“You turned me down, and Simms did the same thing yesterday. Adams doesn’t want the job, and the UN won’t let a gunnery sergeant serve as executive officer anyway. I have a list of candidates,” I nudged a stack of paper folders on the corner of my desk.
He looked at the stack, which was more than a foot tall. “Good luck with that,” he laughed. He knew the tough part of choosing an XO was the international politics involved. That was why the UN had allowed me to give an opinion of who should get the assignment, they wanted to blame me if some country’s favorite candidate was not selected.
Politics. I hate politics.
He picked up both our coffee mugs and stood up to leave. “I see the United States believes we won’t find any trouble out there on this mission.”
“Huh?” I had no idea what he meant.
He pointed to my rank insignia. “You are no longer wearing war eagles.”
“Oh,” I automatically touched the silver eagle that was the insignia of a colonel. The eagle was clutching arrows in one talon, and olive branches in the other. Normally, the eagle’s head was turned to face the olive branches, symbolizing that America preferred peaceful solutions. During World War Two, and after Columbus Day, colonels had been issued ‘War Eagles’, with the head turned to face the arrows. I had worn my war eagles since I was promoted to colonel on Paradise. Recently, I had been supplied with new insignia with the head turned the other way, toward a peaceful future. The Army did not anticipate, and did not want, any conflict with aliens. Considering my experience fighting aliens with vastly superior technology, I agreed with that hopeful sentiment.
But I also knew the Universe might have a different idea of how the future would unfold.
“Hello Colonel Tammy!” Skippy’s voice boomed out of the speakers in the hydroponics garden, raising his voice to be heard above the sound of pumps and fans. The cargo bays used for growing food were normally quiet places, but the tanks had been cleaned and were being set up for growing another crop of fresh food.
“Skippy,” she replied without looking up from the tomato seedlings she was planting. “You know I hate being called that.”
“Why?” He asked innocently. “It is your name.”
“Tammy is my first name, and I haven’t used that name since I was old enough to talk. I was named after my mother’s aunt, and I never liked that name, or my great-aunt. Please use my middle name like everyone else does.”
“Ok,” he sulked. “Colonel Jennifer.”
“Just Jennifer, Ok? I’m busy,” she was irritated that the AI was interrupting the half hour she had to herself. “What do you want?”
“Well, I checked the roster, and I see that Frank Muller is coming with us to search for a beta site.”
That got her attention. She set down the box of seedlings and looked up at the speaker. “Yes, he is. Why do you care?”
“Oh, come on, girlfriend, give me the scoop about this guy. Is-”
“You and I are not girlfriends, and I’m not telling you about my private life. What we-”
“Please, I already know plenty from your social media posts. And from the location data of your phones, I know the two of you have been living together since-”
“You have been spying on me?” She was outraged.
“No. Um, I’m guessing there isn’t anything I can say that would make me look good?”
“No there is not. You can’t do that, Skippy. It’s bad enough that you watch everything we do aboard the ship. When we go dirtside, we are off duty most of the time.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, sounding completely miserable. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”
“What?” She looked up again, startled. “Skippy, thank you for being concerned about me, but I’m an adult. I can handle my own life. Frank is a good man. He volunteered to search for a beta site, so we wouldn’t be apart for six months. I wouldn’t be going without him.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, everything I know about Mister Muller tells me he is a good guy. I wish the two of you the very best.”
“Thank you. No more spying, is that understood?”
“Um, yes, except there is something I should tell you.”
She sighed. “What is it?”
“Frank got a gift that he plans to give you, after we land on a potential beta site planet. I don’t quite understand monkey social rules, but I think you might be embarrassed if you don’t have a gift for him?”
“Ooh, yes. I would. Darn it, I’m not scheduled to go back down to Earth before we leave.”
“You probably don’t want to know what he got for you?”
“No, I want it to be a surprise.”
“Ok. If you like, I can suggest several gifts that he might like, based on his internet search history. I can have something discretely shipped up here.”
