The Aggressive (Book 1 of the Titanwar saga): A science fiction thriller

by Gem Jackson

  “Which makes what happened a mass-murder.” Said September.

  “Yes,” said Anton, “mass-murder. It’s what we do best, isn’t it? Building things and killing other people.”

  “No, I don’t think so,” said September. “Most people don’t kill if they can avoid it.”

  Anton raised his eyebrows. “Really? You might find things are slightly different as we leave Earth agent Long. The only limit to what people will do is what they can reasonably get away with. Morality weakens alongside the rule of law. The Solar System can be a cold place in more ways than one.” The Captain and Predovnik nodded at Anton’s comments. It was time to get them both involved. From the look of things, it wouldn’t take much to antagonise September and it would be better for him if it were Bryant or Predovnik to do it.

  “Take the Captain and his crew here, for example,” Anton continued, “as civilians I’d wager neither the Captain nor my new friend the XO would have ever consider killing another human being. But the law calls them soldiers. They get uniforms and guns and all of a sudden, killing is a job. A job that every crew member on board this ship is willing to do. It comes to us naturally.”

  “No, they’re not killers.” Anton noticed September slurring slightly. He suppressed a smile. “It’s a big ship. Powerful. Very thrusting, I’m sure. But you two,” she waved across the table at Bryant and Predovnik, “are administrators at best.”

  Predovnik clenched his jaw. Anton leaned back, taking himself out of the exchange. He saw Tariq do the same. Predovnik responded to September, but his voice took on a familiar tone. It was a tone Anton had heard many times before, usually in the early hours of the morning. It was the kind used by the sober when communicating with the drunk.

  “Is that so Miss Long? But hang on, aren’t you the one who works in an office?” He smirked and she scowled.

  “I’m serious. You’re not a killer, more of a manager. Surely that’s better, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t think I would normally describe myself, or any member of the crew, as a killer. Ultimately, however, that is what we’re trained to do,” said Predovnik.

  “No, no, that’s not right.” September shook her head, “tell me, up on the bridge. Do you have a seat? Is there somewhere you sit down when you’re up there?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you see? You say you’re trained to kill, but that’s not accurate. You’re trained to tell someone else to press a button. That’s all. You don’t even need to stand up. It’s not killing if you can do it with a coffee and warm arse cheeks.” Predovnik spluttered to answer back, but September cut him off raising her own voice over his. “I’m serious about this. If the Aggressive attacks another ship it does so from thousands of miles away. You never see the effects of your orders. You never have to look at the victim’s face as they die. And that’s the problem.” She scrunched up her face and ran a hand roughly through her hair. “I’m not explaining this very well. Take a land war. Soldiers fighting each other with guns and so on. In that situation you see the victim, yes? Well, even then, most trained soldiers never kill, in fact, they go to great lengths to avoid it.”

  “You’re bullshitting. So the killing happens all by itself, I suppose?”

  “Of course not. But most deaths in war don’t come from human beings shooting or stabbing each other up close. Take the twentieth century, which I majored in, as it happens. The bloodiest century in human history. In the Second World War it took twenty-five thousand bullets fired for every Nazi killed. In the Korean war the Americans fired a hundred thousand rounds for every enemy killed. Vietnam? It was two hundred thousand. It’s hard to kill someone you can see. It’s upsetting, it’s wrong and most sane human beings don’t really try that hard. Instead, they keep their own head down and concentrate on not getting shot.

  “It gets a lot easier if you can’t see the victim. It’s a lot easier if you just have to press a button. Most people can’t kill another human being—but they can operate a bomb release switch five miles in the air, or fire an artillery piece ten miles behind the front line. For ordinary people killing needs to happen unseen and far away. Killing isn’t easy. Or natural. What you’re thinking of,” she looked back towards Anton, “is violence. It’s not the same thing.”

  “Tell me agent Long,” Anton spoke softly, “have you ever killed a person? Close enough to see them, in the way you describe?” Anton looked at her. He wanted to know more about this woman he was pitted against, who had been on his trail for the best part of a decade and refused to let him go, this drunk, hard woman who knew his name.

