Last Man Out (Poor Man's Fight Book 5)

by Elliott Kay

  “Cleared,” she answered—unless someone dropped in a request the second after she finished snooping through the squad bays like a fascist dorm monitor. Because that made her an effective officer how, exactly?

  “And the platoon training schedule for next week?”

  “Almost wrapped up. Waiting for an answer from the range about Thursday.”

  “Almost,” grunted Torres. “You’re ‘almost,’ Miss Wong.” He tilted his head to the open hatch. “Looks like they’re cleared. Second Platoon is moving. Let’s get out there.”

  Torres veered right as soon as he stepped through the hatch. Apparently he wouldn’t be joining the platoon until they were formed up. Alicia rolled her eyes. He probably had important bullshitting to do with the other “real” platoon leaders. She looked back to the others and called, “First Platoon, we’re up. Let’s go.”

  With the corvette St. Catherine and Beowulf’s shuttles cleared out, half the battleship’s crew and the full marine detachment could assemble with room to spare. Even now, the deck crew put in the final touches of an intense cleaning frenzy. She saw Crewman Mendez collecting the last of the cleaning gear.

  Predictably, almost none of her people took this seriously. Alicia’s platoon chattered and joked all the way. Nobody marched. Drill could wait for the actual formation. She didn’t have to nitpick and would have looked like an ass if she tried. It was one reason she found Torres so frustrating: he pushed her into micromanaging. Presumably, he wanted to make sure she could handle all the tasks and responsibilities of the job—his job, to which she was an apprentice for the summer—but she couldn’t tell that to the rest of the platoon as she stuck her nose into everything. She had to back him up, not blame him… even if he was to blame.

  More than half of the platoon knew her from the war. She didn’t like the thought of everyone believing a single year at the academy had turned her into an insecure tightass.

  They intercepted and paralleled Second Platoon along the way, finding them in a similar mood. Only then did Alicia find a way to release any of her tension. “You look okay, Sergeant Collins,” she sniffed as the taller marine drifted out along the edge of his group.

  “You clean up nice enough, too. Ma’am,” Brent replied.

  “It comes from being discriminating about the company I keep.”

  “Yeah, I’d imagine. Your eyes are only a little bloodshot from your fancy party last night.”

  “Fucker,” Alicia grumbled.

  “How was it?”

  “Ravenell didn’t tell you?”

  “Yeah, but if I don’t sound interested, you’ll think I’m jealous.”

  “Of a fancy dress party?” Alicia asked skeptically.

  “No, of your date with Ravenell.”

  “Huh. That makes sense. The only person who could’ve been more out of place at that hors d’oeuvres table than me is you, asteroid boy.”

  “Oh god, did they expect you to use plates and napkins and all that shit?”

  Her eyes flicked to the other side of the hangar bay to check on her lieutenant jawing with some other officers. She wouldn’t have even risked this if it wasn’t for the camouflage created by his platoon walking between them. “You’re not the only one making me miss the enlisted life today,” she said under her breath.

  “Torres giving you a hard time?” asked Brent.

  “Nothing I shouldn’t have expected. Still kind of a drag.”

  “He’s intimidated by you.”

  Alicia frowned. “He was with Alpha Company all through the war. He went through all the same shit we did, only he was already an officer.”

  “Not all the same,” Brent corrected. “I’m just saying.”

  Her platoon formed up into ranks under the direction of their sergeants. Brent was about to go do the same. Her eyes slid over to him. “Are you intimidated?”

  “Obviously. The fear is the biggest turn on,” he scoffed on his way to his squad.

  Alicia caught Ravenell following behind with an amused grin. “Shut up,” she told him before he said anything.

  First Platoon stood in place, ranks lined up neatly and then told to stand at ease. Alicia took her spot to the front of the platoon. “We don’t know how long this is gonna take. Everybody learned not to lock their knees back in basic training, right?” Her taunts came with a mild grin. She preferred to leave the harsh tones back in basic, too. “Don’t anyone go passing out or throwing up on this nice clean deck.”

