Tour of Duty: Stories and Provocation

by Michael Z. Williamson

  “—get across and we can rest,” Sergeant said.

  “Thank God,” Gunner heaved out between strangled gasps. His voice was unclear yet. “We’ll need . . . ready . . . for when evac arrives. How do we . . . what happened?”

  “We tell them exactly what happened,” Sergeant said. “There’s enough evidence in the monitors.”

  They stopped at the beach and prepared to cross, and Cap took the moment to swim closer. A projection covered him, and he waited for them to splash into the chill water, the same water that tore painfully at the wound in his side.

  Now. Their Guns were slung, they were knee-deep in water, and they couldn’t move as quickly as he did. He clambered up the bank, unheard over the water, and sprang, muscles releasing like a tensed spring.

  He was on Gunner, and clawed his throat out. Six! Sergeant dropped his end of the Litter, and Cynd tumbled into the water to drown, next to the worms of red leaking up from Gunner’s wounds. Seven! Cap turned, and saw Sergeant raising his Gun. He ducked and leapt, using Gunner as a base and felt the burn of a Bullet through his shoulder. It spoiled his attack, but he clawed Sergeant savagely with his right paw, tearing his arm and chest. He tried to force him under water, and Sergeant fired again with his other hand. He missed.

  Cap sprang lightly back to his feet in the rocky shallows, sending agony through his side and shoulder. Sergeant was scrabbling for purchase, and wasn’t looking as Cap pounced again. He shoved the man’s head under water in the deeper pool, and leaned on it to hold it there. Gurgling sounds came, and he knew death would follow soon. He ignored the pain in his ribs, and the new pains as his Enemy cut him with a Knife. He shrieked, but pressed lower, closing with the blade until it could cut no more.

  He fed on the pain, and pressed the attack. He could feel his foe weakening, and knew it would not be long now. Exhaustion was taking a toll, though, and he lacked the strength to attack again. Blood loss was making him weak, and spots before his eyes told him he was fading. But his Enemy was faring no better. He slipped under the water again, and emerged coughing, before falling back once more. Cap crept closer, begging strength from his tortured body.

  They clashed again, Cap desperate to finish this, his Enemy desperate to survive. As they wrestled, he felt death hovering nearby. Or was that the sound of a Vertol?

  It was a Vertol. Cap snarled in outraged frustration. The Gunners aboard wouldn’t shoot yet, but he had to leave or die. He drew back, dragging the limp, almost dead Enemy with him, keeping the man between him and potential Bullets. He slipped under water and headed for a moss-spattered rock, needing to get behind cover. Bullets like a deadly hail stirred the water, and he sank as he’d been taught. There was the cut in the bank, and there was the rocky shelf he’d used as a path on his way in.

  Another burst shredded the growth as he fled. He burned with rage at not killing Sergeant. He could not dwell on that now. He had to escape to make his Datadump and survive to fight again. Let the Enemy keep Sergeant and Cynd alive. They could tell the others how the fight would go. Not only the soldiers, but the human settlers and their dogs and even the Leopards would fight.

  Cap waited under a featherfern, eyes narrowed to cold slits, and held motionless as the Vertol passed over, then again, then a third time. They knew he was there, but couldn’t see him. Cap had played this game before, even though it wasn’t a game now. Despite their tools, people couldn’t find Leopards. Not one time in a hundred.

  The Vertol flew over again, even lower, then the sound of it echoed away across the hills. In moments, the normal sounds of the northern forest returned, and Cap raised himself, all cuts and aches and bruises, to end his mission. It was nearly sunset, and he still had to hurry.

  High in a tree, Capstick spent some time recovering from the exertion, feeling his heart thump, sensing his blood boil, hearing his thoughts roar. His injured shoulder was an agony that he would have to accept for now. At Home, it would need Surgery. His ribs might, also, and the wounds to his skin and tail. Then there was the pain within. He was weak, ill, and hot, but he would rest to recoup his strength and press on. The human doctors could heal him, as they had before. People were good at such things. His thoughts were interrupted as his harness clicked and began its Datadump, and he heaved a deep sigh. He knew better than to roar in anger, pain, frustration.

