by Brian Smith
The screecher Hutton had used to drop everyone was nonlethal, and the stun effect lasted for only thirty seconds or so. It was an easy way for law enforcement to “quiet a room,” and it was effective. People were already starting to stir, moaning and picking themselves up, not quite sure what had just happened.
Hutton reactivated her eardots, reconnecting audibly with the greater Marsnet. “Listen up!” she barked. “Deputy U.S. marshal! Fight’s over, people! Everyone settle your bills electronically and vacate the premises. Anyone left in five minutes is going to get a free vacation in the gray-bar hotel.”
One of the miners, possibly the instigator of the whole thing and evidently a militant MIM supporter, jabbed an accusing finger at her as he got to his feet. “What if free Marsmen don’t want to take orders from some Earthworm whore?” he shouted. She looked hard at him, the light playing across her oculars as her background software ran a detailed analysis on his voice and facial features. He didn’t come up as wanted. Pity, she thought.
A loud male voice sounded behind Hutton before she could answer: Jack Crawford, the owner of Lucky’s. “Then you can take orders from me, shit-for-brains! This is my place, and you ain’t starting a revolution in it! Nobody is forcing you to drink in a flagged territory, son, and better than ninety-five percent of this planet is empty. Go be a free Marsman somewhere else. In the meantime, do as the lady says.” Jack Crawford had stepped into plain view (and a clean line of fire) wearing a cyclotron pack connected to an imposing particle-beam rifle. The muzzle wasn’t pointed directly at anyone, but then again, it wasn’t exactly pointed away, either. Hutton felt her gorge rise a bit; Jack Crawford’s weapon was serious business—she’d seen the military variant in use recently enough. If he triggered it, he’d cut someone in half.
“Go on,” Donelle Crawford added for reinforcement, stepping out from behind her husband with a scattergun in hand. It was the nonlethal sort, designed to fire a burst of sedating pellets. Another good way to “quiet a room,” albeit not as effective as the screecher Hutton had used. Donelle Crawford jabbed the barrel menacingly toward the miners. “You lot aren’t welcome back. Vy ponimeyete?” she added in Russian, which seemed to be the miners’ native tongue. While Jack Crawford spoke like someone from the Mountain West region of the U.S., her accent was decidedly British. “Understand?” she repeated. “Don’t bloody well come back here again. Ne vozvrashchaysya syuda snova!”
The miners picked themselves up and headed for the door—not without dark, threatening looks directed at everyone else. A blur of light smeared across Donelle Crawford’s ocular and she whispered to her husband: “They aren’t paying!”
“Don’t worry about it, just let ’em go,” he growled back.
When the miners were gone, Hutton found herself letting out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She knew a hard case when she faced one down—that miner was trouble, and without the Crawfords backing her she’d might have had to drop him.
This tense confrontation served to deflate any further inclination toward trouble. People began picking themselves up, responding according to their own natures. Some headed for the door as quickly as they could, anxious to distance themselves from strife. Others were sheepish, and some exchanged excited grins, realizing they’d been caught up in a momentary adventure and had come out the other side intact. A few of the more conscientious guiltily began putting tables and chairs back in order, muttering their apologies to the Crawfords. Someone was already posting about the incident on the Marsnet; it was rapidly going viral in the newsfeeds, and a few boldly curious bystanders were wandering in from the outer pressure to see it all in person. Donelle Crawford put a stop to that by activating the closing-time lock on the doors, which allowed people to leave but not reenter.
Hutton tucked her badge away and glanced down at the table beside her, where the graybeard with the eyepatch was sourly picking himself up. “Everyone in one piece?” she asked. The screecher had worked through the transceivers in their eardots, so merely covering their ears didn’t help.
“Bloody peachy,” Harper replied somewhat groggily—his ears were still ringing.
“I’ve got the tab,” Ashburn added, ready to go find his fun elsewhere. He was already paying through his snoopers. The two friends departed shortly, having logged another war story together.