  “It’s not like the deckies have anything better to do than mop the floors, ma’am,” came a voice from the back.

  “That’s still more use than we’re gonna be today,” said Alicia. “I know how looking pretty doesn’t come naturally to you, Corporal Sousa, but try your best.” She noted the warning lights at the hangar’s bay doors as the others got their follow-up taunts and laughs in at Sousa’s expense. It was showtime. “Okay, seriously now. Settle down and do this right. If we’re lucky, looking pretty will be the hardest thing any of us have to do today.”

  * * *

  “Y’know, if the bay doors malfunction and we all get blown out into space, we’ll get out of the rest of this,” muttered Admiral Branch. He stood at the center of the hangar bay, wrapped up in a dress uniform of decorations and insignia like everyone else. “It’s no different than any airlock, really. Nobody here has a vac suit or a helmet except the deck crew. Everyone else would be done.”

  “You’re a ray of sunshine today, sir,” grunted his executive officer. Like Branch, he accepted a title in Beowulf’s chain of command below his actual rank. The admiral served as the ship’s captain. Alberto Santos held the rank of captain but went by “Mister” to avoid confusion. “These guys aren’t so bad, are they?”

  “Admiral Khatri is fine, I guess,” said Branch. “She knows her stuff. I’m pretty sure she’s not the one who decided on all this formal bullshit. I’d pin all this on the Union diplomatic service except this Young guy doesn’t seem like the type. But it’s gotta be somebody’s fault.”

  “This is Admiral Yeoh’s fault, sir,” said the woman to the admiral’s other side. Like all the other marines, Gunnery Sergeant Janeka stood at parade rest. “She put us up to this.”

  Branch turned to her with his eyebrow rising. “You think?”

  “Everyone is dressed up for a party no one wants to attend while she’s stuck at home, sir,” the gunny said, not once moving a muscle beyond her mouth. “If the Fleet didn’t request this, it only leaves our own command. This is her idea of a joke.”

  A loud buzz reverberated through the hangar bay, warning of the opening of the inner bay door. The Union Fleet shuttle carrying the visiting party hung in the air above the deck under its own antigrav power. The outer bay door stood closed behind it. The ship’s bells rang out through the hangar, along with the announcement, “Now, Task Force Commander arriving.”

  “Guess that makes some sense,” decided Branch.

  “Beowulf has a command master chief and at least a dozen other more senior NCOs, sir. Instead, I’m out in front with you. This is Admiral Yeoh,” Janeka finished icily. “Being funny.”

  “Oh, that part’s all me,” Branch explained as the shuttle floated in and settled down with its starboard hatch in front of them. “I rearranged the reception notes.”

  Though still practically a living statue, the gunny blinked. “Sir?”

  “Yeah, you know. Show of strength and stuff. Khatri might be in command of the whole task force, but she oughta know she can’t push us around. I figure if she meets you she might get the right perspective.”

  Again, Janeka blinked. “I’m here for intimidation, sir?”

  “Sure.”

  “You want me to scare the commander of a joint task force.”

  “Nah. Be your normal friendly self,” the admiral chuckled. “She’ll get the message.”

  Deck hands finished securing the shuttle to its spot, then ducked away again to avoid spoiling the scene with their vac suits and
tools. Admiral Khatri stepped out in a light blue dress uniform, cut and decorated in much the same fashion as Archangel’s. Her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back from her light brown face. Ambassador Young stood beside her. “Permission to come aboard?” she asked.

  “Permission granted,” answered Admiral Branch.

  Introductions passed quickly. “I believe you met everyone already at yesterday’s reception,” she finished, speaking to Branch. She stepped aside to let Santos shake hands as appropriate.

  “Yes ma’am,” Branch confirmed. “Nice to see everyone again. Oh, I should introduce you to Gunnery Sergeant Janeka from our marine detachment.”

  “Oh? From the Fairhaven mission?” asked Khatri. “Excellent.”

  The gunny stepped forward and accepted the other woman’s offered hand—warmly. “It’s so nice to meet you, ma’am,” she said with a broad smile unprecedented in Branch’s memory. “I’ve read both of your books. They’re so insightful.”