Jennifer Simms decided that having an AI watching her might have one advantage, which still did not balance the downside. “Send the list to me.”
“Hey, Skippy,” I called him, while leaning back in my chair and bouncing a rubber ball off the ceiling of my office.
“Hey, Joe,” he snapped, irritated. His avatar had its hands on hips as it shimmered to life. It was a bad sign that he was already pissed at me, before he knew what I wanted.
“Wow.” I let the chair pull me upright, and tucked the ball in a drawer of my desk. “What’s got you wound up already?”
“UGH,” he really put a lot of effort into his utter and absolute disgust at whatever was bothering him. First, his heartfelt, exasperated sigh. Second was the eyeroll, and he did a great job of making his avatar roll its eyes back so the whites were showing, I appreciated that little attention to detail. Finally, he performed a combination shoulder-slump and knee dip that would have earned him a Ten from the judges at the Exasperation Olympics. “The Three Stooges have been driving me freakin’ crazy, Joe! They are not even aboard the ship yet, and I am already hating life. Just this morning, they-”
“Uh huh,” I popped into my mouth a chocolate, that I had noticed when I opened the desk drawer. From the slightly chalky taste, it has been hiding in the back of that drawer since our SpecOps mission. The caramel at the center was so hard, I had trouble chewing it. “Ignore them,” I suggested. Or, I tried to say that, but it was hard to talk with my mouth full.
“What?” He glared at me. “I couldn’t understand a single word you said.”
“Sorry,” I tucked the candy to one side of my mouth. “I said, ignore them.”
“Ig- ignore them? How, pray tell, do you propose that I-”
“It’s simple. When they talk, you don’t listen.”
His disgust was now directed at me, which I suppose was progress. “That’s easy for you to say, monkeybrain.”
“I know you listen to almost everyone and everything aboard the ship. How about you throw together a submind to listen to them, and alert your higher conscious only when the Stooges have something actually important to say?”
“Huh,” the avatar froze, a sign that he was too busy thinking to control the hologram. “That’s Ok for me, but, and I can’t believe I am saying this, doing that would put me in a moral quandary.”
“Uh, what?” My surprise was not much that ignoring three bureaucrats might have moral implications, because I kind of didn’t care about that. What surprised me was that Skippy was apparently thinking about the effect of his actions on others.
“See?! I knew learning that empathy crap would come back to bite me in the ass.”
“Having empathy makes you a better person.”
“Really? Really, Joe? Think about this; if Genghis Khan had worried about ‘empathy’,” he pronounced the word with disgust, “would he have conquered most of Eurasia? I don’t think so.”
“Um, laying waste to half the world is maybe not the best criteria for-”
“He was living up to his potential, Joe. Being the best bloodthirsty barbarian he could be. Isn’t that people are supposed to do,
become the best version of themselves? I saw that bullshit on an inspirational poster somewhere.”
“Uhhh-” Shit. Why does my mouth get me started on arguments I can’t get out of? So, I did the cowardly thing and tried to change the subject. “Regardless, you did study about empathy and it’s now making you worry about other people, so what’s the problem?”
“The first problem does not involve ‘people’, Joe. I would feel terrible for any poor innocent little submind that I assigned to listen to those three morons. The submind would curl up in a ball and die of boredom and despair.”
“I didn’t think subminds had emotions.”
“They do, if they need emotional processors to perform their tasks, duh. Deciding whether to alert me about some inane request from the Stooges requires a subjective decision, so the submind would need to understand and analyze human behavior, including emotions.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“If you mean sorry for your ignorance, then apology accepted. Speaking of which,” he sighed and his avatar face-palmed itself. “If I ignore our honored guests, I would have to apologize to you, you big knucklehead.”
“Uh, what? Why?”
“Because if I ignore them, those three morons would bring their complaints to you, and pester you to death.”
I shrugged. “Ok, no problem.”
“To quote you, ‘Uh, what’? How is that not a problem for you?”
