The Symbionts of Murkor

by Tarulli, Gary

  “Clear—Commander,” Anderson finally said, and the crisis was temporarily averted.

  There was an unexpected added benefit to her warning to Anderson. Other than herself, there were six women in the room. Four, including three of the five female IMC staff members, were now smiling at her. Divide and conquer, Ellis thought with a mixture of regret and amusement. The forth woman smiling was Captain Stewart.

  “Let’s get back on point,” Ellis said. “First, missions must continue unabated. To do otherwise concedes that water sufficient in quantity to maintain a base population of six can never be found. Secondly, I don’t subscribe to the popular notion that some form of cooperation with our Unión neighbors is impossible. In the next few days I shall attempt to open a direct line of communication with Nadir’s CO.”

  Ellis weathered another round of scornful looks and barely suppressed derisive laughter. Most disturbing was the silent look of hatred emanating from Anderson.

  “Permission to speak candidly, Commander.” The request, Ellis noted with interest, wasn’t from an IMC tech, but from one of her own military personnel.

  “That’s why we’re here, Sergeant Cooper.”

  “Sir, I respectfully remind you of what happened on Phenos. And, more recently, there’s the skirmish within the Laster System. Can any good come from dealing with the damned Tinos?”

  “It can. Recall the recent exchange of water for alcohol. Further exchanges are possible.”

  “There’s a difference. They presently have us in a position of disadvantage, and they know it.”

  “They may have an accurate assessment of our thirst for water, but I have seen the poor condition of their base.” Ellis directed her next remark at the IMC foreman. “From the reports I have studied, correct me if I am wrong, Mr. Kreechum, upwards of 1,000 liters of water per day is required to process unrefined anecrecium ore.”

  “One thousand liters to reduce a metric ton of ore to ten kilograms of refined material, stored on site, then transported off-world on bimonthly supply ships. Last shipment was several months ago. No water, no anecrecium. Period.”

  “And no production bonuses, exclamation point!” someone shouted out, then thought better of the outburst. “Sorry, Commander.”

  “What’s your name, mister?” Ellis asked.

  “IMC tech Bert Imholtz, Commander.”

  “When was the last occasion you were out and about?”

  “Just yesterday, when Lori had her accident—” Imholtz replied, his last words trailing away as he belatedly tried to cover his slipup. He had agreed to keep the incident shielded from the Commander. Embarrassed, he stared down at his feet, his unease causing a few chuckles among several IMC workers who were let in on the secret.

  “I am unaware of any accident,” Ellis replied. Her first thought was that she had been remiss in reviewing a medical report sent to her mindstor. A quick read of the base physician’s expression went a long way in dispelling the notion.

  “Captain Stewart?” Ellis inquired. “Were you apprised of this incident?”

  Stewart shook her head in disgust. “I can assure you I was not, Commander.”

  “And the subject of this accident is Lori Jensen,” Ellis said, looking her way. “You appear to be in good health, Ms. Jensen?”

  “I am, Commander.”

  “And exactly what was the nature of your accident?”

  “I had to be revived after losing my rebreather,” Jensen replied. With prompting, she offered an abbreviated and defensively worded summary of the incident. The accounting, sterilized of important details, ended with a thinly veiled accusation. “It was one of the longer missions you ordered us on, Commander. The whole thing probably wouldn’t have happened otherwise.”

  “Ms. Jensen, your duty was to report exactly what happened and why.”

  “Duty?” Jensen answered with a scowl. “Such as providing a summary to my foreman?”

  Reporting the incident to Kreechum, bypassing Ellis, represented a willful attempt at undermining her authority. And had the IMC foreman kept his silence? A glance toward the man, seeing his sneer, provided the unwelcome answer. There were, it appeared, forces lining up against her. Might as well complete the ugly picture, Ellis realized, then deal with the mess.

  “And who was the third member of your team?” she asked, aware that the significant detail had been one of the Jensen’s glaring omissions. When the tech hesitated, Ellis threatened. “There’s a roster for every mission,” she continued. “I have no need to ask again. I can assure you it’s in your best interest to give a prompt reply.”

