem girls to read a book to me. So wipe that snide, frontier-world smirk off your face and kindly step out of my way. My time is far too important to waste on one more word on a conversation with someone registering half the intelligence of a kitchen table leg.”
He brushed past the gaping man, and strode down the hallway towards the intersection he knew would take him to his destination. The emergency access room where he could find auxiliary controls for engineering.
The voice called after him. This time with far less sanctimony and pride. “You look like someone I know.”
Galba slowed, but didn’t turn back. “Oh?”
“Yeah. Someone famous. You famous, tech?”
Shit.
He stopped, and half turned, letting the marine see only the bandaged half of his face. “Do I look famous to you, soldier?” He paused, letting the question linger as he reached a hand up to rub his newly shaved head. Gods, he missed his hair. The glorious hair that was the legend in every harem on Corsica. “Would a famous celebrity be fixing fucking hull breaches on some damned ship?”
He turned back down the hall and continued. Private Ling didn’t respond, but as far as Galba could hear, the marine didn’t move, either. The Senator turned the corner at the intersection, stepping over a fallen girder, and left the other man behind.
Dammit. That was too risky. Too risky. If the man discovered his identity, if he even suspected it, and mentioned it to his buddies, it would be all over.
But what the hell was an Imperial marine doing on board the Phoenix?
One more thing to ask Willow the next time he let her ride him.
***
Megan Po was starting to regret her invitation to the Fifty-First Brigade. It seemed like such a good idea at the tim
e. Build unity between the two marine contingents. Defuse tensions. Keep the Imperial visitors occupied—less time for them to get into trouble.
What had happened instead was a constant butting of heads between Sergeant Tomaga and the Phoenix’s ranking enlisted officer, Sergeant Logan Jayce. Jayce was a hothead, and while he respected authority for the most part, he resented being told to work with people who had killed his buddies, for obvious reasons.
And Sergeant Tomaga was the stereotypical Corsican Empire soldier. Stiff. Abrupt. Dispassionate. Efficient. All things that Sergeant Jayce was not.
And Jake Mercer is neither, she thought with a grin. Maybe that was why Captain Watson had ultimately chosen him as his replacement.
The ready room doors chimed, indicating the presence of the two men, and Po waved the door open. Sergeant Jayce swaggered through the door, his left eye still purple and his lower lip still cut from yesterday’s fight with Private Ling. Sergeant Tomaga followed several paces behind, entering more deliberately, and warily, than Jayce. Po noted that the man was probably still quite ill at ease on what to him was an enemy ship.
“Gentlemen, have a seat,” she said, indicating the two chairs against the wall. “Bring them up to the desk, if you don’t mind.” She sat in the captain’s chair, realizing that she’d now sat in it about as much as Jake had. Tomaga lifted his chair and placed it firmly near the desk. Jayce simply grabbed his and swung it sliding over the floor until it came to rest on the opposite side of the desk from Tomaga.
“Commander, I’m not sure what you were thinking having these bastards train with us today. I reckon they’d best be tossed out the—” Jayce began, but Po’s stern eyes interrupted him.
“Sergeant, when I want your opinion I’ll ask for it.” She maintained her steely gaze into his eyes until he shoved out his chin.
“Yes, sir.”
She nodded once in approval. Realizing that she probably had a very narrow window to gain the trust and confidence of the type of soldier Sergeant Jayce was, she knew that to be soft with him or show weakness would undermine every future order she gave him or his men. “Sergeant, if you can’t obey my orders with exactness when I give them, without any bullshit, then it’s you I’ll be tossing out the airlock. Or at least a few weeks of galley duty. Is that clear?”
His chin stayed thrust out, but his answer came more quickly than last time. “Yes, sir.”
“Very well.” She turned to Tomaga. “Sergeant, I’m under the impression that you’ve been rather difficult to work with. Please explain yourself.”
Sergeant Tomaga, seated, with his back rigid, didn’t so much as blink or change his cold expression. “Then you heard incorrectly, Commander.”
Her only reply was to meet his cold gaze with a fiery look of her own.
A crack in his expression was the only indication that he understood her implied meaning: respect her, or face the consequences. “If you could be more specific, Commander. I can address your concerns more easily if I know what I’ve been accused of.”
“Sergeant Jayce tells me that you refuse to allow your men to take orders from him during the intra-ship combat exercises. I thought we had a deal. You and your men train with mine, and as a reward I let you have access to more of the ship than just the mess deck, among other, less tangible results,” she dipped her chin and softened her tone, very slightly, “like trust.”
Tomaga nodded. “It is against Imperial fleet regulations for a staff sergeant to take the lead of combat exercises when outranked by a master sergeant,” he said.
“But we are not on board an Imperial vessel. And besides that, I ordered it. As far as I remember, master sergeants are obligated to obey Lieutenant Commanders.”
Tomaga grinned, ever so slightly. “Ah, but Commander, you yourself just pointed out that I am no longer on board an Imperial vessel, and so I am not obligated to obey your orders. Or am I wrong?”
