Outpost

by W. P. Brothers

  Harris raised his hand, and they dropped to their knees. Christine tilted her head slightly, and caught the muffled sound of raised voices. Whoever it was out there was only a couple hundred yards away at most. Christine unslung her carbine from over her shoulder again and pulled the bolt back slightly to make sure it was loaded. Seeing the base of a bullet in the chamber, she locked the bolt closed and positioned her finger near safety, ready to click it off. She made eye contact with Harris and Lazaar, then drew her bayonet from its scabbard on her belt and slid it into place at the muzzle of her weapon with a soft metallic click. Every ranger knew that, in dense wilderness, where good guys and assholes sometimes stumbled upon each other with only a few yards between them, close quarters fighting was not only possible — it was the norm.

  The four rangers continued on, skirting the clearing, their eyes scanning the woods. The voices faded away as they reached the side of the hill opposite where they’d left the two platoons. As the harbor came into view, Christine expected to see the destroyer burning in the water but instead she saw—

  Where the hell did it go?

  The harbor was empty, and except for the smoke that hung in the air like an acrid mist, there was nothing that made the scene look out of the ordinary. The rangers moved into the clearing just high enough to see over the tops of the trees, then took cover behind a clump of bushes and looked down toward the water. The docks were mostly hidden from view by a line of huge, rusty warehouses that stood a hundred yards beyond the base of the hill, across a narrow dirt road and a branch of the rail line that ran right up to the warehouses. One of the cargo doors on the closest warehouse was open.

  “Looks like nobody’s home,” Squires whispered.

  “Should we go knock on the—”

  Christine raised a hand, cutting off Lazaar mid-sentence. The sound of voices was growing louder again. A second later, a group of six figures appeared around the corner of the warehouse, arranged in pairs carrying between them what looked like —

  Bodies.

  Christine could just make out the dark blue of Navy uniforms on the corpses before they were chucked one by one into the warehouse. Another group rounded the corner, their backs weighed down by bundles of what looked like debris, which were also thrown into the warehouse.

  “Definitely bipedal,” Squires said. “I don’t think we’re dealing with Frontin.”

  At least that was a relief.

  Harris cursed under his breath. “Milipa bastards! How’d they get here?”

  Christine had fought the Milipa before she’d gone to OCS. She would never forget the horror of her first combat against them. The first time she’d killed another being up close had been in a skirmish to secure an important ridgeline on Annecy Major, an “unofficial” action that politicians on either side would never acknowledge or admit to. Her platoon had occupied the ridge ahead of the main advance and kept the bastards away with precise gunfire. But one of them had slipped through the line, appearing from around a boulder a few yards to Christine’s left. With a burst from his weapon, the Milipa soldier had cut down the man next to Christine. A ball of fear driven by anger and training, Christine had rushed forward, punching the tip of her bayonet through the base of the bastard’s neck. As the Milipa fell to the ground, she couldn’t stop stabbing it again and again.

  But the creatures at the warehouse were different somehow. The skin was the wrong color, and they weren’t nearly tall enough. The distant roar of a fusion motor carried from the harbor, and two small craft — they looked like standard Navy cargo tenders — pushed out into the harbor. As the rangers watched, they came to stop, then started again, seeming to scoot in short bursts.

  Christine drew her binoculars from their case and peered out toward the closest tender. It growled forward fifty feet and then stopped. A figure emerged from the open side hatch and hauled aboard another body. Christine swallowed, and trained her binoculars on the water. What she hadn’t seen before suddenly came into sharp focus — the water was full of floating bodies.

  Christine shifted the binoculars back to the closest warehouse. She wanted to know whose ass she needed to kick, and she wanted to know now. She focused her binoculars on the face of the nearest enemy.

  “Oh, my god.” Christine’s pulse pounded in her ears. She blinked and looked again. “This is impossible.”

  “If we are facing a Milipa attack, this could mean all-out war.” Squires sounded tenser than Christine had ever heard him.