  David was dead. He knew other people, but David had been his friend his entire life. He could not yet think of existence without him. Loss . . . emptiness . . . he had no symbols to describe it properly.

  Cap still had a purpose, however, and that would give him strength. But fatigue and exertion and his wounds called to him to rest. He would do that now. Tomorrow he would travel gingerly and painfully back to Home. There, he would be paired with a new friend, and he and that friend would hunt the invaders remorselessly. Perhaps the manhunters from Black Ops would join them. If not, he would teach his new friend what loyalty meant and they would hunt as a pair.

  The humans called it Duty. To him it was simply the way things were.

  Time in The Freehold Universe

  One of the issues I’m stuck with is that in Freehold, I developed a local clock and calendar. It’s easy to use, but dissimilar from our own. Of course, for later books, I didn’t always have a chance to reference this in story context—people rarely sit down and talk about the math of clocks, time and dates.

  So I often used “Earth” time in reference, for readers’ ease, or because it was relevant to the story. I’d mention time in seconds. Workarounds are usually possible.

  However, for some of the Freehold universe shorts, it’s not feasible to do either. Characters are going to discuss schedule, using their native clock. So to that end, here it is:

  Grainne’s rotation is 28 hours, 12 minutes, 12.9888 seconds

  So:

  1 Freehold second =1.0153 Earth seconds

  100 seconds = 1 seg

  100 segs = 1 div

  10 divs = 1 day

  The year is 504.2103 local days, which is 592.52291 Earth days.

  There are five weeks per month, of ten days each. There are ten months per year. Each new year, at Solstice, there are four festival days, with a day added on leap years every five years, but not every fiftieth year.

  The Brute Force Approach

  Sometimes, appearances in my books are auctioned off for charity. Sometimes, a friend or colleague tickles me in a certain way, and I ask if I can use them as a character.

  My friend Robert “Zig” Hensley appears in here as a hull specialist. Zig was a former Navy diver supporting the SEAL teams (he was always very careful to insist he wasn’t a SEAL himself). After a couple of injuries at depth, he was medically retired, and devoted his life to gunsmithing, good cigars and riding bikes. We never actually met in person, this being the twenty-first century. We talked at length by phone and online about rifles, revolvers, military issues, shooting. We’d make plans to meet at various three-gun matches, but didn’t quite manage to get our schedules to work.

  Then came the news that on his way back from a ride in Stone Mountain, Georgia, someone had changed lanes in a panic and knocked him under a semi. It was two days after this story was published. Given the nature of the story, I almost wish I could rewrite part of it to give him an heroic death.

  However, he did read and comment on the story, a few days before I submitted the final draft for upload. I’m glad he didn’t miss it entirely.

  This story takes place contemporaneously with the early part of Freehold.

  “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! FSS Mammy Blue calling Rescue or any ship!”

  Lieutenant Rick Stadter jerked in his couch at the sound of a real call. That would break up the monotony, and probably by a bit too much.

  Across the bubble from him, Astrogator Robin Vela was already replying. “Orbital Rescue acknowledging FSS Mammy Blue. Dispatching rescue boat, please describe the nature of your mayday.”

  Stadter nodded, checked the grid and synched the blip
to the ship’s computer. Three seconds later the computer hit the grapple release. Auburn slipped off the station’s waist, using the centrifugal force as delta V. He brought engines up smoothly, and pushed them from free fall to 2 G standard. The couch gripped him through the acceleration.

  The panicky, uneven voice replied, “Everything! I’m not a flight officer, I’m a purser. The flight crew are probably dead. Engines are boosting hard, we have at least one breach, and I’m hearing structural noises.”

  Vela still had the call. “Understood, Mammy Blue. We have a cutter en route. Stand by for further information. Do you need a talk-through on shutting down boost?”