  Before Jensen could respond, and there was no indication she would, a clear and determined voice rang out.

  “I was in charge of that mission, Commander.”

  Ellis showed no outward reaction—disappointing many in the assembled audience who were gleefully expecting an emotional display. If she felt anything it was the feeling of betrayal, this despite knowing Davis for only a short time. The previous indication he gave of supporting her, his loyalty, now appeared very much in doubt.

  “You felt no obligation to report the incident to me or Captain Stewart?” Ellis demanded.

  “With due respect, I have an equal obligation to protect the crew I serve with,” Davis said to a backdrop of grumbled assent.

  “And exactly what were you protecting them from, Lieutenant?”

  “Mistakes were made on that mission. Human mistakes. Lapses in judgment due to exhaustion and the unsettling environment of the tubes themselves. I considered it inappropriate for discipline to be meted out by someone who lacks proper appreciation for these factors.”

  “So let me get this straight. Although your own involvement renders your objectivity suspect, you prejudged my reaction as likely to be too severe.”

  “By prior example, Commander,” Davis asserted, calling to mind the punishment assigned to himself and Anderson.

  “And what of Captain Stewart?” Ellis asked. “Is her medical counsel to be disregarded?”

  “She would, in turn, be duty-bound to inform you.”

  “Exactly, Lieutenant. It’s referred to as ‘chain of command.’ It’s refreshing to see that you are still able to recall certain aspects of your military training. I’ll expect you in my office at the conclusion of this meeting.”

  While she spoke, Ellis received a look of commiseration from Stewart, one she regretted seeing. Although unintentional, nothing could make the vulnerability of her command any clearer.

  It was time, she reluctantly decided by the meeting’s end, to take the “conversation” to a different level.

  ***

  Ellis and Davis were alone in her office. “Grab that chair, Lieutenant.” Davis complied without saying a word. He was waiting her out, waiting for her to fire the opening salvo.

  “You know, Lieutenant, you’re turning out to be one big pain in my ass.” No sense being predictable, Ellis thought.

  “Not my intent, Commander,” Davis replied, trying to act indifferent.

  “And just what is your intent? Proving that you’re as great a fool as your friend, Anderson?”

  “‘My friend,’ you say. And yet earlier you tried to drive a wedge between us. I’d appreciate not being put in that position again.”

  “Something I’ll bear in mind—when you assume command. In the meantime, you’ll comply with each and every one of my orders and so will everyone else on this base. Understood?”

  “Understood,” Davis said, adding, “but you run the risk of pushing too hard. I’ll say one thing for Trenchon, he knew how to relate to the men on this base.”

  “That’s crap, Davis, and you know it. Trenchon was good at managing the status quo. And where has it got any of you?”

  “I know where we’ve been; the question is, where are you taking us?” Davis said. “Off the planet, it would seem.”

  “Are you as anxious as Kreechum to push Coalition and Unión into a confrontation?”

  “No. Except
I keep asking myself why in hell they ordered you here if you’re unwilling to take any risks.”

  “Because I was misjudged. Exactly like you’re doing now.”

  “Is that the way you see it?”

  “That’s the way I see it. You’ve couched your words to avoid an outright insult, but you consider me ineffectual and weak. I have a way of relieving you of your misconceptions, with the added benefit of administering a much-needed attitude adjustment. Later today, in the gym. Simply put, I propose to whip your sorry ass.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Davis said, laughing, yet uncertain whether to outright dismiss the challenge as a joke.

  “Dead serious. A mixed martial arts contest. I’ve heard that you’re an accomplished kick boxer.”

  “You’ve heard correct, which is why—”

  “If you are worried about my safety,” Ellis interrupted, “think again. I have a black belt in judo. If I were you, I’d be more concerned about your own welfare. We’ll follow the usual rules to prevent serious injury. A ‘tap out’ ends the match.”

  “Respectfully, Commander, other than the feeling of satisfaction I’d get from kicking your—what do I have to gain by this match?”

