The Last Marine

by JE Gurley

  THE LAST MARINE

  J.E. Gurley

  Copyright 2017 by J.E. Gurley

  1

  Dax Wyldd leaned back in his seat, eyes closed, with his size-10 boots propped up on the control console in front of him. He wasn’t asleep, although it would not have made much difference if he were. The nearest object with which Fortune’s Luck could collide was 1.2 light years away, and the collision alarm would have warned him long before the ship neared the bright blue F-class star that was his destination. A soft blues ballad, heavy with alto saxophone riffs, played through the earbuds jammed tightly into his ears, barely audible in the silent ship’s bridge. Occasionally, his right foot would twitch in time with the rhythm as proof he was awake.

  From previous bitter experience, his crew had learned better than to disturb him when he was in his zone, his release from the monotony of deep space cargo runs. The blues calmed him, the more melancholy the better. His prized collection of 5,000 blues tunes covered a span of nearly three hundred years. His crew was in favor of anything that kept Dax calm. Therefore, the hand on his shoulder shaking him awake elicited a quick and expected response.

  He swatted away the offending hand and growled, “Leave me the fuck alone,” slightly louder than his normal speaking voice because of the music playing in his ears.

  Andy Byrd, 26, co-pilot and chief communications officer, liked living on the edge. Jousting with Dax was like slipping his hand into an alligator’s mouth and yanking it out before the snapped shut. He met Dax’s gruff response with an equally brusque and strident, “Distress beacon.”

  Dax pushed back the baseball cap with the faded Atlanta Braves logo covering his sandy curls, opened one emerald green eye, and squinted at Andy in the dim light of control panel. “Lights at fifty percent,” he called out, and the bridge overheads increased to half capacity. In the brighter light, Dax’s gaze focused on Byrd’s blue eyes with the intensity of a rifle shot, but the ire had vanished. “Commercial or military?”

  “Automated military beacon. Why?”

  Dax kicked the control panel with the heel of his boot. “Damn! I hate the military. They’re always a pain in the ass. How far away?” To Dax, the only thing worse than a distress call from a Navy ship was one way off their course,

  “It’s only two hours away.”

  “Two hours? That’s odd, but it’s good, although with the military we could be stuck there for God knows how long. They’re bastards for red tape. See if anybody else is responding to the beacon. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  Andy did a double take. “Way the hell out here? Who’s gonna be out here but C-class cargo ships like us? I don’t even know why the military is this far out of the usual traffic lanes.”

  Dax sat up, clicked off his music, and sighed. “You’re right. What are they doing out here in the middle of nowhere? Okay. We’ll take a gander. Maybe it’s abandoned, and we can claim salvage rights,” he added.

  Andy shook his head slowly, his blond locks sliding across his forehead. “That’s my mercenary, Captain. If there’s a buck in it …”

  “Gotta make your creds anyway you can out here, kid. There’s no free ride.”

  “So you’ve told me a hundred times.”

  “It’s good advice, Andy. Heed it, and someday you’ll be a forty-five-year-old captain with your own over-mortgaged rust bucket to fret over,” he grinned at Andy, “instead of a twenty-something pain in the ass.” He sat up in his seat. “Full illumination.” He blinked as light flooded the bridge. He switched on the screen of his console. “What’s the heading?”

  Andy read off a series of coordinates. “About 5.5 million kilometers distant.”

  Dax punched in the coordinates and cocked his head to one side when he saw the location displayed on Fortune’s Luck’s flight path. “That’s almost along our course.” In the vastness of space, that seemed too close for coincidence.

  Andy smiled. “I thought that might get your attention.”

  “Okay, I’m officially intrigued. Change our heading. Inform Syn to get the grasshopper ready. We’ll fly over. There’s too much protocol involved in docking with a military ship.”

  “Plia’s already on it. Luigi’s got a pot of coffee on if you’re interested.”

  Dax grinned again. Andy was the only one of the ship’s crew that called Luigi Romero by his Christian name instead of his nickname Romeo. “Good. They don’t serve anything but that God-awful synthetic java on Navy ships. Tastes like used lube oil.”