  “That’s a good question,” said September. “Look at me. Look at my eyes. Do they look like the eyes of a killer?” The seconds stretched as they matched each other’s gaze. September laughed, baring her teeth in a broad grin, and downed the last of her whisky. It wasn’t a warm laugh; it was mocking and bitter. In truth, Anton didn’t know what to make of it, except that he felt a cold in his bones that wasn’t there at the start of the meal.

  Chapter 9 – Leon

  Two things happened in quick succession. Leon awoke from sleep as he heard the familiar lilting melody of his alarm and he felt the corresponding knot of dread in his stomach at the thought of facing another day with Murray on board the Jackdaw’s Straw. Six hours wasn’t enough sleep, he was convinced of this. Despite spending a year on the navy shift pattern, he hadn’t adapted as everyone else had. He was exhausted when he woke up and he was exhausted when he went to sleep.

  It wasn’t that the job that was tiring; the training had been hard, but bearable, and much of his work as a pilot was more boring than anything else. Most of it was maths and maths he could do. It was the worrying that ground him down. The relentless fear about what was coming up and how he might fall short. It wasn’t enough to get through the day, as there was always tomorrow. Getting through a shift without snide remarks from his peers or reprimands from the senior officers counted as a really good day, but it was a victory that could be easily obliterated next shift.

  Leon looked for a towel, unsuccessfully, then headed for the shower unit anyway. He couldn’t remember the last time he had fallen asleep or woken up without tremor of anxiety threatening to punch up from his stomach into his chest.

  At least the shower was hot. That was something. It was really very nice. While the thought of weeks piloting the Jackdaw’s Straw with only Murray for company was excruciating, the diplomatic yacht itself was more than comfortable. Compared to the Aggressive it was a palace. There was wood trim everywhere. Genuine wood—well, as far as he could tell. Growing up on Titan, Leon had never come across real timber. He had spent a long time just running his hands across the whorls and knurls after boarding the yacht.

  Leon left the shower and checked his watch. Ten to midnight ship time. It meant he was due back on shift with Murray in ten minutes. As per regulations, they were running long shifts with regular overlaps. This was only their second day on the yacht and Leon was hoping some of Murray’s earlier animosity towards him might thaw. He wasn’t looking forward to hours of awkward silence in the cockpit.

  There was no towel in the shower either. Now dripping wet, he scampered back to his bunk to look again, grateful that they had each taken rooms with en-suite facilities, usually reserved for the passengers. Nothing. Nothing in the locker, nothing in the drawers, nothing in his bag on the floor. The realisation hit him like fog, gradually surrounding him and filling his consciousness so he could think of nothing else. It wasn’t just the towels that were missing, but his entire uniform. There was no underwear, no socks, no trousers, no clothes of any kind.

  He knew there was nobody else on board apart from Murray, but even so he gingerly opened the hatch to the outside corridor and peeked out. Placed neatly on the floor were his boots and a pair of rolled-up regulation socks. Leon looked each way down the corridor and seeing nobody around darted out to grab the footwear.

  Once back inside he stopped to breathe. He felt the frus
tration and anger gently flooding into his back and arms. He balled his fists and looked around for something to throw. He wanted to break something. Anything, as long as it smashed. He thought about kicking his boots, but didn’t as he still had bare feet.

  Instead, he put the socks and boots on, flushed with a combination of bitterness and humiliation at how ridiculous he looked, dripping wet, and wearing nothing but socks and a pair of navy boots. He used a sheet to dry himself as best as he could, which wasn’t very well. It was too thin, absorbing almost no moisture yet clinging awkwardly to his skin. He sat back down on the edge of the bed.

  It felt wrong wearing boots without clothes. He was bizarrely aware of how his balls had scrunched up between his legs in the cold.

  He put his head in his hands and resisted the urge to sob. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was an astronaut now. An officer pilot. He was everything he thought he wanted. It was almost twelve months to the day since he had quit his job in such a spectacular fashion back on Titan. He had been so cocky then. So sure of himself. So arrogant.

