Solfleet: The Call of Duty

by Smith, Glenn

  And that presented him with a very serious problem. Not because of what it meant to his marriage—that was already in trouble, regardless—but rather because of their positions within the platoon. If he was going to pursue a relationship with her—if he was going to ‘fraternize’ with her, so to speak—then he had an obligation to transfer her to another squad immediately. In addition, because he was married, they were going to have to keep their relationship a secret, so he was going to have to come up with a fictitious reason for that transfer as well.

  But he didn’t want to transfer her. She was a good Marine and a damn good Ranger. She was too valuable to the squad to lose.

  He gazed into the mirror again. “Nice going, jackass.”

  Chapter 20

  Admiral Hansen sat motionless behind his desk and stared in the general direction of the list of messages still displayed on his comm-panel’s small screen, though in reality his eyes were focused on some intangible point somewhere beyond that display and his mind on some other place far beyond that. Two of the messages were dim, barely contrasting with the background—he’d already reviewed them—but the third still glowed brightly, waiting to be played. He just wasn’t ready for it yet. The heartbreaking, gut wrenching contents of the last one were still far too prevalent in his mind.

  All those dead Tor’Kana. Such a tragic, senseless waste of precious lives.

  Fewer than seven thousand Tor’Kana were known to have escaped the invasion of their home system, and fewer than twenty-seven hundred of those survivors, including the four hundred seventy-seven who had subsequently been found dead aboard the vessel the Rapier had just salvaged, were females. Due to their inability to survive for extended periods of time outside their own natural atmosphere—even their own scientists couldn’t reproduce it adequately enough to support them indefinitely—those females who had been rescued alive, something over thirteen hundred of them, were currently being held in protective custody aboard their vessels by some of the gelded males of their race. According to their long-time ambassador to Earth, those vessels had all been pumped full of their world’s atmosphere prior to their exodus, so the females would be able to live aboard them for several months if they had to.

  It sounded to Hansen like they were being held prisoner, but he couldn’t argue against the necessity of it. The fact was they simply had no other choice. To release them would be to kill them, and to kill them would mean to doom their entire species to extinction.

  But would a mere thirteen hundred females be enough to propagate that species? Would the Tor’Kana people ever flourish again? Hansen was no scientist. He had no idea how large or how diverse a gene pool might be needed for an entire species to thrive. He could ask someone, he supposed. Professor Verne probably knew someone among his many colleagues who could enlighten him if he really wanted to know the answer. Thirteen hundred? He couldn’t be sure without asking, but had his doubts.

  He glanced at his watch and was surprised to find that he’d been sitting there lost in thought and staring into space for so long. More than half an hour had passed since he’d played Lieutenant Johnson’s message.

  He finally focused on the screen, where the third message still waited patiently for him, the only line on the list still glowing. Hoping and praying that it didn’t contain even more devastating news, he leaned forward and touched his finger to it.

  Chapter 21

  After two weeks of spending every day and most of the nights in thick, sweat-absorbent field socks and heavy combat boots, the smooth, cool plasticrete steps that led from the basement gym and locker/shower facilities back up to the first floor felt like blocks of soothing ice beneath Dylan’s bare feet. Unfortunately, regulations prohibited going barefoot in the barracks’ common areas, so as he reached the top of the staircase he paused to pull on his old, worn leather sandals. Funny. Nearly all of the deadliest forms of cancer had been both preventable and curable for nearly a century and a half, yet athlete’s foot could still be contracted all too easily. Just as easily cured, of course, but contracted all the same.

  He made a U-turn at the top of the stairs and headed down the wide central hallway, noting how the overhead lights reflected brightly off the surface of the always highly polished tile floor as he passed by the company commander’s and other administrative offices. Then he made a right and exited through the rear blast-proof door—one of two that opened out onto the large ground-level patio.