Hutton made her way around to where Jack Crawford stood sentinel, watching the place slowly clear out. He grinned at her from behind his bushy brown mustache. “Much obliged, ma’am,” he thanked her. “Neat trick—give me your info and your next visit is on the house.”
“Not necessary, but thanks,” she replied. “I’ve got an ID file on that miner. Does your house AI have facial-recognition software? You’ll want to keep an eye out for him—he may be back, and he’s a bad actor.”
Jack Crawford tapped his head. “I’ve got him stored right here, old-fashioned like. Don’t you worry,” he said.
Not far away, Ford was dabbing at the blood on his temple and gingerly probing at his budding shiner. CPL Dawson, one of their temporary MARDET out in the asteroid belt, helped him back to his feet. “You okay there, sir?” he asked.
“I’ll be fine,” he replied. “Got blindsided, there.”
“Have to look before you leap, XO. You’re bleeding.”
“’Tis just a flesh wound,” Ford grinned. The pain blockers were working as advertised. Dawson laughed, obviously getting the ancient Monty Python reference. “Y’all better shove off,” Ford added. “I don’t think Marshal Hutton is going to name any of us in her report, but it’s time to find another drinking hole.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Dawson replied, slapping the XO on the back before turning to his fellows. “Settle up and saddle up, Marines.”
“See you ’round the block,” Ford added as the group headed for the exit. He saw Hutton making her way over with a first-aid kit Donelle Crawford had given her.
“You okay, Jim?” she asked, dabbing at the blood. She broke out the kit and went to work—a quick wipedown and a spray-on debridement, followed by biogel slathered onto the cut; it would seal closed and begin healing on its own, not even leaving a scar. The knock to the head, she couldn’t do much about, but his biomonitor indicated he was okay.
“No permanent damage—head like an Irishman. What in the hell did you do, anyway? My ears hurt like a sonovabitch!”
She smiled sweetly. “Next time I tell you to lose the eardots, lose ’em.”
“No kidding. Didn’t seem to bother the Chinese any,” he remarked. “Interesting—they must have some filters or dampers build into their hardware.”
“Yeah, I’m sure the intel types will want to hear all about it,” she replied.
“Hey,” he added with mock indignity. “You said you weren’t going to let anyone kick my ass!”
“I stopped them from kicking it worse,” she riposted.
“Well, Diane, the one thing you cannot do is accuse me of being a boring date! What’s next?”
What the hell, girl, she told herself. Might as well go for it. “Your shirt looks like you’ve been butchering chickens for the kitchen, and even with your onboard meds that eye is going to swell half shut. How about we head back to my place and just relax a bit—get you cleaned up?”
“You got beer?” Ford asked with a goofy grin.
Hutton blew out a faux-exasperated sigh. “If beer is all that you want, then that’s what you’ll receive.”
“That may not be all I want.”
“Me either.”
Chapter 8
July 2093 (Terran Calendar)
USS Reuben James
Halsey Naval Station, Mars
Halsey Station and other space habitats like it were mankind’s stopgap solution to the problem of low-g fields off-Earth. The design of most space habs was similar, but not identical. Halsey Station was largely a hollow cylinder made up of toroidal segments. Its outer dimensions mirrored those of a fat cigar, cut in half. The thick
outer shell of the cylinder wall constituted the inhabited decks, while the hollowed interior offered space for an enormous supply-and-repair facility capable of handling even the largest naval torchships. The outer shell of the habitat was under centrifugal spin at a rate yielding full Terran gravity at the outermost level. As one moved “up” toward the center of spin, the gravitational force tapered off to about 0.6-g on the innermost level.
Ring habitats such as this were common throughout the solar system. They offered the only practical way for large communities of human beings to live in space long-term and maintain healthy bone density and muscle mass—a necessity for anyone wishing to retain the physical ability to return to Earth or Mars or withstand high accelerations in torchships. Early pioneers had thought to “spin up” larger asteroids like Ceres or Vesta so that habitats with centrifugal gravity could be built beneath the surface, but the physics had proven unworkable. The mass and composition of the asteroids themselves wouldn’t have withstood the strain, which would have caused them to break apart. At present levels of technology, ring habitats were the best answer.
