by Marko Kloos
“Piece of shit,” I swear when the lights in the firing range come back on and the simulation resets itself. I unload the training magazine from the pistol and clear the action. “Who programmed these scenarios? Seven against one, and all of them armored and with buzzguns?”
“The lieutenant did,” Staff Sergeant Philbrick says. “We’re just a squad on this boat. We get boarded, we may have to hold down a corridor with what we have, by ourselves.”
“Remind me of that if I ever get the itch to put in for transfer to the SI,” I say.
“You did all right for a fleet puke.” Staff Sergeant Philbrick pokes at the display of the range computer on the bulkhead behind us. “Three kills. Seven more nonpenetrating hits.”
“Those don’t count for shit outside the sim.”
Staff Sergeant Philbrick is the leader of the embarked Spaceborne Infantry squad’s first fire team. The squad is split into three fire teams of four troopers each, twelve combat grunts, with a second lieutenant in command and a sergeant first class as his right hand. Fourteen battle-hardened SI troopers make up the sole ground combat component of the Indianapolis. A frigate usually has two squads, sometimes a whole platoon, depending on the mission. A carrier, designed as the centerpiece of a planetary assault force, never has less than a reinforced company on board, and often a regiment. If Indy bumps into problems that require infantry surface action or shipboard firefights, fourteen SI troopers won’t be able to plug too many corridors, not even on a small ship like this one.
The Indianapolis is hauling ass to the coordinates for the SRA’s Alcubierre node. We’re half a day away, and we went for turnaround and reverse burn almost two days ago after a fun little four-g sprint. Every day we spend in transit means fewer supplies and less food in New Svalbard and on this ship, and Colonel Campbell does not want to waste any time. I’ve been spending my shipboard time chaperoning Dmitry, and spending most of my downtime with the grunts of the embarked SI squad. Shooting up imaginary enemies is more fun than staring at a bulkhead, and it keeps my mind occupied and off the fact that in less than twelve hours Indy will transition into Lanky-occupied space.
“How is the Russkie behaving?” Staff Sergeant Philbrick asks.
“Fine,” I say. “He seems all right.”
“I’m not sure I’d want to sleep in a berth right next to his.”
“What, you think he’s going to go commando one night and start slitting throats?” I put the training pistol back into the holding bracket on the rear bulkhead for the next trooper to use. Access to live weapons is limited—you only get to sign them out of the arms locker if you have a pressing reason to go armed on the ship—but the training pistols can’t be loaded with live rounds, and they are molded in bright blue polymer for visual clarification.
“Something like that. We’re still at war with them out here, after all.”
“I’m not sure that’s true anymore,” I say.
“What do you mean, Grayson?”
“I mean that things have changed. A lot. We know the location of their inbound node for the solar system now, and they know ours. You think we’re going to go back to shooting each other any time soon? After trading top-level military secrets and running combat drops together against the Lankies?”
“Hell, I have no clue.” He shrugs and takes a training carbine out of the gun rack. Then he checks the action with a practiced motion and steps over to the range computer to call up another scenario for the shooting simulator. “Way above my pay grade. But you’re probably right. Be stupid to go back to the way things were. You coming down to Grunt Country for some sparring tonight?”
Grunt Country is the mission-personnel rec area at the back of the modular berthing reserved for attached personnel. It’s a big square room, twelve by twelve meters, and probably the only open space on the ship—other than the mess halls or the hangar—that isn’t packed to the ceiling with supplies or portable water tanks. The Spaceborne Infantry troopers have set up some improvised exercise equipment and a small boxing ring, to let off some steam and stay in shape while we’re in transit.
“Sure, I’ll come,” I say. “As soon as our Alliance friend is in his berth and I’m done chaperoning for this watch.”
“Hell, just bring him with you,” Staff Sergeant Philbrick says. “He can watch and learn how the SI does in the hand-to-hand business. It’ll be a cultural exchange.” He takes a pack of training magazines, loads one into his rifle, and puts the other ones into the pouches on his armor. “’Course, we grunts ain’t got much in the way of culture to exchange.”