  “I don’t think we’re dealing with Milipa here.” Christine turned to face the others, who looked back at her, confused. “They’re human.”

  Chapter Three

  Aboard the RAS Verdun

  Approaching the Kensington Star System

  Captain Kim Morden stared at the blank computer screen in front of her. Of all the paperwork a commanding officer had to do after a battle, this was her least favorite. Repairs, damage assessments, and preparing casualty lists were bad. But condolence letters? Post-action reports? Each was an opportunity to reconsider every decision, second-guess every fact, think about the possibilities or outcomes she’d missed in the moment. Somehow, seeing other versions of events made the ones she was stuck with seem worse.

  Kim sighed and drummed her fingers beside her keyboard. How could this be so hard? Condolence letters ought to be simple, a series of facts about a good person who died doing something important. There was something beautiful about honoring the dead, finding every reason to praise them and then expressing them all. And yet each one felt like a trial. The people who would soon discover that their loved ones were gone forever would want to know how and why their father, mother, husband, wife, son, daughter had died. Could anything have prevented it? Did it have to be that way? Hell, Kim couldn’t answer those questions for herself, much less the grieving families of the honored dead.

  Kim had done her best to complete the last of them back-to-back this week, cloistering herself in her room and emerging only to eat and take the occasional tour of the bridge. She was reaching the end now. Only the official post-action report for her superiors, the ultimate judges of her actions, remained. Given what she’d already made it through — the digital mountain of letters she’d written — this should be easy.

  Yeah. Easy as pulling teeth.

  “Regulations state that all crewmembers must behave in such a manner as to be conducive to good health and top performance,” Lieutenant Commander Wilcox had said. He’d come to bring her coffee at the end of today’s main shift, an exaggerated, disapproving look on his face. Old spit-and-polish Jack. Leave it to him to use rules as a way to show concern.

  “You have no reason to fear for regulations, Mr. Wilcox.” Kim had imitated a grin, not wanting Wilcox to see how much the letters had affected her, but he hadn’t bought it.

  “Have you even been back there?” He’d pointed at the door to the bedroom, on the opposite end of the foyer from the desk.

  “Thank you for the coffee, Commander.”

  Wilcox had simply shaken his head and held out the steaming mug. Kim had accepted it and drunk it without tasting, not even noticing when Wilcox had left the room. After finishing her condolence letters, she had gone straight into her action report. She’d stopped and started again and again, writing and erasing. She’d only realized she’d been awake all night when she’d heard the chime for the morning shift an hour ago.

  Kim stood from her desk and paced around her foyer, looking at her feet and threading a hand through her hair. She ignored the twinge in her shoulder. It always seemed to come back when she worked out or didn’t take care of herself. Slumping in a chair for eighteen hours certainly hadn’t helped. Kim looked at the room, half expecting to see Captain Knight’s furniture there. She still wasn’t used to being in the captain’s suite. When Knight had been there, antique weapons and paintings had decorated the walls, and sculptures and plants had shared the built-in wooden shelves with books. A large couch with a coffee table had sat in the center
of the room, giving officers and crew somewhere comfortable to sit. Everything had been tasteful, cozy, and bright.

  Kim preferred to stick to the essentials. It made things easier to manage. She’d left the shelves and walls empty, and other than the regulation work desk, chair, computer terminal, and a small refrigerator tucked into the wall under the shelves, there was nothing else in the room. Kim suddenly wished she had something, anything to look at beside blank walls, blank pages, and the blank expanse of space displayed on the holoports. Fighting her rising irritation, she sighed and rubbed her eyes.

  “Isabelle, if I paid you, would you finish this for me?”

  “Good morning, Captain.” Isabelle’s voice chimed from the computer, her light French accent a balm on Kim’s nerves. “I can provide you with records of all the scanning data collected during the engagement as well as transcripts of when all commands were given, if that is helpful.” The artificial intelligence avatar of the Verdun, Isabelle didn’t miss anything the ship experienced.