Vessels docked at Halsey Station and not requiring shipyard availability were berthed to counterrotating docking rings on either end of the cylinder. These end segments weren’t under continuous spin; they “spun down” up to twice a day if necessary to allow for vessels to dock, and then “spun up” again to provide artificial gravity. The rate of spin on the docking rings was deliberately varied, depending on the size of the largest torchship berthed. Since ships were moored nose-in, gravity at their bow was equivalent to that at the outer ring and increased as one moved aft. Usually the spin rate on the docking rings was adjusted so that the stern of the largest docked ship wouldn’t experience more than 1.2-g.
Although the docking rings’ spin schedule had nothing to do with moons or oceans, it often resulted in grinning navy personnel’s speaking of “arriving on the tide.” A vessel could undock at any time; in accordance with Newtonian mechanics, she would simply “fly off” the ring on a free-falling tangent, like a stone loosed from a sling. Once clear of obstacles, she could reorient for throttle-up via the use of thrusters or gyros. Some captains chose (or were directed) to park their vessels alongside the station; its location in the gravitationally stable Martian L2 point made that an easy proposition. Personnel could then move to and from the station itself by way of ship’s boats flying in and out of the station’s hollow center.
Reuben James was docked at Halsey Station’s repair facility inside the station’s hollow center, with only the watch section on board while a small army of drones, synths, and human workers swarmed over and inside her, repairing her battle damage.
Like the rest of the crew, LT Jim Ford had transferred to temporary quarters in Halsey Station for the duration of the refit since the ship was in microgravity while she sat at the station’s center. It was far easier and healthier to live in a steady-g field rather than remaining aboard, especially with round-the-clock work going on. Several crew members had already put in leave chits and were on transports for Earth, making the most of the extended layover. Since it was Ford’s responsibility as XO to oversee repairs, he couldn’t afford to absent himself for more than a few days at a time.
Now, returning from his first round of shore leave, he stepped onto the quarterdeck in his magboots, turning and rendering a smart salute to the colors positioned “ceremonially aft” and then trading salutes with the OOD.
“I report my return aboard, sir.”
“Very well, sir,” the OOD replied. “Welcome back, XO. What happened to your eye?”
“A surly Marsman. I— Cheryl? What the hell?” he said abruptly as Chief Warrant Officer Ayers clumped onto the quarterdeck carrying a full duffel. She had about her the air of someone who was leaving for good.
Ayers let the bag float, and they exchanged salutes. “Afternoon, XO,” she said neutrally. She didn’t look entirely happy—or unhappy. “Glad I bumped into you before going stationside.” She glanced at the messenger of the watch. “Seaman Grant, would you mind hauling my dunnage through the hatch and into the station? I need a moment with the XO.”
“Aye, aye, ma’am.”
Ayers and Ford stepped off the quarterdeck; it was bad form to linger unless standing the watch. “I’ve got new orders,” she explained. “The navy, in its infinite wisdom, has decided my skillset will be better used on 4th Fleet’s staff. This Gabriel Rogan asshat and his independence movement are really starting to rattle some cages, especially after the Tongling massacre. It’s pretty short notice—I hate like hell being reassigned like this.”
“We hate like hell to lose you,” Ford replied, and he meant it completely. “Jesus, you saved the whole operation a couple months ago! There’s nobody else I know as good as you are in the cyber-warfare community. Skipper raise holy hell about it?”
“He did, but he’s only an O-4 in the big scheme of things; that doesn’t pack much punch when you’re arguing with the admiral’s chief of staff. The good news is that they already sent you a replacement—a new chief. He’s a good kid—I trained him about a lifetime ago,” she chuckled.
It struck Ford as odd to hear a chief petty officer referred to as a “kid,” but he guessed that from Ayers’s perspective it was probably true. “Well, hell,” Ford replied, at a loss. “Maybe you can help catch that guy by the time the repairs are done, and we can get you back!” He knew it was an empty hope, but he voiced it anyway.
Ayers knew it even better than he did.
