by M. D. Cooper
Rika reached Bay 128 and palmed the access panel. The door slid open, revealing a large room filled with mechanical repair and human surgery equipment. It was a strange combination of heavy equipment, fabricators, and molecular welders, alongside an extensive armory. This was juxtaposed with autosurgeons, organ growth chambers, and surgery tables.
In the center of it stood Lieutenant Carson, who was currently engaged in a heated conversation with the Golden Lark’s chief engineer, a woman with a fiery temper that matched her bright purple hair.
“I understand where you’re coming from,” Carson said, applying the calm he’d refined after years of speaking to patients at their bedside. “But I know you understand the importance of what we do in this bay. If we’re dealing with rapid repair and refit after combat, we need to be sure we have uninterrupted power. At present, most of the equipment is running off a single tap into one trunk. If that line is damaged—”
“I know what happens if that line is damaged,” Chief Thiloshini retorted with clipped words. “The key systems on the ship—you know, weapons, propulsion control, shields—they fail over to the other trunk line. When they do so, that line is at max load, and can’t support all this equipment here.”
Carson raised his hands, his face wearing a conciliatory expression. “I understand, Chief, I really do. You have your needs—which I appreciate a lot, I depend on those systems as much as anyone else aboard—and I have mine. I just worry what will happen if I get a platoon that comes back up in rough shape while we’re under fire. Working on damaged mechs is no simple task in the best of times. You know how it is; imagine your ship being damaged, but also prone to hit you if something you do hurts too much.”
Chief Thiloshini’s eyes widened, and she suddenly laughed. “You know, Lieutenant, sometimes it feels like the ‘Lark does hit back.”
“I’ve been crammed in tight spaces on a ship more than once myself,” Carson replied. “This one time, I was aboard a Justice Class—you know, the corvettes with the flaky cooling vanes?”
“Do I?” Thiloshini gave Carson a commiserating look. “I served for two years aboard the Eternal Day. It was a Justice Class—Mark II, mind you, none of that Mark III garbage they tried to foist on us. But it still had the shitty vanes. If they failed to deploy, you had to get underneath the reactor and work them down the internal guides.”
Carson nodded in agreement. “I only did that three times. Then I built a pneumatic arm that could vibrate at the right frequency to get the vanes to unjam. We ended up mounting it down there permanently.”
The Golden Lark’s engineering chief shook her head. “Damn, I wish we’d done something like that. I worked under this real asshat who wouldn’t hear of any non-standard alterations. I heard they fixed the vanes in the Mark IV, though.”
“Yeah,” Carson grinned. “What do you think they ended up setting up down there?”
“Seriously?” Thiloshini’s eyes widened and she looked at the overhead and made a rude gesture. “Damn GAF. They put your pneumatic arm down there?”
“As surely as the stars burn, that’s exactly what they did.”
The chief snorted. “No disrespect, that was a great solution for one ship, but there were a hundred ways to solve that properly at the shipyards.”
Carson nodded in agreement. “You’re telling me, I just about blew my stack when I saw it. Worst thing was that they named it after me. Called it the Carson Actuator.”
Thiloshini snorted. “What a way to go down in infamy.”
“Yeah, I’m sure I’m mocked regularly in engineering circles.” Carson leaned back against one of the autosurgeons. “Do you think you can do something to help me out? I don’t need all my equipment to stay up, but there are critical procedures that can’t see disruption.”
The engineering chief nodded slowly. “I’m going to Calder Station in two days to look at new SC Batts. Why don’t you accompany me? If we can get a set of good batteries in here, we could forego the need for you to tap the other trunk line.”
Carson grinned. “Chief Thiloshini, you have just made my day.”
“Carson, seriously, you don’t need to stand on ceremony so much. Call me ‘Tee’.”
Carson’s smile broadened—something Rika would not have thought possible. “Of course, Tee. You get me those batts, and I’ll call you whatever you want.”
“You—” Chief Thiloshini turned and saw Rika standing in the bay’s entrance. “Uh, never mind, Lieutenant. I’ll pass you the details.”
“Sure thing.” Carson’s grin didn’t fade as he watched Thiloshini exit the room.
“Chief,” Rika nodded.
“Captain Rika,” the warrant officer said in reply as she ducked past.
Rika walked into the bay and raised an eyebrow at Lieutenant Carson. “You’ve got a way with words.”
“I kept my ship in tip-top condition right to the end of the war,” Carson said as he straightened. “Getting a bit more energy on this one is child’s play.”
“What about space?” Rika asked. “Your report said that things were too cramped in some of your mech bays.”
“Yeah, but Smalls pinged me and said you were getting more Drop Bays. If that’s the case, then I’ll be OK. It’s the rapid repair and triage equipment that causes the most problems. I like to have it in the drop bays so we can do fast turnarounds. Right now, though…”
“I got it,” Rika replied. “Right now, you’d need to have a pretty big prybar to fit anything else in those bays.”
