by Jamie Sawyer
Heinrich’s face flushed. “Maybe you won’t come back.”
The elevator pinged, indicating that we’d reached Unity’s crew decks, and I turned to walk out.
“Fuck you, Heinrich,” I said, and only just managed to contain the urge to punch the sanctimonious prick in the face. “I’ll be seeing you.”
Heinrich watched me go.
That talk of my father made me think of what my folks back home, on Old Earth, would think of all this. It occurred to me that maybe I should phone them. My family would no doubt have heard about the disaster on Daktar, and would be following the newsfeeds. I could imagine their reaction: disappointment with their daughter’s decision to enter Sim Ops being borne out once again. The mental image of their faces was enough to put me off that idea.
My father was proper old-school military, and my mother wasn’t much better. Mom a teacher—working in the education centre base-side, Dad an Army man all the way up until his sixty-fifth birthday. My brother and I had been Army brats, through and through, brought up on Dad’s stories of active service, and Deimos Campaign had been just one of many different episodes in his Army career. Strange, perhaps, that young Enrique Draven—a kid with a bad attitude and a worse moustache, as my father referred to him—had ended up outranking the mighty Theodore Jenkins.
A bullet to the abdomen had ended my father’s aspirations of staying on the frontline for ever, and six months behind a desk on Old Earth satisfied him that becoming a REMF wasn’t his calling. He’d left the Army with full honours, and the Jenkins family had transferred from San Ang Army accommodation to a suburb of the Lower State. Sure, it was nice and middle-class and we’d never had so much space. But that wasn’t enough for Dad. The place wasn’t military, and that was all that mattered.
I’d been fourteen years old then, and I hadn’t really understood what the move had done to my father. Even through my later military service—and I’d only really joined the Army because that was what Ted Jenkins had wanted for his oldest child, eventually to become his only child—I hadn’t really appreciated it.
But as I left General Draven’s office, I felt a lot like my father. Maybe, now, I finally understood.
Once, he’d been someone great. A contender. Overnight, he’d become nothing, and now I was just the same.
I found the Jackals in one of Unity’s many crew lounges. The facility was busy enough—a handful of Navy crew, some Aerospace Force pilots in Sims Ops get-up—but not rowdy, and the squad languished in a corner. The other occupants gave the Jackals a wide berth, as though they carried a lethal contagion.
That the Jackals were together at all was something. They didn’t seem to like each other much more than they liked themselves, and most downtime was spent in private company. Come to think of it, other than Zero and Riggs, I had no real idea how the rest of the squad wasted their lives.
A round of beers sat in the middle of the table, untouched. I scooped one up as I approached. Novak went to follow suit, but his security-drone issued a violation warning. He swatted the drone away and slumped back, empty-handed. “No alcoholic beverages” was one of the many restrictions on his military contract.
The Russian eyed me carefully. “So?” he grunted.
“Steady, big boy. I’ve got news.”
“What happened?” Riggs asked.
“I think that we have a right to know,” Lopez started. “It wasn’t just you who got burnt by that operation.”
“And don’t I know it,” I said, with a sigh.
Lopez smouldered quietly. Of the whole squad, she looked the most different in her real skin. The real Lopez struggled not to look chic even in her combat-khakis, a spill of dark hair topping her head, her full face and lips speaking of a damned good body sculptor. She had a nasty pout, and when things didn’t go her way she had a tendency to show it.
“I’m still commanding officer of the Jackals, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“They didn’t take away your commission?” Feng said. “Well that’s something we should drink to.”
“What about demotion?” Lopez followed up, with less warmth than Feng.
“No,” I said. “They didn’t demote me either.”
“That’s good,” Zero said. Seeing Zero in the crew lounge felt a little odd; she looked out of place among the dirty beige wall panelling and beer bottles. This wasn’t her sort of place at all.
“Then what happened?” Novak grumbled.
“New orders,” I said. “Not just for me, but the Jackals.”
Novak’s mouth split in a grimace. “We have mission, but why are you not happy?”
