The Legacy of Earth (Mandate Book 2)

by J. S. Harbour

  I was glad it was over, even if it had been fun. I’m a Spacer 1st Class S-2 and already have my sights on Senior Spacer S-3. If the rumors are true about the Lexington engaging mercenaries, there was a good chance for promotion out there. That almost never happens during peacetime. Active engagement with a real enemy was a damned exciting prospect. Promotions happened fast during a hot war. A master chief petty officer earned as much as a commander (like Mom).

  I was flying commercially out of Kansas City. I felt bad for leaving Dad, but he had his church. I could have taken a military transport out of Atlanta and flown straight to the launch site—some base I’ve never heard of near Las Vegas. But that would’ve meant a bus ride in the opposite direction to Atlanta and then a twelve-hour layover. Going commercial, I would arrive at Las Vegas International and hop a ride to the facility. Come to think of it, what was the name of the base? Was it even a military base? My orders were to report either to a certain master chief petty officer at the recruitment center in Las Vegas for a ride, or report to the Atlanta depot for a direct flight to the base.

  The location of the launch site was omitted. Was it some top secret facility?

  * * * *

  Four hours later, I got my knapsack from luggage, grabbed a cab, and headed for the downtown recruitment office.

  Master Chief Williams was an old timer who relayed stories from his childhood in the twentieth century all the way to the launch facility out in the desert. I rode in a van with five other spacers and one officer.

  About an hour’s drive out of Las Vegas, Williams pulled the van off the highway onto a private paved road. We went through two checkpoints before arriving at the facility. A large office building jutted into the sky to the south while a rocket sat on a launch pad to the northwest. As we exited the van, I was stunned to see the corporate logo of Seerva Inc on the wall of a squat building facing the parking lot.

  “Welcome to Seerva,” a pleasant-looking woman said from the walkway. “Come this way, gentlemen, and we’ll get you checked in.”

  MSPO Williams saluted the less-than-friendly officer and shook hands with the rest of us before climbing back into the passenger van and driving away.

  What surprised me most was the lack of astronaut training. I’m going into space to serve on board a military spaceship, but space ops training did not involve any space suits or weapons. The Seerva people were no help in that regard, either. To them, we were just passengers on their expensive taxi service into orbit. I learned that Seerva was contracted by the UNSC to transport UNSC personnel to and from orbit, and that this was one of five such facilities operated (under contract) by members of the Security Council. Somewhere in the world, UNSC personnel were boosted into orbit every single day.

  We were given rooms in the on-site hotel and a decent meal at the on-site restaurant. The facilities were fantastic! I’d gotten used to military food for the better part of a year and wasn’t prepared for the bevy of flavors in the three-course meal. But, I wasn’t picking up the tab, so I ate my fill, courtesy of the UNSC.

  The next morning, we prepared for launch. This process also surprised me. There was no medical check. No fitting into a space suit. None of that! It was more like taking a commercial flight. The interior of the passenger module was even configured like a passenger aircraft. We boarded like you would at any airport terminal, stored our luggage, and took our seats. But that’s where the similarity ended.

  “Passengers, please be advised that rotation and elevation of the passenger module will commence in sixty seconds. Please ensure you are seated and strapped in.”

  A stewardess—a stewardess!—walked down the aisle to ensure we were all secure in our seats before returning to the rear of the module.

  “Rotation begins in ten seconds,” the voice said again.

  As promised, the front of the “plane” began to rise. Slowly at first, it picked up speed and before long we were vertical, pressed heavily into the backs of our seats. Next, it felt like the entire passenger cabin was in an elevator—which is exactly what was happening as it was lifted into an open cargo bay on the booster rocket.

  It was almost too perfect. They could have told me it was just a Disney ride and I would have believed them. But, before I could think twice about it, we were about to launch.

  “Sixty seconds to launch,” the voice said. Instead of a narrated countdown, the display screens on the back of every seat showed the timer counting down. When it reached “10” there was a soft blip sound at every one-second interval. When it reached “0” and the engines came on, I began to panic.