  “You said I was too severe (as did Captain Stewart, Ellis distinctly remembered) in setting punishment for your drunken brawl. Maybe so. I’ve been advised that a month without rec privileges is an excruciatingly long time on Murkor. Well you can tack on another month for failing to report Ms. Jensen’s accident. Or you can wipe the slate clean. If I ‘tap out’ first, you get to decide the punishment. For both you and your friend.”

  Davis weighed the proposal. Both he and Ellis had years of military service. It was commonplace for men and women to spar together. “And on the off-chance that you win?” he asked. “What do you get out of this?”

  “Nothing more or less than bragging rights. Can your ego handle it?”

  “You meant to say my ‘male ego?”

  “If you prefer to think of it in those terms. I don’t.”

  “The aim of this contest is to make the other person ‘tap out’”?

  “You have a better idea?” Ellis asked.

  “Something in addition. The general fitness room has one door. The first person to exit through that door is declared the winner.”

  “The room with the viewing gallery?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perfect,” Ellis said. An audience is exactly what she wanted.

  “I shall make sure the room is kept free,” Davis said, rising to leave.

  “Sit down, Lieutenant,” Ellis ordered. “You’re not dismissed. I want to hear exactly what went on during your last mission.”

  “I wasn’t in the tube, Commander. Much of my knowledge of the incident was acquired secondhand. You’d do better interrogating Imholtz and Jensen.”

  “I intend to. Now let’s get on with it.”

  Alone in her office, Ellis took time to reflect. Ignoring Davis’s arrogance, she couldn’t help but take a liking to the man. Smart. Attractive. A little fucked in the head, but that was likely a temporary phenomenon.

  It was generally agreed that he was the toughest man on base, Anderson a close second. Except for the unmarked face, Davis looked the part. One-hundred perfectly proportioned kilograms, Earth weight, on a shy two meters. Like herself, no stranger to the gym. She doubted his body fat was above ten percent. Given half a chance, a female anatomist would be quite content pointing out his well-defined muscle groups. For the first time in a long time, it could have been a worthy physical contest.

  Too bad she had to find an inconspicuous way to lose.

  ***

  The first shout originating from the fitness room’s viewing gallery was broadcasted for general consumption: “Isn’t this the same room in which Davis put Anderson on his ass?”

  On the heels of that comment came another, louder, mostly for Ellis’s benefit: “Hey, Davis, I know you’re tired of beating on the rest of us, but isn’t this a little ridiculous?”

  Finally, and most specifically: “Commander, any last words?”

  All were followed by boisterous laughter.

  Sense of humor intact, Ellis looked up at the faces peering down at her. “Not smart, trying to make me angry. Isn’t Lieutenant Davis in enough trouble here?”

  “Not if he manages to stay awake,” someone replied to more laughter.

  With little in the way of live entertainment on base, word of the match had spread at light speed. Ellis noted with satisfaction that the viewing balcony, designed to hold ten people, was crowded with twice that. All hoping, and expecting, for her to get a solid ass-whipping. And, of course, there was the betting, Davis the heavy favorite. One objective accomplished: For a few welcome moments Zenith would be preoccupied with thoughts of something other than a water shortage.

  Noticeably absent was Stewart, busily prepping the treatment room. Although assured that the combatants would be protected, she knew better. The risk of bodily injury was mitigated, not alleviated, by the padded headgear, open-finger boxing gloves, and the groin and breast protectors customarily required in mixed martial arts matches.

  The garb worn for the match befitted each contestant’s training and personal preference. Ellis wore her judogi—a loose-fitting pair of white short pants and durable robe-like top cinched at the waist by the black sash emblematic of her judo rank. Davis filled out a sleeveless tee and boxing shorts. Both were barefoot. Other than what went on between the ears, feet were going to be their most potent weapons.