  “I don’t think the admiral will want to read that,” Kim dropped back into her desk chair, facing the image of Isabelle that had appeared on her computer screen. “But thanks anyway.”

  “Did you sleep well?”

  Kim rolled her eyes. “Like a rock.”

  Isabelle raised an eyebrow. “Do you lie like this on your reports, Captain?”

  “Do you always ask questions you know the answers to?”

  Neither of them spoke for a minute. Finally, Isabelle crossed her arms.

  “Are you sure the sensor data would not be helpful?”

  Kim smiled in spite of her fatigue. “Go ahead and send it to this terminal. I’ll attach it as a reference.”

  “Very good. I’ll check in shortly if you need anything else.”

  “Thanks.”

  Isabelle nodded, and her image vanished from the computer screen.

  Kim typed out a sentence, erased it. She did the same, trying to stick only to the facts. At just past 1700 hours, Kim had ordered the Verdun to move in and neutralize the enemy station. At 1712, several Frontin warships had appeared from hiding and converged on the Verdun. Kim shuddered, remembering the thunder of explosions as enemy munitions had curved around the ship’s magnetic ordnance shield and detonated.

  Kim stood again, and turned around just as a knock came at her door. Kim looked down at her disheveled uniform, ran a hand over her hair, which she could tell was a frizzy mess.

  “In a moment!” Kim quickly undid her bun and retied it, walking over to the door. She tucked her light blue uniform shirt back into her dark blue trousers, realized she’d taken her tie off somewhere. Not seeing it, she crossed the room again, picked up her dark blue jacket from where it was draped on her chair. Her hands flying over the jacket’s buttons, she jogged to the door. She hadn’t exactly been available to the crew for the last few days during her paperwork exile. The least she could do is try to look professional when they came to her. Kim put on a neutral face, reached for the latch, and opened the door to see —

  “Commander?”

  Commander Emma Holsey stood in the corridor, a computer pad in her hand.

  Kim felt her insides tense. For a second, they only stared at each other.

  Holsey raised her chin slightly. “May I come in, Captain?”

  Kim stepped aside and gestured for Holsey to enter. Holsey strode into the foyer, her eyes fixed on her computer pad.

  “How are repairs?” Kim followed after Holsey as she walked to the desk.

  “We’ve done as much as we can without landing. As you know, there’s a lot of work to do.”

  “Very good.” Kim figured she should probably offer Holsey something to drink, but she wasn’t in the mood for verbal sparring. The sooner Holsey left, the better.

  Holsey had never forgiven Kim for a boarding mission that had gone bad under her command ten years ago. Kim had taken a chance and ignored safety protocols, resulting in the death of everyone on the team, except for the two of them. Holsey’s fiancé, Glen Brevel, had been among the fallen.

  When Holsey reached the desk, she turned and thrust the pad toward Kim. “Here is the list of all munitions and supplies we’ll need. Wilcox has already signed it, but we wanted your approval before we transmit it to the station.”

  Kim took the list and sat down while Holsey stood at attention. Shells, torpedoes, deck plating, assorted repair components… The list was many pages long. Kim had almost forgotten about Kensington Station. After a battle, it was standard procedure for Navy ships to land, re-supply, and have thorough repairs and inspections undertaken by ground personnel. It was always a long and tedious process, and the stations in this part of the galaxy, a backwater since the end of the last war, were usually isolated dumps run by frustrated, bored officers counting down the days until they could receive a new billet.

  “Thank you, Commander.” Kim returned the list to Holsey and turned back to the blank screen in front of her, expecting Holsey to leave. When she didn’t, Kim looked up to find the commander watching her.

  “You haven’t been on the bridge in two days, Captain.” Holsey’s voice was flat, her eyes like barricades. Was she trying to give Kim a reprimand? Holsey had made it clear on multiple occasions that she had no problem telling Kim exactly what she thought of her decisions.

  “As you probably learned in training, dealing with post-action functions is a captain’s priority after combat.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’ll be at my normal duties before they’ll be neglected. Until, then, carry on.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Holsey didn’t budge.