There were so many tattoos over his face that there was barely any skin visible. He had a trio of metal studs bored into his forehead: body augmentations from his time in the gulag. He’d stripped his fatigues down to a vest that barely covered his enormous bulk, the fabric straining at his shoulders.
“It’s not that simple,” I said. I put the order envelope on the table, slid out the briefing pack.
“New orders has to be good,” Riggs said, eyes lighting. “Another mission is better than being permanently recalled to home base—”
“Easy, trooper. We have new orders, but the good news stops there.”
“Go on,” Zero said.
“We’re being seconded to a starship,” I explained, slowly, trying to draw the sting out of my words. “The UAS Santa Fe. On escort duty. Destination: the Maelstrom.” I swallowed. “Length of duty unknown.”
The reaction to my news was immediate and expected. A round of curses and sighs spread round the table.
“Ah shit…” Riggs said. “The Maelstrom? That’s some serious shit.”
Novak sucked his teeth. “Is not good. Fish head country.”
“Christo…!” Lopez exhaled. “You cannot be serious. We didn’t have anything to do with your decision to go into Tower One!”
Feng shook his head. “We were all there, Lopez. We all knew that we were going off plan.”
Lopez’s eyes flared in my direction. “She was the squad leader! She’s the supposed veteran! What would you know, anyway? You’re Directorate!”
Feng hung his head, and said, “Fuck you, Lopez. That’s not fair.”
“What would a clone know about being fair?” Lopez asked. Back to me, she said, “I can’t go into the Maelstrom!”
Feng nodded towards one of the media-walls, at the image that was streaming there. It was Senator Lopez’s interview. The damned thing seemed to be following me around the station, haunting me.
“Why don’t you call up daddy and ask for reassignment?” Feng suggested.
Lopez pouted some more. “At least I have a daddy.”
I slammed a hand on the table. “Shut up, all of you. For your information, I tried to take a court martial, but General Draven refused my request.” I looked around at the disparate collection of troopers that formed Jenkins’ Jackals. “I’m sorry, folks. I shouldn’t have taken you into Tower One, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.”
The group fell quiet.
“You’ve got twelve hours to get your shit together,” I said. “Considering that we don’t know how long we’ll be away, I’d suggest that you make the time count, and that you pack a second pair of underwear. But hear this: each of you is required to attend the main docks at oh-nine-hundred hours tomorrow morning, ready to board the Santa Fe. You might not like it, but that’s our mission.”
No one nodded, and no one agreed, but no one dissented either. That was the best I could ask for in the circumstances.
“Dismissed,” I said, firmly.
The Jackals stood to leave and, heads bowed, filtered out of the lounge. As he went, Riggs made eye contact with me, lingered a little, but I gave him the look and he eventually followed the others.
Only Zero remained. Anxiety plastered across her befreckled features.
“I’m sorry about her,” Zero said. “Lopez, I mean.”
“She’s no more under
your control than mine,” I said. “I’ll see to her.”
“I’m sure there’s a good trooper under there somewhere.”
“I’m glad one of us thinks so,” I replied, swigging down another mouthful of beer. “I know that this—going into the Maelstrom—is going to be tough on you, Zero. I wouldn’t do it for any of the others, but if you want me to ask for a transfer…”
Maelstrom meant Krell. Krell and Zero did not mix.
“I’ll be okay,” she said. “We’ll be on a starship, right?”
“That’s right. But I could still put in a word—”
“You mean do I want to leave the Jackals?” Zero said. She looked almost incredulous. “I dread to think what sort of a mess you’d get into without me. I’m with you all the way.”
“You sure?”
“Couldn’t be surer,” Zero said. She put out her fist, and we bumped knuckles. “It’ll be fun, right? An adventure. I could do with a break from all this desk work.”
“I hear that, sister. I hear that.”
What did I do for my last night in civilisation?
I knew what happened was wrong, even as I was doing it. I’d like to think that it was chance, that I did it on a whim, but I knew that wasn’t true. I’d planned it this way, and I knew exactly what I was doing.
