by A P Heath
Johs walked out of the infirmary without another word and Aitkin’s smile went with him.
A week of latrine duty had cemented their burgeoning friendship and they grew closer throughout their time at the Academy. They even remained friends when Aitkin was first promoted to Cadet squad leader a year later.
In other cadets he saw jealously and disgruntlement that he’d been raised above them, but from his friend Johs all Aitkin received was a hearty congratulations and a joke about being
able to pick who got latrine duty.
Over time both boys came to respect Gunnery Sergeant Benton as they grew into men and more importantly, into soldiers under his instruction.
In their third year at the Academy Benton was recalled into combat duty and killed during a mission. The circumstance of his death was not something the cadets were privy to, but both Aitkin and Johs acted as bearers for his Resting service.
They passed out of the Academy two weeks later, bound for combat duty aboard the flagship carrier Pride of Luna as part of Second Company Deorum Marines.
In the three years they’d grown considerably. Aitkin was tall as he grew to adulthood, although not as tall as Johs.
Johs’ skinny limbs and chest had filled and his shoulders had broadened to better support his still oversized head. The nickname Aitkin had given him on that first meeting had died somewhere along the way.
Johs’ stature had more in common with that of a building by the time they passed out. They were no longer children scuffling in the dirt, they were marines of the Deorum and their duty was calling.
ELEVEN
The embarkation deck on the Pride of Luna was filled with the sounds of armoured feet, marching in step to board the waiting drop ships.
From the viewing gallery Lord Admiral Avarro DeMarchek watched with satisfaction. As Lord Admiral of the Deorum Fleet every man and woman aboard the Pride of Luna was his responsibility and a reflection of his reputation.
He smiled to himself at the precision of the operation unfolding below him. Not a single body was out of place.
The engineers and techs manned their stations with professionalism and the marines of the First and Second Companies marshalled onto the waiting drop ships up wide ramps that would retract to form the rear of each craft when boarding was complete.
The marines in their combat gear were a fearsome force to behold. Over their grey uniforms they wore matte black body armour that reached from their chests, down their arms and legs and ended in shielded gloves and boots. Each one wore an open faced helmet with included optical enhancers to aid them in combat conditions.
Deck gangs and ground crew assigned all across the deck, each one knowing his or her task intimately and undertaking the duty assigned with efficiency and discipline.
The ships themselves had the designation Peregrines, for their cockpits’ resemblance to the old Earth bird of prey and their ability to dive into combat at astonishing speeds. After that the similarities stopped. The flight crew, comms and nav officers were positioned in the beak-like forward section of the ship.
After this came the main troop compartment; a large windowless tube that stretched out for thirty metres, its fore and aft wings set low and high respectively along either side.
DeMarchek was proud of the crew and of the marines. On the flagship of the Deorum Fleet he demanded nothing but the highest standards and the precision he saw before him was an example of just that.
Normally he wouldn’t be in a position to watch his forces ready
for departure, but the significance of this mission had been made extremely clear to him and so he’d made a point of watching every aspect of it closely.
He didn’t care much for his superiors in Central Command and it had rankled to receive the orders for this mission as if he were some common sergeant.
He was the Lord Admiral of the Deorum Fleet and he knew his ships, his crews and the best way to get the job done better than any pen pushing clerk who’d never left the surface of Luna. Still, orders were orders so DeMarchek had followed them to the letter.
He’d reviewed the mission parameters before they’d been released by the captains of First and Second Companies, he’d watched briefings through the viewing pane in his private office, even had his personal aide record any comments or questions raised by the marines for later perusal.
So far all had gone smoothly and that alone gave him a small measure of anxious anticipation. He knew the crew of the Pride were the best in the fleet. Knew that First and Second Company were comprised of the very best the Academy on Luna had to offer, but still the worm turned in his gut and would not allow him to settle.
There were any number of things that could foul the mission; there could be a launch failure or some kind of malfunction with a Peregrine. The engineers and deck gangs would have checked, double and triple checked before the green light was given to embark, but it could still happen.
Their intelligence could be inaccurate. What he’d been given to pass down the ranks was sparse at best. The data on the landing site was taken from satellite and drone imaging instead of with human eyes and the full details of their objective were classified to his eyes only. Something could have been missed.
Even the smallest miscalculation could see what he’d been forced to describe to his captains as an almost routine boarding operation, blow up into catastrophe.
“Boarding is complete Lord Admiral.” Came the voice of his personal aide, inside his head.
She was still in the small office adjoining his own two decks below the bridge of the Pride, but she would be watching all the action of the embarkation deck through her viewing pane.
At the same time she would be monitoring the data from the tech stations through her internal comms implant and her words confirmed to him that not only were all souls aboard, but that each drop ship showed green lights across the board.
“Relay the order to drop.” He replied.