I snort a laugh and leave the staff sergeant to his impending battle with imaginary faceless enemies.
Dmitry doesn’t object to joining me down in Grunt Country a little while later. If anything, he seems eager for some variety after days of boredom staring at the bulkhead in a berth the size of a closet.
When I open the hatch to the rec room in the back of the module and step across the threshold, none of the eight or nine grunts in the room take much notice. Some are working out on benches or heavy bags, someone is doing pushups in a corner of the room, and two of the SI troopers are sparring on a square of training mats in the center of the room. When Dmitry walks into the room behind me, however, the moderately busy din in the room dies down gradually as the grunts become aware of the SRA trooper’s presence. He has been around at mealtimes and in the corridors of the ship, so his presence isn’t a novelty anymore, but I’ve never brought him down here into the SI’s only private sanctum on this ship.
“Grayson,” Staff Sergeant Philbrick calls from the back of the room, where he has been doing pushups. He hops to his feet and walks over to us. “Come on in, join the fun.”
“Don’t mind if we do,” I reply. “You’ve met Senior Sergeant Chistyakov.”
“Senior Sergeant.” Philbrick nods at Dmitry, who returns the gesture. The SRA trooper looks a little apprehensive, which is understandable. I sure as hell would be if I were in their boots right now.
“Sergeant Chistyakov dropped with me when we did the Fomalhaut b drop last week,” I say. “He knows his shit.”
“What’s a senior sergeant rank?” Philbrick asks Dmitry. “How does it compare to ours? E-5, E-6, what?”
I’m pretty sure that Staff Sergeant Philbrick has a general idea of the rank structure of the SRA military—we learned stuff like that in our OPFOR-recognition classes—but I appreciate his effort to break the ice.
“Senior sergeant is like your master sergeant,” Dmitry replies. “Is different, though. In company of garrison, stárshiy serzhánt is at desk, helps out company officer. Administration,” he says with an expression of strong distaste on his face. “I am battlespace coordinator, not administrator. Drop ship and rifle, not desk and paperwork.”
“We speak the same language after all,” Sergeant Philbrick says with a grin. “We’re just doing some friendly sparring down here. Feel free to hang around.”
The SI troopers go up against each other in quick one-minute rounds of contact sparring in protective gear. Staff Sergeant Philbrick is a good fighter because he is tall and lanky and has a lot of reach with those long arms of his. I watch as he goes up against a stockier but stronger-looking dark-haired corporal. The corporal tries to get in underneath Philbrick’s defense, but the staff sergeant uses his longer reach to keep his opponent at bay and out of grappling range. At the forty-second mark of the round, the corporal gets a little careless, and Philbrick takes him down with a sweeping kick to the lower legs that sends the corporal crashing onto the mat. The other SI troopers clap and hoot their approval.
“You gotta learn, Nez,” Philbrick tells the corporal when he helps him back up onto his feet. “You get too hasty and leave yourself open.”
“Yes, Sarge,” Corporal Nez replies.
The SI troopers swap gel gloves around, and another pair of troopers step onto the mat for a quick bout. I watch Dmitry as he watches the unfolding fight. Dmitry has his arms folded across h
is chest and a slight smile on his lips. He looks like a teacher watching a group of first graders playing around at recess.
I pick up a pair of nearby gel gloves and put them on. Then I grab another pair and call Dmitry’s name. He looks over to me, and I toss him the gloves. He extends one hand almost lazily and snatches them out of midair.
“You want to go a round? Show the SI how the Russian marines do it?”
Dmitry chuckles. Then he puts the gloves on his fists and pounds one into the other with a muffled thump. They look a lot tighter on him than mine do on me.
“Andrew, my friend,” he says, “that may not be best idea you have today.”
