“Centauran Macadamia,” she said resolutely, then placed her ID card against the machine's scanner, selecting the macadamia treat with the special flavor found only in Alpha Centauri variants. A softly modulated voice asked her to 'Please Wait' before, with a whirring clank, the mechanism produced a brightly wrapped bar from the machine's innards. She shuffled on her feet as it took the mechanism a small eternity. It wasn't for the first time that she wondered whether someone deliberately built these things to be slower than a 24th century VI system. With a sigh Sammy decided to pass the time by staring out of a nearby window.
Outside, a platoon of soldiers jogged by in digital camouflage fatigues, their sergeant encouraging them on in the inimitable style appertained to drill sergeants across times and national boundaries, pounding across the concrete parade ground and marking their pace with a centuries old song. Beyond them were the plain faced, low slung buildings common to all North American Union Armed Forces garrisons across half a dozen solar systems, their simple and spartan interiors a testament to the fact that Congress had chosen to have them designed by the lowest bidder. The dome covering the base was said to be amazingly strong, able to survive a shuttle crashing into it at supersonic speeds. Lee doubted anyone had ever tested that boast, but it gave the inhabitants a little extra confidence living daily within feet of the danger of suffocating.
The whirring of the vending machine stopped, prompting Lee to turn around. To her annoyance the bar – wrapped in bio-degradable compounds – remained wedged in the release mechanism, dangling down but not actually willing to plunge down into the collection tray.
Sammy spat a silent curse. The bar had cost her the extortionate amount of one credit and she sure as hell wasn't going to let anything cheat her out of that – especially not a goo-printing machine! She leaned back and checked out her surroundings. The large mess hall was completely clear, the rows of plain steel tables cleaned and left neatly arranged for the next set of meals in about two hours. She could hear the regimental cooks at the far end of the hall behind their doors slaving away in the kitchen. Sammy weighed her options and shrugged. It was safe to figure they were too busy to pay attention to a few sharp crashes and loud noises, which was exactly what Lee was about to create.
She was tall and athletic, especially for the offspring of a Korean father and a purebred, Midwestern American mother. In fact, at six foot three she actually towered over a good part of her platoon. Her toned physique, buzz cut and angular facial features just served to underline her presence as a soldier and member of the chosen ranks of the Airborne Assault Force, the power armor wearing special infantry regiments of the NAU's army. They weren't quite on the level of actual Special Forces, but they weren't too far off the mark either.
She grabbed the machine, easily pushing it back a few inches so it was leaning on its back supports, then let it go. It slammed back level with a jarring crash. The echo bouncing back from the bare walls of the corridors made Lee cringe. Unfortunately the bar remained in place. With a resigned sigh she spun around her own axis and gave the machine a kick, and finally the bar dropped into the tray with a most satisfying 'clunk'.
With a chuckle of victory Sammy grabbed the prize and turned to leave, stumbling to a halt as she found herself nose to nose with a hard faced man who had apparently sprouted silently from the shined ground. Lee was about to give him a few choice insults about sneaking up on her when she quickly noticed a pair of Captain's bars on the mans shoulders. Stopping in her tracks she snapped straight up to attention.
“What's your name and unit, soldier?” the officer asked. He was a heavy set black man with a shaved head and neat goatee beard. He looked about mid-thirties in age which, given the marvels of modern medicine and the extended lifespans they produced, meant jack all. Hard eyes rested in deep sockets in the captain's face. His whole demeanor spoke of the man's confident manner. He was a by-the-book officer if ever Sammy had ever seen one.
“Private First Class Samantha Lee, sir,” she rattled off loudly. “Alpha company, Ten-Twenty M-A-F regiment, sir!”
“I see. I'm glad to see your unarmed combat skills came in useful just now.” He glanced at the vending machine, some noticeable dents in its side. “Although I doubt they were designed to defend us from an invading army of snack dispensers.”
“Sir, no sir!” Lee snapped. Great, another officer who liked the sound of his own voice.
