by Jean Johnson
“At her side is 3rd Platoon Staff Sergeant Chico Maxwell.” The Hispanic man seated next to the petite redhead dipped his head at the introduction. “Those of you assigned to the 3rd Platoon, or who find yourselves serving on the third watch for whatever reason, will report first to your Squad leaders, then to Sergeant Maxwell, then to Commander Helstead, depending upon who is available,” she stated, abbreviating Helstead’s rank in the standard way with the higher of the two titles. “There will be plenty of times where you will be thrown into the nearest duty post simply because you are the nearest available body. I suggest you get used to the thought of it, so that the reality will not stagger you.
“Seated next to Maxwell is Lieutenant First Class Oslo Rico, who will be in charge of the 1st Platoon and its duty watch.” Ia paused briefly while the dusky-skinned, mountain-tall man tipped his own head. “Lieutenant Rico is an expert in military intelligence, data mining, surveillance, threat assessment, ship deployments, naval tactics, strategies, and communications. He also understands several xenolanguages fluently, including Sallhash. As such, he will be our intelligence officer, scantech officer, communications maven, tactical advisor, gunnery officer, and since he is rated for insystem and FTL combat maneuvers, he will act as our ship combat officer whenever I need to rest.
“Beside him sits 1st Platoon Staff Sergeant Menrick Halostein, who will act as his right hand.” The man with the fuzzy halo of short-cropped, pale blond hair lifted his chin in acknowledgment. Ia gave the same introduction as before. “He will be the noncom in charge of first watch. Again, I must stress that if you are pulled into duty during first watch, and it is not your normal duty shift, you will report directly to him, and then to Lieutenant Rico. If it is your watch, report to your Squad leaders on up the normal chain of command.
“This brings us to our 2nd Platoon officer, Lieutenant Second Class Glen Spyder. He and I both went through Basic Training together, and served for a while in the same Marine Company,” Ia said, indicating the man seated to her right. “And yes, he has my permission to keep his hair that color.”
Spyder’s short hair was indeed distinctive, dyed in camouflage-mottled shades of green, beige, and brown, and his grin was friendly as he lifted his chin in greeting. Ia had to pause to clear her throat; all this talking was making her mouth dry, but she couldn’t pause to get a drink. There was a caf’ dispenser built into the base of the boardroom table, but no one had stocked it with cups yet, never mind brew packets. Yet another thing to go onto the checklist before we leave dry dock.
“If you have any doubts as to my abilities in combat,” Ia stated, “you can go have a talk with him; I’m quite sure he’ll give you an earful, given that we served together for roughly a year on a hot-spot Border patrol, and he helped me plan and execute the Battle for Zubeneschamali. His own reputation is equally outstanding; in fact, he comes to us with a fresh Field Commission. Spyder will therefore be our primary melee combat officer, in charge of all boarding parties, troop sorties, ground combat, and non-special-ops activities.
“Like Helstead, he will also oversee your combat training, focusing on your training and preparedness for mechsuit combat, weaponry maintenance and drills, plus your daily regimen training. He is also in charge of all post-combat tactical debriefings. You know all those analysis reports you’re supposed to fill out after a battle?” Ia asked rhetorically. “Where you’re supposed to present your viewpoint of who did what, what part of it went well, what went wrong, and what could be done better? Everyone on this ship will be required to fill them out, from the Privates Second Grade and Second Class, all the way up through the cadre.
“That includes the medical staff and our chaplain,” she added next, glancing at the blonde with the lieutenant commander’s double silver bars. “Where we are going, we will all be designated combatants and valid targets by our enemy. That means we will all learn how to fight, to plan, to follow, and to lead. I will be planning our strategies, piloting this ship in most battles, and dictate some of our tactics when they are time-sensitive, but Lieutenant Spyder will be planning the majority of tactics. It is vital you give him accurate input and thoughtful suggestions.
