Galactic Council Realm 2: On Duty

by J. Clifton Slater

  One of the Marines in front of me ordered, “Officer on deck, detail, attention!”

  The six Marines and the four Shore Patrol snapped to and even Smiley braced himself.

  “Lieutenant Piran?” the Marine Officer asked. His voice filled the space yet he hadn’t yelled. It was as much a command as a question.

  “Here, Sir,” I replied.

  “On me,” he stated, turned and marched out of the room.

  Who was I to argue? I grabbed my bag and raced to keep up with the broad receding back.

  As I left the interrogation room, two Sergeants flanked me and while their Captain turned down one corridor, the NCOs guided me down another.

  “Thanks guys,” I said looking from one to another, “Where are we going?”

  “Sergeant Kukka came out of surgery and after checking on his Marines asked for J-Pop,” one replied.

  The other laughed and continued the explanation, “We thought it was the after effects from the anesthetic. He demanded to see our Lieutenant, our Captain, our Major, hell, at one point he wanted permission to call the Commandant. Then Lance Corporal Def̱téra arrived, clarified the situation and told us what you did.”

  The first NCO picked up the tale, “He explained that J-Pop was one hard core pilot named Lieutenant Piran. This Piran it seems, has a soft spot for Marines in bad situations. When our Major asked for a location on this J-Pop, no one had an answer.”

  The second NCO nodded and said, “If you knew our Major, he doesn’t accept ‘I don’t know, Sir’. The only reply he expects is, ‘I’m on it, Sir’. So our Caption found out where the Navy had you stowed away. We put together a hasty ambush and here you are, Sir.”

  “I appreciate the assistance,” I said, “So where are we going? And will your unit, or I have any trouble from the Senior Lieutenant?”

  “No Sir, our Major is on the horn with the Navy Chief of Flight Operations,” one NCO stated, “They go back a long way. The Major and the Admiral are old drinking buddies. No blow back for us. You, Sir, don’t have to worry as you’re under the protection of the Galactic Council Marine Corps.”

  I held off with any more questions as we stepped into a lift. It dropped for several floors than opened on the medical deck. We were at the threshold of the elevator. Two Druids blocked our way before we could exit the cube.

  The Sergeants stiffened and then lowered into fighting stances. I didn’t blame them as the Druids where holding their fighting sticks in plain view. This was about to get ugly.

  “Gentlemen, if you don’t mind,” I said reaching into my bag.

  No one moved as I pulled out the Clan Strap and slung it over my shoulders. The NCOs caught the movement out of the corners of their eyes and the Druids watched. Neither group moved a muscle.

  At that point I could have dialed back the tension but I was still angry and still hungry. So I palmed the Knight of the Clan pin and rammed my hands into the Clan pouch. They emerged incased in leather guards holding the Knight fighting sticks. I shook out the sticks and both NCOs turned to look at the black sticks. Colored alloy bands crawled up each of the sticks like snakes curling around limbs.

  The Druids were confused. I could tell because they were stone still. If they’d been sure of their purpose, the NCOs would be down and hurting.

  I’d had enough of the game. Pinching my Knight pin between my fingers, I brushed the collar of my flight suit. The NCOs didn’t see it but when my hand moved, the Knight Protector of the Clan pin was just visible. The Druids took about five seconds to react.

  “Pardon,” they said in unison and split to either side of the lift.

  “Gentlemen, shell we go,” I said leading the confused NCOs off the elevator.

  “Never seen the likes,” one Sergeant said.

  I collapsed my fighting sticks and place them and the guards back in the pouch.

  “Who was the Senior Lieutenant in the integration room?” I asked hoping to get the Marine’s attention off the odd behavior of the Druids and my Knight fighting sticks.

  “The Lieutenant is from the intelligence division,” the other NCO said, “Someone overheard him bragging about his great grandfather being part of the Inquisition. We keep an eye on his activity from time to time in case he decides to single handedly bring it back.”

  “Seems to me he tried today,” I said, “It felt like an inquisition in that room.”