  It had been an awful job. He studied maths at college, getting reasonable marks, yet it had led nowhere. His friends had gone into jobs in engineering, mining and finance, but Leon had never felt like anything was right for him. He couldn’t see himself working as a trader or for one of the large mining companies. So the applications had never quite been finished. The few interviews he got were never properly prepared for. There was always something which came up which put him off balance. Illness the day before, not reading the preparation tasks properly, mixing up times and dates.

  After six months, he landed a position as a junior accountant at a small firm doing odds and ends on Titan. The pay was poor and the hours were long. Week after week his duties seemed to get bigger and bigger as more and more work was piled on.

  There was an expectation to do unpaid overtime to ensure deadlines weren’t missed. There was an expectation to attend company events on his days off when the clients demanded it, for free of course.

  The last straw had been after he had applied for a promotion only to see the job given to an external candidate, two years younger and fresh out of college with no experience. There was an expectation, he was told, that on top of his normal duties he would train the candidate they had chosen to employ over him. When the partners had told him, he thought they were joking. It sounded too much of a slap in the face. They explained that while they did see potential in him, and despite his experience and work so far, they just couldn’t find in Leon the level of commitment and drive that was necessary for the job.

  That night he’d gone back to his studio apartment and applied for the navy. Anything, he had thought at the time, had to be better than living on Titan, a frozen rock surrounded by poison at the edge of the Solar System.

  Much to his surprise, his application for pilot officer training was accepted. His maths scores were suitable and he was invited for training at the academy. On Earth. Genuine, bona fide Earth, with paid transport from Titan. He couldn’t believe it. At the time he was elated, walking on air, and it had spilled over into his work. He vowed to make his last day a special one.

  He could picture the scene to the last detail. The last hour of his last day. There was a cake, cards and goodbyes. Leon accepted them all gracefully before standing and picking up a wrapped present of his own.

  “If it’s all right, I’d like to say something before I go?” There were nods and weak yells for a speech. There were maybe twenty people in the office from secretaries to the partners, and for just a few moments Leon had their attention.

  “Firstly, I’d like to thank everyone I’ve worked closely with over the past few years. It’s been tough at times, but I really have enjoyed working with you and without a few people at least, I don’t think I’d have lasted even this long.” A few muted laughs. “I’m excited about the journey I’m about to start, but before I go, I’d like to give out just one more present.” He pulled a small box from his pocket and held it up. It was the kind you usually got pieces of jewellery in, about the size of Leon’s palm. Everyone craned closer to see. Leon carried on.

  “Last night I got some pieces of paper, small, thin strips of paper, three of them in fact. On each one, very tiny as they are, I wrote out the word ‘EXPECTATION’ in little letters.” Leon opened the box and showed his audience the contents; three small gel capsules. He carried on.

  “I rolled the pieces of paper up tight and put each in one of these small gel suppository capsules.” Ripples of shock radiated across the office as some people realised where this was going.

  “So I want to give these suppositories as presents to our three senior partners over there,” Leon offered them towards the partners at the back of the officer, “so you can shove your ‘expectations’ up your arses.” He placed the open box with the gel suppositories carefully on a nearby desk. “Screw you and your damn awful job.”

  In his mind Leon had said all this as cool as you like, but in reality he remembered how his legs and hands had been shaking uncontrollably as he walked out of the office. No clapping, no cheers, no shouts, just a gob-smacked silence from everyone.

  Fuck you, I’m off to be an astronaut.

  Leon brought his head up from his hands. One year on from that spectacular, glorious moment and he was an astronaut. A naked, wet astronaut trembling on cold, wet bedsheets without a uniform. Or underwear. Alone and ten thousand miles from a friend.

  He bolted down the main corridor, unlaced boots clomping on the floor—it seemed absurd to be concerned about loose, flapping laces while helpless to avoid loose, flapping genitals. He skipped every few paces to hitch up the damp sheet wrapped around his waist.