His voice was deep and strong, the internal projection a mirror of how he would speak out loud. It was a perfect fit for his tall, broad frame.
DeMarchek was not an old man, but he was considered old for the Deorum Fleet, especially in an active capacity. His hair was a short mat of silver strands that he kept cropped close to his scalp. It was brittle and left to grow any longer would fall out in tufts, despite the numerous nutrient treatments it received on a regular basis.
The human life span could be extended almost indefinitely, provided you had the money or the connections, but for some reason while the rest of the body could be regenerated and the signs of ageing reduced or even removed, human hair just couldn’t seem to withstand the tests of time. It was the only obvious sign of his advanced age.
Less so were his eyes.
The piercing crystal blue of his youth had succumbed to a paleness that was almost grey as he grew in years, but the experience gained in that passing of time gave him a stare under his thick silver eyebrows that could freeze men in place and force others to falter into stuttering silence when they spoke words he didn’t care to hear.
Otherwise his body was strong, not lean, but he carried his weight in a way that let any observer know the bulk of his frame was still powerful muscle under his ceremonial body armour and robes.
DeMarchek had counted nearly six decades and although it was not unheard of to remain on active service past five, those who made it so far were usually doing so from behind a large
desk in a comfy cushioned office at Central Command, back on
Luna.
That was not the life for DeMarchek though.
He’d been offered such a ‘promotion’ on no less than three occasions before Central Command given up their asking. He’d made his feelings explicitly clear; he was a man of the Deorum Fleet and had been for as long as he could remember.
DeMarchek had been born aboard a ship of the fleet and he was adamant he would die upon one, fighting the enemies of the Deorum, as was his duty.
&nbs
p; Below him the first Peregrine was readying to depart. Klaxons wailed and lights flashed their warning as the bay doors opened onto the empty void. Even through the reinforced glass of the gallery the noise was loud enough to be unpleasant. DeMarchek watched as the first drop ship glided out into the black on its docking arms and waited, poised to launch.
As he watched the second Peregrine began to move into position and the third, fourth, fifth, taking half the space of the embarkation deck.
“The order to drop is given Lord Admiral.”
His aide’s voice was clear inside his head, her words clipped and professional, never giving a hint of emotion. As the tell-tale hiss of the open comm link silenced to indicate she was disconnected, the klaxons ceased and the ships began to drop.
They went in perfect unison, all five craft disengaging from the docking arms and falling away from the Pride in harmony, their guidance thrusters pushing them away from their mother ship and into the cold black of space.
From the viewing gallery DeMarchek could only see the first few seconds of their journey as they were quickly obscured by the hull of the Pride. In his mind’s eye he imagined them turning in symmetry as they flew, switching to full propulsion to disappear into the distance.
He signalled his comm link to open to his aide with a thought, “Track all forces to destination and confirm arrival.”
“Just so Lord Admiral.” Her response was almost instant, like always.
DeMarchek straightened his back and grimaced at the twinges
he felt in the muscles there. He’d spent the entire length of the muster leaning on the guide rail before the windows of the gallery and now he was regretting staying so rigid for so long.
It would be three hours before the marines reached their target, plenty of time to do something about the pain in his lower back.
He turned from the window, its view now consisting of renewed activity as the deck gangs made preparations for the reserve force to board.
The blackness outside was eclipsed by the shine of polished metal as the bay doors ground closed to the sound of klaxons once again.
There was nothing left for him to ponder over here. The reserve force would be mustered in the antechamber to the main embarkation deck out of sight of the viewing gallery.
The Peregrines they would board if called into action were held in the main hangar, the next portion of the mighty ship, set back toward the stern.
The embarkation deck and the main hangar together made up nearly a third of the full five kilometre length of the Pride.
Even now DeMarchek knew the retractable rails used to move the ships around the hangar and on and off the deck, would be sliding into place under deck chiefs’ watchful eyes.
It would take another four minutes to have the reserve drop ships ready on station, a speed that the Lord Admiral knew could not be matched anywhere else in the Deorum fleet.
DeMarchek walked slowly from the gallery, keeping his back straight and his face neutral so no crew he passed would see his pain and think him weak.
It was a short walk to the nearest trans-terminal; just the length of a single curved corridor, and every terminal on the ship would take him directly to his private office or personal chambers.
It was just one of the perks of being the Lord Admiral. Another was what would be waiting in his personal chambers to soothe the growing ache in his lower back and silence the worm turning his stomach.
A slight smile turned his lips at the prospect ahead of him. He had three hours. Three hours to rejuvenate, to replenish his energy and revitalise his body.
If only it were double or even triple that much. He thought. Oh what fun we could have.
He walked carefully along the corridor, every muscle in his body straining to look like he was walking with his usual unfettered confidence. The confidence of the man in charge of all that he saw. Ratings and deck crew moved aside at his coming, each one standing to attention in full salute as he passed.