  We reached a hospital room with a Marine Corps sentry at the door. He nodded as we approached, reached out and opened the door for us. I was almost to him when he saluted and whispered, “Welcome Sir.”

  Sergeant Kukka was propped up in bed with both hands heavily bandaged and resting on a raised table.

  “Looks uncomfortable, Sergeant,” I teased.

  “J-Pop, I wouldn’t know. They have me hopped up on so much joy juice, I’ll not need liberty until my next enlistment,” he slurred, “The only things missing are the dancing girls and the music.”

  After a few minutes, I looked around but my NCO escorts were missing. They must have slipped out of the room while Kukka and I were talking.

  “Sergeant, I’m glad you’re alright and will recover completely,” I said with my stomach rumbling, “But you know how it is, I’ve got to get to the mess hall. My backbone is suing my stomach for nonsupport”.

  “I heard that Sir,” he said with a little more focus, “Just waiting for Top to get here.”

  On board a ship the size of a BattleShip, the only Marine who qualified for the title of Top would be a Master Gunnery Sergeant. He would be the senior enlisted Marine on the ship and answerable only to officers, Majors and above. It’s always a race between Captains and Lieutenants to see who could return the Tops salutes fastest. The story goes that Tops report the crispness and speed of the salutes to senior officers.

  The door opened and two Staff Sergeants entered and stepped to either side of the doorway. In their wake, a short broad woman entered.

  I wasn’t covered but she was so I broke protocol and rendered a hand salute. The Master Gunnery Sergeant smiled at me and stuck out her hand.

  “Relax Lieutenant Piran,” she said with a smile while shaking my hand, “I just wanted to give you something and say thank you for pulling my men off the Swanhilde.”

  “Just doing my job, Master Gunnery Sergeant,” I said weakly, feeling like a Marine Corps Sergeant again.

  “And a job well appreciated,” she said, “I have something for you.”

  Her hands although small were callused and strong. She took my arm and snapped something around my wrist.

  “If you ever need help from the Corps,” she instructed pointing to the raised G.C.M.C. on the bracelet, “Push the ‘M’ for normal stuff like bar fights or red tape barricades and a Marine NCO will come to your aid. But if it’s more, push the ‘C’ and you’ll have a squad of Marine Corps Riflemen at your disposal. Clear, Lieutenant?”

  I was speechless. I’d just been given the protection of the Marine Corps Sergeants’ Association. Galactic Council Realm wide few people could dial up a squad of heavily armored Marines. I was now one of them and I was humbled.

  “Thank you, Ma’am,” I said.

  “Don’t call me Ma’am,” she replied, “I work for a living.”

  I watched the Staff Sergeants flow out of the room and Master Guns follow. Turning to Kukka, I said goodbye and left the hospital room. In the hall, a Lance Corporal fell in behind me.

  “Can I help you Lance Corporal?” I asked.

  “No Sir,” he replied, “I’m your shadow on the ship. Until you disembark, Top says, you are the Center of the Galaxy.”

  “In that case, can you point the Center of the Galaxy in the direction of the mess deck?”

  The mess deck was split into three parts by diverging hallways. Straight ahead a sign pointed to the Officers Mess, to my left the NCO Mess and on the right lay the Enlisted Mess.

  I walked forward, slipped off my Clan Strap and glanced around. My Lance Corporal followed me i
nto officer country as the enlisted personnel call it. Not a place an E-3 usually wanders but he was under orders.

  A Navy Chief standing at the entrance to the Officers Mess looked up as I entered.

  “Afternoon, Sir,” the Mess NCO greeted me, “Sorry, but you’re two hours early for dinner seating.”

  “Look Chief, I just arrived and I’m hungry,” I pleaded my case, “Can’t you get me a plate of chow?”

  “Sorry, Sir, during flight operations all meals are served on a restricted schedule,” he explained, “The Admiral doesn’t want ship based personal enjoying meals while the pilots are out, their maintenance crews and the gun crews are limited to their stations. I can tell you, they have rations in the pilots’ ready rooms, power bars in equipment areas and snacks in most lounges. Best I can do, Sir.”

