“Breathe, PFC,” Nate said, coming around the desk to find out who she was referring to. “I want you to breathe. Now, lead the way.”
Nate walked out the front door to the Bolts’ Headquarters building and looked up. He had to, because he found himself looking at the biggest sentient being he’d ever seen in person. He recognized the race, Taylahh. A mercenary unit comprised of them had relieved Salvage Fleet in the Barlat System six months ago.
The Taylahh were a combination of a reptile and a primate race, with an emphasis on the primate. He knew there were some classic old movies Clip and Zerith liked from somewhere around the beginning of the twenty-first century featuring sentient primates, but the human actors portraying them were nowhere near the size of a Taylahh. They also didn’t have the black, scaly hide that started from the edge of their leathery faces, and covered their entire bodies, except for hands and feet. The one he was facing—standing at attention in front of five others in a perfect squad formation—was ten feet tall.
Overcoming his surprise, Captain Brink gave the command, “At ease.”
On command, all six Taylahhs dropped forward, now using all four limbs and resting on their knuckles. This lowered their resting height to around six and a half feet. The squad still looked straight ahead, and their leader looked directly at Nate. “Sir,” he said in a deep voice, “we are here to inquire about enlisting in the Bolts.”
Nate took in their attire—dark grey cargo pants with multiple pockets and a harness with various pouches and attachments doubling as suspenders over light grey shirts. He didn’t even want to guess at their boot sizes. He also noticed each wore a holster carrying a huge pistol, and one of the troopers in the back had a multi-barreled rifle slung on its back. Looking closer at the weapon on the leader’s right hip, he could see it was a simple kinetic pistol. Large but simple, it was an actual six-shot revolver, with what appeared to be .50 caliber rounds loaded in the cylinder. His eyes widened when he realized the size of the round.
“I take it your contracts have expired?” Nate asked. “You’re not AWOL?”
“AWOL, sir?” the leader asked. “I feel I have a firm grasp of Earth Common, but I am unfamiliar with that word. My translator is of no help. It just repeats the word.”
“AWOL stands for ‘absent without leave,’” Nate explained.
“Sir,” their leader said very deliberately, “I am going assume you are not familiar with the Taylahh. You have questioned our integrity. My integrity. Since we are not your subordinates yet, this normally leads to a weaponless duel, combatives in your military language. The loser is the one unable to continue the duel, and it has led to death on occasion, depending on the severity of the injuries. Our contract was complete. I asked the commander and owner of our last mercenary unit to notify the commander of Salvage Fleet of our desire to come to this system and if he would provide a…‘reference,’ I believe is the word. I was instructed to come to Bank Town on the planet Salvage and speak to you.”
Nate realized he had erred in a major way. He wanted this squad in his unit, but might have lost face before they ever even signed the contract. Thinking quickly about what he knew of the race and their tendencies, and the way they viewed leadership, he hoped what he said next would go a long way toward correcting his error.
“Forgive me,” Nate said. “As much as I relish the idea of a good combatives match against a worthy opponent, I meant no insult. It’s a standard question asked of all with prior military experience. Every applicant regardless of race is asked that question.”
“If that is standard operational procedure in your unit, I accept your apology, sir,” the Taylahh said.
Without showing his relief, the commander of the Bolts had to continue repairing the damage in the potential troops’ eyes. “Besides, after I fought you, I would’ve had to fight the other five, and the whole morning would be lost, throwing me off my schedule. I’m due to inspect the new tank model proposed for the Armor Company at 1100.”
Several of the members of the squad tilted their heads at hearing this from the human. The leader of the small unit’s eyes widened. The huge Taylahh looked over to PFC Zarmlon. With a straight face, she tilted her head slightly, pursed her lips, and nodded several times, confirming the fact that Captain Brink would fight all six duels.
Changing the subject as if it was no longer important, Nate asked, “May I have your names and the positions you held in your old unit?”
Caught off guard, the leader said, “Sir, I am Muraingo. I was a Chaag. Behind me in the first position in formation is Tylinga, a Droog. The others held no rank. Their names are Bornlago, Narmango, Kaptinga, and Dooringo, the squad rapid gunner.”
“A Chaag?” Nat asked. “Is that an officer rank?” He hoped Muraingo understood the difference or the translator could help with that.
Chaag Muraingo looked back to PFC Zarmlon. Though she had one side of her face tattooed with rippling blue lightning bolts, as the captain did, he could see she was wrinkling her nose as if she smelled something. “No, sir, it’s not an officer rank. I believe it is equal to a sergeant in human units. Besides, I work for a living,” he said with a straight face.
“I see,” Nate said, grinning at a saying almost as old as organized militaries—human ones anyway. “Do you or your fellow Taylahh have a problem taking direction and orders from females, as well as males holding positions of authority?”
Droog Tylinga, the first Taylahh standing in the rank behind Chaag Muraingo, spoke up in a more feminine voice. A deep voice, but decidedly feminine. “They better not, sir, or I will provide them with enough physical training they will wish the thought of insubordination had never entered their thick skulls.”
“Physical training is an acceptable form of corrective training to ensure a troop learns from their mistake,” Nate agreed with her as he slowly nodded his head.
