by Terry Mixon
That made for a total of forty-one marines, counting herself. Third Platoon would make an excellent raid group, and she knew that her people would kick some ass.
Sergeant Na assumed her rightful position in front of the neat rows of marines. She brought her right fist to her chest in salute as Grace stepped in front of her and returned it.
“At ease,” Grace said automatically, allowing her people to relax in place. “We have a mission. It’s an extremely specialized one, and some of the requirements are going to seem very odd.
“First of all, once we’re done with this little conversation, I want everybody to change into civilian clothes. In fact, you’re going to want to pack all of your civilian clothes. When we leave, we’ll take nothing issued by the Corps. Second, we’ll take a commercial shuttle from inside the port.
“I’m not going to give you any additional information until we’re on board the ship assigned to us. I also won’t ask if you have any questions, because I have no answers that I can give you at this point. Get to it.”
As soon as her people scattered, Na stepped forward and spoke in a low whisper. “What’s really going on, Lieutenant?”
Grace gave her extremely competent NCO a firm look. “I’m afraid you’ll have to find out when we get into orbit. My orders are exquisitely clear, so I can’t say anything until then. Not one single word.”
The other woman nodded slightly, her lips slightly pursed. “You’ve got my curiosity up, ma’am. I can’t wait to find out what we’re doing, since this sounds completely ludicrous. What about our weapons? Are we expected to beat somebody with our fists?”
Na was an extremely capable hand-to-hand fighter, so that wasn’t entirely out of the question.
“Nope,” Grace said cheerfully. “I meant exactly what I said. Pack civilian clothes and associated belongings. Everything else will be provided for us.
“Once everyone thinks they’ve got what they need, I want you to have them open up their bags and look for contraband. Knives and personal weapons are acceptable. Anything that could be used to link us to the marines or give someone our names is not. It’s your job to make sure that none of that makes its way past your inspection.”
Na smiled coldly. “You can count on me to make certain that nothing inappropriate gets through. I assume you’ll be checking my kit, ma’am. Who’s going to check yours?”
“You don’t trust me, Fei?” Grace asked with a wicked smile. “Come on. I’m an officer.”
“All the more reason to double-check you, ma’am.”
Grace smirked. “You’ll be checking my bag. Everybody goes through this check so that nobody has to feel like we’re any better than they are. Now get busy. I’d like to be on our way to the port in twenty minutes.”
That done, Grace headed for her quarters. Even through the thick walls, she could hear everyone carrying out her orders. She had no doubt that at least a few would try to slip something past Na.
Under other circumstances, she’d probably do the same. She was a marine, wasn’t she?
Today, she focused on packing every bit of civilian clothes and gear that she had on hand while carefully stripping out any that could identify her personally or associate her with the Corps.
There wasn’t much left by the time she’d finished. Even then, some of her clothes would be completely unsuitable for the mission, she suspected, though she’d bring them just in case.
Her little black dress, for example, had no place on a raid. She had no idea what the damn genies wore to fight during their raids—much less off duty—but it probably didn’t include sexy dresses.
She wouldn’t be forced to assault something in her civilian clothes, she was confident of that. There’d be weapons and armor for them to use. Whatever ship they had would also be capable of sneaking into the Singularity and delivering them onto their target.
It might look like a civilian ship, but whatever it was, she had no doubt that it would have all the capabilities required for the insertion and extraction of her team.
She’d have to pick up additional clothing and gear when they got to the port. She wasn’t going to be the only one, she wagered. Their driver could drop them off, and they’d walk to the small craft assigned to them once they finished shopping.
It only took ten minutes for her to get everything packed into the nonregulation bag she used when she went home to visit her mother. Not that she visited her mother all that often, because the woman had never approved of Grace’s choice to become a marine in the first place. She’d wanted Grace to settle down, find a nice partner, and raise a family.
Grace didn’t see that happening anytime soon. With the longer lifespan marines’ nanites gave, she could actively serve for a hundred years. Sadly, the lack of opportunity for promotions meant that it would take her decades before she achieved field-grade rank, much less made it to general.
Unless she kicked some ass on this mission and retired as a major. If she could bring herself to do that, which she doubted. The Corps was her life.
If she stayed in, the slow pace of retirements meant there were fewer slots available as one climbed the ladder of rank. Her next step was senior lieutenant, which would be covered by the postraid promotion.
There’d be no problem finding a place for her to command a company, though it would take time for a slot to open up. The available slots grew sparser as one looked at the rank of major and above. One had to be genuinely gifted to rise that far.
Especially when one started looking above colonel. As large as the Empire was, there were a lot of marines that hoped to make it into those exalted ranks. Few would have the skill or dedication to make it happen, though.
She liked to think that she had what it took, but the odds were stacked pretty heavily against her. Thankfully, she’d have a long time to work on it. If she did well on this mission, it would open some doors for her, so she’d best make sure they made a strong impression on the Singularity.