  I’d been living on power bars since the Swanhilde did her ill-fated evolution to Internal drive and was sick of them. What I wanted was a hot meal of real food. My shoulders drooped and I began to turn from the Officer’s Mess.

  “Excuse me, Sir,” my Marine Corps’ bodyguard said, “If you’ll wait here a second, I may have a solution for you.”

  With two hours until dining service commenced, I had nowhere to go, so I nodded to him and leaned my back against the bulkhead. He retreated down the corridor, opened a side door and disappeared from view. After eating, I needed a shower and a change of clothing which reminded me I had to buy new travel utilities. Everything I owned was on the destroyed Patrol Boat.

  The Lance Corporal reappeared, waved me to him and held the door open.

  “Right in there, Sir,” he said with a smile, “My Sergeant plays cards with a mess man and I do believe he can help you.”

  “Thank you,” I said entering a narrow hallway. It curved to the right.

  I walked by wheeled carts and sealed food bins. There was a slight antiseptic odor in the air. The smell and the bins reminded me of the distributing posters I’d seen on the weaponized Clipper ship. I shivered at the memory of the starving people and the swollen tongues licking crumbs from the empty food bins. My stroll ended at a pressurized hatch.

  I reached out, spun the locking wheel, pulled the door open and inhaled to the limit of my lungs. My senses swam in the delightful aroma of yeast, flour, sugar, salt and a host of spices.

  “Want to close that hatch before you ruin my dough?” stated a man bent over a long table.

  He was kneading a mound of dough with his hands and glaring at me. Along the table, cloths covered other lumps. Some displaying high arcs of raised dough hidden beneath the material, others were in different stages of raising.

  I slammed the hatch closed and spun the lock. A bakery, I was standing in a bakery. On a ship in space, with its atmospheric zones, rolling gravitational fields and constantly changing pressures, maintaining an area to make fresh baked goods was difficult. And, finding a scientifically minded cook who could master the chemistry of proper measurements, specific mixings, and rise and bake times within regulated temperatures was near impossible.

  The exotic aromas swirled around me and I found myself turning my face to gather in as much as my olfactory senses could collect.

  “Over there behind the yellow line,” the man ordered pointing with a flour encased arm to an area marked off with yellow paint lines on the deck.

  I took the three steps and inhaled again. My stomach growled from the aromatic assault and hunger but I stayed behind the line.

  “Catch,” the man said as a light brown object soared over the table hurling across the five paces between the man and me, “The atmosphere will normalize for your body heat and moisture in a minute. In the meanwhile, chew on this.”

  ‘This’ was the heel of a freshly baked loaf of bread. I caught it and sniffed it like one would a fine wine. Then, I twisted off a piece of the crust and placed it in my mouth. It melted in a glorious burst of yeast and butter. Next I thrust my fingers into the loaf and pulled out a fist full of white heaven and popped that in my mouth.

  Between gnashing the bread, I managed to say, “Amazing, thank you.”

  “No problem Lieutenant. I understand you’re in search of a proper meal,” he said moving to uncover another round of dough.

  “That I am, Chief,” I replied.

  “Give me another minute and we’ll get you fed,” he said raising a big fist and smashing it into the newly uncovered dough.

  The center of the dough parted and a fountain of flour rose up. He rolled the dough and pummeled the malleable mass a few more times.

  “I used to box,” he explained as he worked, “Couldn’t take a hit worth a darn but man I had heavy hands. So after being beat to a pulp one time too many, I decided that punching something that didn’t punch back was a better way to make a living.”

  I laughed at the folksy mannerism knowing he was a master chemist and not a thug with gnarly knuckles. But let him have his fun, he’d promised to feed me and that was paramount to my immediate situation.

  After the violent thrashing of the dough, I was surprised when he gently laid the cloth back over the round.

  “Master Chief Dilshad, master baker,” he said as he wiped the flour from his hands and arms, “You can move from the safe zone now.”

  “Lieutenant Phelan Piran,” I said, “Call sign J-Pop.”

  “Welcome to my domain J-Pop,” he replied as he reached up and removed a face shield, “Ah, that’s better, I can see you.”