One minute doesn’t seem like a long time when you’re doing fun stuff, but on a fighting mat, it’s damn near an eternity, especially when you are getting your clock cleaned comprehensively. Dmitry is roughly in my weight class, and he doesn’t look much more muscled than I am, but he punches much harder than a guy his size ought to be able to hit. I probe his block with a few left jabs, then follow up with a right cross, which he deflects with both gloves. Then his response combination comes. I block his straights in return, but his cross plows right through my defenses and makes me hit myself hard in the mouth with the side of my own glove. For a moment, I see stars. I throw out a low shin kick to the side of his legs, but it’s like kicking a bulkhead. He lands another left-right combination. I lash out blindly with a straight that clips him on the jaw. Twenty seconds into the fight, my skull is ringing, and I feel like I’ve run a half marathon. At the end of the minute, he has landed three hits for every one of mine, and he’s never even tried to use his legs. When the timer sounds its little electronic trill to signal the end of the round, I am thoroughly worn-out, and my mouth tastes like fresh blood. Dmitry looks a little sweaty, but otherwise not half as rumpled as I feel.
“You were right,” I tell him when I’ve caught my breath and we’re taking off our gloves again by the side of the mat square. “That wasn’t the best idea I’ve had today. That SRA hand-to-hand training must be something else.”
“Is not Alliance training,” he says. “I spend six months in military prison once. Other man in cell, he was boxer. Before military, he fight in underworld ring, for money. He teach me how to punch the color out of a man’s hair. I go easy on you because I am guest here.” He smiles and hands me back his gel gloves. “You are not bad for soft little imperialist tool. We fight for six months every day, you learn to punch better, da?”
“Da,” I agree. “If we’re still alive in a week or two.”
Overhead, the ascending two-tone whistle of a 1MC announcement sounds, and we all interrupt what we’re doing to listen.
“Attention all hands. This is the CO. We are minus two hours and ten minutes from the Alliance transition point. I want everybody suited up and ready to man combat stations. That means everyone, not just the grunts. All hands, prepare for vacsuit ops. Staff Sergeant Grayson, report to CIC with our guest at 0830 Zulu.”
The announcement ends with a descending whistle. Staff Sergeant Philbrick looks over at me and purses his lips.
“Vacsuit ops? We’re all gonna go EVA and push this thing through the node by hand?”
“Beats me,” I reply. “You heard the man. Best we hit the showers and put on hardshell.”
“Copy that. Let’s go, squad,” he addresses his men, and they all gather their kit with the controlled urgency of combat troops switching to battle-alert mode.
I turn toward Dmitry. “Back to the berth, and into your armor. And Dmitry . . . don’t turn on the comms and data in your suit until we’re in CIC and the colonel gives the order.”
“No trust at all,” Dmitry says. “Maybe there is hope for you still.”
CHAPTER 6
“Combat stations, combat stations. All hands, prepare for battle. Alcubierre transition in two minutes.”
I know that we aren’t really going faster than light speed—in an Alcubierre bubble, the ship moves at subluminal speed while the drive shifts the space around it—but it still feels like we’ve been racing through space for the last few hours. A ship keeps the forward momentum it had when it entered the bubble, and Colonel Campbell hit the node at four gravities of acceleration with the fusion engines going at flank speed. When we pop out of the bubble on the solar system side in a few minutes, we’ll be shooting out of the node like a ship-to-ship missile.
“The second we get out of Alcubierre, we go cold on the engines,” Colonel Campbell reminds the helmsmen. “Shut it down and coast ballistic. EMCON check, please.”
“Everything’s cold,” the weapons officer says. “All active radiation sources are full EMCON. Once those engines shut down, we’ll be a black hole.”
“I want this ship to do its best impression of an asteroid. Just a rock, coasting through space. No spaceship at all.”
We’re all in battle armor (the grunts) or EVA vacsuits (the fleet personnel). Colonel Campbell stands in the center pit of the CIC, watching the consolidated readouts on the screens of the holotable that serves as the hub of the ship. I’ve never been in a ship’s CIC dressed in full combat hardshell, and the feeling is more than a little unnerving. My brain is primed to expect the imminent chance of sudden death or dismemberment whenever I’m in armor, and I’m not used to that expectation right here in the best-protected part of an armored warship. Behind me, Dmitry is holding on to the railing that surrounds the pit, looking supremely out of place in his angular Alliance armor with its mottled paint scheme.