  Kim sighed, looked back at her computer screen. “I’m having trouble with the last part of the report, that’s all.”

  Kim heard Holsey turn to leave, but only heard a couple footsteps before they stopped.

  “Regrets?”

  Kim turned in her chair to square herself with Holsey. She wasn’t about to have her decisions questioned again. “Should I have said this instead of that, seen something sooner, fired to port instead of starboard — What would that accomplish? But when I write these damn reports—”

  “You can’t help but see the possibilities.” Holsey finished Kim’s sentence, looked at the floor.

  Kim studied Holsey’s stone face. Was that sympathy or a criticism?

  “I can’t change any of it,” Kim said.

  Holsey met her gaze, and for a second, they said nothing. A soft chime called the change of the hour.

  “No, you can’t,” Holsey said. “But right now, this crew is asking themselves the same kind of questions, and they need to see their CO.”

  Kim nodded. “I’ll finish this as soon as I can, Commander. Dismissed.”

  Holsey saluted, then turned on her heel and walked toward the door.

  “Thank you for these reports,” Kim called after her.

  Holsey opened the door, looked back at Kim, who pointed to the pad Holsey had brought.

  “I’m glad they’re what you needed.” Holsey stepped out of the room and closed the door behind her.

  Kim stared after Holsey for a long time. Then she turned around in her chair, took a deep breath, and started typing.

  “That’s the last one.” Lieutenant Commander Jack Wilcox made notes on his computer pad as Ensign Morris propped the rifle back into the gun rack.

  “Sure as hell took long enough.” Morris shook his head, reached up, and pulled the heavy metal door closed over the rack, its automatic lock engaging with an electric whine.

  Jack grunted his agreement. Morris and his armory staff had been working almost non-stop ever since the battle with the Frontin to locate, repair, refurbish, and inventory the ship’s small arms. It had been a monumental task. The fighting had destroyed or damaged more than half of the ship’s stock of weapons. Losses like that were more than just a logistical headache — they hinted at the extreme violence of the combat that had raged in the Verdun’s corridors.

  The
high casualties among the crew — Morris’ section had lost more than its share — hadn’t made the job any easier. Normally, Lieutenant Voth, the ship’s master at arms, would be the one to supervise Morris and his crew, but Doctor Cadogan had only just released him from light duty. Jack was happy to do something, anything to help.

  It was the least he owed the crew, after what he’d done — or, rather, not done. Jack had missed the fighting aboard the Verdun. He’d been sent to safety aboard another ship and made to stand by while so many of the crew had suffered and died. In a pinch, the captain hadn’t trusted him, had thought he couldn’t handle real combat. Now, he’d probably never have a chance to prove her wrong.

  Jack put his signature on the pad, handed it over to Morris, who added his own, tapped the button to send it to Voth.

  “Glad to have that out of the way.” Morris yawned, handed the pad back to Jack.

  “Don’t celebrate yet.” He slid the pad into his jacket pocket. “Voth wants to keep the armory running until we’ve built up the regulation stockpile of spares again.” It was a good idea, given the number of weapons that had been destroyed beyond repair.

  Morris’ face fell. “Oh. Yes, that.”

  Jack couldn’t help by grin at the man’s obvious disappointment. “When it rains, Ensign…”

  “We appreciate the help, sir.”

  “You’ll have Mr. Voth back soon enough.” Jack gestured toward the door, and they started down the corridor that split the long, double row of numerous sealed gun racks and ammunition cabinets.

  “We’ll put him right back to work.” Morris stopped as they entered the guardroom outside, turned to close and lock the access door, its surface pitted where bullets and Frontin claws had torn at it. He yawned again, shook his head. “I’ve got some coffee on the drip in the workshop. Care for some, sir?”

  Jack shook his head. “Why don’t you take a break and get some from the galley instead. You deserve it.”

  Morris chuckled. “You mean I can sit down? At an actual table? Do those exist anymore?”