by J. F. Holmes
“No, over two hundred hand to hand, so she could get DNA confirmation. I heard it got so bad that the Manchu generals wouldn’t even take a shit by themselves. The Venture Armed Forces kicked her out after she wouldn’t accept a recall order. Killed the Manchu Emperor. Specialized in high ranking officers and politicians. But that’s just a rumor.
“Damn,” whispered the young man. “So how did she wind up here? Why isn’t she leading one of the assault teams?”
Shupe knew why, but she wasn’t going to tell anyone about the dreams that the Chief wrestled with each night. She had only found out herself when the Sparks had asked her for something to help her sleep. “Captain found her homeless in Miranda. She was so poor she was about to hire herself out as a contract assassin. Offered her a position as Chief of the Boat, in order to keep us in line.”
Orr leaned forward and looked to his right to see Cahr at the end of the row. “Hey kid,” he said, “Good job with that riot gun. Not that we couldn’t have handled them ourselves, but much appreciated.” Cahr had been standing airlock watch, and when he saw the blue uniforms of the Crucibles on the monitor, just as they broke out of a side corridor into the returning Lexingtons, he had grabbed a short barreled sonic stunner, pumped a round in the chamber, opened the airlock and let fly. Crewmen from both ships were scattered by the blast of concussion and blinding light, and he fired a second time directly at four of the Crucible crewmen who were still waiting to pile on. With a warm inner glow, he said thanks to Orr.
Knight returned from his conference with the Chief of the Boat, and immediately called them to attention. “Since, apparently, I can’t leave you alone while I go about some urgent business with the Captain, and you seem to be in need of some remedial training, for the next twenty four hours, or until get tired, whichever comes last, we are going on a bug hunt in the bilges. Go draw stunners and meet me in one hour on E deck, bilge hatch. You too, Yee.”
A collective groan went up from the group. Until SMG Knight got tired meant a very long time. He was legendary in his ability to go without sleep. The team leader would be spending the next hour rigging trip wires and sensors that were primed to detonate and spray CS gas, sonics, or electric stunners. The ship’s bilges were where the bio recycling systems were located, and they smelled of shit and piss, with various leaks and puddles of both. The passageways were usually about five feet tall, causing everyone to move in a back breaking crouch that turned to torture after a few hours. The exercise would end when Knight decided they’d had enough of trying to catch him and stun him. The stunners were also needed for the rats that infested the environmental areas. It had been a few months since they’d put that part of the ship in hard vacuum, and the crew swore that the rats could survive even that.
“Like the Chief said, you’ve been spending too much time in your suits and forgetting what it’s like to actually soldier. Specialist Yee, make sure you get a clean bandage on that leg. Cahr, you’re excused.”
“Actually, Sergeant Major, I’d like to go. Teamwork and all that.”
Knight considered it for a moment; nodded. “Admirable, but you’re going to regret it.”
At the Captain’s cabin, Chief Sparks walked past Ensign Zlatcov, still standing at Parade Rest outside the door. She entered, then came out a few minutes later. “The Captain will see you now, Ma’am,” she said. Zlatcov thanked her and went in herself.
Nate Meric sat at his desk, waiting for her. “Ensign Pilot Nadija Zlatcov reporting as ordered, Sir!” she said, snapping a sharp, Russian style salute. Meric sighed and motioned to a chair. She stayed rigidly at a position of attention.
“Dammit, Nadija, sit your ass down. That’s an order. You’re not in the Soviet Navy anymore.” She took a seat, but remained ramrod straight, even when he handed her a tablet.
“Know what that is?” She looked down, and her eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“This, this is dueling challenge! Captain of Crucible calls you to dueling grounds in Miranda Combat Room!” She read over it quickly, forgetting her English in her agitation, reading it aloud in Russian.
“But this is not about you! This is between me and that English bastard in bar, yes.”
Meric shook his head. “Maybe in the bar it was between you, but you are part of my crew, and I am responsible for your actions. Just like Captain Farheel is responsible for the actions of HIS crew.”
