by Jean Johnson
The moment Yeoman First Class Arial Yamasuka, 2nd Platoon A Alpha, touched the shuttle onto the landing pad, Ia unstrapped from the copilot’s seat. Slapping open the cockpit door, she hurried into the crowded cargo bay. Gravity pulled at her, hard and heavy; once again, she felt rather out of shape, having lived too long in lightworlder conditions. Exercising a few hours every day in heightened artificial gravity—captain’s privilege—wasn’t enough to compensate for the pull of the real thing.
“Meioas!” she barked, catching the attention of the crew in the cargo hold. “Make sure your gravity weaves are set to adaptive gravimetrics on the low setting, and no higher than medium once you get off the ship. Stand no closer to each other than three meters once they have been turned up, to avoid the nausea that comes with field interference,” she called out, pitching her voice to carry.
The A teams from each Squad in the 2nd and 3rd Platoons fumbled with the buckles of their own four-point harnesses, hampered somewhat by the bulk of the purple web-works wrapped over their mix of grey camouflage clothes and black-and-pewter light armor.
“Sergeant Santori, Sergeant Maxwell, you are authorized to open up the ammunitions crates. Lead team members will be issued stunner c-clips. Corporals and most of the privates first class and grade, check to make sure your clips have a blue-dotted rectangle, indicating their payloads are indeed relatively harmless beanbags,” she reminded the men and women getting ready to disembark. “Privates second class and grade, you will be issued tranker clips; check to make sure they have blue feathers.
“Do not—I repeat do not—fire trankers unless two verbal warnings and two stunner shots have first been fired, and fire no more than one trank per target. People can and will die if they hit the ground wrong in this gravity, which includes being tranquilized too fast. Make sure all stunner beanbag rounds are aimed at torsos, not heads, to ensure your targets are not knocked over as well as knocked back. Keep in mind that while the density of the local atmosphere isn’t much different from Terran Standard, the gravity on Sanctuary will drop your shots fast. You can shoot from the hip if you must, but your JL-41 projectile riflescopes come with sensors that will adjust for the local gravity.
“I suggest you turn them on and use them,” she advised the men and women listening to her. Multiple clickings and faint charging whines immediately followed. Ia nodded and continued. “Your job on this drop is to scout the warehouse, establish checkpoints, and secure the initial cargo so that you can instruct your other Squad members on where to go and what to do during our next trip,” she stated as she skirted between the seated soldiers and the cargo crates strapped to the floor. “Line up at the bottom of the ramp when each team pairing has been properly armed, and remember, no running on this planet.
“Tripping and falling can kill you in this gravity if you are not prepared to fall just right, and you are not prepared. Consider yourselves under orders not to run at all for the duration of all planetside visits to this world. Check your ammo and lock and load. Gentlemeios, welcome to Sanctuary, your local gravitational hell.”
Reaching the back-ramp hatch, she triggered the door and rode the panels as the metal descended to the tarmac. Clad as she was in camouflage Greys with a black vest covered in polished grey ceristeel plates, Ia hoped she looked no-nonsense enough to be intimidating. Customs officials were a tough breed; they would not appreciate her bulldozing these supplies through their checkpoints without the right to random inspections.
Her comment about gravitational hell had nothing to do with the ambiance. In the distance, the mountains looked purple, the sky a pale indigo blue, the local tree-equivalents were showing the bright spring hues of yellows, greens, and blues, and the buildings were relatively clean and fresh, whitewashed with colorful bands of decorative trim and holographic signboards designating spaceport terminal gates at the central hub off to their right in the distance and the warehouse nearby on their left.
Two ground cars were already on their way, filled with Customs inspectors. So were a half dozen short, stout Humans in plain beige coveralls. The group hurrying her way on foot reached the shuttle first. The lead figure, a young man of about twenty, lifted his fingers to his forehead in a mock salute. “Hey there, Prophet. Right on time as promised. You’re looking good, too. Grey looks better on you than that brown crap you wore last time.”