  Like I said, they didn’t train us for any of this! I had no idea the pressure your body goes through during a rocket launch. It felt like . . . nothing I’ve ever experienced before. I can’t even quite explain it. Hard to breathe. Heart seemed to struggle—if that wasn’t just my imagination. Eyes pushed back into my skull—I swear, they moved an inch. Barely able to lift a finger let alone raise a hand.

  I gripped both handrests to keep my arms from flying back and whacking myself in the face. All your organs are pushed toward your back, and that’s a creepy feeling. Before this, I’d never felt my own organs in my body.

  The boost was a dichotomy of gentle violence. Some sort of dampening was used to keep the passenger compartment from vibrating. Something has to vibrate with a million horsepower at your back, but I could have read a book if my head weren’t being pushed back into the seat cushion.

  I was surprised more than once on this trip. Weren’t there supposed to be rocket stages? Not according to the info-video playing on the seatback in front of me. Nothing was ejected. This vehicle would re-enter the atmosphere with an Earthbound crew for a powered descent.

  * * * *

  Guess who was waiting for me when I took my first step onto Skydock Station?

  “Mom! What are you doing here?”

  She grabbed me in a fierce hug. Normally, being shown affection by one’s mom in front of fellow soldiers would be intolerably humiliating. But what if your mom is the wing commander?

  Mom held me at arm’s length, eyes moist. Her stone-cold shark-like features softened so subtly that no one else would have noticed. “Dal! You look amazing, son.”

  She squeezed my biceps, my forearms, my shoulders, and stopped by cupping my face in her hands. There was nothing I could do. Not that I wanted to, truth be told. Mom had earned the right, both professionally and personally.

  I noticed a half-dozen fellow recruits saluting Mom as they passed by. The corridor was not spacious and we’d been instructed to keep moving when saluting an officer. Some officers waved away salutes. I’d started noticing this during space ops training and at the Seerva launch facility. But, I’d also heard there was an admiral here. . . .

  I snapped a smart salute. Her face broke into a smile as she returned the honor. “Come, spacer. I think you’ll find it convenient to know a full commander around here. I’ll get you through the red tape. But first, let’s eat.”

  Cmdr. Marjorie Baldwin-Garner was a respected officer. Back home, I now realize I’d had no idea what her life was like in the Navy. I knew she was a US Navy pilot before joining the UNSC. She’d given us a tour of the USS George Washington during one summer break when Howie and Leslie still lived at home and I was in middle school. I knew she was an officer but had completely taken her rank for granted.

  Now I understood the gravitas of a commander and I was overflowing with pride as we walked through the halls of Skydock Station. I watched in awe as officers saluted my mom and nodded at me in passing.

  I did a little math in my head and realized Mom was probably one of the top five highest-ranking officers on this station. Perhaps in the entire theater of Earth orbit.

  Part of me wanted to earn my own stripes, but I was still her son, and I was so damned proud of her right now I would have let her hug me in front of the admiral.

  And suddenly, there was the admiral himself, in the corridor heading toward the officer’s
mess.

  “Good morning, admiral,” she said with a quick regulation salute.

  “Commander!” he said brightly, returning a quick salute in return.

  I went rigid beside her, still carrying my duffel and feeling very unprepared for inspection. If the Sarge could see me now, looking like this, while being addressed by the admiral, he would have tossed me out the nearest airlock!

  Instead, the admiral held the door for us! I felt petrified.

  This mess was entirely different from any enlisted mess hall I’d gotten chow in previously. It was so quiet! Sharply-dressed officers sat two to a table here and there and the room wasn’t very big. And, instead of a service line, they were served at their tables.

  “Admiral, I’d like to introduce my son,” she said while turning to me. “Spacer First Class Dallas Garner. Dallas, this is Admiral Max Reynolds.”