  Made of the same blast-proof material as most of the rest of the building’s exterior, the patio ran the entire length of the building and extended out from the back wall for about ten meters. The infantry company that occupied most of the building sometimes used the patio as a sort of makeshift training classroom if the weather was nice enough, but usually reserved it for recreational activities, such as unit parties, barbecues, and so forth.

  For this morning’s return to garrison the morale officer had set up about half of it to resemble an old Parisian outdoor café, complete with padded wrought iron chairs, checkered tablecloths in red, white, and blue, and oversized umbrellas to shield the ‘customers’ from the sun when it rose. Recorded accordion music even played in the background, loud enough for those who might want to listen, but discreet enough for those who might not. The only thing missing was a team of waiters and waitresses, but the fancy buffet set up in the patio’s center made for a pretty nice substitute.

  Someone had gone to a lot of trouble.

  The mountains off to the west still shielded the base from the rising sun’s direct assault—watching the sun rise in the west and set in the east had taken some serious getting used to—but they couldn’t stop its rays from painting the thin, low-lying clouds in long broad strokes of golden yellows and oranges and brilliant reds and violets as they slowly drifted by, scratching their bellies across the highest of the gray stone peaks. The sky directly overhead had brightened to a dark blue-green but still faded to violet blackness low along the eastern horizon. Just off the patio’s edge, thin wisps of gray-white fog were beginning to form above the thick blue lawn, foreshadowing the morning dew’s impending death by evaporation.

  It was a beautiful morning, much like those back home in southeastern Pennsylvania where Dylan had grown up. Those mornings in April or early May before the god-awful heat and the thick, sweltering humidity of summer oozed in for their unwelcome three or four month residency. He was glad he’d had an old pair of shorts in his locker. His jeans would have been too warm.

  A few of his people, including Marissa, were seated at a table alongside the far railing. Most of them, Dylan could see, had already grabbed whatever they wanted to eat or drink and were chowing down like it was the last real meal they were going to get for another two weeks. Who could blame them? They’d had nothing but field rations to eat, three squares a day, every day for the last two. But not Marissa. The only thing sitting in front of her was an empty patch of tablecloth and her silverware, still wrapped in a napkin. She was still waiting for those two cups of coffee he’d promised her.

  He sighed. Marissa. What was he going to do about her? What was he going to do about that whole situation?

  As he approached the buffet, an incredible medley of mouthwatering aromas assaulted his senses. Scrambled eggs and bacon, at least three different kinds of spiced sausages, French toast, American style toast, a dozen different kinds of jams and butters, assorted fruits and fruit juices. And real coffee! After two weeks of powdered instant that tasted more like the dirt off the bottoms of his boots, real honest to goodness coffee! Given half a chance he could have devoured everything in sight and exploded a happy man.

  He spoke briefly to the attendant—a volunteer from the base Services unit who probably hadn’t known he was a volunteer until his supervisor told him—then grabbed two large mugs out of the plastic rack at the end of the table, filled them nearly to the brim with coffee, and headed over to the table to join his squad mates.

  Carolyn, his wife, often complained to him—m
ore like nagged him, really—about what she referred to as his ‘infuriating habit of hanging around the barracks a lot longer than necessary’ after an FTX or other such extended assignment. She would inevitably claim that she’d made some kind of special plans to welcome him back home but that his late arrival had somehow ruined them. He expected the same thing would happen this time if he stayed too long, but this particular FTX, relatively short though it had been, had also been one of the toughest and most demanding exercises the platoon had gone through since he’d been assigned to the unit. His people had performed their duties well beyond his expectations, so there was no way he going home without first having some breakfast and enjoying a little down time with those of them who were still ‘hanging around.’ If Carolyn didn’t like it, tough. Besides, it wasn’t even zero six-hundred yet, and it was Saturday. She wouldn’t be up for another two or three hours.