“Skippy, I want those puffed-up bureaucrats to focus their outraged indignation on me. I say, bring it on.” Too many times, the people saying ‘bring it on’ are just playing tough guy, because they know someone else will have to pay the consequences. My father told me not to let my mouth write checks that someone else needs to cash, that was great advice. When I said ‘bring it on’, I meant it. “Listen, Skippy, I am captain of this ship. We could be stuck with these three jokers for six months,” that was the maximum time the UN would allow the Dutchman to be away from Earth. “I need to work out an agreement with them about how much crap I’m willing to take, and I’d prefer to do that sooner rather than later. So,” I took a deep breath. “Ignore them unless it is something truly important, and let them come to me with their complaints. Then I can ignore them,” I leaned back in my chair with satisfaction.
“Seriously, Joe?”
“Seriously. I am not going to push them off on someone else, like my second-in-command.”
“This ship doesn’t have an executive officer right now,” he reminded me.
“Yeah, I know. I’m working on it. We will have an XO before we leave, and I do not intend for the Stooges to pester whoever that is. So, are we cool?”
“We cool,” he offered me a tiny fist to bump, and I did. “Mm hmm,” he cleared his throat.
“What?”
“You called me, Joe.”
“Oh, yeah. I want to know how you’re doing on this epic opera you are creating, about your bromance with Brock Steele.”
“We did not have a bromance, Joe.”
“Are you kidding? I’m surprised you two don’t have a gift registry set up at Crate & Barrel.”
“Ooooh,” his avatar almost had steam coming out of its ears. “That is not-”
“Truly, I’m happy for the two of you. I feel sorry for Brock, but he got himself into-”
“That is not funny!”
“I bought candlesticks for you two, by the way. Hope you like them.”
“Why are you still jealous of Brock?” He tilted his head with genuine interest. “I thought the two of you were cool now?”
“Yeah, we’re cool. He is a good guy,” I admitted. “Anyway, what’s the deal with your opera?” I wanted to know, because I had foolishly promised him that I would attend the opera if he was ever able to get someone to perform it.
“The opera is called ‘Homefront’, and it is about our unexpected adventure here, not just about my admiration for Brock.”
“It was a disaster, Skippy, not an adventure.”
“Same thing,” he dismissed me.
“The president authorized a nuclear strike on Dayton Ohio. That is not an ‘adventure’.”
He dipped his knees and made a ‘W’ with thumbs and index fingers of both hands. “What-eh-VER. You know what I mean, dumdum. Anywho, I have found a sponsor for my opera,” he sniffed haughtily. “We are currently seeking a suitable venue, a conductor, and-”
“Um,” I was afraid to ask the question. “Your sponsor. Do they know they are sponsoring this transformational work of art? Or did you rip off a crime syndicate in some troubled part of the world?”
“Yes, they know they are sponsoring the opera, you cultureless cretin. And, they are enthusiastic about it,” he sniffed.
“I am sure there was a furious bidding war to sponsor this opera,” I dug a thumbnail into my palm to keep myself from laughing. “Who is the lucky winner?”
“I am pleased to say my very prestigious sponsor is,” he paused for dramatic effect. “The Greater Sheboygan Metropolitan Area Cheese Council.”
“The cheese-” I tried to conceal my snort of laughter as a gasp of surprise. “Why would they-”
“They’re desperate for publicity, Joe. Duh. Come on, try to keep up.”
“Well, I-” I think my thumbnail had drawn blood. “I am very happy for you. Uh, when will we be treated to the premiere?” I was hoping to be offworld, in a Kristang prison or dead at that time.
“Not until we return from scouting for a beta site, obviously. No way can I leave something this important to a submind.”
“Well, then, I hope we find a beta site soon,” I assured him. And by ‘soon’, I meant ‘never’. “Ok, we’ve got Chang, we’ve got Simms, we’ve got Reed signed on. We’re getting the band back together, Skippy!”
“What about-”
“Do not jinx it, beer can!” I interrupted him. “I’m working on it, Ok?”