  I dropped my duffel and stood rigidly straight, staring straight ahead at the bulkhead with a sharp salute.

  Admiral Reynolds nodded to Marjorie. “I’ll be damned. Marjorie, this is your son?”

  “In the flesh, admiral.”

  The admiral returned my salute smartly, then said, “At ease, son.”

  I relaxed my posture with hands behind me, as Sarge had instructed us to do. “Thank you, sir!”

  Admiral Reynolds laughed softly, smiling at Marjorie. “Sharp looking young man, Commander.”

  “Thank you, admiral. I think so too. He’s fresh out of Gagarin.”

  “Eh? That so? I will send my compliments to training command. Son, you look like the product of that adamantine son-of-a-bitch, Rodney Beckett. The very definition of a master sergeant.”

  My eyes goggled and I quickly checked myself. The admiral knew the Sarge?

  “Y—yes, Admiral. The Sarge—Master Sergeant Becket—was my senior drill instructor in basic.”

  I think I flinched while speaking his name.

  Admiral Reynolds checked his watch. “One hour to debrief. I’ll leave you to your free time, commander.” He nodded at me, though I was under no delusions about my own importance. This was about Marjorie. I almost saluted again but found myself nodding in return.

  “Thank you, admiral,” she said.

  After enjoying officer-grade food, I was sure enlisted meals would disappoint, but I didn’t much care.

  After stowing my duffel, she took me to the observation lounge, and I got my first view of a UNSC warship. Two of them, in fact. I think I audibly gasped at the view out of the huge windows. There, nearest to us, was my assignment—the UNS Lexington. Two large, black score marks marred her starboard side.

  “Mo—Commander! So the rumors are true? You’ve seen action?”

  It was a statement, not a question.

  She whispered, “Yes, son, the rumors are true. This isn’t common knowledge yet, but”—she checked her watch—“I’ll be at the debriefing in fifteen. Don’t repeat what I’m about to tell you to anyone.”

  I nodded seriously.

  “We engaged a mercenary ship that was armed with military ordnance. Navy missiles. That will be quite the fiasco. Some contractor out there is intercepting Navy munitions or selling them directly to mercenaries. In either case, we have a supply leak that has to be plugged.”

  I gaped at the battle-damaged cruiser. “I can’t believe civilians did that. Did you blow them away?”

  Marjorie stared at me for several seconds. “They got away. The ship was pushing heavy acceleration and . . . I can’t tell you any more than that. Keep it to yourself.”

  I nodded, blinking slowly, exuding trust. Or, I hoped so.

  “Got to go now. We’ll have time later. The Lex will be in the dock for a few weeks.”

  * * * *

  I didn’t like the idea of sitting around on Skydock for three weeks waiting for my assigned ship to be repaired. Not that I actually sat around; I was put to work on both the station and the ship. Technically, I had made it—I was in space! But, station duty felt a lot like base duty. Under normal conditions, ground duty for a navy man was a career death sentence. But, here I was in space, so I couldn’t complain!

  Time had a way of getting away from you when you get into a daily routine. Days turned into weeks. I hit the mess hall one day on my way to the gym and saw a new face—a girl sitting at a table in the corner by herself. I grabbed some scrambled eggs, sausage gravy, and toast, and made my way toward her. She was picking at her food. She stood out as being the only person I’d seen since arriving who wasn’t in uniform.

  “Mind if I join you, ma’am?”

  That startled her; she flinched.

  “Sorry! Didn’t mean to startle you,” I said.

  “Uh, it’s okay. Sh—sure, have a seat.”

  I set my tray on the small table and pulled out the chair. “Thanks. I’m Dallas.”

  “Jazdie,” she said and reached over the table with her hand. I shook it.

  “Nice grip . . . Jazdie,” I said, brows furrowed with surprise.

  She sighed. “I grew up on a farm,” as if that explained everything.

  “A farmer, eh? Where abouts. . . .”

  “Luna City.”

