by J. L. Doty
York asked, “What happened to the last gunner? He get killed or something?”
Jack shook his head. “No, just didn’t make a good gunner. Couldn’t get over being exposed in the turret. He’s a good marine, though.”
Sissy was Three’s nose gunner, Chunks the portside gunner, and Jack the tail gunner. About an hour later, York climbed into Three’s starboard side turret, strapped in, and keyed the helmet on his vac suit. It extruded out of the stiff collar of the suit, enveloping his head in a visored helmet. He booted the pod’s system and ran it through a precombat check.
When they cut gravity in Three Bay York’s stomach rose up into his throat. He’d forgotten to activate the turret’s internal gravity field, and did so now. The voice of Three’s pilot, Corporal Rodma, came through his headset. “It’s gonna be a compensated drop all the way down, so no hi-gee necessary.”
As part of York’s training under the marines, Cochran had him try a dose of hi-gee a couple of tendays ago just to see how he handled it. The high-G compensation drug affected some people with a slight, euphoric high, but York had felt nothing.
One of the marines said, “Aw, you’re no fun.”
York recognized Cochran’s voice when she said, “Shut up, Thorp.”
They killed the lights as the whine of the pumps echoed through the hull, evacuating Three Bay. Butterflies fluttered through York’s stomach when he heard a loud clatter, then the doors of the service bay parted just a crack, and a faint mist filled the bay as the vacuum of space sucked out what little air remained.
“Stay calm, Ballin,” Cochran said. “Just a milk run. Nothing to worry about.”
The gap in the doors of the service bay widened, and York saw the pinprick lights of a few stars on the black background of space. Then the stars slid to one side as Dauntless maneuvered, and the harsh glare of the nearby sun filled the widening gap between the doors. Three Bay had turned into a black and white world of bright glare and sharp shadows.
Because the internal gravity fields compensated for all motion, York didn’t feel anything when Three’s service gantry telescoped the gunboat toward the open bay doors, though he got to listen to whining servos. The gantry released Three with a loud clang just as they reached the doors, and the gunboat floated away from its service bay. The screens in York’s turret showed the massive hull of Dauntless as Three drifted away from her. Then Rodma cut in the gunboat’s grav drive, and the transition ship dwindled into the distance.
“Turrets out,” Rodma said.
He recognized Sissy’s voice when she said, “Time to rock and roll.”
York’s turret slid forward on telescoping supports, putting his turret pod two meters beyond the hull of the gunboat. He now had an unobscured line of fire over far more than a hemisphere.
York put a navigation summary in the corner of one of the turret’s screens. It provided a lot of information, but all he understood was that they were two thousand kilometers outside the planet’s atmosphere. At that distance, it was a huge sphere that almost filled his field of view, and there wasn’t much to see beyond large landmasses and several bodies of water.
“What’s this place called?” one of the marines asked.
Rodma said, “It’s the Thealoma system. Planet’s just a number: Thealoma Two.”
“No prime station,” someone said. “Must be a real backwater place.”
“It was in feddie hands until a year ago, and they’ve still got sympathizers down there.”
Cochran said, “You turret gunners listen up. Intel says some of the sympathizers are hostile, might have some lightweight surface-to-air stuff, but nothing that’ll reach outside atmosphere. We’re still far enough out we got nothing to worry about yet, but intel’s been wrong before, so stay alert.”
Milk run or not, this was real, and the butterflies in York’s stomach wouldn’t allow him to relax. He’d promised Sissy, Jack, and Chunks he wouldn’t fuck up, and he hoped dearly he could keep that promise.
The planet slowly grew larger on his screens, then filled his field of view completely. Twenty minutes later as Three dropped down into the outer atmosphere, he could make out large cities. He tried not to gawk, tried to stay focused on the job.
When Three leveled off at an altitude of ten kilometers, York turned off his internal gravity field just to feel something. When the boat hit a little turbulence, he noticed that the image in his screens didn’t shake with the motion of the craft. The images were compensated as well.
“Ballin,” Cochran said. “Why’d you kill your grav field?”
“Sorry, Sergeant, just experimenting.”
York switched his grav field on.
One and Three settled down on the concrete apron of a large landing field, and Rodma said, “We’re zoned.”
York didn’t relax until Rodma retracted his turret and Cochran said, “Ballin, shut her down, come on out and stretch your legs a bit.”
York keyed his helmet to retract into the suit collar and climbed out of the turret, saw the other gunners climbing out of theirs.
“Keep the suit on,” Rodma told him. “We’re only going to be here a couple hours.”
Sissy, Jack, and Chunks sat down to play cards.
The hatch in the side of the gunboat was an open invitation to breathe real air. “Can I step outside?”
“Sure, kid. But don’t wander away from the boat.”
York stepped out onto the concrete of the landing field just as two large trucks pulled away. For the first time in months, he stood on the surface of a planet beneath a blue sky—it actually had a slightly pinkish tint—with hazy clouds obscuring a sun a little too red. Cochran had deployed one squad of marines as a ring of armed guards around the two boats. York learned that the trucks were carrying the other squad as an armed escort for the spooks.