He acknowledged each one with an incline of his head. To them it appeared a relaxed gesture to set them at ease, but to him it was the maximum the fire growing at the base of his spine would allow without the pain showing plainly on his face.
DeMarchek reached the bulkhead to the trans-terminal and the door slid open at his presence. Once inside he activated his internal comm link and ordered the terminal to his personal chambers.
He tried not to think about what was waiting there for him, less his growing anticipation interfere with the mechanics of the terminal and re-direct him to the wrong part of the ship.
The terminal was commanded by the link implanted in the Lord Admirals head, as it would be by any member of the crew and it was not unheard of for the delicate mechanics of the link to be interrupted by a wandering mind.
It had even happened to DeMarchek once in his youth. He’d boarded a terminal intending to head for the bridge as he had a watch duty as a Lieutenant at the time.
He’d missed his last meal however and the thought of the food he was craving was so strong in his mind the doors had opened and he’d strolled out into the mess hall.
It had taken him a few moments to realise what had happened and ever since he’d known how important it was to keep his thoughts in check.
He kept his eyes fixed on the blank white wall before him, gazing at the gentle curve and letting his mind empty of the
worries this mission had seated there.
The trans-terminal was oval in shape with a single door. It was large enough to accommodate twenty fully armoured marines and DeMarchek felt a little strange standing alone in the centre of the empty space.
The rhythm of movement ceased with a soft rocking sensation and the doors to his chambers opened. Lord Admiral DeMarchek stepped from the bright light of the trans-terminal and into the softly lit space of his personal antechamber. Behind him the door closed with a barely audible hiss.
The room was plushly decorated with a marble plinth at its centre. On top of the plinth stood a marvellous bust of the Lord Admiral himself; a gift from his crew when he was elevated to the admiralship. The room itself was an octagon with the alternate walls each opening into another room.
Directly ahead was his private office and within, the short link corridor to that of his personal aide. The walls to either side of the door each had a beautifully crafted couch set against them, upon which guests or attendants could await his pleasure should they seek a private audience.
Behind each couch was a huge painting, a portrait of his most recent predecessors, large enough to fill the space between the top of the couch and the high ceiling of the antechamber. On the opposite walls facing each couch was a full length viewing pane, both set to external views showing the space outside the ship. They gave the impression that just the other side of the wall was the coldness of the deep black, when in fact the admiral’s quarters were nestled deep within the structure of the Pride and the outer hull was several hundred metres away in any given direction.
To his right was the entrance to his bed chamber and washroom and to his left was his personal armory. Or at least, that was the original designation.
DeMarchek had seen a better use for the space long ago and had his arms and amours mounted around the walls of his bed chamber to allow for the room to be repurposed.
He had been forced to juggle the schedules and tasks of the crew who had undertaken the work to ensure none of them
individually grasped the whole picture. He’d even had to complete the last of the set up with his own hands and the transport of his prize had been particularly tricky to achieve without raising suspicion.
It was to the left he walked, shucking off his heavy robes as he did, letting the fabric pool on the floor behind him. He removed his armoured jacket, dropped it at the door with a heavy thud as it slid open at his touch.
Every door, every bulkhead in the ship, in the entire fleet, would open automatically at his presence, but this door was special. It kept his secret. DeMar
chek couldn’t chance it opening as he passed while another was in the antechamber and so he had revised its command protocols to open only when his comm link and physical touch were combined.
“Open”.
Beyond the door was utter darkness. DeMarchek stepped over the threshold and the room was suddenly illuminated by bright lights that made up the entire length and width of the high ceiling.
He stood still at the entrance, admiring the scene before him. This was what he needed. This would soothe his body and his mind. This would kill the worm in his stomach and give him peace. It was the only thing that could.
“We only have three hours.” He breathed and the door slid closed behind him as he stepped fully into the light.
TWELVE
The Ambassadorial suite was made up of a series of large interconnecting rooms. Plushly decorated in the old Earth style they were luxurious in every aspect.
There was a wide entrance hall, hung with tapestries that were either incredibly detailed replicas or priceless beyond imagination. Leading from it were reception room, dining area with seating for a dozen guests and a full set of servants quarters for the house staff.
Further on were the private offices of the Ambassador and her staff, followed lastly by the bed chambers. There were six of them to allow for the Ambassador’s family, albeit between her husband and herself they left five completely unused.
They’d had children, three of them, but both boys had grown into young men and taken up careers in the bureaucracy of Luna, whilst their daughter had opted for the excitement offered by a life in the Deorum Army. None were like to visit them on the grand station and so the majority of the private areas of the suite were left empty in disused darkness.
Most of her time, at least her time that was not taken up with the endless meetings, trade negotiations and general balancing of diplomatic relations between the Deorum and the Ministry, she now spent in the offices that separated her living area from the more public sections of the suite.