  “Rescue, I don’t think I can! There was a loud explosion from aft. The whole boat bucked and all the alarms triggered. I mean all of them. Even stuff I can see is working is flashing at me. We responded and the co-captain went aft. A bit later we had a breach. The captain is back there now. Do you need me to find the time tick?”

  Vela shook her head as she said, “Negative, Mammy Blue, just give me all the info you have—break—all craft, all craft, mayday mayday FSS Mammy Blue. Salvage and rescue. I show one-nine-seven passengers, one-nine-seven passengers and one-nine crew. Any craft able to assist, respond on Rescue Channel Two—break—” She shouted over her shoulder, “Budd, get Channel Two, I’m handling damage report live on One. Purser, continue, describe all damage you can confirm.”

  “Rescue, I’m squirting full status. I can do that much. Stand by.”

  Astronautics Systems Senior Sergeant Peter Budd held all the non-Astrogation tasks, everything from life support to communication repair, and docking control. He also handled tracking for Astrogation, and logistics management. Budd knew his work well, and bent his big frame and smooth head over his controls. “They’re at one point seven standard G,” he said. “Runaway reactors, from the flux.”

  Stadter winced and turned to his console. It took effort in 2 Gs. He wanted information on his own screens. Two hundred and sixteen people, minus any who were dead already. From the sound of it, most of the officers were dead or incapacitated. The couch under him was itchy-damp with sweat, and it wasn’t just the acceleration causing it.

  Emergency calls happened every couple of days. Every couple of weeks one was significant: an engine failure, a navigation failure, a medical emergency onboard. The cutter was crammed with medical gear and spare parts, and crewed by a pilot, an astrogator, astronautics tech, an engine tech and a medic. Their suits could handle short EVA, and Medic Lowther’s was meant for extended use.

  This time, there were a possible two hundred and sixteen casualties and a large and substantially valuable ship. It was absolutely impossible for them to conduct a rescue of that magnitude with their boat. They had rescue balls for fifty, but any response assumed some kind of resources aboard the distressed vessel, or a failure so catastrophic none were needed.

  Most of these people were going to die if they hadn’t already. If they could reach lifeboats aboard their damaged ship, they’d have a chance. Otherwise . . .

  “Vela, what are you working on?” he asked. Her hands flew across her screens. She was graceful despite her lankiness, and practiced, but tense under stress and acceleration.

  “I’m trying to determine cause of failure. The engine damage could pose serious threats.”

  He’d suspected as much.

  “That’s important, but first is massive response.”

  “Sir, if we don’t know what caused it—-”

  “Massive response,” he repeated. “Then we revise details underway, and we’ll also have more data to work with as ships get closer.”

  “Understood, sir,” she agreed. “I’ll scare up everything I can.”

  “Budd, keep me informed. You’re taking sensors on those engines.”

  Budd replied, “Boost is erratic, averaging one point five G standard at a guess. It’s hard to tell at this distance, but she looks bent ahead of the engines. Some struts must have failed. She’s describing a complicated arc due to the varying thrust and increasing mass alignment shift.”

  Stadter wasn’t going to ask what could happen next. He figured he’d find out.

  Vela muttered, “Goddess, the kindest thing might be for it to explode.”

  “Quiet, please,” he said politely but with some snap. She might be right, but they were not paid to hope for that.

  “Understood, sir.”

  Budd said, “It’s worse, sir.”

  As expected, he thought. “Tell me.”

  “Some of them have abandoned ship. I’m getting response on several lifeboats. However, I have fewer blips than I had launches, and two are already pinging as critical on oh two.”

  Stadter was Bahá’i. He wasn’t sure how many religions he offended when he said, “We thank thee, God, for this disaster, accepting that it is not the disaster we would choose, but that it is better than no disaster at all.” He drew in a deep breath after that.

  Vela looked at him across the control bubble.

  He said, “My phrasing was more diplomatic.”

  She shrugged, smirked, opened her channel and said, “Purser, what’s your name?”

  “Ben Doherty, ma’am.”