“But,” she spluttered, “they attacked Specialist Orr! Surely you cannot expect me to stand by while one of Poison’s crew is assaulted!”
“No, I don’t. But as an officer, you needed to get control of the situation and extract your crew from the mess. Not get carried out of the bar unconscious over Tank’s shoulder. Nor should you have wrecked that spacer’s arm socket. He’s going to be grounded for three months.”
She was still angry, and before he could continue, broke in with, “But this duel is STUPID. They attacked US outside the airlock.”
“Which I told Captain Farheel and showed him the video from the airlock monitors. His crew hadn’t told him about that, and he pulled the duel request. Not that I would have gone ahead with it anyway. I’m no gentleman. Point is, though, YOU should have been the one to calm the situation down, either in the bar, or immediately afterward by contacting me or their Captain. Instead, you left the crew of the Crucible dishonored and looking for revenge. Tell me, what would have happened if that hideout pistol had gone through Specialist Yee’s heart or gut, or brain, instead of just punching its way through his calf muscle?
The pilot paled at the thought. “He would be dead, Captain.”
“Yes, and it would be on your head, and mine. We’re in a dangerous enough business already without causing problems we don’t need. I don’t mind bar fights and the crew blowing off stream, but you are an Officer, and you are there to provide for the welfare of your men and lead them in the direction they have to go.”
He let her sit and think about that for a minute, then said, “Isn’t there a bug hunt to lead, Ensign? You have,” he said, looking at the antique wristwatch he wore, “about fifteen minutes to change and make your way to E Deck. SGM Knight won’t start without you, but the delay will get him even madder, and believe me, he’s a bit angry with you right now as it is. Dismissed.”
The former Soviet Warrant Officer stood up, came to attention, stiffly saluted, then turned and walked out of the compartment. When the door closed behind her, she broke into a jog, then a run.
Chapter 14
Dennis Yee dragged himself across the threshold of the two-man cabin he shared with Scotty Orr and threw himself down on his bunk, leg aching under the bandage. Across the corridor, he heard the door to Bjorn Stenger’s cabin slam shut. He was so tired he couldn’t be bothered to close his own.
Orr himself had walked directly to the showers, just standing there under the hot water in his jumpsuit. He was encrusted with shit and slime, and his head was pounding from getting slammed by stunners eleven times in fifty two hours. He let the water run over him, then took off the filthy combat suit. In the stall next to him, Shupe scrubbed her blonde hair with shampoo, taking harsh lava soap to her whole body. Then she leaned back against the wall, slowly slid down, and fell asleep, water glistening on the tattoos that covered her pale body from her forehead to her toes. Orr stepped out, toweled himself off, and then picked her up off the shower floor.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” he growled at one of the ship’s crew who stared at them as he walked through the corridor. The man quickly looked away, and he made it to Shupe’s cabin. Banging on the door brought a surprised roommate, disheveled from sleep herself.
“Hey Sarah, put her to bed. We don’t have to report till 0600 tomorrow. Let her sleep.” She opened the door and he came in, put Shupe in her bunk, and pulled the covers over her. Her roommate was already shoving Shupe’s dirty singlesuit into the recycle chute.
“We still on for our date tonight?” asked Orr.
Sarah Elizabeth, Team Kn
ife’s medic, crossed her arms and glared at him. “Our date was LAST night.”
“Yeah, about that. Sparks and Knight got a bug up their asses because we got jumped by some douchebags from Crucible. So we spent the last two days playing Bug Hunt. I got zapped eleven frigging times.” She tapped her foot impatiently, but he grinned. “Come on, Sarah. You know how the old man is. If it had been Team Knife, Tommy would have had you guys doing something, same as us.”
“I suppose,” she answered, looking at the snoring Shupe. “Well, is Yee still awake? Can we kick him out?” A wicked grin spread across her face. “I see some bruises that need tending, and I happen to be a medic.” Dennis Yee woke the next morning on the floor of Shupe’s cabin, no idea how he’d gotten there.
