Postal Marine 1: Bellicose

by Ben Wilson

His last round through the Core Worlds confirmed that the key players were ready to start the coup. The deadline date was earlier in the week. However, he was supposed to contact two conspirators here in Smyrno. Neither were reachable. He regretted not setting up the dead drops he had heard about. It meant that the Smyrno coup would be delayed, but with the lack of instant communication the delay could be absorbed without risking the entire operation. As it stood, there was a key Postal Marine base that was slipping through his fingers.

  Discretion got to his valor, so he decided not to find the agents.

  Not working out so well for you, is it?

  What? The coup. I'm sure it's working splendidly.

  Smee, you talk to yourself. Did you know that? You've gotten so accustomed to me not being able to respond that I've been sitting quietly, listening to you.

  So what?

  I see you're failing your coup. I can help. Or, rather, I did help. You don't also realize that you do sleep. Not long, but long enough for me.

  Oh?

  I'm afraid you'll find your precious coup is working nowhere. I've had some friends following us for the past little while. As soon as you left a system, they had the authorities roll-up your little conspiracy.

  Are you sure? Maybe when you were asleep I had your friends back off.

  Don't mistake lack of skill for lack of treachery. I'm confident my friends have wrapped up yours. This little coup is over.

  You're bluffing.

  Doesn't matter if I am or not. It takes at least six weeks for a message to get from Sovaĝio to here. So for the next two months you'll sit and wonder. The messages that do come in will report that a coup was being rolled up—by the Maijoi, no less. That will do a lot to enhance the prestige of my family. Thank you.

  Smee could not believe what Sirom said. He waited fretfully for the next few months. As Sirom promised, the coup was being rolled up.

  Eventually they will come for you.

  Sirom. I am going to kill you.

  Then we'll die together.

  * * *

  Litovio - Postal Destroyer Korundaj

  Litovio woke with a start and nearly banged his head on the bulkhead above. The destroyer Korundaj was typical of Postal destroyers. It lacked most amenities. The ship's executive officer and the chief engineer shared the same cabin. Right now, the engineer was sharing rack space with his engineering team so Litovio could have the bottom rack. The distance between his rack and the Executive officer's was less than 20 inches. The executive officer at least had 24 inches. Though he presently slept somewhere else. Bence slept in the executive officer's rack. The last jump on the Korundaj made Litovio miss the relative comfort of the Spaka. So much of the ship was dedicated to speed and firepower there was not much space left for crew.

  As he rubbed his head, he looked at the clock. Why didn't they wake me? We'll be emerging in under a cycle, if we're not already. He was thankful he had at least fallen asleep in his uniform in anticipation of an early morning battle. He might look wrinkled going into combat, but it was better than being out of uniform altogether.

  He splashed his face with water to help wake up, then took some vitamin B. He tightened his tie as he left the cabin and headed the four meters to the bridge. The captain's cabin was the only thing separating the executive officer's cabin from the bridge itself.

  As he entered, the cramped nature of the bridge became apparent. Three crewmen who piloted the ship and navigation sat close together. The executive officer helped monitor the array of instruments they needed to pilot the destroyer. Behind them the round tactical plot table enabled the captain to keep aware of the ship's immediate surroundings. The Korundaj used a low-IQ AI to manage the tactical display, as all combat ships did. It helped them manage the rapid tactical changes. That same AI helped pilot the ship. The crew would tell the ship where to go, and the AI would ensure the ship behaved. The instruments helped the crew keep vigil over the AI, as they were known to be wrong from time to time.

  Behind the tactical plot stood Captain Avyri and Bence. One of them had told yet-another-joke as the two were laughing deeply. How convenient that in the cycle before battle you two could be so nonchalant. “Gentlemen. Sorry I'm late.”

  Bence looked at Litovio. “Couldn't find pajamas?”

  Litovio blushed. “Sorry, Sir. I didn't want to miss the fight so I slept in my uniform.”

  The Admiral looked over at Captain Avyri. “What did I tell you?”

  Captain Avyri laughed. “I hope you're right about the rest of what you told me. Otherwise, this is going to be a short fight.”