At the appointed time, her platoon gathered again, everyone now in civilian clothes. To say that they looked like a motley group of pirates wouldn’t have been inappropriate.
She stopped and stared at Corporal Riggio Gomez, leader of Second Squad’s Second Fire Team. He was wearing what looked to be an untucked flowered shirt patterned in bright fluorescent colors ranging from yellow to red. The oranges, in particular, hurt her eyes.
Below that, he wore cargo shorts that exposed his very hairy legs and shuffled along in ragged sandals. He wore a hat that sat far back on his head and had a bill that extended off to the side. It read “YOLO” across the front in canary-yellow letters.
A corporate logo? If so, she didn’t recognize the company.
“Gomez,” she murmured as she walked around him, unabashedly looking him up and down. “Be honest. Did you lose a bet?”
The noncom grinned at her. “No, ma’am. On a beach, this kind of getup draws in women like flies. Trust me on that.”
She didn’t bother to hide the look of disbelief that had to be plastered across her face.
Instead, she gestured for him and the rest to see Sergeant Na. “Open your bags for inspection. If you have anything that someone could trace back to the Corps or learn your name from, you might want to put it back into your foot lockers.”
When fully a third of the marines darted away, she suppressed a satisfied look. Yep, marines would always be marines.
After the platoon had passed inspection, Grace handed her bag to Na and took hers to inspect. Neither found anything objectionable, and in a few minutes, they were all ready to depart.
“Let’s get out of here before somebody arrests you for wearing that getup, Gomez,” Grace said firmly, walking outside the barracks as his mates laughed.
There was a small grav bus waiting for them. It was the kind used to get children to school. It looked as if it had seen better days.
The man driving the bus was morbidly obese and hairy in places that men shouldn’t have had hair. He was
also bald in areas that men should have hair. He grinned, revealing a couple of gaps where teeth should be.
“Everybody pile in,” he said in a voice far too highly pitched for his size. “I’ll get you to the port right quick.”
Putting aside her reservations, she went up the steps and sat in front, waiting for her people to file aboard and secure their bags. As soon as they were all seated, the man closed the door, and the grav bus took off, inducing a wave of nausea, because its grav nodes were badly in need of tuning.
If this was meant to make sure that no one associated them with the Imperial Marines, it was a brilliant ploy. If it was a way to save a few credits, she’d love to find the bean counter responsible and conduct some late-night remedial training.
Working up her courage, she leaned toward the man, breathing through her mouth because he smelled like stale onions. “Once we get to the port, we’re going to have to stop to get some civilian clothes and gear.”
The man nodded. “The guy that hired me already said that. I’ll drop you off at a good spot.”
Grace leaned back without another word. Being so near the repulsive man made her nauseous.
Twenty-five minutes later, the bus settled to a halt in a large parking area just outside the civilian spaceport. Like most such, it was surrounded by stores that catered to travelers. If someone forgot anything, they’d be happy to provide a replacement at a premium.
Once the bus had left, picking up clothing and gear took about three times longer than Grace had mentally allowed for it. It seemed that her marines were clotheshorses.
Each of them had a specific kind of thing they wanted to pick up, and none of it was in the same store. So they ended up trooping from store to store to find the appropriate items.
It would’ve been quicker to allow her people to spread out and do their shopping on their own, but she had no doubt that unauthorized items would magically make their way into their gear. So she got to be the oversight while Na backed her up.
She honestly couldn’t complain about the time spent. She had her own tastes in civilian clothing, and none of the stores that the men had picked were suitable for her. Amusingly, Na had similar tastes.
On the whole, it was actually an enjoyable outing. Her marines horsed around and joked at one another’s expense. It was relaxing.
Once they’d secured everything they needed, their next stop was of a more general nature. They had to pick up all the personal supplies they’d need—toiletries mostly—but also entertainment and other things that might not be found on shipboard.
Fleet computers had a vast array of entertainment, but most marines preferred their fun to be of a more physical form. They played cards and other competitive games.
There’d been a resurgence in a game called darts over the last few centuries. Grace had no idea if it actually resembled the original game, because that was from before the Empire. Hell, it was from before the Republic.
Still, the important thing was that her people enjoyed themselves while off duty. Their morale was critical.
As they were wrapping things up, Grace started thinking about what came next. On every mission she’d ever been on, she’d never been read into more than the most fundamental operational planning.
She really had no idea how this trip was going to be arranged. She had no idea what ship they were taking, how large a crew it might have, what capabilities it would be able to provide, and many other things that she had to find out as soon as she got aboard.
Unlike other missions, she was in charge of the entire strike force, and there were aspects of the transport that she needed to become familiar with for them to succeed. Grace had no doubt that the Fleet officers and crew would be top-notch, but they were all operating in new and unusual ways.
In fact, they probably weren’t technically Fleet at all anymore. Like her, they’d have been released from service and sent on this mission in a way that was deniable by the Empire. Basically, they were active-duty Fleet officers and crew masquerading as civilians.