  Fortune’s Luck was an outdated, converted ore carrier well past its prime, but it was Dax’s ship. Although barely profitable, he made certain to stock the pantry with real Earth coffee. He would tolerate no synthetic java or tasteless ersatz coffee on his ship. They might skimp on meat a few meals, but coffee was one of the essential building blocks of a happy crew. Coffee was not his only vice, but it was the only one for which he had no regrets.

  He stood, stretched his arms, and yawned. “See if you can raise them on the com. I don’t like going in blind.” He left the bridge.

  He met cargo specialist Tish Holder in the corridor. He enjoyed the way the petite dishwater-blonde filled out her jumpsuit in all the right places, but mostly he appreciated the fact that she was smart and soft where he was hard. She constantly worked on his people skills and coached him in the fine art of diplomacy, a necessary skill when dealing with unsavory clients with the tendency to pull a weapon when negotiations stalled, a skill that he sorely lacked. He reached out an arm to either side of the bulkhead to block her path. She stepped into his embrace, gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and then slipped beneath his arm and continued down the corridor.

  “No time for hanky-panky, Dax. Plia needs a hand.”

  “Not even a quick panky?” he called out after her.

  “Later,” she promised, as she turned a corner and disappeared from sight.

  He and Tish had promised each other not to become romantically involved, just a mutual relief of sexual tensions on the long voyages, but things had progressed well beyond that point. Normally, he didn’t like attachments, but he was growing used to her. She was soft and cuddly at the proper times, a hard worker when he needed it, and shared more than a few of his sexual idiosyncrasies. They made a good team. Moreover, she put up with his crankiness.

  Tish was ten years his junior. In his mind, that placed an undue amount of stress on his sexual performance. He considered himself in good physical condition and a great lover, at least he had had no complaints, but their vigorous sessions left him feeling young on the inside but older on the outside. He hoped she hadn’t noticed his longer than normal showers after sex when he stood in the jet misters to massage away the aches and pains.

  As he bounced down the corridor, he noticed the artificial gravity was off by a few points, closer to .75 G than the .8 G he usually maintained. He would have to speak to Nate about that. He also absentmindedly made a visual inspection, noting several non-functioning overhead lights, the storage locker doors slightly ajar, and the odor of overheating insulation coming from an electrical panel. He would enter them later on his daily repair log, which seemed to grow longer each trip, one of the problems with a ship long past its prime.

  As he entered the wardroom that also served as ship’s lounge, rec room, and mess hall, Luigi ‘Romeo’ Romero, chief cook, bottle washer, and assistant communications officer, met him with a steaming cup of coffee – black, no sugar – the way he liked it. Wearing his ubiquitous floppy white chef’s hat and white apron, the tall, skinny cook reminded Dax of a mop, but Romero was a top-notch chef in spite of his youth. The enticing aroma of the spicy meatloaf he had cooked for lunch still lingered in the room, defying the air scrubbers. From the oven drifted the smell of fresh-baked brea
d mixing with the other subtle odors saturating the ship. He didn’t know why the twenty-four-year-old galley virtuoso had chosen Fortune’s Luck as home, but Dax was glad to have him. His own culinary masterpieces ranged from reheating canned soup to nuking frozen dinners.

  “You think the Navy could spare a few fresh eggs, Captain?” Romeo asked.

  Dax liked the way Romeo called him ‘captain’. The others called him by his first name except when in port. He didn’t mind, but hearing his rank every now and then made him feel good, like he had earned it. “Sheesh, Romeo! Did everyone know about the distress call before I did?”

  “You were in your zone. We drew straws to tell you.” He grinned at Dax. “Andy lost.”

  “Well, if they have some fresh eggs, I’ll see that they’re part of the fee I’ll charge for services rendered.”

  “Good. I’d love to make a sausage and spinach quiche for breakfast. What about fresh rosemary? Some of those Navy ships have a hydroponics garden the size of our cargo bay.”

  Dax shooed Romeo back toward the galley. “Go! Go! Make a grocery list. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks, Captain,” he called out over his shoulder.