After a moment he turned serious. “Before I offer a contract to any potential Bolt, I have to ensure they understand what it means to be a member of this unit. I admit, I don’t know much of your race or your culture. Nor do I know the culture in your last unit. However, I will tell you of this unit’s culture and what it means to be a Bolt.”
All six sets of eyes were on Captain Nathan Brink now. “This unit is full of brothers and sisters. I don’t mean that literally; it’s more of a kindred. Regardless of race, regardless of sex, the members of this unit treat each other like family. They may act like siblings at times, call each other names, play practical jokes on each other, and they may even fight among themselves occasionally. Now I say ‘they,’ but you should know I’m included.
“But,” he continued, “no one outside this unit will get away with that, I can assure you. Everyone in this unit understands that we each chose this profession. We know not everyone will come home from every mission. Everyone also knows that each and every one of us will do everything we can do to improve ourselves and our skills so we can ensure every one of us has a fighting chance to make it back.”
Captain Brink looked up and over his shoulder. “Private First Class Zarmlon?”
“Sir!” Zarmlon shouted, snapping to attention.
“What do I say to the entire unit once we’re assembled in the transport ship to catch up with the fleet?” he asked.
“Sir, you tell us…” Zarmlon paused a moment reflecting. Then, in a regular voice and not the loud voice of a private answering her commander, she said, “…you would die for us. You would die for your brothers and sisters.”
“Neither I nor any of my leaders will ever ask any Bolt to do something we wouldn’t do ourselves,” Nate said. “If you wish to join this unit and earn the Lightning, you must be committed to the Bolts and your brothers and sisters. Will you lay down your life without hesitation to provide cover for them?”
Nate paused one more time and then said, “There’s no shame in walking away now. Not every being can give that kind of commitment. It’s more than honoring your contract and doing your j
ob, more than covering your field of fire, or attacking and defending against an enemy. That’s doing your job. This is so much more.
“We take pride in training harder than the regular Ground Force. An interview is conducted to determine intelligence, personality, strength, stamina, and intestinal fortitude. We then offer a contract and training to see if a new recruit can make it, or if one with prior service has the right stuff.
“We don’t expect a new troop to be the strongest or the fastest,” he continued. “We’ll help you get stronger and faster. We don’t expect a troop to be an expert shot on the various weapons we may use. We can train you to shoot well. We don’t expect a troop to be an expert in the mixed style combatives we utilize. We can train you to become one. We don’t expect a troop to already be familiar with the various occupations within the unit. We’ll train you on the equipment you’ll be issued and operate. We want you to give it everything you have, and more. If it becomes too much or you can’t pass the unit standards, the contract can be fulfilled in the regular Ground Forces. There’s no shame in that. The Ground Forces are full of outstanding troops.”
He paused a moment before continuing with a look that could be defined as deadly serious, even to races outside of humanity. “We do expect you to understand the commitment it takes to wear the Lightning Tattoo that every member of the unit bears on their face, and we do expect you to be committed to the Bolts.”
“I will ask you again,” Captain Nathan Brink said, the seriousness in his voice unmistakable even for those with only the basic grasp of Earth Common, “knowing they would die for their brothers and sisters, will you die for them?”
* * *
Bridge
Desert Shade
“Hey, Nate, what’s up?” Marteen said when he answered his comms.
“We’re gonna need a bigger mech,” Captain Nathan Brink said, using the screen on his desk as he made the video call.
“What?” Captain Marteen Yatarward asked, leaning back in his command chair with his hands behind his shoulder-length green hair, looking at a similar screen on his ship. “Bigger than the heavy mechs the Yalteen and Withaloo use? You’re not serious, are you?” Seeing the look on the commander of the specialty unit, Marteen sighed. “How much bigger?”
Nathan had called Marteen, not only because Marteen was a ship commander in Salvage Fleet, but also because he was the owner of Yatarward Industries back in the Tretra System. He had others running the company and only checked in every now and then, but he was the sole owner. It wasn’t a public company. For Marteen, the credit he made was irrelevant. He had no family back in that system. His family was the members of Salvage Fleet, including Nate and his unit.
“Bigger than your techs can produce with the facility you set up here on Salvage,” Nate admitted. Marteen and his company had provided a replicator and several other pieces of equipment necessary to build mechs, and set up a satellite assembly line on the planet Salvage. “The lead technician advised me to call you and see what you can do.”
“Well, if Ferdinand says he can’t do it,” Marteen said, “then it can’t be done here in Salvage System. Who is it for?”
“I just enlisted an entire squad of Taylahh,” Nate answered proudly.
“What!” Marteen exclaimed, sitting up in his command seat on the bridge of Desert Shade, a light battlecruiser. “Where did they come from?”
“They were part of the merc company that relieved us in the Barlat System,” Nate said. “Their contracts were up, and they decided to leave their unit and come to Salvage. They have experience, and they were intrigued by the mechs. Apparently their commander spoke with the commodore before they left and ensured there were no hard feelings.”