At long last, they had everything they needed, all packed away into new bags. They made their way to one of the private shuttle terminals, where a chartered cutter waited to take them up to orbit.
It was significantly more luxurious than the pinnaces she and her marines usually used. Marine pinnaces could hold a platoon and a half in full armor and all their weapons. This shuttle was significantly smaller and could just barely carry them and their luggage.
That said, they traveled in comfort and style. There were plush seats with luxurious padding and attendants to provide in-flight drinks and meals.
Grace considered banning the alcohol but decided not to. She made certain that Na passed the word that everyone was limited to one alcoholic drink and then had to switch to something else.
They weren’t going to be attacked in orbit, but she wanted her people sharp, and she didn’t want them to make the kind of impression that would linger in someone’s mind. Blending in was the most essential part of what they were doing at this moment.
Of course, the fact that each and every one of them had marine-style buzzcuts immediately told everyone who saw them what they did for a living, particularly when they traveled in a group.
That would change in the next week. With the use of modern medical technology, each and every one of them would have what passed for civilian-style hair in an amazingly short amount of time. They could then blend in with the regular populace at need.
On the trip up, several people tried to cajole her into giving them more information about the mission. She politely refused and glared at those who persisted.
She interfaced her implants with the shuttle systems and took a look at the ship that they finally approached. It was a small freighter that had seen better days.
It was still almost as big as a regular marine transport, but the cargo pods took up a lot of that space. The habitation section was going to be tight for the regular crew, much less after adding her people in.
It looked battered and ill maintained, as if it had been repaired in ways that wouldn’t pass muster in the core sectors of the Empire. It had to have additional capabilities, but until she spoke with the officers, she wouldn’t know the specifics.
The cutter docked smoothly, and her people disembarked. Grace made sure that she was the first person through the hatch so that she could get a look at their new home.
It wasn’t much to look at, honestly. The bulkheads hadn’t seen a good scrubbing in years, and the air smelled like her gym bag after a few weeks of being forgotten in her locker.
That would be something that she’d have to address. Her marines needed busywork to keep them out of trouble. Getting the ship a bit cleaner would fit the bill.
A glance at Na confirmed the other woman was thinking along those lines already.
Two men waited for them just inside the ship. Based on their hair length, most people wouldn’t have guessed that they were Fleet. The thing that gave them away was their stiff, upright postures. These were Fleet officers.
She smiled at them. “Gentlemen, I’m Grace Tolliver. My associate, Na Fei.”
The taller of the pair had shoulder-length red hair that framed a ruggedly handsome face with a nose that was just a bit too large. The shorter man’s sandy brown hair was drawn back into a ponytail and perfectly complimented his neatly trimmed beard.
“Welcome aboard,” the shorter man said, extending his hand. “I’m Jay Anders, and I’m the pilot commander of Bright Passage. This is my partner, Alan Kyle.”
The taller man inclined his head.
If Grace had to guess, Anders was a lieutenant commander, and Kyle was probably a lieutenant. That would be roughly right for their bearing and apparent age.
Bright Passage was a misnomer for sure. She sensed some irony at work in her name.
“When will we be leaving orbit?” she asked. “I need to see my people settled.”
“Right to business, I see,” Anders said
, his smile widening. “We can leave Seward orbit as soon as you’re ready. Alan can see everyone settled if you’d care to accompany me to the bridge. Ah, the control room, I mean.”
It looked as if he was still adjusting to the new situation, too.
Grace turned to Na. “Put my bags wherever Mister Kyle says I’m staying and get everyone settled in, Fei.”
“Yes… Grace.”
Anders’s eyes twinkled. “I’ve got an office next to the control room. This way.”
5
The next day’s instruction began with one of One Twenty-Four’s least favorite classes: physical education. Depending on the day, it involved rigorous exercise or even team sports. Occasionally there were competitions between individuals.
Today, Keeper stood on a raised platform in the center of one of the largest rooms inside the crèche. She stared out over the crowd of girls, who stood straight, their attention focused upon her.
“Now that you’ve taken your first step toward becoming members of the Andrea Line, it’s time for you to learn one of the most important skills that you will have to master. Domination.”
One Twenty-Four frowned. Domination? What did that mean in this context?
Keeper waited for the murmurs between the girls to fade. One Twenty-Four remained silent. As one of the outliers in the crèche, she didn’t have many friends. Her line sibs associated with those that they believed would help them in the ultimate quest of survival, not those that they thought were marked for eventual elimination.
“I can see that I’ve confused you,” Keeper allowed as she walked to the front of the platform and stared imperiously down at them. “During the second half of your indoctrination—as well as in your lives as rulers of the Singularity—you will often have to project power over your competitors and enemies alike. We call this domination.
“Domination can come in many forms. It can be wrought of subtlety when you outmaneuver your opponent, and they lack any options other than compliance with your will. At the other end of the spectrum, you might have to use force to eliminate competition. And when I say eliminate, that can be anything from making your enemy cease whatever they are doing all the way up to potentially ending their lives.”