  He finished his coffee in three quick gulps and headed for the cargo bay. Dax loved the cargo bay. For one, it was the profit center of the ship. Through it flowed the cargoes that kept them from becoming penniless ground-pounders. He took a deep whiff of the air, relishing the acrid smell of lube oil and the earthy tang of the dirt from whatever planet they last visited. It was as close as he wanted to get to most planets. They were always too hot, too cold, too wet, or too dirty. The gravity was too high, or the politicians were unbearable. He preferred station-to-station runs, but the Luck took whatever job presented itself. Old cargo vessels took the leavings of the new, sleek, corporate ships. Fortune’s Luck’s days were numbered. He just hoped they both went out together.

  He eyed the cargo destined for the Research Station K124 on Loki. It was the usual shipment of barrels of lube oil, spare tires for the ATVs and vans, spare solar panels, lumber, foodstuffs, a couple of cases of liquor, and boxes carefully weight-allotted of personal items. He longed to open a few and see what stranded scientists thought of as essential personal items, but it was against his policy to break seals.

  He found Tish and Plia Syn working on the grasshopper, a small, two-person, liquid-fuel space scooter. He noted that Tish and Plia were almost polar opposites. Where Tish was in her mid-thirties, petite, well proportioned, and blonde, Plia was tall, gaunt to the point of emaciation, and dark complexioned, with a skullcap of coal black hair and eyes to match. She had listed her age as thirty-eight when she joined the Luck’s crew, but she did not look a day older than she did eight years ago. Tish was ebullient and confident. Plia was quiet, terse, and seemed to be perpetually brooding, as if life had dealt her a severe blow sometime in her past, but she was good at her job and didn’t take any of his shit. He liked that.

  Plia saw Dax enter. “She’s fueled and ready to go.”

  “Good. Did you …?”

  “Pistol’s in the pocket beneath the seat, loaded, safety off.”

  He admired her efficiency, if not her brusqueness. He carried a Heckler and Koch .40 caliber semiautomatic on every trip because he liked to be prepared. Nate had designed the special pocket beneath the seat to report a false signal to a causal electronic weapons sweep. It would not pass a thorough visual inspection, but he found most security relied too heavily on their electronic toys, a security lapse he often found useful.

  “Excellent. You just never know.”

  Tish frowned. “Expecting trouble, Dax?”

  “Baby, you should know me by now. I always expect trouble. That way I’m seldom disappointed.”

  The intercom hissed as Andy announced, “No contact. Automatic distress beacon logs the ship as the UNN Abraxas, a 7,200-ton Decatur-class Navy frigate with a crew of thirty-five. She’s dead in space. No other com traffic.”

  Dax was afraid of that. “It looks like it’s up to us. Pop us out of Skip Space 2,000 clicks out. We’ll move in real slow before we commit.” He removed his cap and scratched his head.

  “Bad feeling?” Tish asked, noting the look of concern on his face.

  “Yeah, my head’s itching like I got fleas. Something’s not kosher. What the hell is a Navy frigate doing way the hell out here in the Deep Dark? There’s nothing out here except Asgard and a couple of nearby nondescript red dwarfs. A Navy frigate in distress along our flight path and a somewhat secretive research base on Loki is too much coincidence for my comfort zone.”

  “We could keep going to Asgard, not stop.”

  He had considered and dismissed that option. “No, if they’re just playing possum, we could never outrun them, and if they’re really in distress and we don’t answer their call, they could yank my permit. We’d wind up hauling garbage for some orbiting station. No, we’ll just have to take our chances.” He glanced at Plia. “Just in case, you might want to install that weapons pod we picked up at Calicos II in the airlock. If our dead ship is a pirate vessel with a stolen Navy beacon, half a dozen Wasp Sting missiles might be a good bargaining chip.”

  Her lips creased slightly, as close to a smile as she allowed herself. “Twenty minutes.”

  “Don’t arm them unless we need them. If they scan us, I don’t want to start a shooting match.”

  “Pirates? Out here?” Tish asked.

