by Richard Fox
A voice crackled over the intercom. “This is your highly professional and talented pilot speaking. Stand by for afterburners.”
The Mule jumped skyward, squashing them into their seats and shaking them with each course correction.
“I thought the training scenario was over,” Max said.
“Stop being such a girl, Max,” Garrison said.
Booker punched Garrison under the arm, right where his armor was weakest.
“Ouch! I’ve got to cover that opening around you. So many nerves in the armpit.”
Booker took another shot with the other hand, flattening her fist into more of a wedge for greater penetration. Garrison twisted his body at the same time he attempted to deflect the strike with the palm of his hand. The result was partially successful.
“That’s enough,” King said. “Fight decision goes to Booker.”
“Which makes her thirty and one against you.” Max ducked a swing from Garrison.
King leaned close to Hoffman. “I hate to say this, LT, but I think we need to get them on a real mission before someone gets hurt.”
Hoffman smiled.
King returned the gesture with a bit of a laugh. “I’m not sure why, but it’s almost like we’re having a good time out here.”
“Training’s a lot more fun than actually getting shot at. I just had one of those feelings, you know? Like we’re family.” King made a manly grunt.
“Don’t get all soft and sentimental on me, Gunney. You know this is going to get ugly. Like boarding an alien ghost ship and fighting the last remaining Xaros or encountering a new race of galactic conquerors on an ice world as we get betrayed by spies.”
“Please stand by for docking protocols,” the pilot said. “The Mule will be locked down until we’re contacted by…some sort of VIP. Who the hell are you jarheads?”
“We’re Valdar’s Hammer!” Max yelled toward the cockpit. “That flyboy just call us jarheads? To our face?”
Everyone on the team, including Opal, looked toward Hoffman. The mood went from jovial to grim in a split second. They were locked inside unless Garrison had some unauthorized denethrite in his pocket, which he didn’t.
“I can’t stand pilots without a sense of humor,” Garrison said. “Why the hell are we getting locked in this fart box?”
“Black ops. Intel corps. I could care less about his sense of humor, but I don’t like being put in a holding pattern for no reason. Something’s not right,” Hoffman said.
A few minutes later, the Mule entered the docking bay of a corvette-class starship, the Scipio, and settled to the deck. A few minutes after that, the ramp lowered and a man wearing a plain naval uniform stepped through. Average height, bland face, and a trim but not excessively fit physique made him completely forgettable.
Max cursed and twisted away from the man. “Not this asshole again!” He started to come out of his chair, but Garrison held him down.
****
“Lieutenant Hoffman, I’ve been authorized to compliment your proficiency on the recently completed training cycle. Very satisfactory,” said Commander Kutcher of Naval Intelligence before he hurried to say, “Your team’s been reassigned—”
Hoffman stood between the man and his team. “Get to the point, sir. We going after Valdar or our ship?”
“No.” Kutcher’s jaw worked from side to side. “President Garret has ordered all efforts against the Ibarrans to cease, at least until we’ve regained operational momentum against the Kesaht and their allies.”
“He’s abandoning the Breitenfeld?” Hoffman asked. “And Valdar? They won the Ember War. Humanity would be extinct without him or that ship.”
“The Dotari would be extinct twice without Valdar,” Gor’al said, waving a fist in the air. “Once because of these nice Marines here. Thank you for curing the phage.”
“Stop. Thanking. Us,” King said through clenched teeth.
“The Breitenfeld and her crew are not a priority for the Terran Union,” Kutcher said. “Not right now. Your team was a by-name request for a critical mission.”
“The Breitenfeld is critical. The war against the Kesaht is critical,” Hoffman said. “Why aren’t we back preparing for…whatever mission’s coming up?”
“Maybe you don’t want to be on that Hail Mary.” The intelligence officer’s face darkened.
Hoffman held up a hand for him to stop. “The Kesaht are the real threat. Don’t give me politics and espionage. We’re on mission and can’t be taken off without the highest authority. What could be more important than Kesaht forces slaughtering entire populations and stealing children?”