  Marissa was wearing short—very short—blue denim cut-offs and a bright red tee shirt and was sitting cross-legged in her chair with her sandals set aside on the deck beside her. As Dylan set a mug down on the table in front of her, he caught himself staring down at her smooth milky thighs and he quickly averted his eyes. Not twenty minutes ago those gorgeous legs had been wrapped tenaciously around his waist, inviting him, even urging him to pierce the soft flesh between them. So, from a certain unspoken but no doubt mutually understood point of view, he had a right to stare. But she was a fellow Marine and was his immediate subordinate. It wouldn’t be good for the others to catch him drooling over her as though she were a piece of fresh meat.

  “Thank you,” she said, smiling up at him.

  “You’re welcome,” he answered as he sat down to her immediate right in the only remaining empty chair. No coincidence there, he was sure, but perhaps a little too obvious for secrecy’s sake.

  Sitting there put him between Marissa and Private Sharon Baumgartner, the sort of cute but too young looking, usually quiet red-headed farm girl from somewhere in central Kansas. No one who didn’t know her would ever have thought to look at her that she was a Marine of any kind, let alone one of the most elite Marines in the entire Corps.

  Private Jeffrey Walters, another newbie, was in turn seated to her right. A black kid from one of the roughest neighborhoods in South Detroit, he sported an old knife scar that stretched from the outer corner of his right eye to the front of his ear.

  Sergeant Billy Running Horse, the man with all the muscles, completed the circle of five. In addition to being one of the squad’s fire team leaders, the rather large Native American was the best electronics and explosives specialist in the platoon. His father was some kind of bigwig at Solfleet Headquarters—Dylan couldn’t remember exactly what his position was—but Billy always tried not to let that fact get around too much. He’d once explained that he didn’t want anyone thinking that his faster than average promotions had been due in any way to his father’s influence, but Dylan suspected that he wasn’t really all that sure himself.

  Billy had been Dylan’s biggest antagonist when he first arrived at the unit, admittedly full of bitterness and resentment for having been passed over for promotion into the squad sergeant’s position himself in favor of some new guy with no real ground combat experience who’d only just earned his beret. He’d known nothing of Dylan’s background and prior experience at that time, of course, but since Dylan had outranked him, Billy had had no recourse. That was and always had been just the way the military worked. It hadn’t taken long, however, for Dylan to earn Running Horse’s respect once he’d gotten to know him, and now the sergeant was one of his most loyal subordinates, as well as being his biggest kidder. In fact, Billy had been the first to take Dylan’s initials, D.E.G., and turn them into his nickname.

  “Not eating anything, Degger?” Running Horse asked.

  “Our food’s coming,” Dylan answered, identifying Marissa as the other half of ‘our’ with a quick gesture.

  As if he’d been waiting for an off-stage cue, the buffet attendant approached the table carrying two platefuls of food, which he set down in front of Dylan and Marissa. “There you go, Sergeant Graves,” he said. “You and the lady enjoy your breakfast. If you need anything else, just give me a sign. I’ll be right over.”

  “Thanks, Chris,” Dylan said, looking up at him.

  “Thank you, Dylan,” Marissa said, smiling brightly at him, exaggerating her appreciation. Then she gazed across the table at Running Horse.

  Dylan followed her gaze and grinned. Yup. Any second now. It was coming, working its way up. And...now.

  “What the...” Running Horse stammered, his eyes wide with disbelief. “What the hell is this?” he zealously inquired as Chris walked off and left them to themselves. “Squad leaders get waited on now?”

  Marissa and the others started laughing while Dylan, with a deadpan expression on his face, calmly asked, “What’s wrong, Billy?”

  “What’s wrong?” He was starting to laugh a little as well, despite himself. “Let’s see. Did anybody else here get waited on? No! I don’t think so! I know I had to get my own food! Jesus, Degger, who did you bl...”