“Spooks?” York asked.
“Ya,” Rodma said. “Covert ops. This place is unstable as hell. Got every kind of faction you can imagine, all trying to kill each other off.”
The war! York didn’t know anything about the war. It had simply been in the background noise of his life, something far away and not of any great concern. Why think of the war when Maja’s next unpalatable meal was of far greater concern? He wondered if Rodma might know a thing or two, and was trying to think of a question to ask him when the pilot suddenly glanced about, looked at York, and his eyes narrowed. “Want to have some fun?”
“Like what?” York asked.
“Come with me.”
Rodma stepped through the hatch back into the boat. York followed him as he made his way to the cockpit where a woman sat dozing in the copilot’s seat. “Look lively, Meg,” Rodma said.
Meg opened her eyes and blinked several times. “Wah?”
“Kid’s gonna get a driving lesson.”
Meg had shoulder-length auburn hair tied into a utilitarian ponytail. She lifted herself out of the seat and regarded York with dark brown eyes. “He’s a driver?”
“Not yet,” Rodma said, dropping down into the pilot’s seat. “But he scored pretty high on the sims. Let’s see what he can do for real.”
York’s heart fluttered as he said, “Me, drive the boat?”
“Don’t worry,” Meg said as she pushed him down into the copilot’s seat. “You can’t crash this thing, especially with Rodma next to you.”
Sissy, Jack, and Chunks gathered behind her, peering over her shoulder. Jack said, “You never let me drive.”
“You’re damn right,” Rodma said. “Not with your sim scores.”
York gripped the control yoke as Meg left to tell the squad guarding the boats to spread out a bit. She and Rodma seemed to think this would be a real lark, but as York’s gut tightened, he didn’t share their sense of adventure.
“Don’t crush the yoke,” Rodma said. “Relax.”
York’
s knuckles had turned white, so he let go of the yoke and flexed his fingers.
Jack said, “Bet his dick turns white like that when he fucks.”
Rodma hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “You three go back and strap down. Probably going to shake and rattle a little while the kid’s learning.”
He looked at York. “Okay, let’s get this boat hot. You do it. I’ll watch.”
York heard the hatch slam shut as he brought the boat’s systems up, and Meg leaned over him a moment later. “So far, so good. Seems to know what he’s doing.”
“Now,” Rodma said, “simple lift, straight up, and hover at about a meter.”
York made sure the attitude yoke was neutral, then gripped the thrust stick beside his acceleration couch. Stay calm, he thought, move slowly. He applied the tiniest bit of power to the boat’s underbelly grav fields and nothing happened. He increased the power slightly and still nothing.
“He’s cautious,” Meg said. York glanced up at her and she added, “That’s a good thing, York.”
York applied more power in tiny increments until the boat lurched and lifted off the concrete. It startled him, and he cut the power. The boat settled softly back to the concrete.
Rodma and Meg had him try again, and the next time he lifted the boat and held it at one meter. The gunners cheered. The pilots made him lift and settle back down repeatedly, until he felt comfortable doing it, and he began to relax. They were hovering at one meter when Rodma said, “Now this is the tough part. This boat’s so heavily gyroed and compensated, anyone can do this. Let’s see how you do on full manual.”
He reached out and hit a switch on the console in front of him. The computer said, Disabling stability controls is not—
Rodma gripped his thrust stick and control yoke as he interrupted it, “Override, override, override.”
The boat canted to the right side, York compensated, overdid it, and the boat swung to the left. He overcompensated again and swung back to the right, then York’s controls suddenly went dead and the boat leveled off. Rodma had taken control.
York said, “Sorry.”
“No,” Meg said. “You did good, kid.”
They tried again, and the next time York managed to stabilize the boat and hold it hovering on full manual control.
Meg said, “Kid’s a fucking natural.”
York beamed with pride, lost his concentration, and the boat canted to one side.
Rodma had York doing simple attitude maneuvers with the boat hovering at about ten meters, moving the boat forward and backward, right and left, all on full manual control. They’d been at it for a couple of hours when the trucks returned from the embassy. York climbed back into his turret, and the gunboats lifted into the air to return to Dauntless.
He’d learned that the marines were always looking for good boat drivers, and his scores on the sims had been good enough to earn him the chance to try it for real. And he’d done well enough that Rodma and Meg were going to recommend that Shernov accelerate his pilot training.
As the boat lifted higher into Thealoma Two’s atmosphere, York ignored the view and daydreamed about making a real life for himself in the navy. Maybe he could get promoted to something better than spacer apprentice. He was thinking on that when the turret’s alert klaxon blared at him. Incoming, the computer said, and two red blips appeared on his screens, identifying two missiles arcing toward them, trailing plumes of rocket smoke behind them.
York’s heart pounded up into his throat and he knew he was going to screw this up. He focused his eyes on one of the targets, and following his eye movements the computer marked it with a tracking reticle. He swung his turret toward it, locked a target designator onto it, and fired a short burst of smart rounds. Trust the target designator and the smart rounds, his training had told him time and again.