“Working with him will be the 2nd Platoon’s noncom, Sergeant First Class Maria Santori, who will also help to oversee all activities on second watch and assist with managing troop assignments. Her side specialty is picking the right modifications for the right job in mechsuit operations, so her skill set goes hand in hand with Lieutenant Spyder’s area of expertise.”
The tallish woman Ia gestured to next, the one with her dark hair twisted into neat, columnar dreadlocks, lifted her chin as well. She said nothing, allowing her commanding officer to continue.
“Each and every one of you will be fitted for a mechsuit, because there will be occasions where we will have to park the ship and send most of you into combat,” Ia told her listeners. “And by each and every one of you, I repeat: There will be times when even the traditional noncombatants will be expected to fight, from the chaplain to the clerks, and all the way through the medical staff.
“This leads us to our two officers who are not in the direct chain of command for this Company.” That earned her a sour look from the blonde woman to her left. Ia acknowledged it with a dip of her head, and some diplomacy. “Since we will not be deployed upon a regular patrol route, or even to a specific action area, and will therefore not be able to leave anyone behind for medical care in other facilities, I have secured the absolute best infirmary equipment possible, and the most outstanding Triphid I could find to be our medical officer.”
Her flattery mollified the medical officer in question, but only a little bit. It was the rest of the men and women in the boardroom who gave her odd, bemused looks, somewhere between wonder, confusion, and concern. Triphid was the military nickname applied to someone who held multiple degrees in holistic paramedicine, ranging from preventive medicine, surgery, and regenerative procedures, to postoperative care. They could also handle just about everything a Human needed to remain healthy over the long term, whether it was dentistry, nutrition, pharmaceuticals, or physical therapy.
Normally they were reserved for one of two positions: either delicate cases where a patient at a veteran’s hospital would be too disrupted by several medical personnel tromping day after day through their room; or for long-range exploration vessels, where the crews were expected to spend years traveling, scouting, and surveying star systems and worlds for either signs of sentient life or potential colonization.
Ia let the weight of both of those possibilities sink in, then stated gravely, “We may be operating within known Alliance space, but yes, we will be that busy in the years to come. Lieutenant Commander Jesselle Mishka has not only the best Triphid training, she is also a fully trained, biokinetically backed paraphysician—she is literally the best doctor I could get for this crew. Treat her with the respect she has earned.
“Because she is a paraphysician as well as a physician, when the all clear signal has been given after any battle,” she said, “those of you who have a moment to spare will be asked to drop by the Infirmary to volunteer for KI-man’s duty, lending Doctor Mishka whatever spare kinetic inergy you may have, so that she does not completely exhaust her own inner resources.
“Our other nonchain officer is Commander Christine Benjamin, who will be serving as our onboard chaplain and psychologist. She has been assigned by the DoI to shadow my career, since they have plans for me,” Ia confessed dryly, “but know she also stands ready to comfort and serve the rest of you with equal care. Feel free to go to her for spiritual, emotional, and mental health whenever you have need.
“As for the last member of our cadre,” Ia concluded, “on Bennie’s far side is our Company sergeant, Master Sergeant Henry Sadneczek. In moments of informality, he prefers the nickname ‘Grizzle.’ Sadneczek will be our quartermaster as well as our Company clerk, which means he is in charge of all requisitions and required paperwork—in other words, you’
ll follow my commands, but you’ll give your reports to him. He also has a military law degree, and has acted in the past as a noncommissioned adjutant for the Judge Advocate General, Branch Special Forces. I expect you to do your best to make sure he doesn’t have to use that degree.”
Grizzle dipped his head as well, his image appearing briefly on the secondary screens. Ia left it up there for a moment, then tapped a command, shutting off the secondary screens and their views of the Company command staff.