Po sighed. She felt like she was arguing in circles with the man. “Sergeant, let’s cut the obtuse nonsense. We agreed you would take part in the exercises. As part of those exercises, I’ve designated that Sergeant Jayce will be the lead. Those are the ground rules. If you don’t accept them, then I’ll just confine you and your men to barracks, dammit. I’d rather not do that, but I will if you force my hand.”
She had to tread carefully. While she knew she had the upper hand, it was also readily apparent that the presence of Tomaga and his men presented a clear and present danger to the safe operations of the Phoenix, and that, if provoked, they could certainly cause no small amount of chaos.
“Very well, Commander Po. But on one condition.”
“I’m listening,” she said, steepling her hands under her chin.
“That I will also have the opportunity to give orders to your men. If the Fifty-First Brigade sees only Sergeant Jayce ordering them around over my head, then they will most likely carry grudges. But if Jayce and I share responsibilities, then they will respect you, and him.”
Damn. He was right, of course, as Tomaga outranked Jayce. But it was risky. She still didn’t know if she could trust the Imperial soldier or not. It was true, if he’d wanted to disrupt operations on the Phoenix, he’d had ample opportunity over the past few days to do so already. But he could just be positioning himself and his men to cause as big a disturbance as possible. Maybe even the destruction of the Phoenix, for all she knew.
But no. Those men were conscripts. They had families waiting for them. Many had small children. Most soldiers conscripted into the Imperial fleet were not true believers, but rather well-trained prisoners with guns who had little to gain and a lot to lose by disobeying their Imperial officers.
And yet these were a cut above the average Imperial battalion. Tomaga was shrewd—that much she recognized. Shrewd and able. She could see him thinking, strategizing, planning, with every thing he said or did. The question was, was he strategizing for the safe release of his men, or for the capture or destruction of the Phoenix? She suspected the former, and not just suspected, but believed it. It made no sense for those men to continue the fight.
“Very well, Sergeant Tomaga. Tomorrow, you will lead the training exercises. With a condition. Before the exercises, you will discuss your plans for the day with Sergeant Jayce. Agreed?”
“Agreed, sir.”
Po nodded, then turned to Jayce, who had merely smirked at Tomaga the entire time. “Sergeant Jayce. You will be as accommodating towards the Fifty-First Brigade as you can. Cut the macho shit. Understood?”
The smirk turned back into the glower of before.
“Yes, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
She let out a deep breath as they left, and held her head in her hands. After a moment of collecting herself, she reached up and stuffed a stray strand of hair back into her bun, and left the ready room.
“Ensign Ayala, status report?”
The bleached-white haired young woman in the captain’s chair stood at attention as Po walked onto the bridge. Megan wondered whether it might not be a better idea to find some lieutenant down in the operations center or weapons bays to reassign to the bridge—some might find it unseemly that an Ensign was constantly being given command of the bridge.
But these were not normal times, and Po needed to leave the bridge with someone that she trusted, and somehow, the wispy, tattooed, wiry young woman from the ill-fated world of Belen had gained her confidence. Something about how she carried herself. Or was Po just treating the young woman like a celebrity, like everyone else seemed to do?
“Sir, damage repair crews are reporting that the holes in the forward section are nearly covered over and we’ll be able to raise the emergency bulkheads within two hours.”
The thought of the grim task that lie ahead made Po a little envious of Jake and Ben down on the surface. There were at least twenty more bodies stuck behind those emergency bulkheads, victims of both the Imperial attack, and Captain Mercer’s rash but necessary strategy of ramming the Caligula
a few days prior. At least all her two friends had to deal with at the moment was dust.
“Very well. Engine status?”
“Same, sir. Long range shifting still out, but gravitic thrusters holding steady. We’re maintaining a position 1000 klicks above the north pole of Destiny,” said Ayala, stepping aside from the captain’s chair as Po approached.
“And contact with the ground team?” Her voice lowered, as if expecting bad news.
“The ionic and magnetic interference from the pole is making it difficult to track them. They haven’t attempted to hail us since they landed last night.”
That was damn peculiar. Jake had suggested the Phoenix not constantly try to raise them on the comm to avoid undue attention, but they had not had contact with the ground team for nearly twelve hours, and Po was starting to worry.
“Thank you, Ensign. Resume your post—” she glanced up at the young woman, whose lined eyes had started to sag almost imperceptibly. “Ensign, how long have you been at your post?”
“Twenty hours, sir. And I even grabbed a quick nap a few hours ago. I’m fine, really.” She stifled a yawn.
“Nonsense. Get to bed.” Po silently kicked herself for not drawing up a better bridge crew rotation—not that she’d had time to do so, what with ship repairs, Fifty-First Brigade management, shuffling the rest of the ship’s crew around in the wake of so many lost, and just the general rigors of command that Po had still yet to become accustomed to.
“But who will replace me, sir?” She waved her hand back to the tactical octagon, which was staffed by an assortment of enlisted crew members and another ensign. “The only other officer trained for tactical is still asleep. Ensign Walker won’t be reporting for duty for another three hours.”
The urgent voice of the one of the tactical crew interrupted her. “Sir! We have multiple contacts approaching us. They’re coming from the surface.”
“Identify them,” said Po, sliding into her seat. Ayala stole back to her post.