Kutcher bored his beady eyes into Hoffman. Ship parts ticked as they changed temperature from the flight.
“I’m only going to say this once, Lieutenant Hoffman,” Kutcher said. “Your new assignment is part of the larger war effort. Your feelings on the matter are irrelevant. You are to take your team to Nimrod II and recruit a tech advisor.”
“I’m the tech advisor!” Gor’al burst out.
Kutcher glared at the Dotari for a moment. “Then, you, Lieutenant Hoffman, will take that tech advisor and link up with Colonel Fallon on Eridu for further instructions.”
“Why so vague?” Hoffman asked. “Who’s this tech advisor? Why do you need him or her on Eridu? Eridu…why haven’t I heard of that place before?”
“A sensitive human population was resettled there after the Ember War,” Kutcher said. “They’ve been engaged in critical research ever since and colonization was restricted. The entire planet is a black site due to archaeotech research, and it is within range of a Kesaht attack from the Crucible gate the enemy just seized on Boralis III. Fallon and his ad hoc unit were sent to help with the evacuation after the fight on Syracuse. A situation has developed and he requested you to deal with it.”
“Fallon asked for me…” Hoffman trailed off. The colonel was the uncle of a fallen Marine, one with whom Hoffman had a history.
“We’re stretched thin with the war effort,” Kutcher said. “You’ll have no backup on Nimrod or Eridu. Now get off this shuttle. It’s taking me back to Earth. Your mission specifics,” said the intelligence officer as he tossed a data stick to Hoffman, then jerked a thumb over his shoulder to the Scipio’s cargo bay. “Move it.”
Hoffman stood, tilted his head toward the ramp, and walked off the Mule, his team behind him.
“I don’t like that guy,” Max said.
“Stand by for Mule launch,” the pilot announced after barely enough time had passed for Kutcher to disembark. “On behalf of myself and the flight crew, we do apologize for any inconvenience the lack of a layover has caused each and every one of my valued passengers…”
Hoffman released his breath.
“Lame, but he’s trying. Max, go up there and school this flyboy on his jokes,” Garrison said.
Hoffman snapped the data stick into his gauntlet and read over the new orders. King flagged down a petty officer, who looked shocked to see dirty, angry Strike Marines on his ship.
Booker leaned toward Hoffman. “Are we going to miss the big show?”
“Are we a bunch of spy chasers again?” Duke asked.
“No. Bodyguards is more like it,” Hoffman said and sent the orders to his team.
“What is a Karigole?” Gor’al asked as the Dotari removed his helmet. The alien swung the thick black quills on his scalp from side to side and sweat sprinkled out onto the deck. A flat nose flared just over a blunt beak. Hoffman was tempted to compare the alien to a Rastafarian parakeet but would never do so out loud.
“They’re a special race of technical advisors, much better than Dotari in most things,” Duke said.
“Yeah, they’re smarter and better-looking than Dotari,” Garrison said, jumping in. “Better manners.”
“They never steal dip,” Duke said.
“And their fashion sense is sharper,” Booker added.
Gor’al spread his hands defensively. “This isn’t my armor! You m
ade me wear this. It belongs to a human woman. You force me to wear it because you humans don’t have the discipline to avoid shooting something that isn’t dressed exactly like you.”
“There’s no difference,” Booker said.
“Gor’al did not mean to offend you, Sergeant Booker. These words are not what I meant. But look at me,” he said, waving his hands over his gear.
“And?” Booker said.
“You look great,” Duke said, slapping him on the leg. “I was just kidding about the Karigole. Haven’t you seen that movie Last Stand on Takeni? There was a Karigole in that. Steuben, right?”
“Oh, those Karigole,” Gor’al said. “I did not know they were still a thing. First, I serve aboard the Breitenfeld, then I meet one of my race’s saviors. I will be like Duke when I return home. Up to my neck in—how does he say it?—up to my neck in pu—”
Duke slapped a hand over Gor’al’s beak, his head shaking from side to side.