In his own private cabin, Rob Knight sat on his bunk, feeling every one of his fifty Terran Standard years. He poured himself a shot of whiskey, downed it in one gulp, and lay back, letting the alcohol relax him. Soon he drifted off into sleep, eyes slowly closing. He didn’t fight it, nor did he welcome it.
“…Zulu Five Niner, stand by for incoming fire on grid kilo gulf 1432-0453. Shot, over.”
“NO, YOU BLOODY BASTARDS! THAT’S OUR POSTION!” In his dream, Rob screamed into the handset, over and over. Before the rounds impacted, he saw movement at the top of the trench and turned to fire his rifle at the figure. As always, the firing pin snapped down on an empty chamber, and he watched the French soldier calmly lift his own weapon to his shoulder. The artillery crashed downward directly on top of both of them, causing Knight to scream out loud and sit up in his bunk, sweat streaming off his face.
“Never bloody goes away,” he muttered into the darkness. By feel, he started to pour himself another glass, then took a swig from the bottle instead. With his other hand, he unconsciously rubbed the small scar on his chest, where the Frenchman’s grav gun had punched though his body armor and destroyed his shoulder. A year of reconstruction, a medical pension, and a thank you very much for serving King and Country.
Outside in the corridor, Recruit Enrique Torres stopped abruptly at the yell and almost dropped the tool box he was carrying. His companion, a Petty Officer who only went by the name of Gar, kept moving as if he had heard nothing.
“Madre de Dios, what the hell was that?” asked Torres.
“Never mind, it’s just the bruisers having nightmares again,” answered his partner, hurrying down the corridor.
Torres ran to catch up with him; Sirianians moved fast when they wanted to, tail swishing back and forth. New to the ship, he asked PO Gar, “Bruisers?”
“Yeah. The crews of the Assault Shuttles. Nearly every single one of them has Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Some just hide it better than others. Glad I just sit here and baby the ship.” He slapped the wall, ran his palm across it. “Ain’t no girl like the Lady Lex,” he muttered, saying the Spacer’s traditional words of superstitious appeasement, meant to keep their mistress, the Ship, happy.
They moved on down the corridor, stopping at a service panel. Torres grabbed a 10mm socket and quickly took the cover off. He was new to this ship, but he’d worked life support maintenance on an orbital in Buena Vista system for ten years. Gar grunted in satisfaction as the slight, still deeply tanned Spaniard lifted the panel off with one hand and shone a light inside.
“All guts, no glory for us ship dogs,” muttered Gar. Still, he got a nice share of the prize money, without risking his neck. Not too much anyway. Not that he had a neck to risk.
“What do we got, Enrique?” Gar peered into the darkness, his amphibian eyes seeing heat more than light. He sniffed for a leak, but the human had a more sensitive nose for this kind of work.
“I got a whiff of ammonia. Would be nice if the detectors were working properly.”
Gar stuck out his tongue and licked around the pipes. His sense of taste was fine, and he noticed the pinhole leak in the coolant line about halfway down the pipe.
“Ugh, tastes like shit!” Gar growled. He set about pulling saws and a welding kit from the tool box.
“I think you mean it tastes like piss,” said Torres.
Gar grunted as he lit the welding torch. His damp skin recoiled from the flame, but he flipped down his translucent membranes, evolved to protect sensitive eyes from the sun, and leaned in, torch flaring.
“Hold the sotter right here. That’s it. Listen, kid, I grew up speaking fucking English, you grew up speaking Spanish. I think I know the difference between the words piss and shit. Besides, weirdo, how would you know what piss tastes like? There, that’ll do it.” He flicked the torch off and sat back on his spring-like legs, then stood up.
“OK, what’s next?” the amphibian said, looking down at his tablet. “bridge, faulty HVAC blower. Ugh, I don’t want to go up there.”
Torres face lit up, and he smiled. “Heyyyyyyy, maybe I can talk to Midshipman Schmetzer. Put some of my smooth Latin charm on her.”