“Hmm. On the one hand, I’m not going to miss fun patrols counting big rocks and looking for the crazies thinking about throwing them at Earth—that’s an astrogator’s headache, not cyber/intel. By the same token, I enjoyed this tour a lot. You don’t see much action the way we did a couple months ago, that’s for sure. It wasn’t my first rodeo, of course, but I was proud to be a part of it. I’m going to miss the hell out of you guys, and the old James. In any case, this’ll be a good assignment for me. Maybe I can dig up the goods on this bastard and help put the warhead on his forehead.”
“Well, I understand the admiral’s position. I’d want you on my team if I were him. I need to get plugged back into things and see what other rugs got jerked the four days I was dirtside. Take care of yourself, Cheryl. Halsey Station’s good duty, either way you cut it.”
“It is,” she agreed with a smile. Ayers stuck out her hand. She and Ford shook farewell and saluted each other again.
“Fair winds if I don’t see you,” she said. “You’ll all be in my thoughts.”
***
“What happened to your eye?” Captain Keith asked the XO less than a quarter hour later.
Ford had popped into his cabin and traded out some gear he’d brought along from his temporary station quarters. He’d thrown on his snoopers since his oculars weren’t agreeing with the swelling anyway. He was hoping the captain wasn’t on board, but he was, and he’d sought out the exec within minutes. Ford was also hoping that maybe the skipper wouldn’t notice the shiner behind his snooper visor. No such luck on that either.
“I got sucker-punched down Mars-side,” he replied, sighing inwardly. He might as well post the story on the ship’s network, or at least tell it in person over the next meal in the wardroom—then he wouldn’t have to relive the embarrassment over and over. And over.
Keith looked at him for a long moment, processing the answer. “Am I going to be hearing from anyone about it?”
“No, sir.”
“Great. Sordid details can wait, then. I sent you a copy of the latest repair updates. I know you just reported back aboard, so give it a look and we’ll talk about it later. Looks like the crew was pretty keyed up after that fight—only four days in port, and we’re going to have to hold captain’s mast.”
Thankfully, that was a bit of ship’s business he was already caught up on. “I saw. I’ll begin the XO’s investigation soonest.” As if I don’t have a million friggin’ other things to do! he add
ed to himself.
One rating had been caught trying to smuggle illegal narcotics aboard in his endocrine reservoir—that was the most serious discipline case and would end up being a court-martial rather than mast, most likely. The other two involved an unauthorized absence from the watch section, and a habitual brig rat in custody yet again, this time for assaulting a master-at-arms. Ford shook his head ruefully. “I don’t know what the hell Drake was thinking—how many times have you busted his ass back to seaman?”
“Says the man with the black eye,” Keith retorted sharply. “Good thing you’re dark skinned—with you it’s mostly just swelling, and that should go down fairly quickly. Not a good example, though, XO.”
The accused stood mute; anything he said just then would sound like an excuse.
“Hopefully, it’ll go away before the ceremony,” Keith added, smirking slightly.
Damn, Ford thought, realizing the skipper had caught him flatfooted on something else. He stifled the urge to sigh out loud. “You’ve got me on that one, sir. Nothing crossed my feed on any ceremony.”
“It wasn’t on the ship’s network, but it will be: Admiral Wright has ordered a medal ceremony, decorations for the action at 5111 Omega. The navy’s awarding a fistful of medals for this one, including two Silver Stars and a DSM.”
Ford nodded enthusiastically. “Ayers really deserves that DSM.”
“Damn straight she does. You’re getting one of the Silver Stars, Jim.”
Ford was taken aback. “Really?”
Keith chuckled. “What did you expect? You led a boarding party and captured a combatant vessel by the seat of your pants, age-of-sail style. You took her intact, too, and she’s worth a pretty penny. We don’t have prize courts in this day and age, but a Triglav export is a Class IV torchship! You done good! Stephen Decatur’s got nothing on you!”
Ford laughed nervously. “I wouldn’t go that far, skipper. I’m honored,” he added. “I know I don’t need to say it, but I’d trade all those medals back and a helluva lot more to get back the people we lost.”