  “You just have to know how to talk to people, Billy,” Dylan pointed out as he tossed a steaming forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth. “You can usually get anything you want if you just know how to talk to people.” The eggs were so good he just had to close his eyes and savor the entire experience. Steaming hot and fluffy, perfectly seasoned with a touch of salt and freshly ground black pepper. They practically dissolved in his mouth.

  “Oh really?” Billy had responded. “Well, I hope I can be a squad sergeant when I grow up so I can learn how to talk to people, too.” With that last statement said, he dropped the subject and fell silent for several seconds, which told Dylan one thing. He was plotting his sweet revenge. The only question was who the victim of that revenge would turn out to be. Billy rarely did anything directly.

  “Anyone seen Sergeant Franklin?” Dylan asked.

  “He said he was too tired to eat,” Marissa answered. “He grabbed a donut and went straight up to his room.”

  “Oh, okay. I guess his squad did have it pretty rough out there this time.”

  “I’ll say they did,” Private Walters chimed in. “Looked to me like the L-T was running them ragged the whole...” He fell silent as he glanced around the table to find everyone staring at him, then suddenly looked as if he weren’t too sure it had been such a good idea to speak out. He was, after all, the newest guy in the unit. Almost everyone outranked him and he didn’t really know any of them that well yet.

  “Go on,” Dylan finally coaxed as he lifted his mug to his lips. “Let’s hear it.” He sipped his coffee—its heavenly aroma was surpassed only by its deep, rich taste—then added, “Well come on, Jeff. If you have something to say, say it.”

  The private began, somewhat reluctantly, “Yes, Sergeant.” He briefly tipped his head toward Private Baumgartner. “One of our...”

  “Private Walters,” Dylan hastily interrupted.

  “Yes, Sergeant?”

  “Jeff. We’re off duty, remember? This isn’t Boot Camp or Ranger school, or the regular Marines. You earned your beret just like the rest of us. It’s okay to relax a little bit. You don’t have to address me as ‘Sergeant’ every time you speak to me.”

  “Yes, Sergeant. I mean...”

  “Call me Dylan, or Degger. Trust me, there’ll be plenty of time for formalities.”

  “All right, Degger.”

  “Good. Now, what were you saying?”

  He began again as the others took a minute to work on emptying their plates. “One of my buddies from Ranger school is in Sergeant Franklin’s squad. He told me when we got back this morning that the L-T ran them ragged over the northern peaks.”

  “I’m sure he did,” Marissa pointed out. “There are what...five or six newbies in Sergeant Franklin’s squad?”

  “Yes...uh...Corporal?”

  “Teezer,” she told him, though s
he didn’t bother to point out the fact that her nickname wasn’t actually derived from the second syllable of her last name. He was still too new to be trusted that far. Still too much of an unknown element. “The lieutenant probably just wanted to see what they could do.”

  “Yeah,” Running Horse agreed, “at everyone else’s expense.”

  “You’ve got to admit, Billy, the new lieutenant knows his stuff,” Dylan pointed out.

  Running Horse looked at Dylan, flashed his bright white smile, and said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Degger. Anything interesting happen downstairs in the showers?”

  Dillon glared at him, clearly very serious, and despite whatever encouragement the few short-lived, under-their-breath snickers that arose from around the table might have provided him with, Running Horse’s smile abruptly disappeared. He’d begun his revenge, no doubt innocently, but he’d chosen a very personal and dangerous topic, and he knew better. So where did he intend to go with it?

  “Anything interesting?” Dylan asked cautiously. Where did he intend to go with it? Not at Marissa. That was too obvious. Dylan waited a moment to make it look like he was thinking it over, then shrugged his shoulders and shook his head and answered, “No, not really.”

  “Hey!” Marissa complained, slapping him playfully on the arm.

  Dylan turned his eyes to her, but Running Horse didn’t give him a chance to accuse her of anything. “Don’t blame her, Degger,” he said. “She didn’t say a word to anyone.”

  “That’s right. I didn’t,” she adamantly confirmed.