  “We'll know in less than a cycle, right? How long until emergence?”

  “Approximately 5 beats, 95 percent certainty,” the ship AI reported.

  Bence chuckled. “You timed it right Litovio. You think you'll have time to eat?”

  “Sir, I don't think I'm going to be hungry for a while. Five beats is barely time to get ready.”

  “Don't forget, Colonel, I've been up for a couple cycles already.” He pointed at his collar. “I didn't get these by telling jokes.”

  “Sorry, Sir.” Though his jokes are nothing like what he'd heard in military circles. Bence certainly understands people a lot more than he lets on. I guess that's how you become the only Postal admiral

  Bence smiled and slapped him on the back. “Don't worry. You're the former Navy puke. You still get to manage the battle. I'm going to sit back and count my money.”

  Litovio swallowed almost immediately after the Admiral spoke. How can you have that much confidence in me when I don't have that much confidence in myself? He leaned over to a crewman and ordered him to bring him breakfast.

  The next few beats passed slowly. The AI announced their emergence. The destroyer's bridge lacked viewports, so Litovio could not be distracted by the yellow fading to black. Instead, he stared at the tactical display, waiting for the AI to start reporting Navy hostiles. Without any intelligence beyond the latest whereabouts of the Navy fleet, Litovio presumed the fleet would be waiting on the other side. It was classic doctrine to wait near the emergence area, and put the Marines in the worst tactical position. If they know we're here. If we're lucky they won't be anywhere near where we emerge and we'll have a fighting chance.

  Soon after, the tactical display started to plot Postal ships. They arrived roughly in formation. Given the inaccuracy of hyperspace jumps, the accuracy of the formation surprised Litovio. His decision to wait for three-9s certainty paid off in accuracy.

  The crewman returned with a plate of food and coffee. Litovio's appetite got the better of him, and he started inhaling the food. The distraction was welcomed as he knew it would resolve the other nagging distraction of an early-morning empty stomach.

  “Colonel?”

  The concern in Bence's voice countered the consistent vote of confidence Litovio had grown accustomed to. In mid-bite, Litovio turned back to the tactical display. He nearly choked on his food. The plate fell to the floor. It was spared shattering by mutual design. The plate was made of nearly bullet-resistant material, and the floor had an inch of rubber to absorb sound and impacts. In a ship not designed with the crew in mind, the Korundaj was not totally insensitive to their needs. Destroyers in real combat have a very short life-expectancy. The rubber reduced the likelihood of broken bones, though that feature mattered little when the crew was free-floating in space without an environmental suit.

  What amazed Litovio was the time it took the plate to fall. Not the briefness of it, but that he could process the odd design while staring at a tactical display still showing Navy units. The red blips kept coming. Litovio knew it was not because the AI could not process the sheer number of them, but the lag in sensor updates.

  Despite the lag, the meaning behind the display spoke volumes. The Navy anticipated his formation perfectly. They were positioned for planetary bombardment. Litovio recognized the characteristic parabolic design of the formation, which allowed the capital ships to concentrate f
ire effectively against single targets. Against a moving fleet, the formation would have only done well if the Navy knew exactly where the Postal fleet was going to emerge. Impossible. We don't even know where we're emerging. The formation worked well against the postal fleet's formation, which Litovio mentally conceded was possible if a spy ship jumped ahead of them.

  The fleet battlenet started feeding the tactical display. Cruisers in the vanguard reported firing, and the AI tried to estimate battle damage done to Navy ships. At the same time, the battlenet's feed started reporting damage inflicted to the fleet. The numbers were slight at first, but then a cruiser completely disappeared.

  “There goes a cruiser.” The way Bence said it tried to conceal the terror Litovio could hear in his voice.

  Litovio did his best not to look at Bence. He fixed his gaze on the display. That had to be a battleship salvo. “AI, what's the next focal point of the Navy fleet?”

  The tactical display lit up. The focal center was the Spaka.