“Steuben is who we’re supposed to recruit off Nimrod,” Hoffman said. “Which I doubt will be easy, given what this file says about the Karigole. They were granted a colony under a Terran Union protectorate right after the Ember War, but they broke off all communication with us a few years ago. Phoenix sent a representative to talk to them, but the mission was called off…after the Karigole shot arrows at the contact team. Minor injuries.”
“So we’ve got to recruit this Karigole and they’ve got a ‘no trespassers’ sign out?” King asked. “Recruit him for what?”
“I don’t have that in the mission brief,” Hoffman said.
Garrison tossed his hands up. “Just another day in the Strike Marines,” the breacher said. “What’s the name of this ship? The Skippy? Where’s the head and where’s the chow hall? Might as well enjoy this brief pause while we can.”
“First we clean weapons.” King leveled a knife hand at Garrison’s chest. “Then we clean gear. Then we secure a berthing. Then we report to the chief of the boat for taskings. Then, maybe, we can worry about ourselves.”
“I’ll leave you to it, Gunney,” Hoffman said. “I’m going to find the captain. Somebody on this ship might have some more answers.”
Chapter 2
The Scipio’s command center boasted a few workstations and a captain’s chair, but it was cramped compared to the relative spaciousness Hoffman remembered aboard the Breitenfeld’s bridge. Holo panels on the bulkheads created faux windows to either side of the forward view ports. Hoffman stood to one side of the captain’s chair—an old, beat-up unit. He saw it as just another room with too many computers and view screens. His place was off to one side in a roughly human-sized, recessed part of the wall where he was expected to strap himself in if they saw action. Navy types preferred their Marine cargo to stay out of the way most of the time. He gripped a railing, looking like a sore thumb in his bulky power armor compared to the sailors in their slimmer void suits.
The Scipio’s master and commander, Lieutenant Commander Tagawa leaned forward in her chair and frowned at the tan planet beyond the basalt spikes of the Crucible gate surrounding the ship.
“Sensors, give me an update,” she said.
“System reads dead,” a petty officer called out from a workstation.
“‘Identify Friend or Foe’ pings keep hitting us,” another sailor said. “We’re getting painted by out-system macro cannons, orbital torpedo magazines, and ground-based rail cannons. It’s all automated…which does not give me a warm and fuzzy.”
“Welcome to Nimrod, everyone,” Tagawa said. “The Karigole want us to see the ‘No Soliciting’ sign. Least they haven’t changed the targeting computers to blow any arrivals out of space. We should still be able to knock on the front door. Or at least our Strike Marines will.”
“I’m sure that will go just fine,” Hoffman deadpanned. “Do we know why the Karigole became so unfriendly? They worked well with us during the Ember War. Valdar and the Breitenfeld got the last of their species off that Toth planet, Nibiru.”
“That secret-squirrel type that met you in my cargo bay didn’t say,” the captain said. “Not sure if he didn’t know or we didn’t have the need to know. You know how spies are.”
“I don’t need to know why the Karigole shot the last human they saw in the buttocks with an arrow?” Hoffman asked.
“Don’t look at me.” She shrugged. “Get your away-team ready. None of you wear red shirts under your power armor, do you?”
“Why would that matter?”
“Philistine.” She rolled her eyes. “There’s one landing pad on the planet. The automated defenses are rather clear that we’ll be fired upon if we set down anywhere but that landing pad, so be prepared to do some walking. The Karigole settlement is several miles from where we’ll touch down.”
She tossed a small data drive to the Marine.
“There’s your full mission brief,” she said. “I had to wait until we made transit to give it to you. Everything with planet Eridu is classified. Just another pain in the ass we can thank Kutcher for.”
“Roger.” Hoffman connected the drive to his gauntlet. “I’ll be in the cargo bay, ready to disembark.”
“I’ll remind you there’s no backup,” she said. “You Strike Marines get into trouble, don’t think my sailors are going to be much help outside this ship.”
“Noted.” Hoffman gave her a salute she didn’t return and left the bridge.