  “. . . oh,” I said, surprised again. This girl was interesting. “Grew up there, you say?” I said between bites and sips of coffee.

  Jazdie held her two hands in front of her, made fists, then dropped them into her lap with a sigh. “I thought I knew myself . . . Dallas. But, after recent events, I don’t know. . . .”

  Surprised by her candor, I wasn’t sure what to say. She seemed to need to talk to someone. She raised her hands in front of her again, made fists, and hit them together a few times while shaking her head. Then she looked at me right in the eyes, opened her mouth as if to say something, then stopped. Instead, she took a bite of her food.

  “Well, I’m very glad to meet you, Jazdie. I’m about to go on duty. Maybe we can—”

  “Whatever—” she interrupted.

  “Um . . . okay,” I said, frowning. Something was obviously troubling her and now my curiosity was piqued, but she thought it was a lame come-on. “I’ll be back for some chow at 1800. Uh, six o’clock. If you happen to be here. . . .”

  She nodded apathetically.

  She was sitting in the same chair when I arrived at 1805, tray of food on her table. She looked up when I entered the mess and then quickly looked away. I knew she was hoping to see me again. So, I got my food and—being a gentleman—asked again if I could join her. She nodded.

  “So, Jazdie. A bit of an obvious question, but what brings you to the Skydock?”

  She was eating this time—looked like a vegan tray, but I wouldn’t know. She raised her eyes at me while chewing. “I came in on the Lexington. I’m a witness to a crime.”

  “A crime? Wasn’t expecting that,” I said while twirling spaghetti around my fork. “The Lex is my assignment. I’m fresh up from Gagarin. Uh, boot camp, so to speak.”

  I noticed that she was flexing her left fist while eating with a fork in her right hand. Looked like she had PTSD. I couldn’t relate but you hear stories.

  “Look, Jazdie, I can tell you’ve been through something tough.”

  “What do you know?” she said in a loud whisper.

  I held my hands up in what I hoped was a calming gesture. “I just wanna help.”

  She started crying. I was about to reach out to her hand when she slammed her fist on the table, causing all the plates and dining-ware to rattle. A few spacers at nearby tables looked at us.

  “What happened to you out there?”

  “I was grilled by your boss for three hours. I don’t feel like talking about it.”

  “Oh, that must have been the debriefing. Were you there? When the Lexington was attacked?”

  I realized I’d completely ignored her request . . . but this was important.

  “I don’t know about an attack. When I got to that ship, it was already damaged. I’m talking about that bastard, Drake, and his crew,” she said, nea
rly spitting out the words with rage.

  “Drake? Was that the hostile who fired on the Lexington?”

  “I killed him with my bare hands,” she growled in a low voice. “Before he was swept out of the airlock with everyone else. Like I told your boss. But I did it. I killed him. And I don’t know how.” She was staring at her fists with a look of horror.

  “Jazdie, I think I can help.”

  “Sure, whatever. Let me guess, you want to show me something in your cabin?” she said with thick sarcasm.

  “Not at all,” I said. Then I picked up my unused spoon, held it over the table where she could clearly see, and bent it with one hand.

  Jazdie grabbed it out of my hand, turned it over and over, and nodded her head. “Okay, so you’re not exactly normal . . . either?”

  “No, I—”

  She bent the spoon back to its original shape and dropped it on the table. “Neither am I. How can we do that?” she whispered with a mix of conspiratorial fear and anger. “I didn’t know I could do that until . . . on the ship. . . .”

  I shifted in my chair, wiped my mouth with a napkin. “Jazdie, have you ever heard the name . . . Decatur?”

  “No. Who the hell is that?”

  “‘What the hell is that’, you mean,” I said.

  Jazdie closed her eyes, slowly, as if counting to ten, and said, “I am not in the . . . fucking mood . . . for games.” When she opened them again, her stare was a blaze of fury.

  “Jesus Christ, would you calm down? I’m just here to talk. I’m not the admiral and not this . . . Drake . . . guy.”