“Hey, James,” she acknowledged, dipping her head slightly. Like her, he was at least half-Asian, but despite the shorter hair and longer sideburns, the slight cleft in his chin made him recognizable. The last time she had seen the dark-haired man was shortly before leaving her homeworld three years ago. “You’re looking good, too.” Her gaze slipped to the right, tracking the incoming ground cars. “Better call me Captain, though.”
“Yes, sir, Captain, sir,” he quipped, flashing her a grin. A moment later, he sobered, watching the slowing ground cars. “Showtime, people. Make like you’re model employees.”
The three men and two women with him smirked at that. Ia knew James Chong-Wuu had hired them more because they, too, believed in her cause than because they were “model” anything. Nodding to their young employer, she turned crisply and strode back to the others.
“2nd Platoon B Alpha, C Alpha, secure the perimeter of this shuttle,” Ia ordered, flicking her fingers in the indicated directions. “No one boards this vessel but 1st Company 9th Cordon Special Forces personnel as per the Admiral-General’s direct orders. Move out.”
Four bodies peeled off and moved out around the landing gear of the ship, rifles in their hands but pointed at the ground for safety. That would change, she knew.
“All other team pairings, you will accompany these gentlemeioas to the warehouse to secure its interior and perimeter. Follow your Platoon sergeants’ orders and standard procedures in securing the indicated warehouse, but don’t rush, so you don’t trip. Once the perimeter has been secured, authorized personnel for entering the warehouse will be members of 1st Company 9th Cordon and the employees of Chong-Wuu Stevedores, Incorporated. If you have any questions, refer them up the chain of command if I am not near, or pass it directly to me if I am.”
The two ground cars came to a stop. The drivers remained inside, but the first car disgorged two Peacekeepers, their blue-and-white uniforms marked with the standard scalloped-shield badge on their shoulders and caps. On that badge was the corona-and-crown symbol representing the capital city of Our Blessed Mother, Sanctuary. The second car released a third Peacekeeper and a man in a blue-and-gold version of their uniform. His badge had the corona sporting a planetary curve inside, replete with the distinctive coastline squiggle for the local continent.
“Soldiers, move out!” Ia commanded, pointing at James and his crew. She turned to face the Customs agent, whose face reddened as the gravity-weave-wrapped men and women dispersed.
Striding forward, he pointed at the grey-clad bodies spreading out and moving at a swift walk. “What do they think they’re doing?” he demanded. “This landing pad is for Customs-cleared vehicles only—and that warehouse, too!”
“Captain Ia, Terran United Planets Special Forces,” she introduced herself. “Per Sanctuarian Charter regulations Article VIII, Military Contracts, Section E, Supplies, my crew, shuttles, and cargo are listed as exempt from Customs clearance requirements.”
“I wasn’t notified about this,” the Customs agent protested. The name on his badge—he was now close enough for Ia to read it—simply said Larkins. “There was no notification of any military shipments due this week!”
“Our ship hit a hyperrift on the way here, depositing us insystem ahead of schedule, Officer Larkins,” Ia said briskly, avoiding the fact it was an artificial wormhole, not the natural one that terminated at the edge of Sanctuarian space. “We are here to deposit our cargo in the emergency bunkers the Terran Space Force installed on your planet three decades ago. This cargo has been designated as war supplies on the manifest. As such, it falls under Article VIII, Section E, and is exempt f
rom all Customs-inspection requirements, as per the Terran defense contract with your planet.”
Frowning, Larkins stared at the retreating soldiers, then glanced up the shuttle’s ramp. “That does not clear your cargo from quarantine restrictions. This is an M-class planet, not a domeworld.”
“All cargo has been irradiated and sealed before being boarded at their origination point, as per military regulations regarding the transport of supplies,” Ia replied, doing her best to sound like a regulation brick wall placed in his path. “All personnel have been scanned by military biometric sensors in our ship’s airlocks, as per regulations, and my crew undergo weekly biometric physicals while en route. No one with an active infectious agent has been permitted to leave our ship. Your colony is safe from quarantine hazards.”