“Do you have an explanation, Private Lee?”
“Sir, I paid my money but the machine refused to deliver my choice of snack, sir.”
“So rather than report the fault you decided to try and persuade it yourself?”
“Seemed like the quicker thing to do, sir. Cause less trouble for base maintenance, too, sir.”
“How very thoughtful,” the captain remarked with a smirk. “Still, it took your money and gave you nothing back. Sounds just like our government to supply us with something like that. You have to wonder why a military base has a vending machine anyway.”
“Yes, sir.” Lee agreed automatically.
In truth the machine was actually very popular. She and her comrades did enough PT that a couple sweets wouldn't make any difference. They burned more calories just suiting up than one of these things had in them. Of course she wasn't going to tell this officer that. When dealing with the higher ranks the best course had always proven to be to just nod and let them think they were infallible.
“However understandable your actions, you were still in the wrong,” the Captain concluded. “You'll pull guard duty tomorrow evening, is that understood?”
“Perfectly, sir.” Inwardly she was relieved. Guard duty was a waste of time Sammy would have rather spent otherwise – and elsewhere. Still, all things given that was pretty lenient considering the damage to government property. Of course, it screwed up her plans to celebrate Private Keppler's twenty second birthday, but it was still luckily nothing more like a slap on the wrist.
“All right private, dismissed.”
“Yes, sir.” She stood a little straighter, then stepped back and hastily headed for the door.
* * * * *
The captain grinned, then went to the vending machine. With a shrug he placed his ID card next to the reader and made his selection. It was a hard balancing act keeping discipline in troops without being overbearing. An officer had to be respected but not necessarily liked, and the way he did that was through fairness and making sure everyone knew their responsibilities and where they fitted into the big picture. He frowned deeply as his selected treat refused to be delivered, just like it had for Private Lee. For a second he considered following her example and attacking the machine, but then reminded himself to lead by example. With a huff went to find someone from maintenance.
* * * * *
“Hey Sammy, we thought you'd got lost!” a shout greeted her as she entered her platoon's barracks.
“Come on, she only had to go to the mess hall! Sammy could find a mess hall on any alien planet blindfolded!” A barrage of laughter and whooping calls followed.
“Come here, sweetie! Let me give you a hug 'n a kiss, show you what a man I am!” a tall, broad-shouldered soldier called out.
Samantha slapped the back of his head and the two shared a broad grin. “Even if I was into men you'd still be too much of a knucklehead to have a chance.”
“Oi, now you've hurt my feelings,” he chuckled.
“Quit it, Grunt,” Sammy smiled and tossed him the bar. “Next time fetch your own damn calories. Your laziness almost got me thrown in the stockade.”
Private Harold 'Grunt' Kayser caught the flying snack and immediately tore into it, the two lines of tattooed dots and dashes under his left eye vanishing in pockets of skin as he chewed through the treat. Everybody in this barracks shared that combination of dots and dashes. It was an ancient communications' code almost a thousand years old, symbolizing two numbers: 10-20, the number of their regiment. “So, what happened, sweetie?”
Kayse
r had wooed Samantha rather provocatively when he had first joined the unit until the point where she had – literally – slapped a good portion of sense into him. Strangely enough a close friendship rather than lasting hostility had been the result of that more than sub-optimal opening. Life sometimes followed strange paths.
She settled down on her bunk bed and took off her uniform jacket, revealing an army green tank top with a stylized eagle and the letters M A F emblazoned on it. “Damn machine's broken so I had to fix it.”
“You mean you gave it a good kicking, eh?!” Private Tucker claimed with a laugh, his thick Alabama accent easily recognizable.
“That's what I said: fix it.” Lee smiled, flexing her muscles. The tattoo of a black skull framed by a triangle standing on its tip grinned from her upper arm. Around the triangle's edges ran the phrase Per aspera ad astra, the regiment's old motto. “Anyway, I did get it fixed, got you that damn macadamia crap, then got caught by an officer who saw it all!”