He swung the turret toward the other target, now ignoring the first, locked another target designator onto it, and fired another burst. The alert klaxon was still screaming at him when both targets blossomed into small suns much too soon for his second burst to have reached the target. One of the other gunners had killed the second target, and his second burst of rounds trailed off harmlessly.
The klaxon went silent, and the only sound in the turret was the pounding of his heart.
“Nice shooting, Ballin,” someone said.
Sissy said, “And almost a twofer on his first time out.”
Chunks said, “Ya, girl. I think he was targeted pretty good. If you hadn’t taken that second one out, it would have been a twofer.”
He recognized Meg’s voice. “Kid’s a natural.”
Cath said, “Wonder if he can do a twofer when he gets his real cherry popped.”
Even though he was alone and no one could see him, he blushed.
Chapter 8:
A Throwaway
York had barely stripped out of his vac suit when Cath and Bristow cornered him. They were in a festive mood as Cath said, “Come with us, kid.”
They took him into the armory where they stored their combat harnesses and weapons, an area off-limits to everyone but marines. They led him through an outer room with racks of grav rifles and crates of other weapons, and into a strange space where human-shaped suits of plast hung in rows on rails suspended from the overhead deck. “We’ll use mine,” Cath said. “I’m only a little bigger than him.”
She stopped at a row of suits, hit a switch, and the suits cycled past them.
Only once before had York seen full-combat plast armor, the day he’d received fifty strokes of the lash. He’d been too frightened then to pay much attention, had only noticed the mottled gray-black finish on the plast and the silvery glare of the helmet visor. There still wasn’t much more than that to see.
Cath stopped the track at a particular suit. She muscled it off the track and said, “Here.” She threw it over York’s shoulder.
To his surprise, it weighed a lot less than he expected. “It’s not so heavy,” he said as he followed her into the outer room.
“By itself, the plast isn’t much,” she told him. “But when we feed power into it, it’ll stop some serious firepower. It’s the reactor pack and weapons that weigh us down.”
Bristow and several marines were waiting for them.
York asked, “What are we doing?”
Bristow grinned. “We’re going to see if you’re full of shit. You better not be, cause I got some money riding on you.”
They bundled York into Cath’s armor undersuit, then into the armor itself, and had him sit down on a bench in the locker room with the helmet visor open.
Standing over him, with Cath beside him and the other marines looking on, Bristow said, “We’re going to be up-transiting here shortly. You said you can feel that, right?”
York nodded, which didn’t work too well inside the armor.
“Bristow and me, we’re betting on you,” Cath said. “I’ve put the suit in isolation mode, and I’m controlling it with an external maintenance feed. So when I close that visor, you’re not going to be able to see or hear anything, including allship. It might be twenty minutes, it might be an hour, but when you feel transition, you give us a thumbs-up, or wave your arms, or something. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” York said.
Cath reached toward him and closed the visor. It sealed with a faint click and a huff of air. Cath had told him the visor could be set to provide an immersive projection of the outside world, or a virtual console for almost any function on ship, but it was completely opaque now. A faint red light filled the inside of the helmet, though all York saw was the visor’s dark interior surface.
In the silence, the suit made strange sounds, a click here, a pop there, but York quickly grew bored, then drowsy. He struggled to stay awake, didn’t want to disappoint Cath and Bristow by sleeping through transition. But his eyes grew heavy, a
nd he slipped in and out of a light doze. Then that tickle crawled up the back of his spine, startling him into full wakefulness. He raised his arms and waved them about, but nothing happened.
He wondered if they’d forgotten him. Maybe he had slept through transition, missed it completely, and in their disappointment they’d left him there as punishment. The marines had seemed kinder than that, and it saddened him to think that they were as callous as everyone else in his life.
The visor popped open, Bristow standing in front of him grinning, behind him Cath whooping and cheering. Bristow said, “Well, I guess you ain’t full of shit, kid.”
Cath leaned over his shoulder and said, “Oh, he’s full of shit, all right. Just not the kind of shit we thought.”
They helped him out of the armor and the undersuit, then Cath wrapped her arms around him and gave him a big kiss on each cheek. She was pretty, and that stirred something within him he’d never paid much attention to before.
She and Bristow collected quite a bit of money from the rest of the marines, though York noticed that his gunner mates hadn’t done any betting. York asked Sissy, “You didn’t bet?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “But we’re glad you ain’t a liar.”
Holding a fist full of currency, Cath looked at Bristow, nodded toward York, and said, “What do you think?”
Bristow frowned, looked at York, and said, “Ya.”
The two pooled their earnings, then split it three ways and gave York a third. He’d never seen so much money before.
“That’s shipboard script,” Cath said. “Only good on board. You’ll have to deposit it into your pay account if you want to convert it to any local currency.”
“Pay account?” York asked.
She and Bristow traded a look, and Bristow said, “You do know you got a pay account, don’t you, kid?”
York learned that the navy was paying him, a nice little sum every tenday, though he’d forfeited all pay while in the brig. And while Cath and Bristow considered his pay grade as a spacer apprentice downright paltry, York had never had any money before, so to him it was quite a fortune.