“Not at all,” Martin said. “He should be proud of everything you’ve achieved. You should be proud of everything you’ve achieved.”
“Thank you,” Yolanda said. She looked down at her pale fingers. “You’ll make a good dad, one day.”
“I hope so,” Martin said. He was not going to leave his children, whatever happened. “And you’re not alone. You have me and all of your crewmates.”
Yolanda nodded, then allowed him to lead her up to the higher levels. Sparta was huge, easily the largest military installation in the Sol System. Just about everyone in the military, regardless of their service, spent time on Sparta. He touched the bronze star on his shoulder as they reached the teleport booth, then stepped inside. He’d earned that merely for passing the first phase of his training.
“Freedom, an America-class cruiser,” Yolanda rattled, as they stepped into the observation dome. Countless stars glowed overhead, while starships hung in orbit around the asteroid, illuminated only by their running lights. “Two hundred metres long, designed for both defence and exploration. One of the newest ships in the fleet.”
“They must think highly of us,” Martin said. She had always been more interested in the minutia of starship design than himself. “How many Marines?”
“Forty,” Yolanda said. “They must think highly of you too.”
“I’m scared,” Martin admitted. “I barely made it through Boot Camp.”
“But you made it,” Yolanda said. “I feel the same way too. Like I shouldn't be here. Like I'm a fraud. But they wouldn't have let me get through if they hadn’t felt I could handle it.”
She reached out, then wrapped an arm around him and held him as they looked up at the stars.
***
Yolanda had half-hoped for a shuttle ride to Freedom. It would have allowed her to see the sword-like starship from the outside, before she allowed the ship’s metal hull to swallow her up. Instead, Freedom had docked at Sparta and her new crewmembers – Yolanda, Martin and a dozen others – had been ordered to pass through the airlocks and board the starship without ever seeing her external hull. She bit down her disappointment and smothered it under her excitement at finally serving on a real starship. There was no way she would ever go back to Earth now.
Her implants flashed up an alert as the starship’s datanet scanned her ID chips, confirming her identity, before the airlock hissed open. There was a rush of cool air, smelling faintly of ... something ... vaguely unpleasant, then they stepped inside. A tall bald woman wearing a blue uniform was standing there, waiting for them. Yolanda’s implants identified her as Commander Gregory, the XO.
“Welcome onboard,” the XO said, once they had saluted the flag beside the airlock. “I am Commander Saundra Gregory, executive officer of this ship. You will be dispersed to your own departments momentarily, but before then I want a few words with you. Freedom is the best ship in the fleet and we intend to keep it that way. If you have a problem with that, I advise you to get rid of it.”
She paused, then marched on. “We have been assigned to a deep space mission, departing in one week,” she continued. “If any of you don’t fit in by then, you will be put off before we leave. That will probably mean the end of your career, so I suggest you work hard. I know adapting to shipboard life isn't easy, but we don’t have time for whiners.
“Private Douglas, you have been assigned to Marine Country. Your implants will show you the way; report to Major Lockland when you arrive. Everyone else, with me.”
Yolanda felt a pang as Martin saluted, then walked off down the long corridor, while the XO led the other new officers in the opposite direction. Her implants updated automatically, showing her the interior design of Freedom. It was relatively simple, she realised, although it would be a pain to navigate without implants. The bulkheads were completely unmarked, save for a handful of numbers that didn't seem to link together. It took her several moments to realise that they were production numbers, rather than anything she could use to find her way around the ship.
“These are your cabins,” the XO informed them. “You will be sleeping two to a cabin, so pair off now. I don’t give a damn about your sleeping arrangements, as long as they don’t interfere with your duties. You are supposed to be grown adults, so pick someone you can be comfortable with and open the hatches.”
There was a brief moment of confusion, then Yolanda nodded to Simone, who nodded back and pushed her hand against one of the hatches. It hissed open, revealing a tiny compartment with a pair of small beds, a small washroom and a pair of drawers under the beds. There was barely enough room for two people sleeping, let alone standing up. Yolanda thought wistfully of the barracks, then unslung her knapsack from her shoulder and placed it on the bed. She could unpack it later, once they had been briefed on their duties and the ship’s rota.
“Good,” the XO said, when they were done. “If you want to swap roommates later, that’s your problem, not mine. If I have to get involved, I will be very annoyed.”
She turned and led them up the corridor, through a pair of solid airlocks and past a Marine wearing light combat armour. The Marine showed no reaction as the XO opened the hatch behind him, or when Yolanda nodded to him in passing. It had always astonished her just how still Martin could stand, after several weeks of training; now, she thought she understood why.
Inside, the bridge awaited them. Yolanda stopped and stared, trying to drink in every detail of the glowing compartment. Three officers sat at three consoles, linked through their implants into the starship’s command systems, while a fourth sat in the command chair, watching a giant holographic display that showed the entire solar system. She looked left and saw two more officers, one standing in front of a console and poking at it, the other standing behind him and offering helpful advice. The entire compartment, the nerve centre of the starship, seemed to glow with activity.