  Chapter

  Bophendze - Cruiser Spaka

  The days since he was released flew for Bophendze. His new team lead, Corporal Svyngle, transferred from the Destroyer Korundaj and was assigned because he was a proven combat veteran. Bophendze knew Chrachen told Svyngle about his brig confession, as would the guard by now. Svyngle did not show any acknowledgment of that confession in how Bophendze was treated. The reverse was true. Svyngle focused on Bophendze's lack of training by spending their recreation watch explaining things to Bophendze. Throughout it all, Smee nagged that Bophendze could rely on him in combat.

  Today was the day. Other marines predicted the emergence based on the extra rations they were fed. Some joked it was their last meal before the slaughter. Either way, Bophendze knew none of them would eat again until the battle was over. Many more would never eat again.

  Bophendze's team was fully suited and sitting at the ready in the hangar. He looked at the paint job he once marveled at. The olive drab and blue grey looked more like grass and sky than it did when he first boarded the Spaka. Is this the last time I see this hangar? Will we even see action? This is a major fleet action, not a freighter boarding.

  The alarm sounded. The transition from silence to the alarm jolted Bophendze and sent a cold shock through his body.

  Chrachen's command voice carried over the alarm and commotion, “Marines, this is it. Never doubt the utility of infantry in fleet operations. Do as you're trained and we will be victorious.”

  The marines in Bophendze's team quickly got into formation. Svyngle counted the men and nodded. “Load up!”

  Bophendze turned with the other marines and waited for his turn. The man in front of him started forward. Bophendze followed and they climbed into the shuttle. The sinking feeling in his stomach turned into a pit. Over the past few days he was thrilled to be an infantry marine again. The excitement clouded his judgment. As he sat down on the bench he realized he had never done a combat jump, not even in training. Most of his training involved close-quarter drill, the standard fare for a marine. Having never done a jump, he did not know what to do. He started to panic.

  Then he noticed nobody was paying attention to him. If he went a little slower than they did, he could copy what they were doing. He tried to nonchalantly copy them. By doing so, he harnessed himself into the seat. As he did so, he noted that the shuttle benches held the fifteen of them well. Smee, do you know what comes next?

  Smee did not respond. Bophendze shook his head in disappointment. Every time I'm in trouble and need him he goes into hiding. If I could find a way to turn him off permanently then I could live a normal life. Instead I'm stuck with him. Not that it matters, I have a life expectancy of maybe another cycle? The thought comforted Bophendze a bit. Smee chose to abandon him again, likely not to return again until the battle was over. It's like he's a coward.

  The marines finished preparing. The shuttle grew quiet. That surprised Bophendze. He thought there would be the normal shuffling and din of noise he encountered everywhere. Or banter, anything but silence. Instead, the marines were quiet. He scanned the faces. Only a few faces in the shuttle suggested fear. A few others exhibited inevitability. A couple even had their eyes closed. Are they asleep? Who can sleep at a time like this? More of the faces seemed to speak of determination and duty. None of the other marines were looking around like Bophendze was. He took that as a hint and tried to settle down.

  It was quiet. Bophendze nervously played with his battle suit's helmet that was sitting in his lap.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Bophendze could feel the silence pressing in. Why is it so quiet? Shouldn't we be launching ‘into the deep void of space?’ Why did we hurry up and wait? Bophendze shifted from fear to annoyance. Why aren't any of these marines getting upset like I am?

  Because they're professional, not an emotional, ungrateful little brat like you.

  Thank you for that keen insight. Until this moment I hadn't realized that I was unprofessional.

  Deciding to return sarcasm with sarcasm? It takes a keen mind to master sarcasm. I don't think you have it in you.

  You think this is a competition? We're about to engage in a massive battle and you're trying to compete with me over sarcasm? Isn't that like battling a forest fire with a water pistol?

  Let me clarify your analogy, Puppet. I am the forest fire. You are the water pistol—unloaded.

  Just remember, I once held you between two fingers. I could have dropped you into a trash can to be incinerated.

  Trying to fight fire with fire? Leave the heavy thinking to grown-ups, Puppet. It doesn't matter that you once had that control over me. What matters is now. What's this about a massive battle?