“We also have six Yeoman-class pilots, all of whom are rated for atmospheric, orbital, insystem, FTL, and OTL flight. They will perform most of their duties as shuttle and boarding-pod pilots, and as bridge pilots. They will not be considered members of the cadre when it comes to the chain of command for this crew, despite their parallel status as noncommissioned officers. They will, however, be your Squad leaders, and your Platoon noncoms in the event a particular Platoon sergeant is unavailable.
“Unlike most combat Companies, we do not have squad sergeants. They will not be necessary for this crew once you have adjusted to our operating parameters and particular chain of command structure. Most of what you will be doing will depend very strongly upon your own initiative and efforts. I have selected each and every one of you because you are smart individuals,” Ia stressed, “who believe in the work of a Terran soldier.
“So, you will do whatever needs doing, cross-coordinating among yourselves, and you will report to your lead corporals, or to your lead yeomen, who will in turn report to your Platoon sergeants and lieutenants, on up through to me,” Ia warned the men and women seated before her in the tiers of the briefing boardroom. “This arrangement will give this crew the greatest flexibility, and with it, the greatest chances for success in our missions. Unfortunately, this bottom-up chain of responsibility does mean that there are fewer layers of cushioning between you and me than in most of the command structures you have served in before.
“In fact, there is far less cushioning than most of you yet realize. You may have only a few officers between you and me, despite my relatively high rank, but I in turn report directly to Admiral John Genibes of the Space Force Branch Special Forces…and he reports to Admiral-General Christine Myang herself.”
Rather than saying more, Ia paused. Not just to let her words sink in, but because something bra-a-a-a-apped against the bulkheads outside. She had to wait for almost two minutes as the work crews outside the sloped confines of the briefing boardroom did something which was not only noisy but rattled the deckplates, too, and the noise increased.
As it kept going, a couple of the privates on the left side of the room covered their ears, wincing from the rasping vibrations. When it finally passed, Ia gave them a few seconds to recover before speaking. They still had a lot to get through, however.
“…Right. As you can see, this ship, the TUPSF Hellfire, is still undergoing several retrofits based upon the upgraded design specs I gave to Admiral Genibes. And yes, you heard me correctly a moment ago. You all report to me, I report to Admiral Genibes, and he reports to the Admiral-General of the entire Space Force. Unlike any other Company of our lowly size and lowly rank,” Ia warned her fellow crewmates, “we do not have several layers of cushioning between us and the ultimate authority. This crew is the entire 9th Cordon Special Forces. If we screw up, there is exactly one person between us and the Admiral-General’s wrath…but I wouldn’t hold my breath on Admiral Genibes keeping silent. It is therefore up to you to read the Company manual, follow it like a Bible, and not screw up.
“With that in mind, it is my solemn duty to inform you that as your commanding officer, I, Ship’s Captain Ia, will be working under a double-indemnity clause regarding any and all corporal punishments accrued by this crew,” she stated briskly, hands pushing back the edges of her jacket so she could rest her palms on her hips. Ia did her best to meet the bemused looks of every member in the Company, or at least look like she was meeting them. “What that means is this: if you break a regulation or a law, however many strokes of the cane you receive, I must receive an equal number of strokes, too.”
She paused a moment, letting the men and women around her absorb that information. Ia followed it with an exact explanation of what that meant, so that there would be no mistake.
“If you receive one stroke of the cane for Fatality Four: Dereliction of Duty, then I must also receive one stroke of the cane, without restraint or hesitation,” she told the men and women around her. Most stared in skeptical disbelief, though a few winced, including the man seated immediately to her left. “If you steal from someone and receive three strokes for that theft, I, too, must undergo three strokes for Fatality One: Committing a Civilian Crime. If one of you completely loses your wits and starts selling military secrets to the Salik, you and I both shall be hung, drawn, and quartered for Grand High Treason.
“This is not a jest, meioas,” she stated grimly, pinning some of the more dubious soldiers with a hard, brief look. “The security level for this ship, her crew, and her mission is Ultra Classified. Revealing its secrets to anyone outside your direct chain of command will be considered an act of Grand High Treason.