I went down to the barracks. Unity wasn’t on a war footing—probably never would be—and as a result many of the troopers were given sole-occupancy quarters.
I stood outside his door. Finger hovering over the intercom button. Although, if I’m being honest with myself, there wasn’t much indecision on my part. I pressed the buzzer.
Riggs answered the door, naked from the chest up. His short dark hair was scruffy and dishevelled, like he had been sleeping. The look was good on him.
“Ah, hi,” he said. Confused. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”
“I come bearing gifts,” I said, revealing a bottle of New Ceti bourbon tucked into the crook of my arm, smiling as coyly as I knew how. Which, I admit, is probably not very coyly at all. “That is, if you’re not busy…”
“Lieutenant, ma’am…” Riggs started, rubbing his eyes. “Is everything okay?”
“Fine,” I said. “But call me Keira. Just for tonight.”
Right then I didn’t want to be a lieutenant. I didn’t want to be called “ma’am” or suffer any of the trappings of command.
Riggs stood aside. Let me into the room. “Course, of course. It’s just that I thought you said this wouldn’t happen again. And since Daktar, well, I got the feeling that you’d been avoiding me…”
“Shut up, Riggs,” I said. I took in the odour of his body; it smelt sweaty, as though he had recently been exercising. The scent made my mouth water. “Same arrangement. I don’t want the others to know.”
“You said that last time was the last time.”
He looked slightly puzzled, a not unpleasant expression on his face. I had a type, and Riggs—with his dumbass bravado—was exactly it.
“Maybe this is the last time,” I said.
Riggs smiled. “Then I guess we’d better make it count.”
“I guess so.”
I shut the door behind me.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SANTA FE
“The Santa Fe’s in Bay Sixteen,” the deck chief said, tilting his head towards the enormous hangar that comprised Unity Base’s docking facility. “Papers ready for disembarkation, please.”
None of us carried actual paper, of course. But the chief—a portly older man in an orange vacuum suit, wearing mufflers over his ears, and a light wand clipped to his belt—scanned our biometric dog tags.
Surprisingly, we had a full house. All of the Jackals—even Lopez—had attended for duty that morning, although with their crumpled fatigues and stuffed-away bags, they looked about as dejected as I felt. As planned, Riggs turned up late, trailing a comfortable distance behind me. None of the Jackals had noticed, and I’d feigned acceptance of his tardiness.
“You’re all cleared,” the chief said, checking off names on a data-slate. “Good luck, wherever it is you’re going.”
“Thanks, Chief,” I said.
Zero wandered ahead of the squad. She was about the only member of the group who was exhibiting any interest in our surroundings. She indicated a berth. The UAS Santa Fe was attached to Unity by an umbilical docking tube, the vessel’s bulk visible through the view-ports.
“This must be us,” she said.
I wasn’t impressed. This was not what I was used to at all. The Santa Fe was so banal as to be almost lost among the sea of similar ships—nothing exceptional at all to mark her from any other vessels. Her battered hull was a charcoal black, scorched by the light of a dozen suns, and her name tag was barely visible. No national flag, no Naval identifier. Almost as though the Alliance was trying to disavow ownership of the vessel.
“Looks like a fairly typical Type 103 corvette,” Zero said, with confidence. A corvette-class starship was the smallest of what could fairly be called a warship. “According to her public records, she was commissioned out of the Central Ventris shipyards in 2263. That makes her nearly three decades old.”
Lopez let out an annoyed sigh. “She hasn’t aged well.”
“Except for those engines,” Riggs said. “She’s had a recent refit, I’d say.”
“That your aviator training coming out?” I asked of Riggs. “How can you tell?”
Riggs seemed to take great pride in his knowledge of ship tech, and I often caught myself wondering why it was he’d chosen to transfer out of the Alliance Marine Corps.
“From the colouration of her aft,” he answered. He added, more sharply than usual, “It’s petty obvious, really.”