  Where do you go when you don't talk to me? The briefing I got was that the Imperial Postal Service formed a fleet to take on a renegade Imperial Navy fleet. I'm sitting in this shuttle now because we're about to engage that fleet.

  Have you gone completely mad? The entire Postal Service lacks the firepower to take on a typical Navy fleet. You run down smugglers. If this Navy fleet really is renegade, then it will more likely be a self-contained—a task force fleet. You don't stand a chance.

  What? You think I have any involvement in the plans? I'm the gun swabber, remember? I don't call the shots, I take the shots.

  ‘I take the shots.’ Witty. I'll give you that. So we're sitting in a shuttle awaiting certain death. Either we sit in the shuttle and a battleship primaries the cruiser, or we start boarding operations and a destroyer primaries us. I can feel your incompetence.

  Primaries?

  That means a one-shot kill.

  What if we infantry aren't in a shuttle?

  Then you'll have front row seats to a massacre. What's the system name?

  Tannenberg, I think.

  This will go down as the Tannenberg Massacre. Not that either of us will be around to hear it so called.

  Then I'll either suffocate when my battle suit runs out of air, or shot by a strafing run, or captured by the Navy. Bophendze's fear returned, creating a deeper, darker pit in his stomach. I don't really have a choice, do I?

  Smee did not respond. Bophendze shook his head. Typical, he talks and leaves. Despite none of the other marines wearing their helmet, Bophendze put his on. Dead before I had a chance to make a mark on the world.

  The shuttle's engines spun into action. “It's go time.”

  Bophendze recognized the voice. The sound of the engine altered the voice. He recirculated the voice in his head until he realized it was Angel. How did I miss that this was Angel's shuttle? Shouldn't the guns have given it away. He must have been distracted. I need to focus.

  He did not feel the shuttle lift off. The engine leveled off in pitch, but it confused Bophendze that they just sat there. The delay unnerved him.

  Suddenly, the entire ship pitched. Not the shuttle. The grating sound of the shuttle's skids on the deck reported the shuttle slide. Bophendze freaked out. We're going to die.

 
; * * *

  Angle - Cruiser Spaka

  I'm tired of waiting.

  Angel worked the shuttle's controls. The engine kicked into gear. He looked over his shoulder and yelled, “it's go time.” He continued to flip switches and work the touch panel to bring the shuttle to full flight configuration. If we're going to sit here and wait, then I'm going to ensure we're ready to go when they finally realize they need us.

  He waited a couple beats until the shuttle warmed. He checked the gauges to ensure everything was ready. He looked out on the hangar deck to confirm there was nobody still inside. Despite still being in the hangar bay, he decided to fully activate the gravimetric system. Turning them on with crewmen still in the hangar risked their lives. But he was not about to repeat the incident from the last time he activated the system in an active hangar.

  Still he waited. The longer the wait, the more concerned he felt. He tweaked the gravimetric controls to activate the barrier. Lightly. Let's go with five percent. Enough to shield us, maybe give us more traction.

  Angel finally relaxed in satisfaction. It wasn't really ‘go time’ was it? Sounded better than ‘almost go time,’ or ‘not quite go time’.

  The ship lurched. Angel felt the shuttle scrape against the hangar deck. Reflexively, he tweaked the shuttle's gravimetric barrier to 40 percent. The shuttle immediately latched into place on the deck. That should hold us for a bit.

  Parts of the hangar ceiling came unfastened and crashed onto the deck. The cruiser shook again. We're under heavy fire. Why aren't we being launched?

  His answer came a few seconds later. Another barrage crashed into the Spaka, ripping a giant hole in the hangar door. What atmo remained blew out, causing the door to bend outward slightly. A final barrage left a hole almost large enough for the shuttle to leave though. Angel canted his head to see if there were a different angle that would let him thread that needle.

  One thing's for certain, I can't rely on the Spaka for much longer. He eased the controls until the shuttle started to hover a few feet above the deck. He waited for the right excuse to leave the ship. Anticipating the escape, he turned the shuttle's nose to point at the hangar door. He pulled up the weapons system and manually aimed it at a part of the hangar door.