“Alcubierre transition in one minute.”
This is the most dangerous part of the mission. We are going to blast out of the Alcubierre node at a few kilometers per second, with everything shut down except for the optical sensors, transitioning back into the solar system blind to whatever may lie in wait for us on the other side. If the Lankies have a seed ship parked right across the inbound node, we are hurtling toward a closed door at a full run, and we will disintegrate and turn into a smear on the hull of a seed ship in a millisecond. At least it will be over so quickly that my brain will never be able to process the nerve impulses from my body before I cease existing.
“On my mark, stand by to kill propulsion. Bring the optics online as soon as we are through. Anyone turns on a thing that puts out active radiation, you are going out the central airlock.”
“Standing by for propulsion shutdown,” the engineering officer says.
“Alcubierre transition in thirty seconds.”
“Don’t expect any last speech from me,” Colonel Campbell says. “I don’t intend to buy it today, and I don’t give any of you permission to do so, either.”
There’s some light chuckling in the CIC. Humans being what we are, I am quite sure that everyone on this ship is thinking about the possibility that we all may have only a handful of seconds left to live, including Colonel Campbell. But I also know that the skipper would rather pet a Lanky than show fear or doubt in front of his crew. If he’s making his peace, he has made it privately in his own mind.
“Ten seconds.”
I close my eyes and think of Halley. If I am about to end, I want her face to be the last thing on my mind before the lights go out.
“Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Transition.”
I feel the momentary dizziness I usually experience after an Alcubierre ride ends, and the low-level discomfort that has been in every part of my body for the last few hours falls away. We’re through, and we’re not dead. Yet.
“Kill the drive now,” Colonel Campbell barks. “Get me optics on the main display.”
The thrumming noise from the ship’s fusion drive winds down quickly as the engineering officer shuts down the propulsion system. Nothing is shooting us to pieces, and we haven’t run into anything solid. Maybe they left the doorway unguarded, I think. We’re about due for some good luck for a change.
Then the optical feed comes up on the holotable display, and there’s a collective intake of breath all over the CIC. Behind me, Dmitry
mutters something in Russian that can only be a swear.
Directly underneath Indianapolis, the huge glossy bulk of a Lanky seed ship stretches for what seems like miles. The optical sensors under the ship triangulate on the vessel and project a distance readout: 2,491 meters. The distance display changes as we hurtle away from the Alcubierre transition point and into the solar system. The Lanky is on a reciprocal heading, passing below and going the way we came. On the holotable, a polite alarm chirps, and a readout overlay appears on the display: “PROXIMITY ALERT.”
Indy is coasting faster than the Lanky is going, but even with our combined separation speeds, it takes Indy eight or ten seconds to clear the bulk of the Lanky ship. In that time, nobody in the CIC makes a sound, as if we could draw the Lankies’ attention just by making noise. For all I know, we might—no fleet vessel has ever been this close to a seed ship and lived to tell about it.
“Bogey at six o’clock low, moving off at fifty meters per second,” the tactical officer says in a low voice.
“Yeah, I can see that,” Colonel Campbell replies. “Too damn close. Get me a three-sixty now.”
The holotable display changes as feeds from various sensor arrays organize themselves in a semicircular pattern, stitching together a panoramic tapestry of the surrounding space. The Lanky seed ship takes up a disturbingly large section of space below and behind us, even as we are coasting away from the behemoth at hundreds of meters per second.
“There’s more of them. Visual on Bogey Two and Bogey Three.” The tactical officer reads out a bunch of Euclidean coordinates. The tactical display at the center of the holotable’s array of overlapping imagery updates with three orange icons. One of them, slow moving, is almost on top of the blue icon representing Indianapolis, only slowly inching away from us. The other two are farther away, but moving faster. One is above and to our starboard, the other below and to our port side. Colonel Campbell shifts some of the holograms around with his hands and expands them until he has a good view of Bogey Two and Three side by side.