  “Murray! I’m going to kill you Murray, where the hell is my uniform?” Leon reached the cockpit door and opened it to find Murray in fits of laughter.

  “Oh Jesus, this is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. Wood, I swear, for a dickhead, you’re an absolute legend.”

  “Where is my uniform?”

  “I mean, credit for the sheet, but man, your shoelaces are undone. You won’t pass muster like that you know?”

  “Give me my uniform. Now, Murray. I want it.”

  “What uniform is this Wood?”

  “My uniform. The one I was wearing yesterday. And the other two I had in my bag, where are they?”

  “No,” Murray feigned a look of puzzlement, “I don’t remember you wearing a uniform. Unless you mean the yacht pilot uniform? You know, the civilian one?”

  “Don’t be an idiot Murray. I don’t want the civilian uniform, I want mine. Tell me where it is or I swear to God—”

  “You’ll do what? Make me? Is that before or after you let go of the skirt you’re holding up there? Listen Wood, I told you before, you’re not a proper officer. You shouldn’t be wearing a military uniform, you don’t deserve it. You’re making up the numbers, that’s all. Now be a good little boy and go and put a civilian uniform on. There will be one somewhere on the ship.”

  “I want mine back.” Leon stepped closer to Murray. He was angry beyond belief but could hear the tremor in his own voice. He wanted to smash Murray’s stupid face in, to stamp on his smug neck, to make him hurt and cry. “Give it back.” Murray switched his expression. He stood up, looming over Leon, his voice lower, menacing.

  “Well, you’re not going to find it anywhere on this ship. I’ve made sure of that. Now go and find something to wear because right now you’re an embarrassment.” Murray pushed Leon hard and he stumbled backwards out of the cockpit. He tried to speak but didn’t dare open his mouth. “And stop fucking crying, will you? It’s pathetic.”

  Leon stumbled back from the cockpit and set off back down the corridor.

  His mind tumbled over itself thinking about how he could have reacted differently.

  I should have just dropped the sheet, grabbed my balls, told him to go screw himself and gone and pissed all over his bed.

  He stopped at Mu
rray’s bunk and thought about going in and urinating on it anyway. No. Without the grand gesture in the cockpit it would just seem weaselly and underhand. Anyway, he didn’t need to go. He went in and checked the room for something to wear. Murray had locked his own uniform away. There weren’t any others, not even civilian ones. Leon left and carried on. Kitchen area next.

  Maybe he should have just faced him down? Told him he was the pathetic one and took the seat, anyway? Murray had been on shift the longest; he would get tired first would get all paranoid about what might happen when he went off shift.

  It was useless. There were no clothes anywhere.

  I could stab him. I could get a knife and stab him. Or just threaten him. He shook his head. That was clearly an overreaction, or at least that’s how a court martial would see it.

  He left the kitchen area and started on the non-crew bunks. Sure enough, in the first one he found a private charter company uniform, neatly folded alongside a brace of towels. He picked up the jacket. It was close fitting, almost an imitation of the APSA uniform, except for the logo and company name emblazoned over the left breast.

  “Starflight? Seriously?” he said to himself. On the whole he was dry but nonetheless he towelled his hair and put the uniform on. It was humiliating to let Murray win, but at least he had dry, clean clothes again.

  Back in the cockpit, Murray sniggered and pressed a finger into the logo on his chest.

  “Ha. Starflight. Suits you. You can have the co-pilot's seat if you want? You are a qualified pilot after all, even if you are a civvy.”

  Leon didn’t say anything. That’s how it stayed. A few of hours later they made the T-jump to Ceres, Leon watching the distant Aggressive blip off the sensors before they followed suit. As soon as the jump was complete Murray set the navigational computer to calculate their exact position. Without the more powerful sensors of the Aggressive, it could take hours before they knew where they were. Leon prayed they were close to Ceres, but given the relatively random nature of the T-Drive, it was anyone's guess how far out they had ended up. They could be a day away or a month away.