“Well, Rick Kashka vouched for their commander and the whole unit,” Lieutenant Nicholson interjected from over Marteen’s shoulder. The ship’s executive officer was a friend of Nate’s, too. “I don’t doubt he was a part of the conversation, too.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right, Big Nick, ” Nate agreed. “So, do you think you can help me out?”
“How large are they again?” Marteen asked.
“The smallest of them is nine feet tall.” Nate grinned as he said it. “Their squad leader, Muraingo, is ten feet, but that isn’t the biggest issue. The width of their shoulders and the length of their arms has to be considered…that and their weight and low center of gravity.”
“They’re a big race of beings, that’s for sure,” Marteen said. “Ask Ferdinand to take some measurements and send them back to the main plant on Tretra. I’ll send them a message and tell them to give Ferdinand what he asks for. Wait. Forget that. Have him shoot the numbers to me. Give me a couple days. I want to put together a small committee and see what type of design they come up with.”
“You’re not!” Nate laughed.
“Oh, I am,” Marteen confirmed. “I know four male Leethogs, a couple of Prithmar, a Smitok, and a young AI and his dad who should be able to come up with something new. Something so outrageous that Harmon will love it.”
Big Nick raised his eyebrows at hearing what his commander said. He knew two of the male Leethogs Marteen was talking about were part of their ship’s crew. Not only were they more than a handful as far as reckless inquisitiveness, they were incredible repair technicians. Whenever they got together with Hank and Stan, two of Harmon’s associates, it was always a nerve-wracking time. What they built was usually beneficial to the System and the Fleet, but occasionally Jayneen had to get involved as she monitored what they were doing, and inform Harmon and Clip so they could stop the experiment before someone got hurt, or worse.
“Hey, as long as I have mechs for the six of them to climb into and wreak havoc, I’m good,” the Bolts’ commander said. “Now I just have to figure out what to do about my obstacle course. They can reach up and grab the top of walls that are meant to be climbed by a rope. Plus the walls won’t hold their weight. Gunny can already breeze over them with his new legs. Maybe he can work out on one I have built for them. Man, this adds more to my to-do list.”
“You should try keeping an entire ship’s crew fully trained, its equipment repaired, maintenance up to date, and everything else I have to do in a light battlecruiser.” Marteen laughed.
“Light battlecruiser? I heard you’re getting even more responsibilities, a squadron or something, and one of the heavies,” Nate said. “Big Nick will probably get your ship. Talk to you later.” The link cut.
“Wait! What?” Marteen said, standing and looking at the blank screen. Rumor control had been hard at work all around him, and he hadn’t even known. Seeing the near panic on his XO’s face, he turned toward the front of his bridge. Big Nick had been trained as an enlisted Marine. He was still learning how to be an officer, much less command an entire ship. Marteen had no doubt he could do it; convincing his XO of that was another story. “If this isn’t low tide, then I don’t know what is. Comms, get me the commodore!”
* * * * *
Chapter Four
Conference Room
Salvage Title
“What?” Harmon said to his caller. “Let me hear you say that again. Wait, hold on.” Harmon Tomeral, as the president of Salvage System, commander of all the military forces in the system, and one of the actual owners of it, had thought he’d heard it all, but he couldn’t believe what he’d just been told.
“Clip!” Harmon called out across the conference room on Salvage Title, the flagship of the system. Clip looked over to his best friend and near brother. They were meeting to figure out where to place the newly repaired ships salvaged from the battle in Barlat System. He’d just finished a conversation with Marteen, letting him know he had command of six ships in a task force now. “You gotta hear what Captain Brink told me about the Taylahh. Zerith, you too. Come here.” Harmon couldn’t help but laugh as he called them over.
“Ok,” Harmon said to the image on the slate on the large table, “tell me again.”
“Oh, sure, sir
,” Nate said. “Bring them all around so they can see. Actually, I don’t mind. Is Gunny there too?”
“No,” Harmon said. “He’s on Windswept, now that he’s back on regular duty. It’s a good thing, too, I had to move his second, Staff Sergeant Clyde, to head up the Marine contingent on one of the new refitted ships. Anyway, you were saying?”
“Apparently,” Nate said to the group, “I questioned their integrity when I asked to confirm they weren’t AWOL.”
“Dude!” Clip exclaimed. “What the frost were you thinking? They like, duel and stuff to settle honor disputes.”
“It wass not a wisse quesstion,” agreed Zerith, stretching his sibilants as all Prithmar did when speaking Earth Common, as he looked down and then back up while peeling a bright green piece of fruit. “That iss a good way to get hurt.”
“I don’t think even Hank and Stan would have asked that question,” Clip added, laughing as he referred to the Timoltal brothers. They were Leethog, a marsupial race, and like all the males of their race, they were too inquisitive for their own good.
“That’s not the best part, you guys,” Harmon said. “Tell them the rest, Nate.”
“Well, to apologize, I let them know it’s standard procedure to ask that question of every being with prior military experience,” Nate continued, “but I also had to save face.”
“Man, what did you tell them?” Clip asked.
“Yess, thiss iss getting good,” Zerith prodded. He popped in a piece of fruit and started chewing.
“I told the Chaag, which is a sergeant, that I don’t mind a good round of combatives, especially with a worthy opponent,” Nate said.
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