Gar’s face ran through a multiple of colors until it settled back down to the steel grey of the ship’s corridor. Then he laughed and said, “Don’t even think about it. Three things. First off, we’re up there to work. Second, that little hell pixie, Chief Sparks, will castrate your Latin charm so fast it won’t even bleed, if you screw around while you’re supposed to be working.”
He moved off down the corridor, Torres struggling to follow with the heavy tool box. “Hey, mano, what is number three?”
Gar, not even pausing to slow down, made a suggestive hip motion, imitating bouncing up and down and actually making a couple of short hops. “Because, newbie, ain’t no female safe around me, amphibian, human, reptile, whatever. Not when PO Gar is in heat, and I’m ALWAYS in heat.”
“You’re disgusting,” muttered the Spaniard.
“Hey, kid, don’t knock it until you try it.”
Torres went white. “I’m not trying ANYTHING with you!”
That actually stopped Gar. He turned and said, “Hey, don’t worry about it, kid, I ain’t no homo. I got my eye on that chick Neethu over on Starboard watch. I'd nail the shit outta her, human or not. Blegh! Blegh! Blegh! Blegh! Now let’s get to work.” Twisting his body, he jumped straight up onto the bridge in one giant leap, frog like legs stretching out behind him.
Chapter 15
The prize office was crowded, as usual. Unofficial representatives from each of the Star Nations had an office there, bidding on captured ships. All except the French and Spanish, who were allies in their war against Britannia.
Captain Meric and Ship’s Purser Behm sat at the desk of the CCCP representative, discussing what kind of ship the Soviets wanted next, and trying to negotiate a better price. The Russian was having none of it; the communists were notoriously cheap.
“Lloyd, can you give us a few minutes?” asked Meric, and the purser nodded, got up and walked out. He was an honest man, and if his Captain wanted to bribe someone, he didn’t want to see it.
“I’ll be at the Winchester, Captain,” said the older man, closing door to the office behind him.
Meric gave Dimitri Voronin a look with raised eyebrows, and the Russian answered, “We’re good.” The office had just been scanned and physically searched for spybots, both passive and active. His accent changed from a heavily accented English to pure Brooklyn. He had grown up in the ruins of Brighton Beach, which, even three hundred years later, was still heavily Russian.
“Next time you call at Jamesport, Colonel, I need you to see Lieutenant Colonel Agostine. His crew is going to boost a high level fleet command AI as soon as you drop into port. We need you to secure it and bring it back here to Miranda.”
“No offense, General Voronin, but that’s going to bring some serious heat down on them, and us,” answered Meric. “I may have to head to the other side of the Reach for a while until things cool down.” He paused for a moment, then continued, “That is, if you’ve found a place?”
“Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you, Nate. You know that,” said the older man. He was in his seventi
es, and had been living the lie in the Russian worlds for most of his life. Dimitri Voronin didn’t expect to get to the New World; Meric could see it in his eyes.
“I’ll do my best. It’s just that, the more risks we take, the closer we come to getting found out. And you know what’ll happen then.”
“Witch hunt,” answered the General. “They still hold us responsible for the war and the Collapse. You study history, so you know how fear drives people.” From memory, he recited some verse, words that sent a chill down Meric’s spine, as they always did.
“These are the times that try men's souls,” said the old soldier. “The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives everything its value.”
Meric stood and saluted, almost automatically, and said, “Thank you, Sir; I needed that.”
“Keep the faith, Colonel. We will prevail, eventually.”
“Good. Now, about the price for prizes, you’ve been seriously cheap on the last payout!” smiled Meric. “Do I need to send Zlatcov over here to argue with you?”
“Etot voyennyy korabl! konechno net!” spluttered Voronin. “Are you trying to give an old man a heart attack?”
“I just thought maybe you’d been away from your Russian comrades too long, Dimitri!”
The old man took a bottle of vodka from inside his desk, uncorked it, and took a long swig. “There,” he gasped, eyes watering, “send her over. Let her do her worst!”
They both laughed, and Meric turned to go, but the Russian stopped him with a quiet, “Wait, Nathanael.”
When he turned back to look at him, General Voronin, United States Army, said one word.