There was another burst of laughter from the platoon. There was nothing malicious about it, but they did tend to find misfortune that wasn't their own amusing.
“But it was cool. The guy gave me extra guard duty but nothing formal. So, I guess it turned out okay.”
“Say, this officer,” Private Rourke began with his Long Island accent. “Didn't happen to be a bulldog looking fellow with a bald head?”
“Well yeah, he did kind of. Why?”
There were a few more whistles and chortles.
“Well, Sammy, that was Captain Madison, the new Alpha Company CO.”
“Our new boss,” Tucker said unnecessarily. “What is it they say about first impressions?” he grinned widely.
“Crap.” Lee dropped on her bunk. “I hate it when that happens.”
“Well, look at it from this angle: at least the Colonel never found out it was you who left the hand brake off that truck which totaled his car,” Grunt pointed out. “And I shouldn't have said that out loud, should I?”
“Talking about it jinxes it.” Tucker pointed out. “Now you gotta lift the jinx before someone finds out.”
“And the only way to lift it is to buy the first round of drinks at the Purgatory tonight,” Lee chuckled. “Drinks are on the Kayser!”
The twenty strong platoon gave a mocking cheer, prompting 'Grunt' Kayser to stand up and take a bow. Over the years the company had acquired a handful of traditions and superstitions which had to be religiously observed so as not to jinx the unit with bad luck. One such superstition was to not talk about company secrets out loud. Luckily, most jinxes could be easily lifted, usually through buying excessive amounts of alcohol or performing a challenge or dare. It was silly but in many ways it brought the troops together more.
“Anyway, come on guys.” Lee stood, the single stripe on her shoulder requiring her to take some extra responsibilities in her unit. “We've got a briefing to attend in half an hour about 'galactic events'.” There were some – expected – groans. “Yeah, I know. Nothing to do with us, but you might learn something. And then we'll hit the dome.”
That cheered them up a little, and gradually they started moving their kit away and cleaned up their little corner of Mars. The 1020th was an old outfit, having first been formed in the heydays of the first stellar wars of the early 23rd century. Still, since they couldn't exactly be expected to have five hundred year old corpses piloting their suits, most of the unit as it was had seen only limited action. Hunting down Martian separatist groups was the most combat the soldiers had. 'Real' combat, going toe to toe with experienced and well-equipped opponents, was something only the Colonel and a few of the officers who had transferred from the outer colonies had seen. As a unit operating powered armor suits the regiment was specialized in operations in hostile environments in every sense of the word. Most of its training took place outside the Martian domes in the harsh climate earning them a reputation as hardy and uncomplaining soldiers. They could look back at war games on Europa's icy surface and in Altair colony's unforgiving jungles. But they still had to experience their baptism by fire.
Lee squared away her bunk and adjusted the old school photograph on the wall beside her. It showed Natasha and their eleven year old son Michael. Every time she glanced at the picture she had a swelling of pride for her family. Natasha was a manager at one of the smaller Martian shipping firms. It didn't pay a lot, but it was solid work arranging cargo drops and setting up contracts. Their son was in junior school a few blocks away and was already an accomplished sportsman. Better even, he had shown himself to be pretty bright. Samantha and Natasha had high hopes for the future. His grandmother had already said he'd make a good cop, maybe even a detective, though of course Samantha wanted to see him join the armed forces and experience the comradeship she had grown to respect and appreciate herself during her service. Either way, their son was going to be a success. Both of them would make sure of that.
With a lingering smile she headed out of the barracks with the rest of the platoon and headed for the briefing on the fall of Toklamakun.
Purgatory Club, Mars.
The barman threw a quick glance at the crowd walking in, laughing loudly. Even though they were dressed in casual shirts and pants he could see from their stance and walk that they were clearly soldiers. He of course didn't mind. The local garrison provided a huge amount of his business, but he could see a couple of his clients getting a bit agitated at the sudden increase in noise. He shrugged. Wasn't really a matter of concern to him. After all, it was a free country. They didn't like his service they could bloody well get lost. There were plenty of other bars in town if they didn't like it here.