  He shrugged. “Yeah, I admit it’s highly unlikely, but so is a Navy frigate in distress.”

  The military surplus weapons pod and missiles had cost him his entire profit for six months runs, but he considered them worth the expenditure. Plia had constructed a fiberglass shell over the pod, disguising it as a hazardous waste locker with a bright yellow ‘Full’ sign painted on it. During infrequent port inspections, no one bothered checking it. There were occasional pirates plying the void, though usually not in the middle of nowhere. Not every cargo the Luck hauled was totally above board. Sometimes, clients preferred no witnesses to illegal deals and that went against his policy of self-survival.

  Tish hugged herself and shuddered. “You’re making me nervous, Dax.”

  “You know me, hon. Just cautious. If I really expected trouble, I’d reverse course back to Kinta Station.”

  She did not look reassured by his words.

  He didn’t bother checking the grasshopper. Plia knew her job, and she had never let him down. She was reliable to a fault. He had a good crew. As he returned to the bridge, he couldn’t help himself from stopping to secure the open lockers. A little OCD was a good thing on a small ship, but he tried not to let his Obsessive Compulsive Disorder control him lest his crew think him a total nut job.

  Like about two percent of the population stricken with OCD, he was aware of his idiosyncrasies, and tried not to allow them to rule his life. Little rituals, like laying out his toiletries in the order he would use them, making certain he cut his meat into an even number of pieces, or eating his meal one item at a time raised a few eyebrows, but elicited no comments. He could attribute neatly straightening the chairs in the wardroom before a meal or making certain the locker doors were secured properly to proper ship maintenance. He took his SSRIs every day. He didn’t know if the Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors really worked, but they had become part of his daily ritual. At least he hadn’t developed any nervous tics.

  He noted the smoke odor was now gone. He didn’t know if that was a good or a bad sign.

  On the bridge, Andy was playing with the com and frowning. “Anything?” Dax asked.

  “Just the beacon. Now, I can’t raise the Loki station.”

  Dax glanced out the forward view port, a meter-and-a-half by two-meter window onto the universe. There was little to see. The faint band of the Milky Way covered the lower left-hand corner of the screen. Four stars scattered across the screen glowed with the spectrum shift of Skip Space. It was a stark vista, but one which Dax found soothing. The near
est, a bright blue sun, was Asgard, their destination. His head started itching again. He resisted the impulse to take off his cap and scratch. His lunch suddenly lay heavy in his stomach like a black hole trying to suck him in. “When did you last hear from them?”

  “Day before yesterday during the routine contact.”

  “Not yesterday?”

  “No, but missing a scheduled transmission isn’t that unusual. They’ve done it before, especially during a dust storm.”

  Dax nodded. The dust storms that regularly swept across the planet played havoc with communications and made landing difficult. “No problems?”

  “They didn’t report anything, although Hickman was a little distracted about some new discovery.”

  Dax relaxed. “There you go. They’re all down in the caverns drooling over old bones.”

  Loki, one of two habitable moons circling the gas giant Odin, had once been home to a thriving advanced civilization on par with Earth’s Mid-Twentieth Century-Industrial Age. Two thousand years ago, the entire population inexplicably abandoned the surface and moved into an extensive network of inactive volcanic lava tubes running deep beneath the crust. A century later, they had vanished without a trace. Research Station K124, staffed by twelve archaeologists, climatologists, biologists, and few -ologists Dax had never heard of, took up residence in search of answers.

  Fortune’s Luck was the sole bidder for the contract to supply the station, for reasons Dax had later come to understand. The twice yearly, three-month round trip was tedious and boring, but it paid the bills, allowing him to seek out other more lucrative jobs.

  Dax’s simple explanation did not convince Andy. “They usually leave someone on the surface at all times.”

  “You can bet the Abraxas came from there. Maybe her captain can supply a few answers.”

  Andy wrinkled his eyes and frowned. “Uh, yeah, about that, Dax. I did some checking. The U.N. Navy logs show the Abraxas currently on station at Sirius B.”

  That lump in his stomach rolled over. “Are you sure?”