  “Mister Doherty, we’re scrambling everything we have, military and civilian. If you can keep any information coming, please do. I’ll need you to report when craft get close. If you need to don a suit, please do. Take care of your crew and yourself first, then respond to us as you can or need to. I will leave this channel open and will hear you at once.”

  He sounded perhaps five percent relieved.

  “Thank you, ma’am. I hope they hurry.”

  “We are. If you need to just talk for reassurance, do so. I’ll answer as I can. If I don’t answer, it means I’m sending ships.”

  “I suppose that’s a good thing. Yes, I’m terrified, dammit . . . ” She switched the signal so only she could hear it, and pulled a hush screen from her headset. A moment later she pulled it aside.

  She asked, “Sir, should we transfer command and control to the military side? Is this that bad?”

  He considered that for half a second. “Possibly. Make sure they’re copied on everything in case. However, we’re already in motion, which means shorter response, and we’ll have eyes on site. Budd, can you manage command and control while we try to do rescue as well?”

  The man shrugged with an accepting grin, visible through gaps between control screens now opaque with data and images. “I guess I have to.”

  Medical Sergeant Brandon Lowther took that moment to stick his head up from the bay underneath. That was a safety violation under boost, but he knew the boat well enough not to overload the inertial compensators, and he had work to do. Stadter didn’t mention it.

  Lowther said, “Sir, got my gear, and I’ve got spare oxy, if we can get aboard.”

  “What do you think, Garwell?” he called down to the engineer directly below him with a mesh deck between. When he first came aboard, it was odd to hear voices through both headset and live, but one got used to it and expected it. It did clarify things sometimes.

  “I suppose if we have to match, we do, but I’d rather shave my nads with a cheese grater.” Garwell had a very cultured voice. Comments like that clashed with it.

  “Budd, what do you have?”

  “Not much concrete, sir. Their engine controls are destroyed. Power is suboptimal, efficiency is under forty percent, leakage in all directions and it’s gammas and fuel. Some of the fuel is still fusing as it leaks. The plasma stinger’s half melted. I’d say someone planted a bomb, except we’ve got that report on lifeboats and parallel systems. It looks like complete neglect. I have no idea how it’s boosting that hard.”

  Garwell said, “The feeds on that model are capable of three G. It’s a converted LockGen cargo boat. They must be wide open, though they’re supposed to fail closed.”

  Stadter asked, “When was the last overhaul, and inspection?”

  Budd said, “
According to this, last year, but . . . it was by Vandlian.”

  Stadter said, “I see,” and everyone stared at him. For him, that was profanity.

  “Yes, I get it,” he said. Vandlian Assurance Inspections was a subsidiary of Resident Service Labs. RSL were in the midst of punitive proceedings for massive fraud on quality ratings. This was probably one of those. Eventually it would get added into the numerous suits and billions of credits in settlement. For now, though, lives mattered.

  “Vela, what do we have on response?”

  “I’ve got every boat, ship and robot engine within range offering, and starting to match trajectories. But that by itself won’t be enough. We’re going to have to have EVA capability to get to the passengers, and enough rescue gear to get them out. Our boat is not intended for an operation that size. We need some serious backup.”

  “Timeframe?”

  She continued, “There’s a streak racer that will be there in six segs. He can take four. They’ll have to get to him, though. He’s got professional video and sensor gear, so he’s offered to be recon if we can tell him what we need shot. Delta vee will last him twenty segs. Then he has to break off.”

  “How far can he push it if we send recovery after him?”

  “I already assumed that, sir. He’ll be near dry, except for life support.”

  “Well done, then.”

  She nodded, “Yeah, they’re that far out already. He’s boosting at seven G standard.”

  A priority chime pinged from Stadter’s console. He turned to a screen to see Station Commander Captain Vincent. He’d obviously been asleep. He was rough hewn at the best of times. He looked like a warmed-over corpse now.

  “Do you need a brief, sir?” he asked.

  “No. I have the gist. What do you need from the military?”

  “Everything.”

  Vincent nodded. “I already put the call out, after we heard Warrant Vela’s All Hands.”