“Or a lot of lube,” Carson said with a laugh. “Though lube helps a lot less with mechs. Too many hard angles.”
Rika coughed to hide her surprise at Carson’s statement. More often than not, she was at a loss as to how best respond to the lieutenant.
With his experience, the man should have been a captain, maybe even a major. But over the years, random acts of insubordination had kept him at his current rank. It wasn’t helped by all the bartering and trading he did—half of which was against regs, if not outright illegal in many systems they passed through.
Despite that, the man was charming and renowned for having been one of the best mech-techs in the GAF during the war.
He was so well known that Rika had heard of him many years ago. When she learned that Carson was in the Marauders, she’d moved planets and moons to get him in her company. Luckily for her, the lieutenant had done something to piss off his prior CO, so Rika had little trouble securing his transfer.
She decided to roll with his innuendo. “Sounds like you have worn away just about all the friction with Chief Thiloshini.” Rika winked and glanced back at the bay doors to be sure they’d closed after the woman’s departure.
“Tee?” Carson chuckled. “She just likes to know that her opinions are understood. Once that’s out of the way, compromises aren’t an issue. She likes a little bit of verbal sparring, too. It’s all a part of the great give and take.”
“Is that what you call it?” Rika asked.
“Sure. It’s just an extension of the conservation of energy. Everything’s a give and take. There’s no new anything, everything is just one big, universe-sized swap meet. Currency can be anything and everything: good will, a sense of accomplishment, a bit of friction here and there; it’s all a part of the trade.”
“You’ve thought about all this too much,” Rika said as she looked around the bay. “Surprised it’s just you in here right now.”
“Rest of the team is up in Bay 92, setting up our new secondary surgery.”
Rika’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t have Bay 92! Stars, that’s in the ‘Lark’s officer country.”
Carson’s lips split into a wide grin. “Yeah, noticed that, did you?”
“Carson.” Rika drew out the man’s name. “What did you do?”
“Well, turns out a few of the Golden Lark’s officers were interested in some mods. Nothing against regs, just a bit pricey. As luck would have it, what th
ey wanted were the types of mods that mechs have in spades, and ones we have tons of spare parts for. Literally. Tons.”
Rika wished she could press the heel of her hand against her forehead without cutting her face up. “Which officers?”
“Mostly the XO, Commander Scas. She wanted an upgrade to get a pulse emitter in her forearm, and…some other stuff.”
Rika didn’t want to know what the ‘other stuff’ was. Mostly because it probably pertained to what she wished she could do with Chase, but still couldn’t.
“Well, at least you’re close to the top. So long as Scas can explain this away to Major Tim, it should be OK.”
“Oh yeah, don’t worry, Captain; it’s a done deal. All set.”
Rika wished she could pretend she didn’t know about some of the deals Carson wrangled, but any CO that didn’t know what her people were doing wasn’t worth the power it took to charge her batts.
“Well,” Rika addressed Carson. “If that’s all…”
“Yup, no other issues here, Captain Rika. Everything’s tip top.”
“You’ve got something else going on, don’t you?” Rika asked.
“No, ma’am.” Carson’s face betrayed no emotion other than sincerity.
“I don’t want to know, do I?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Good day, Lieutenant.”
Carson waved and smiled brightly. “Stars shine on you, Captain.”
Rika gave a soft laugh, walked out of the bay, and reached out to Cora.
Rika snorted. She liked Cora; they’d built a strong rapport over the month the mechs had been aboard the Golden Lark. No small amount of that bond had been formed around commiseration over Major Tim’s surliness.
Rika snorted again.
Cora gave a mental shrug.
That suited Rika just fine. If the conversation with Major Tim took more than fifteen minutes, she would begin to consider jumping out a porthole.
She took a lift to the command deck and strode down the main corridor that led to the bridge. A few meters before the bridge, Rika took a right at an intersection, strode down the short passageway to the unadorned door at the end, and knocked smartly.
Rika palmed the door open and stepped into the Major’s office.
As captain of the Golden Lark, Major Tim could have had his pick of any office, but the one he chose was barely big enough for the man and his desk, let alone anyone who might come to see him.
Rika was reasonably certain it was a deliberate choice on his part.
The major regarded her impassively, his pale grey eyes staring out from a face comprised of angular features. His dark hair was cut short, though a little longer than regulation suggested. It was greying at the temples, and lines were visible at the corners of his eyes and lips—which were almost always drawn in a straight line.
Rika saluted the Major and then stood arms akimbo as he regarded her, his gaze lingering overlong on her gun-arm.
“What brings you up to this neck of the woods?” the major asked, folding his hands in front of him and staring over his knuckles at her.