  “Ah. Why thank you, gunny. Have you met Ambassador Young?”

  She greeted the ambassador with similar warmth. Her smile only vanished when both turned away from her, and only long enough to throw a stonefaced glance to Branch. The warmth flicked back on the instant Khatri’s attention returned to her.

  “Wow,” said Branch.

  “You wanted her for intimidation, sir,” muttered Santos at his side.

  “I didn’t want a friendly fire incident.”

  * * *

  “Escorts returning to station. Inner and outer hangar bay doors fully secured.”

  “Thank you, helm.” Commander Hernandez killed the last two status updates on her screens before rising from her chair. Like the rest of the sections on the bridge, the ops station had plenty of personnel on watch. She didn’t need to monitor her people up close, especially during an easy ceremonial shift in a friendly port. The ops boss chair called to her mostly out of habit.

  The command bridge on Beowulf dwarfed the bridge of her last ship. Even at the rocketing pace of her career, she’d still been in uniform for a couple of decades before hitting this point. Maybe it was the recent longevity treatments making her feel young again. Maybe it was the appeal of surviving the war and still finding new challenges ahead. Regardless, serving as Officer of the Deck occasionally meant she had to stifle a cheer at her fortune.

  It wasn’t her own ship, but she was third in command of a fucking battleship.

  Hernandez made another dutiful check of the tactical screen dominating the front of the bridge. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. Traffic through the system held its steady pace. The neighboring ships all sat at rest. Every internal status board for Beowulf read as normal. Nobody could even run any drills with the formation going on. It felt good to be in charge, and it felt relaxing to have a moment of nothing to do. And as much as she might like a spot higher on the chain, being third got her out of this tedious ceremony.

  “Ensign Perez, how’s it look down there?” Hernandez asked. She strode across the bridge to the communications station, where she saw images of the hangar bay alongside all the standard comms traffic.

  “Ma’am,” Perez choked. The ensign didn’t try to hide her amusement. She jerked her thumb at one of the signalmen seated beside her. “Jeffries caught a good moment.”

  Hernandez cocked an eyebrow but didn’t have to ask. The signalman pointed to a screen and hit a button, replaying an overhead image of the visiting party’s arrival. Everything looked like the ordinary meet and greet until the image zoomed in on Gunny Janeka’s face turning from bright and friendly to stone cold and back again.

  “Oh wow. That’s one for the holiday highlight reel.”

  “Uh. No, ma’am,” Perez shook her head. “That’s probably not a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “We’ll die, ma’am. We will all die. Dead. Of death.”

  “Oh, come on. She’s—”

  “Contact!” blurted a voice from the helm. “Contact, zero-two-four by zero-eight-one at thirty klicks! It just appeared!”

  Hernandez snapped around as the helmsman called out. As a rule, the helm reported contacts to ops rather than shouting them out across the bridge. The distance of this contact justified his urgency. Nothing could simply appear out of nowhere at only thirty kilometers. Any starship dropping out of FTL this close to the gravity wells of the Fleet station and the moon would be torn to pieces.

  The scanners explained everything, along with a visual on the tactical screen as if to erase doubt. Human starships couldn’t safely drop out of FTL this close to a moon. Nor could Krokinthian vessels, at least to anyone’s knowledge.

  The Nyuyinaro had other tricks. They had figured out how to slip past active scanning signals during the Expansion Wars. They couldn’t exactly turn invisible, but they could play with light and color in ways humanity still didn’t understand—but even without that it was tough to spot much of anything in the void at interstellar distances.

  At thirty kilometers, the Nyuyinaro pod-bond was perhaps too close to evade detection any longer. Or maybe they’d decided to let themselves be seen. The pod gave off plenty of bright, swirling colors now, shaped like a tulip bulb in bloom. It spiraled gently as one of its members peeled away and flew toward Beowulf.

  “Separate contact,” began the helmsman.

  “I see it, helm,” Hernandez cut him off.