  Ellis sized up the room, an organo-formed chamber measuring eight meters square and five meters high. Exercise paraphernalia had been removed, leaving only a durable mat covering the entire floor and bottom half of all four walls. One wall, located directly opposite the viewing balcony, accommodated a meter-wide sliding door which could be activated either by proximity motion or verbal command. Reaching that opening, and passing through it first, made winning this contest much more difficult. If Davis decided to power his way to it he could conceivably drag her along. The possibility of her doing the same to him was slim to none. He probably realized that when he suggested the idea. Clever bastard.

  Ellis had learned to never underestimate an opponent. Not a problem, she thought, sizing up the formidable-looking Davis as they faced off in the center of the room. A lesser-known addendum to the same rule is to never assume that an intelligent opponent—and her opponent was certainly that—would underestimate you. “The odds are four to one,” he advised. “I would say no more than two to one is appropriate.”

  “Favoring me or you?” Ellis asked, causing Davis to grin.

  Her best opportunity was to take him down before he reached the exit, then immobilize him with a joint lock or stranglehold. Either technique could inflict permanent injury, but unbearable pain came first. Invariably, a subdued opponent signals defeat, using a free hand to tap their opponent’s body, or the floor, before they pass out. The great equalizer was tolerance for pain, which had nothing to do with gender, size, or physical strength.

  The first steps Davis took, predictably, were toward the exit. He had no intention of going there. Turning back, in one fluid motion he lifted his right knee high in front of his body, pivoted off his left leg, and sent his right instep snapping straight at Ellis’s head. A roundhouse kick, blurringly fast, but she was faster, ducking barely in time as his foot passed a centimeter over her. If the blow had connected it would have been lights out. Instead, she had learned something important about her opponent: An accurate measurement of his kick’s reach and speed.

  Her next lesson wouldn’t be as painless.

  In rapid succession, Davis unleashed a left jab/right cross combination at Ellis’s head followed by a left jab/left hook/right cross to the body. Every punch she narrowly evaded by stepping backward or parrying to the side. Except one.

  Davis’s hand speed was even faster than his legs. One sweeping hook, partially deflected, rocked her backward, sending a b
olt of pain shooting up her side.

  A satisfied hoot erupting from the spectator gallery. “You’ll have to do better,” Davis prodded. “The bleacher seats are getting restless.”

  “And I had always thought them so patient,” Ellis responded. She had yet to attempt any overtly aggressive judo techniques, passing on several opportunities to use her skill at atemi, focused body blows, to slow Davis’s attack. Instead, she would follow a fundamental tenant of her discipline by maintaining a defensive posture, exploiting the moment when her opponent was off-balance.

  There were both physical and psychological aspects to inducing that moment. Having precisely determined the range of Davis’s dangerous roundhouse kick, she had repeatedly positioned herself just out of reach. Now she intentionally moved a few centimeters closer, too small an adjustment to be perceived as deliberate, yet sufficient to be detected by Davis and invite his attack. She would have to be quick, anticipating and moving with the tremendous force of his leg. It would be his right leg, but she was prepared for a diversion, prudently keeping her hands up to protect her face until the last possible moment.

  Davis took the bait. Crouching slightly and taking a half step forward, she turned to meet his kick, simultaneously slapping her right hand onto the front of his rising knee while using her left arm to wrap behind and secure the lower part of the same leg. The top of Davis’s foot, which had been aimed at her head, was now wedged against her shoulder. Bending forward at the waist and twisting, she used her body to torque his leg at the knee, redirecting Davis’s momentum, sending him off-balance and crashing down hard onto his stomach.

  “Holy shit,” someone shouted, “when’s the last time you’ve seen Davis taken down!”

  Followed by, “Hey, Davis, you need some help in there?!”

  Only now there weren’t as many in the audience laughing.

  A second fundamental tenant of the martial arts is understanding that your opponent is only as strong as his weakest point. It was an underlying principle behind kansetsu-waza—the joint locking techniques of which Ellis had become a master. A minor repositioning of her hands on Davis’s leg and he would instantly be in an ashi-hishigi, the ankle lock. Then it would be match over. An appropriate application of pressure, it was surprising how little was needed, would compel him to tap out.