One of the grinning soldiers headed for the bar with a credit chit clutched in his hands.
“Twenty-one beers for my buddies over there!” he said enthusiastically to the wild cheers of his comrades.
“Nice one, Grunt!” one of them called.
The barman ran the card with a smile. “On its way, trooper. Take a seat!” Whenever a party of soldiers came in – which was most nights, really – the barman rolled up his sleeves to display a tattoo on his forearm. It was the unit emblem of the 7th Armored Cavalry, his former unit. He didn't mind soldiers using his bar one damn bit because he remembered being there himself back in the days. He started pouring them generous portions and stacked them on the bar.
* * * * *
Elsewhere in the bar a pair of men looked over their shoulders at the sudden cheering of the new arrivals but dismissed it as harmless enthusiasm.
“Jarheads,” one of them quipped, then returned to the table. “Whatcha drinkin'?”
His companion was a huge man, standing at over six feet seven and gifted with a physique to match. He wore his hair in artfully bound braids. A thick but well-trimmed beard adorned his face. His arms were covered with a liberal helping of tattoos. “Pina Colada,” he answered in a gravelly voice.
The other man sighed. Much shorter and more slender with scruffy black hair, he shook his head.
“Alexej, I told you twenty times they don't serve those kind of drinks in places like this. Pina Coladas, honestly, are a wee bit too girly.”
Normally Alexej Romanov, known as 'Duchess' to the tramp freighter community due to some of his more odd quirks, would not tolerate anyone at all even indirectly saying something he liked was 'girly'. However, his current companion had known him for long enough to recognize Alexej would take it as a joke. Sure enough the big man gave a roaring laugh which temporarily eclipsed even the neighboring soldiers.
A new pair of people entered the bar, both of them rather scruffy looking and nervous to be in this particular part of town. It wasn't exactly a dive but the regulars in this district didn't tend to demand classical music and haute cuisine. They were mainly dock workers, private freighter crews and infantry from the local base, their officers preferring to dine up town. The two new arrivals were fairly young looking, a fair haired man and a girl with something of a Japanese ancestry judging by h
er dark hair and features. They spotted the huge Russian across the room and headed for their table, the girl drawing some appreciative glances from the party of soldiers.
“Hi, Tarek. Alexej, you cool?”
“Just thirsty,” the big man rumbled.
“Rául, Annie.” Tarek Winters nodded in greeting, his straggly hair falling across his brow as he did so. “So, did you speak to the guy?”
The four people at the table represented eighty percent of the crew of the freighter IRON MAIDEN. It was a rather small and unimpressive ship but was well noted for its speed and ability to evade raiders on even the most dangerous foldspace route. As its master Tarek Winters had become quite famous in the freighter community for having a knack for finding the best jobs in the sector and turning a tidy profit.
His crew was a mix of truly diverse people. Alexej was the pilot and despite his lighthouse-like stature size was amazingly good at the ship's deft controls. Rául was their navigator, and his nervous nature was seen as a consequence of all the near misses Winters had escaped from. Annie Saito was a fairly new addition to the crew, having joined six months earlier to replace 'Big' Jim Piper who had first bought the IRON MAIDEN with Tarek's father thirty years earlier. He had retired to a nice house in Goddard City with his decent fortune, and now Tarek was the sole owner of the ship and business. There was only one person missing.
“What happened to Llyr?” Rául asked.
“He's in jail,” Tarek answered with a shrug. “Again.”
Llyr was the MAIDEN's translator. He could speak a dozen languages including most of the Pact planets dialects. Even better, as a Tuathaan he had plenty of contacts throughout the Pact, allowing the freighter to cut some corners off their journeys. Unfortunately, he also had a tendency to drink too much and get into trouble.
“The authorities will hand him over when we leave,” Alexej said. “They just want to get rid of him.”
Opening Moves Page 6