  “OOD?” spoke up Perez. Hernandez turned back to the comms station. The section officer looked up at her with wide eyes. “They’re asking to come aboard. They want to talk.”

  * * *

  No one could miss the significance of the brass cutting their inspection short for a conference in the middle of the hangar bay. They spoke quietly, but even they knew it wasn’t subtle.

  “Why would they come here? To this ship? Why wouldn’t they go to the station?” Khatri asked, turning to Ambassador Young.

  “It could be a matter of utility. They know the difference between a station and a ship. As for why this ship, I don’t know,” he admitted. “It’s the largest except for the DeRuyter, but that’s docked with the station. And it’s never been clear if they know the difference between Union and non-Union markings.”

  “They said they wanted to come aboard and talk?” Khatri asked Branch.

  “You heard it like we did, ma’am. ‘We ask inside to talk.’ That’s what came over the audio. Unless you folks in the Fleet or the Diplomatic Service came up with a translator and didn’t tell the rest of us?”

  “No, we don’t,” said Young. “It’s still the Nyuyinaro doing the work. We don’t understand how they know our language.”

  “Or what they want now,” said Khatri.

  “Suppose we could ask ‘em,” said Branch.

  “Admiral, as the ranking Union Fleet officer, I’ll have to assume command of this situation under the authority of the Assembly,” said Khatri. “Even as task force commander, I would still respect the authority of a captain over his own ship, but this is a matter of Union security and diplomacy. My apologies.”

  “No apology needed, ma’am. It is what it is.”

  “Then we follow the ambassador’s lead.” Khatri turned back to Young. “What do you need?”

  “I need a clean holocom,” Young replied.

  “Yes sir,” said a voice behind the close circle. As they looked up, Janeka already had her holocom’s menu open. In a flash, she keyed in three commands and stripped the device off her wrist to hold it out toward Young.

  Khatri glanced to Branch. He shrugged. “Nobody dismissed her,” he said.

  “Not sure I could blank the memory on mine so quickly,” admitted Santos.

  “You don’t back up the memory daily, sir?” asked Janeka. Chagrinned, Santos merely grunted and looked away.

  “Ambassador, how do we do this? The bridge says they’re floating right outside the hangar. Do we clear the decks?” asked Branch.

  Young glanced around the hangar bay still filled with the ship’s crew and
marines in full dress. “Nah.” He gestured to the hangar bay doors. “Let ‘em in.”

  * * *

  A loud buzz warned of the opening outer bay doors. Then came the admiral’s voice over the loudspeakers. “All hands in the hangar bay, this is the captain. We have received an unexpected visit from the Nyuyinaro. You will remain in position until given further orders. We see no sign of hostile intent. Under Union protocols, Admiral Khatri is in command until further notice. Remain in place.”

  As ordered, department and platoon formations stayed where they stood but virtually no one held to the position of attention. Nobody stayed quiet after an order like that.

  “Fucking Noonies?” asked a marine behind Alicia.

  “We’re gonna what?” exclaimed another.

  “Oh, holy shit,” breathed Lieutenant Torres beside her. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

  Alicia knew she should say something. Anything. Keeping the platoon in line was her job. She turned halfway back to speak, but nothing came out of her mouth. Every word disappeared into a deep pit in her stomach.

  “Marines!” shouted an angry voice from across the hangar bay. Every eye snapped forward as she stormed across the deck toward the formation. Beowulf already held a scarier threat than aliens. “You will stand at attention as ordered!” demanded the gunny.

  At least a score of enlisted personnel on hand outranked her, along with every officer on deck. Not one of them challenged her. Beowulf’s assembled crew and marines stood straight and silent as the interior hangar bay door slid open.

  Yet even Janeka’s presence couldn’t keep everyone’s eyes front and center in a moment like this. The alien glided in on broad and bright, colorful wings without a sound. At distance, one could make out its head and narrow feet, giving it a shape a human observer could at least identify with. Given the soft glow of the Nyuyinaro’s body, one had to be up close to make out much more than that general shape and the swirling colors of its skin.