As I examined the ship further, I realised that Riggs had a point. Although the vessel was still at some distance, the Santa Fe’s engine module—where her sublight propulsion system and quantum-drive were located—was shiny and new. Looked like it had hardly been used, with 986-Udanis’ distant light glinting off the naked metalwork.
“It’s a ship,” Lopez said. Crossed her arms over her chest. “There’s nothing interesting about it.”
“She’s gone by several names over the years,” Zero continued, “and been assigned to—”
“That’s great,” I said, shaking my head. I had no doubt that Zero had researched the ship and could probably recount its full history, despite the length of time the vessel had been in service. “Shall we just board and sort out the rest later?”
“That’s probably best,” Riggs said.
Amid the bustle of utility robots and Navy men in mechanised loaders, we found ourselves in the Santa Fe’s main cargo hold. Soon after boarding, it became apparent that Lopez was wrong about the Fe. Much of the ship’s interior had been replaced or refitted. Given the ship’s age, that was pretty interesting. The air was thick with the smell of burning plastic and plasma weld.
Riggs approached the nearest gaggle of sailors.
“Jenkins’ Jackals,” he said, “reporting for assignment to the Santa Fe.”
The group had been fussing over data-slates—no doubt conducting a review of the loading process—but paused when Riggs interrupted. One figure, who also happened to be the shortest, looked up abruptly.
“And you’d be?” she asked.
“Corporal Daneb Riggs,” he said. “Army Sim Ops Programme.”
The officer had the stripes of an Alliance Navy captain on her shoulder, but was much older than most working starship crew. She wore a dark blue service cap, which sat on top of a bun of silver hair, clasped at the back of her head with a miniature metal dagger.
“Whatever happened to shipboard protocol?” she asked. “In my day, you’d have asked for permission to come aboard. That, and you’re late.”
“No, ma’am,” Zero said. “We aren’t. We were scheduled to board at oh-nine-hundred—”
“Not by my itinerary,” said the woman. “Are you telling me that I’m wrong?”
“No, ma’am,” Zero said. She fidgeted and looked uncomfortable with the sudden confrontation.
The captain came forward, walking with a silver cane. Shorter than me, physically far less imposing. Her left leg was rigid, and I spied a metallic ankle at the hem of the woman’s trouser: a crude Navy bionic. A handful of crew accompanied her.
“My apologies, Captain,” I said. “Forgive them. They’re green. Requesting permission to come aboard.”
The captain curled her lip in my direction. I passed her our briefing packet, and one of the crew took it: gave a cursory glance over the detail. The officer nodded at the captain.
“Granted,” she said, but glared at Novak. “I see that we have a lifer aboard. It’s a shame that the Alliance has fallen so low.”
Although the comment had clearly been designed to cause offence, it didn’t work. Novak’s hooded eyes remained impassive, and his drone hovered at his shoulder.
“He’s approved,” I said.
The captain sneered. “Lieutenant Yukio: get that man and his bags searched. I don’t want any unauthorised weapons aboard my ship.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said an officer, jumping to a search of Novak and his away-bag.
Novak having failed to take the bait, the captain turned her attention to another member of the squad. Her facial expression noticeably dropped, what little colour there was in her features seeping out like atmosphere from a hull breach.
“No, no,” she said at Feng, “this really won’t do. I thought it was bad enough that you’d brought a lifer aboard my vessel … But Directorate? Weren’t you all put down in the camps where they found you? Hell, I’d rather share my ship with a Krell than a Directorate clone.”
Feng’s shoulders set back, his knuckles whitening as they tightened round the strap of his crew bag. I was very much aware that this could turn nasty.
“Let’s hope that you don’t have to make that choice,” I replied.
“I’m not one of them,” Feng said, through clenched teeth. “I don’t know how many times I have to say this, but I’m not Directorate!”
The Navy officers exchanged worried glances. One of the younger crewmen stepped forward, blocking Feng’s path to the captain. Feng was physically much bigger and probably stronger than the aged Navy officer. But if it came to a fight, there was no question of who I would be betting on…