“Captain Singh,” the XO said. “These are our new officers.”
The command chair rotated until Captain Singh came into view. He was a tall, brown-skinned man with a neatly-trimmed beard, wearing the white uniform of a starship commander. A single medal hung above his right breast, signifying active combat service; below it, a line of gold braid informed her that he had served on four different starships before taking command of Freedom. He was an impressive man, she had to admit, as he stood and studied them. Had he been born in space or was he, like her, a refugee from Earth?
“Welcome onboard,” Captain Singh said.
“Thank you, Captain,” the XO said. “I should have them ready for active duty within two days, assuming their training files are accurate.”
You’ll have to prove yourself, Yolanda thought, remembering the advice she’d been given by one of her training officers. The older woman had sat down with the cadets and explained to them that merely passing the course wouldn't be enough. Once you prove yourself, you can expect more responsibility and a chance at promotion. But no one will take you on faith.
She kept her expression blank as the newcomers were marched off the bridge and down into the secondary control centre. “This compartment is a near-complete duplicate of the bridge,” the XO said. “From now on, until I say otherwise, those of you qualified for bridge duty will be working here, practising, practising and practising. You will run through every disaster scenario in the book and a few we made up specially. Should you pass those tests, you will be permitted to serve on the bridge during our deployment.”
There was a pause. “Any questions? None? Then get started.”
Yolanda nodded, then sat down in front of the helm console. Moments later, it came to life and displayed the first part of a simulation, one she knew from training. But there was no point in trying to argue. Instead, she just started to work her way through it, piece by piece.
***
Marine Country was isolated from the remainder of the starship, according to the plans Martin had accessed through his implant. There was only one door, guarded by a pair o
f Marines, who checked his ID twice before allowing him through the hatch and into the compartment. Inside, it was dark, so dark even his enhanced eyesight couldn’t see anything in the shadows. He had to bring up his implants to see anything ...
Light flared. His implants automatically dimmed his vision. Moments later, he couldn't see anything at all.
“Welcome to Marine Country,” a voice boomed. “Are you worthy?”
“I like to think so,” Martin tossed back. Sergeant Grison had warned him about hazing rituals, tests designed to ensure the Fucking New Guy – the FNG – was up to the job. Just graduating from Boot Camp wasn’t enough. “I’m tough, thick-headed and bloody-minded.”
“You sound a bit overqualified,” the voice said, dryly. “Take five steps forward, Boot!”
Martin stepped forward and felt something pressing against his eyes. Gritting his teeth, he took another step forward, then another. There was a moment when he was sure he was about to impale himself on something, then the pressure melted away into nothingness. But there was still nothing to see, but darkness.
“Lights,” the voice said.
This time, the lights were dim enough to allow Martin to see without pain. Ahead of him, a grim-faced man wore urban combat BDUs and a Captain’s insignia on his shoulder. Martin frowned, then remembered the custom of granting every Captain on the ship, apart from the real Captain, a courtesy promotion.
“Major Lockland?”
“Private Douglas, I assume,” Lockland said. “You’ll be slotted into 3rd Platoon unless there are major problems – and I don’t expect there to be any, understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Martin said.
“You’ll be bedding down with them when you’re not in simulators or chasing your tail around the exercise compartment,” Lockland continued. “I expect you to be pulling your weight within the week, Private, or I will have no hesitation in beaching you until we return to Sol. Lieutenant Robbins will keep your nose to the grindstone until you prove yourself, so work hard and keep clean.”
“Yes, sir,” Martin said. He’d expected nothing less. “I will do my very best.”
“Make sure you do – and that it’s good enough,” Lockland growled. “There’s trouble coming, Private. No one has said anything officially, but I’ve heard rumours, whispers of trouble. We have to be ready for when the shit hits the fan.”
“Yes, sir,” Martin said. He wanted to ask what Lockland had heard, but he knew he wouldn't get a straight answer until he’d proved himself. There was no shortage of potential issues, from interventions on Earth to outright war with one or more of the Galactics. “We will be ready.”
“Indeed we will,” Lockland said. He nodded towards the hatch. “Go put your bag down, then join 3rd Platoon for their ongoing drills. I’ll speak to you again in a week, I hope; if I have to talk to you before then, you’re in deep shit.”
“Yes, sir,” Martin said.
He thought briefly of Yolanda, wondered if he would have a chance to see her after 3rd Platoon had accepted him, then pushed the thought aside. The Sergeants had hidden nothing from the recruits, once they’d passed the final tests. Established units only opened their hearts and minds to a newcomer after he’d proved himself. And if he failed, he could expect nothing, but a quick ride back to Sparta and an equally quick discharge.
A shape appeared behind him as he placed his bag on the bunk. “Private Douglas?”
Martin turned, then saluted the stern-looking woman wearing a Lieutenant’s uniform. “Sir?”