Officer Larkins was not easily deterred. He pointed at the shuttle, giving Ia a firm look. “All imports are to be examined by Customs for potential contraband and excise taxes, by order of the Sanctuarian Supreme Council.”
“These items are not imports, meioa, nor are they for sale,” Ia replied politely, if briskly. She, too, pointed at the shuttle. “They are essential war supplies requisitioned by the Terran Space Force, a Sanctuarian-authorized government entity. By contract, Space Force essential supplies are not to be quarantined, not to be confiscated, and not to be taxed.”
“Well, guess what?” Larkins stated, hands going to his hips as he gave her a belligerent look. He had to look up to do so, since she towered over his short, stocky frame by a full head plus. “The rules have now changed. All incoming items must submit to inspection by a duly authorized Customs official. I will inspect your cargo for contraband before I will allow a single crate to touch Sanctuarian soil.”
“Your contract with the Space Force has not changed, meioa. By Charter, the terms of our service agreement with your colony take precedence over all local laws in regards to all factors of the services we are contracted to provide,” Ia countered. “Unless and until that contract changes, Terran Space Force war and emergency supplies are not subject to inspection, excise taxes, or impounding. The only thing they are required to undergo is standard quarantine irradiation and containment protocols upon initial packaging and loading, which they have undergone.”
The Customs official smiled at that. It wasn’t a pleasant smile. “Ah! But I don’t know that. That means I have to board that vessel and inspect those crates personally.”
He poked her in the sternum and turned toward the shuttle.
“By order of the Admiral-General of the Terran United Planets Space Force, unauthorized personnel are strictly forbidden to embark on the TUPSF Hellfire or its auxiliary vessels,” Ia warned him, raising her voice slightly to compensate for the descent of another orbital shuttle in the distance. “This directive includes our shuttle craft, meioa.”
Larkins sneered at her and gestured for the three Peacekeepers to join him in heading toward the ramp. Ia lifted her head slightly, catching the attention of Private Helia Dixon. One of the few people in her crew who had prior experience with Ia’s brand of leadership, the private waited for the official and his escort to close half the distance, then quickly lifted her rifle into position. Her teammate, Corporal Henderson, followed suit.
“Attention, meioas! You are approaching a restricted sector. You are requested to stay back from this vessel by ten meters,” Henderson warned Officer Larkins. Positioned as he was on the port side of the loading ramp, with Dixon on the starboard four meters away, the pair had a decent cross-fire field on the quartet. “This is your first warning!”
Larkins slowed. At his back, the three Peacekeepers reached for their sidearms but hesitated about drawing since the two soldiers had the drop on them already.
The Customs officer frowned over his shoulder at Ia. “You people wouldn’t dare stop me.”
“I’m sorry, meioa,” Ia replied, tucking her hands behind her back and putting her boots shoulder-width apart in Parade Rest. “These soldiers are under orders from Admiral-General Christine Myang herself. Entering that orbital ship requires Ultra-level clearance. Anyone attempting to board it without the proper clearance level and authorization is to be shot and tried for Grand Treason in a Terran military court of law.”
Stopping, Officer Larkins narrowed his eyes, studying Ia. “You’re kidding. You wouldn’t dare.”
Bringing her arm out from behind her back, Ia pointed at the shuttle, once again playing the hard-asteroid…and secretly enjoying it. She really did not like the arrogance these Church-backed government officials were being allowed to display these days. “Anyone attempting to board that vessel or its sister shuttles from the TUPSF Hellfire without the proper clearance authorizations arranged in advance, or attempting to interfere with the delivery of its cargo of essential supplies, is to be shot and charged with attempted Grand Treason against the Terran Space Force.
“The right by the Space Force to assert and uphold the required working conditions for our missions is covered by the Independent Colonyworld Sanctuary Charter of Rights and Responsibilities, Article VIII, Section E, paragraphs 1 through 3.” She bit back a smile, adding soberly, “You are welcome to assist your government in petitioning the Terran Space Force to have those Charter rules changed or our military services dropped, gentlemeioa. Until then, that vessel is a restricted sector which you are not authorized to transgress, and our cargo is exempt from all examinations.”