When General Mill had told Rika he was giving her two ships, she had expected to be in command of the vessels. The thought had both excited and terrified her.
As it turned out, she should not have worried about the responsibility. The two ships—regardless of who was aboard—were a part of the 3rd Marauder Fleet, 4th division. The 3rd fleet was under the command of Colonel Argon, and the 4th division, a large sounding name for the two ships that comprised it, was under the command of Major Tim.
Not her.
Rika and her mechs were little more than cargo, as far as the major was concerned.
Cargo he doesn’t get to order around, since I report up a different, rather short chain of command, which begins and ends with General Mill.
“I would like to discuss the drop bay assignments, sir. We’re facing some difficulties with our allocations, and have suggestions for how my company can gain the use of two more bays.”
“Captain Rika,” Major Tim unfolded his hands and leaned back in his chair. “You realize that this is a starship, and a warship at that. It’s not a cruise liner; we don’t cater for comfort.”
Rika chewed on the inside of her cheek. Tim always liked to point out that the ship was built for war and not comfort, as if she’d somehow missed that fact while dodging conduit in the passageways that half her command couldn’t even fit through.
This time, however, Rika decided that she wasn’t going to tip-toe around the surly major any longer. If he wanted to be passive aggressive, she’d resort to being straight-up aggressive.
“I wouldn’t know, sir. I’ve never been on a cruise liner. I do, however, know all about the military not catering to comfort. Would you like to know what it feels like to have your limbs removed while you’re still conscious, without any anesthesia? Now that’s what I call not catering to comfort.”
Major Tim’s eyes widened for an instant before narrowing to slivers. “Captain, are you actively trying to get on my bad side?”
Rika took a step forward and placed her left hand on the major’s desk.
“Major Tim. I wasn’t aware that you had a good side. I came here to discuss the possibility of getting two of your fighter wings to double up—something that there is ample room for in the drop bays, and which would improve my mechs’ efficiency and safety. I did not come here for you to insult me, and then act like the injured party when I react.”
The corners of Tim’s lips curled up into a less-than-pleasant smile. “It’s starting to sound like insubordination in here. It shouldn’t surprise me; you defied orders when you went AWOL in the Politica—for which the Old Man rewarded you, and punished me.”
Rika blew out a long breath. She was about to speak, when Niki stopped her.
Rika did not believe such a thing existed between her and Major Tim.
Although…
“You ever have someone in the war save your bacon more than once?” Rika asked, moderating her tone to contain no animosity. “Someone who’s the reason you’re still sucking air today?”
Major Tim shrugged. “Sure. Dozens. We fought as a unit; no one was out there on their own.”
Well, except for the mechs.
“I mean someone that was always there, that you could always count on. Someone who pulled you out of the fire on more than one occasion.”
Major Tim’s eyes grew distant and he nodded. “Yeah, I guess there were one or two who fit the bill.”
“Did they all make
it?” Rika asked.
Tim’s eyes narrowed and locked on hers. “What the hell does this have to do with dropship bays?”
Rika shrugged. “Not a thing. But it has everything to do with you and me. So, tell me. That person who made certain you survived the war… Did they?”
She really had no idea if the major had lost anyone like that. But given the way the war had gone, it was a pretty safe bet that the list of people who had meant a lot to him and who were left behind was long and pain-filled.
His face clouded, and the major shook his head. “No. No, they didn’t.”
“What would you do if you found out that they were alive, being tortured, and Colonel Argon told you not to save them?”
Major Tim looked away and sighed. “I know what you’re trying to do, Rika.” His eyes returned to hers. “But I would have done my duty. I wouldn’t have abandoned my post.”
“Then you’re a better soldier than I am,” Rika replied, doubting very much that Tim would have made his decision without remorse. “But you should consider what my actions brought about. The mechs on this ship—and many more who didn’t join up, or are still getting psychiatric help—would have fought under Stavros’s banner. Stavros had his eye on Septhia and Thebes; given the Marauders’ alliances and clients, you would have found yourself fighting against the mechs who are now on your ship, at your side.”
“That doesn’t really comfort me,” Tim replied, his tone sardonic.
“Well, after I liberated them, they chose—of their own free will, no less—to join the Marauders. Now remember, while I think the Marauders are a decent sort, the Old Man’s regiment is mostly Genevian, and the GAF is what stole these mechs’ lives.”
Tim drew in a long breath. Rika couldn’t tell if he was worried, or had never considered the mechs’ view of the Marauders.
Rika continued before he could speak, “Yet here they are, ready to stand beside their Genevian brothers and sisters once more, facing the Niets across the gulf. At some point—before long, I imagine—some of these mechs will give their lives to save the Golden Lark. How much is that worth, weighed against the effort it takes to grant them two more drop bays?”