  I studied the face shield as I approached the preparation table. It was hard to concentrate as the aroma of living yeast drew my attention to the rounds placed evenly on the table. The face shield was close in design to the Marine Corps’ face plate. But there were more sensors around the edges. He caught my interest and explained.

  “With this on, I can see heat waves, humidity zones, even the moisture content of the dough as I work it,” he stated holding up the face shield, “The only drawback is I can’t see three dimensional objects clearly.”

  “That’s how you knew when I could move into the room?” I asked pointing to the yellow lines on the deck behind me.

  “Yes, Sir, waited until your mass was absorbed into the atmosphere,” he replied, “Breakfast alright with you?”

  I simply nodded and followed the large man to the other side of the bakery. He opened a pressurized hatch and we walked through it. We emerged into a medium sized room with tables in the center and pass through openings in the walls.

  “Breakfast sounds great,” I said following Master Chief Dilshad to one of the openings, “Too many power bars and too long a flight.”

  “Yo, Chef you there?” he yelled through an opening.

  “What’s your pleasure baker?” a voice replied from beyond the dark hole.

  “Steak and eggs for me,” Dilshad ordered before looking me up and down, then added, “And I’ll need a full torpedo spread for my guest. Oh, and lots of coffee.”

  “A full torpedo spread?” I asked as I followed him to a table.

  “Short hand for a big breakfast,” he replied taking the seat opposite me, “Do we have a fraternization issue?”

  “No, Master Chief, please stay,” I answered knowing Navy regulations required enlisted and officers to keep social distances, “As long as you bring food.”

  “That I do,” he said with a laugh, “I really was a fighter. Come from a long line of warriors and figured that boxing was my future.”

  A young enlisted messman wheeled in a cart. From the side shelves, he pulled out a basket of freshly baked muffins and bowls of butter and fruit preserves. Next a craft of coffee appeared along with two big mugs. Once silverware, flatware and napkins were distributed, he wheeled the cart away.

  “I happen to know that a fighter doesn’t just leave the arena, put on an apron and become a baker,” I said as I debated which should go into my mouth first. A bite of the muffin or a gulp of coffee. The muffin won.

  “As I said, I come from a long line of warriors,” he said sipping his coffee,
“My people once had a homeland with art, science and culture. But the overcrowding brought hordes to our cities. hey trampled our farms, strained public services and eventually they destroyed our government. Sometime in that historical storm, my clan began to fight back. At first we were considered freedom fighters but as the foreigners took more control, we were called Rebels and finally terrorist.”

  “When planet Dos was opened for colonization, our leaders saw this as a way out of poverty. My Clan took ships for a new world and a renewal of our life as a people,” he continued, “We settled and the culture returned along with the arts and sciences. But a portion of my people had tasted war and they liked the flavor. So while most settled down, a portion returned to their Rebel ways.”

  The door opened and another cart was pushed in by a messman. From this different, but pleasurable, aromas rose. He pulled plates of eggs, pancakes, bacon, steak and somethings fried that proved delicious. I never did find out what kind of food they were, but after sampling, I sat them aside for later. Dilshad spoke between bites of his steak and eggs.

  “We added space raiding to our planet pillaging,” he said taking another sip of coffee, “Civilized people of my Clan prospered from hard work and from the spoils left by our warriors. The future looked promising for my people. Then, the tragedy of the Great Schism descended on both our raiders and our city dwellers. Our ships were struck down by the Empress’ forces. Our towns and manufacturing centers ravished as the armies of the Galactic Council and the Constabulary fought across the land and over the dead bodies of my people.”

  “My people after much debate chose to side with the Galactic Council and we joined the Navy and the Marine Corps. We fought well against the Empress,” he said laying down his fork, “We were lucky to pick the winning side. Land grants on planet Tres expanded my Clan’s reach and we began to rebuild. But again, some of my people began raiding. Only now they picked from among three planets and slow space ships. They plied their Pirate trade on the new targets with much success. For raiding they roamed from space Stations to easy targets of the Merchant Fleet. My Clan grew in power and prestige. And because of their success, they became a focus of the Galactic Council Navy.”