From the way he sneered, he didn’t believe her. Turning back, he took another step toward the shuttle ramp. That earned him his second warning.
“Meioa! You are entering a restricted sector without proper authorization! You will stay ten meters from this vessel or you will be shot,” Corporal Henderson ordered the other man, sighting down the scope of his JL-42.
“I am Abram Larkins, a duly authorized I.C. Sanctuary Customs Officer, and I will inspect that shuttle!” he argued, pointing at the ramp.
“I am Corporal Henderson, of the TUPSF Special Forces doesn’t-give-a-shakk,” Henderson warned him, “and I will shoot you if you violate this restricted zone by moving one meter closer, meioa. I am only required to give you two warnings. I have given you three. One step closer, and you don’t get any more, meioa.”
Officer Larkins hesitated. Ia watched warily. This was where the moment could go either way. Behind them, she could hear some of the others returning from the warehouse. So could he. Glancing over his shoulder, Larkins squinted against the bright sunlight slanting in through the clouds to the east.
She heard Santori bark a short order. The advancing men and women moved off to the right, circling around to approach from Dixon’s side of the shuttle. That gave the two guarding the ramp a clear field of fire. At the front of the parked shuttle, the two members of B Alpha glanced occasionally toward the back of the small ship but kept most of their attention on the rest of the tarmac, scanning for other possible points of interference.
Their opponent made up his mind. Larkins turned and poked his finger in her direction. “You may think you’ve won, but this is an independent colonyworld—we will not put up with the tyranny of the Terrans on our sovereign soil!”
“If your government wishes to formally terminate its contract with the Terran Space Force and provide for its own interstellar protection needs, your government is welcome to do so. Until that time, our agreement stands as written. We are storing these supplies on your homeworld in preparation for the coming Second Salik War,” Ia stated, gesturing back and forth between the shuttle and the warehouse. “You may look at the quarantine stamps on the crates as they are transferred from the shuttle to the warehouse to verify they have undergone the necessary decontamination protocols.
“You may not board our shuttles, you may not enter the warehouse, and you may not open the crates.” She tucked her hand behind her back, resuming full Parade Rest again. “Do you have any questions at this time, meioa?”
“The Salik won’t come here,” Larkins dismissed, wrinkling his n
ose. “We’re too far away.”
“There are no defensive barriers in space, meioa,” Ia said, raising her voice once again as another shuttle took off. This was the spaceport’s busy time, in the hours of relative calm between the morning and early-evening thunderstorms. “No natural terrain to keep them from going anywhere they want to go, save only the ongoing efforts of the various Alliance militaries to keep them contained. Those efforts are failing. It is our contractual duty to ensure that every world under Terran Space Force protection is supplied and defended to the best of our ability. Until such time as that contract is terminated, that means we will continue to protect you.”
The subtext in her speech, the unspoken attitude behind her stance and her words, implied the phrase, “…even if we don’t like each other.” Ia stared him down until Sergeant Santori stopped at her side, giving her a salute. Ia shifted to Attention and returned it.
“Captain. The warehouse is secured, sir,” Santori told her. She was flying solo for this job since it was technically second watch on the ship, and that meant Lieutenant Spyder had command of the bridge while Ia was on the surface. “Awaiting further orders, sir.”
“Good work, Sergeant. Maintain the current perimeter with half our troops. The rest will unstrap and remove the cargo sledges from the hold. Officer Larkins is permitted to visually inspect the seals on the first batch of crates,” she added, looking at the Customs agent. “He is not permitted within ten meters of shuttle or warehouse, and he is not permitted to open any crates, but your soldiers are to cooperate and assist the official in examining the external seals regarding quarantine protocols.”
“Understood, sir.” Turning on her heel, Santori barked orders, sending the pairs of teammates toward the ramp; Dixon hastily moved forward so that they could cross behind her rather than in front of her field of fire. They fiddled with the controls of their gravity weaves as they did so, permitting each Human to move closer than three meters without the risk of the fields making them stagger.