“This is not a joke, this is not a game, and this is not a lie,” she warned them soberly, reinforcing her words. “I selected you because you can be discreet, and you can do the jobs ahead of you if you watch what you’re doing. I have no intention of being flogged for any incompetencies, which is why I selected the best possible people for this job. Make sure you live up to my expectations.”
She paused, partly to let some thumping and clanking outside pass without having to raise her voice, and partly to judge the moods of the women and men listening to her. Her dips through the timestreams, gauging this moment, had suggested a mix of warning and praise, of the carrot and the stick, would be most likely to get through to them.
“With that said, we turn now to a quick overview of our brand-new…” She had to pause again as someone noisily pounded something into place until it seated in a deck-vibrating clunk, and finished, “…ship. As I stated when I assumed command, we are now on board the TUPSF Hellfire. She is the first of the Harasser-Class line being produced here in the Triton Secured Shipyards, with one notable exception. That exception is the main gun, which we will discuss last. From stem to stern, the Hellfire is 0.9 kilometers long, and looks like a thick, lumpy, silver needle.”
Lifting her hand, she snapped her fingers. The snap wasn’t necessary; all it took was an electrokinetic prodding of the display system’s workings to change the view, a mental click of the correct key. Ia snapped her fingers so that her crew would pay attention. Most sat up a little at the sound, switching their gazes from her figure to the flatscreens behind her.
The secondary screens fell dark, and the main screen lit up in a sparse diagram showing three cross sections of the ship: external, deck by deck, and radially. The images started with a real-time view of the pewter silver ceristeel hull, dotted with the rounded, somewhat oval lumps of projectile pods and laser pods, special gunnery turrets that could be extended and rotated to cover a wide firing angle, or retracted for interstellar travel.
Technical specs lit up the secondary screens, slowly scrolling upward with lists of the standard information: things like overall length, width, tonnage, atmospheric pressure, molecular content, ambient temperature, gravity gradient, number of decks, so on and so forth. On the main screen, the flatpic view of the ship’s hull vanished, replaced by a line drawing showing the different sections of the ship. Those sections lit up in various colors as she spoke, echoing her words.
“Originally designed to hold a complement of five hundred or more—and indeed all other Harasser-Class warships will continue to function with that many—the Hellfire is barely a frigate in crew size. Instead of five hundred, we will have a crew of 161.” Sections lit up in light green. “All of our berths, common rooms, recreation cabins, dining facilities, so on and so forth, have been divided up between the middle three sectors o
f the ship, being the fore, amid, and aft. The other two sections are the bow and stern.”
Each segment lit up as she mentioned it, briefly glowing like part of a pastel, five-hued rainbow. That made the ship schematic look like a multicolored worm for a moment. A tap of her mind zoomed the deck-by-deck sketches, giving a close-up on the crew quarters.
“Unlike most ships, where a particular section is devoted to a particular watch, I have instead divided up all three Platoons and scattered your quarters throughout the three main sectors. All common rooms and public facilities are to be considered open territory and thus available for everyone to use, regardless of your Platoon designation. I know that normally the military’s psychologists divide things up into ‘territories’ to compensate for the natural Human tendencies of competitiveness and territorialism, but we cannot afford to be divided as a Company. Your Platoon designations are therefore mostly just a matter of what duty shift you’ll be working. You are all members of Ia’s Damned, and you will conduct yourselves accordingly.
“In compensation for the openness of the common territories, most of the original berths have been gutted, giving each team slightly expanded quarters and greater privacy. Most of you will still have to share your cabins, but the privates will have as much room as is normally allotted to a sergeant, the sergeants get junior lieutenant quarters, and so forth, save only for myself; my quarters are no larger than the others officers’ are. This extra personal space is all that I could give you, given the existing floor plans,” Ia admitted wryly. “The rest of the crew quarters have been turned into storage holds and manufactory bays.”