“I am Lieutenant Robbins, CO 3rd Platoon,” she said, briskly. There was no give in her voice at all, no sense she might have a feminine bone in her body. Like Kayla, she had passed the same tests as the men, then won her spurs in an active unit. “Come with me. We have a lot of work to do.”
Chapter Seventeen
The Pakistani Government fell for the fifth time in as many months today, as armed mobs stormed the walls of the Presidential Palace in Islamabad. So far, successive military and Islamic governments have proved completely incapable of halting either the ongoing economic decline or the outflow of skilled technical workers, looking for better jobs elsewhere. At last report, several thousand were dead in the streets, with thousands more injured. This does not bode well for Pakistan.
-Solar News Network, Year 53
Viceroy Neola – the remainder of her names were never shared outside her clan – was young for a Tokomak, a mere six hundred years old. It was something that galled her more than she would ever have admitted, even to her life-mates or children. She could neither enjoy the authority that came from having been born before the foundation of the Tokomak Empire nor the freedom of a child. And yet, she was as committed to the empire as the rest of her kind, despite its flaws. It had brought peace and stability to a galaxy tormented by war.
She watched through cold eyes as the Varnar leadership bowed their heads before her, welcoming her to their world. They were a surprisingly advanced people for their position in the galaxy, already halfway towards mimicking the Tokomak government before they’d encountered the empire and been assimilated. They’d made useful proxies because they could be relied upon to do the job, without complaining about their position in the empire. But now they had run into something they couldn't handle ... and they’d requested help.
It had been a surprise – and it had taken nearly thirty standard years for the Tokomak to even consider the request. The whole idea of the proxy wars had been to keep the races on the rim of civilisation – barely civilised themselves – occupied, wasting time and resources in a petty pointless war. It had gone on for nearly a hundred years, after all, and had seemed likely to carry on for the next thousand, if the races didn't exhaust themselves long before then. But now, it looked almost as if the Varnar would lose the war. They’d run into a new race, one that was causing them problems. And that was tipping the balance against them.
She allowed herself a cold smile as she walked past a line of cyborg soldiers, constructed from biological samples taken from several different primitive worlds, and halted in front of the Varnar leaders. They were short, when she was tall; their eyes flickering nervously over her badges of rank. She could do anything to them and she knew it; the Tokomak, when they’d taken the sector, had not been shy about granting themselves unlimited authority. And yet, she had to work with them. The ossified geriatrics who made up the Inner Council of Tokomak could never have handled the thought of doing more than issuing orders to non-Tokomak. They even had problems with non-Tokomak servants!
“I am honoured to set foot upon your world,” she said. The Varnar needed the sector to know the Tokomak were behind them – and besides, it was a honour. She didn't have the unlimited authority to make war she wanted, but she did have unprecedented freedom in other areas. “I thank you for the welcome.”
The Varnar leader bowed low. “I thank you, Great One,” he said. “Your presence brings honour to us all ...”
He went on, and on, while Neola tuned him out and surveyed the crowd through her implants. They were mostly Varnar, but there were hundreds of non-Varnar there, each one representing a different race. Some of them were spacefarers themselves, treated with a certain degree of leniency by the empire; others were primitives, uplifted into galactic society and gifted advanced technology they couldn't hope to duplicate for themselves. Her lips curved into a sneer, which she forced off her face before anyone could take notice. Primitives. What could they do when they came face to face with the towering interstellar civilisation, but bend the knee in awe. They would never be anything more than servants for their elders and betters.
“And so we welcome you to our world,” the Varnar concluded. “We thank you.”
“Thank you for your welcome,” Neola said. At least it hadn't been as long as some of the speeches she’d been forced to endure as a young politician. But the Varnar had definitely mastered the art of saying the same thing, over and over again, in a dozen different ways. “I now wish to
see the war room. The rest of the matters can wait.”
The Varnar looked shocked. They’d expected her to inspect everything from hospitals and spaceports, leaving the war room until last. But Neola was young enough to be impatient – and besides, she wasn't particularly interested in local facilities. If the Varnar wanted spaceports or hospitals, they could build them for themselves. The empire wasn't interested in their local affairs. She smiled to herself as the Varnar recovered, then led her into a secure passageway – her bodyguards inspected it minutely before they allowed her to enter – and down towards the war room. Her implants reported hundreds of security scans before they passed through the last set of hatches and stepped into the chamber.
“Now,” Neola said, once the bowing and scraping had died away. “Tell me about the war.”
***
Sally had been lucky to get tickets for the reception ceremony. The Varnar had wanted to showcase their connections with the Tokomak, but even so she’d had to pay well over the odds just to obtain a pair of tickets. No one had even seen a Tokomak for centuries, certainly not one who would be taking command of the war. Indeed, the bookies – it had amused her to discover that the Galactics like gambling – had already started revising the odds of a Varnar victory in light of the Tokomak involvement.
A Learning Experience 2: Hard Lessons Page 17