Chapter 3
Hoffman moved quickly through the short, narrow hallways of the Scipio, ducking around bulkheads and dodging sailors that moved with a sense of purpose. The partial conversations and constant bustling noise of the ship reminded him there was more to the war effort than just his Strike Marines and their constant missions.
The ship jumped under his feet at the first touch of the planet’s atmosphere. Compared to a combat drop, this was a walk in the park. It’d been a while since he deployed on anything but a Mule.
In the deployment bay, he found his team waiting and ready. "King, give me a PCI. I've been in officer country. Feeling un-squared away.”
“Right away, sir.” The NCO performed a quick, thorough check of Hoffman's armor. “Looks good, sir.”
“Strap in. The Scipio’s putting us down on Nimrod. The landing zone’s in the middle of a savanna,” said Hoffman as the ship slipped deeper into the atmosphere without the teeth-clattering turbulence of a Mule landing.
“I could get used to this,” Garrison said.
“A fat plug of dip would make it better,” Gor’al said.
Duke grunted, his bottom lip packed with chewing tobacco.
The team shifted uneasily as they watched clouds streak past portholes. Garrison opened the breach on the grenade launcher attached to his gauss rifle, then touched an ammo pouch.
“We going in hot?” he asked.
“Karigole are allies of the Terran Union,” Hoffman said. “There aren’t many of them, but they made a real difference during the Ember War. We’re here to talk to the one named Steuben—not get into a fight.”
“They know that?” Max asked.
“The Karigole live in a low-tech environment,” Hoffman said. “Bows and arrows. Spears. Nothing that can get through our armor.” He touched his breastplate. “Everyone stay frosty down there. Frosty and sharp.”
“Don’t humans have a saying about never meeting your heroes?” Gor’al asked. “Is there an addendum about never shooting those same heroes? But if you meet a Buddha on the road, then why should you kill him?”
“Gor’al, what did I tell you about studying human religion?” King asked.
“That humans have been trying to find those answers for thousands of years without luck and I shouldn’t try either?” the Dotari said.
“Yes. That,” King said.
The ship set down with a jolt through the landing struts and warning lights flashed around the ramp as it lowered. Sunset shone through the opening and a gust of hot, dry air hit Hoffman’s face. He put his helmet on and ma
de his way down the ramp, careful to keep his rifle pointed low and not up at the ready as his training and instincts demanded.
Hoffman and his team moved down the deployment ramp, gazing across starkly beautiful grasslands. The landing pad was a square slab that looked large enough to fit two or three more corvettes. Grass encroached on the edge of the concrete. No buildings. No sign of civilization.
“Scipio Actual for Hammer Six, what’s your status?” Tagawa asked over the IR.
Hoffman swept his eyes over the terrain. “Negative on a welcoming party. Any contact with the locals via radio?”
“Nothing. Though the automated defenses just informed me we have ten minutes of ground time before we’re declared hostile. I’m not going to argue with programming. As such, we need to get back into orbit. Please move clear of the launch zone.”
Hoffman signaled his team with a knife hand. “Patrol formation. Move out.”
The moment they were over the next rise, the Scipio blasted off and swerved away from them.
“It’s not like they were going to be much help anyway,” King said.
“The settlement’s eight miles to the east,” Hoffman said. “Keep your eyes peeled. I have a feeling we’re already being watched.”
Chapter 4
Hoffman and King separated, each taking half the team as they moved into the scrublands where patches of tall grass thrust up through gravel and dried mud. A series of mesas shadowed the horizon to the west while north and east were mountain foothills.
“Watch your spacing,” Hoffman broadcast over the squad link.
King clicked his mic twice.
“Let’s stretch our legs a bit,” Hoffman said as they started to double-time it. With pseudo-muscle-enhanced armor, they made outstanding time. “Look for defensible ground, get oriented, and see about finding the Karigole.” Hoffman set an aggressive pace and his team kept up and looked after each other. Opal ran near him, his boots slamming the rough soil like jackhammers.