CHAPTER FOUR
Gunnery Sergeant Margaret Adams stood in the hot sunshine, at the Expeditionary Airfield of the Marine Corps Mountain Warfare Training Center, waiting for a V-22 Osprey to land. In the Sierra Mountains of California, the air was dry but it was still hot, and the acrid smoke of wildfires to the northwest were creating a haze in the otherwise clear air.
The awkward-looking tilt-rotor aircraft was flaring for landing, its giant propellers rotating to the vertical position, and the unique sound thumped on her chest like a drum. After it touched down, it taxied over in front of the hangar and the engines cut off with a low-pitched whine. The major in command of the unit called everyone to attention, and Adams looked straight ahead, as the side door opened and Lieutenant Colonel Smythe stepped out to acknowledge the crisp salutes of the assembled Marines.
“Major Dobrynin,” Smythe gave a curt nod to the Raider commander, then strode forward to stand in front of Adams. “Gunnery Sergeant?” He asked, a mildly puzzled look on his face. “Why have you not donned your kit? It was my understanding the exercise would commence immediately,” he said with an irritated look at Major Dobrynin. Smythe hated ceremony, and he hated the idea of troops standing around waiting for him.
“Sir, I,” her eyes darted to the Marine Raiders assembled to her left side, all properly dressed for a field exercise in the mountains. She was wearing a dress uniform, her medals shining in the sunlight.
Dobrynin answered for her. “Gunnery Sergeant Adams has not qualified for the Raiders,” he explained. “That is a prerequisite for-”
“Bollocks,” Smythe interrupted. “That means ‘bullshit’ to you Yanks. The United Nations placed the Special Tactics Assault Regiment under my command,” he tapped the STAR unit patch on his uniform. “I will decide who is and is not qualified for my unit. Is that clear, Major?” He knew he was being unfair to a dedicated officer, but he simply did not have time for any nonsense. The Kristang attack on Wright-Patterson Air Force Base had come as a total shock to the world, and proved that no one knew when or where the next crisis would erupt. The only thing Jeremy Smythe was c
ertain of was that there would be another crisis, and STAR was the sharp end of the spear. He needed to get teams up to speed as quickly as possible, and if that meant bruising some egos along the way, so be it. Without waiting for Dobrynin to reply, he turned his attention back to Adams. “Gunnery Sergeant, you are out of uniform. Get out of that ridiculous prom dress and meet us,” he realized he didn’t know the plans for the exercise. “Er, where is your armor stored?”
“I will show you, Colonel,” Dobrynin offered, with a gesture to a waiting line of trucks.
“Very well. Adams, meet us there. Major, I have not been here in several years, and there were three meters of snow on the ground back then. I believe the trailhead for Wells Peak is around ten kilometers up that road?” he pointed up the mountain behind the hangar.
“Approximately, yes,” the Major acknowledged.
“Excellent. The team will carry their armor, plus full kit, to the trailhead,” Smythe said, knowing full well how much Kristang armor weighed. “Gunnery Sergeant, do you think you can manage that?”
Adams’s eyes narrowed with determination. While serving with the Merry Band of Pirates, she had carried heavier loads on her back, and carried them farther than a mere stroll of ten klicks. “Hell yes, Colonel.”
Smythe gave her a curt nod, then allowed Dobrynin to lead him into one of the waiting vehicles. “Major, a STAR team fights in powered armor, that is the only way we can even the odds up there,” he gestured toward the sky with an index finger. “In a mech suit, experience counts for more than any other factor. Your Raiders may be supremely fit and trained, but that does not mean they know how to fight with the assistance of alien technology. We will see how Adams does, hmm?”
Adams joined the Raiders for the exercise, which ranged far and wide across the Training Center. She was just as fast at scaling mountains and running the obstacle course, and- No, that wasn’t right. She was significantly faster than the others, because she instinctively knew when to let her suit computer control the motions of her legs, and almost as important, she had learned to trust the alien equipment. In the live-fire portion of the exercise, she scored in the top ten percent for accuracy.
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