“To be honest, sir,” Sheemral said, ducking his head slightly, “we are looking for employment.”
“Oh, yeah?” Rinek asked. “Do you have a trade? What are your skills?”
“We were Rules Enforcement on Flargosnet,” Sheemral said, looking up at him. “In the Flargosnet Combined System Fleet as Military Regulation Control, and later on the planet in the civilian version. Most human systems call them cops, police, or law enforcement. That is why we are so ashamed. We have broken the rules here and destroyed our chances at becoming Bolt Peace Monitors.”
“Really?” Rinek asked. “Why did you leave the Flargosnet System to come to Salvage?”
“The video,” one of the Zaylinks said. Staff Sergeant Rinek still wasn’t quite sure which one was Mugti and which was Durgon.
The other nodded and said, “We would like to be part of a system that is strong and good. We come from a good system—there are rules and everything is kept orderly—but it has been so for so long there is no excitement. The fleet is formidable, so there is little chance of invasion, and the inhabitants of Sheemral’s world and our world, Zaylink, its sister planet, all maintain the peace.”
“The only way for us to truly make a difference is in a new colony or one invading another,” Sheemral explained. “Invading another system to destroy it or absorb it is not right. One should not devour that which is not theirs. We have followed the news about Salvage System. When your system invades another, it is to do good. We want to be a part of that.”
“It is the best of both worlds,” the first Zaylink said. “Excitement while doing what is right.”
Rinek was impressed. It was as good a reason as any he’d heard to move to a new system. If these three wanted a career in law enforcement and excitement, this was the place. With all of the new beings moving in every day, they collected their share of those who thought they would come in and set up shop doing the same type of nefarious stuff they had done wherever they came from. Everything from attempting to set up a drug trade to outright theft and resale had been attempted. Violent crimes didn’t really happen, as everyone had the right to carry weapons and defend themselves.
Just last week they deported a Murgwibble who thought he could take a few of the waitresses home with him…and actually own them, since he was the first to claim them with some crazy traditional ceremony. After a tense standoff, he and his three cronies were sent packing with the understanding they were to never to enter the gate to Salvage System again.
“Look, go find Corporal Loftis,” Rinek said, his mind made up. “Collect your personal weapons, and tell her I sent you to apply. She’ll send you to see Captain Brink. There’s still time before he leaves. You’ll have to go through an abbreviated training since you have prior experience, if he accepts your request to contract. Don’t worry, I promise you three are not the only troops or cops to get drunk and tear some stuff up. You may be the only ones to ever eat a table, but no harm, no foul. You should probably stay away from pitchers of Prithmar beer.”
“Many thanks,” Sheemral said, dipping his head. He stood up on his back six limbs to his full height of six feet, and he and his companions left the conference room. Both of the spotted gray Zaylinks kept touching their foreheads with a paw and bowing as they left.
I really need to figure out how to tell those two apart, thought Rinek. A table!
* * * * *
Chapter Twelve
One week later
Special Delivery
“Sir,” Captain Brink said, “that’s the last shuttle. All Bolts are present or accounted for.”
“Good,” Colonel Arthok said. “Four more trips and the Ground Forces will be as well. We should finish ahead of schedule and be on our way to join Task Force Whiskey.”
They stood together several decks up from the huge bay in Salvage Fleet’s largest carrier. The Withaloo colony ship, renamed Special Delivery, had been converted to a combination fighter and troop carrier. All total, there were nearly two thousand troops ready to deploy when they got to Nazrooth. In the bay designated for the troops there was still room for more, even with all the mechs in formation, locked to the deck with their magnetic boots engaged. Next were rows of the Withaloo XMA-611 Bruiser assault tanks, a smaller version of the tanks belonging to the Bolts, towed artillery pieces pulled by their ammo bearers, and several refurbished anti-air armored vehicles. Scout ships, dropships, and transport shuttles were behind them all.
The mech pilots and crews for the vehicles would suit up and be ready in their vehicles; the troops in battle armor would load their transports. Those going in the second and third chalks would stage in an open ready room off the bay, as the huge doors would stay open to space. Moving that many troops at once took careful coordination.
Over in the fighter bay were one hundred and sixty fighters of several designs. Eighteen of those were Peregrine Interceptors, fighter/bombers capable of air support for the troops once they were on the surface. Ideally, the carrier would orbit the planet to provide a staging area for the air support to refuel and rearm. If an airfield was taken and protected, a special shuttle could land and provide limited fuel and ammunition.
Down below, they could see several unit commanders gathered together. Even from this distance, they recognized the lieutenant colonels. Infantry, Armor, Aviation, and Artillery were represented. Nate knew them all, and each of them were outstanding leaders. Whenever he attended training or meetings with them, they treated him as an equal, though they outranked him.
“How are the three new Peace Monitors working out?” Arthok asked. “From what I hear, they’re good.”
“Yes, sir,” Nate agreed. “I’m glad they came to Salvage. They’ve helped Staff Sergeant Rinek out already with procedures and creating the guidebook. Their experience is incredible. They’ve already been teaching the other Monitors some good techniques. How to interrogate without a witness or perpetrator knowing they’re being questioned even after informing them they have the right to defense. It’s like they buddy up with everyone, and the next thing you know they get the information you need.”
“Buddy up?” questioned the colonel.
“It means…become friends or someone you can trust with secrets,” Nate explained.
“I see,” Arthok said. “It’s as if they’re undercover.”
“Exactly,” Nate said. “Rinek has them hang out in the areas things may happen, and then the Monitors put a stop to crimes before they do. Yesterday, they caught a Whirl dealer before he made his first sale—some guy from Tretra acting as if he was looking to move to Salvage and set up a tech repair shop. Sheemral caught that the man had come into the system without any of the testing gear to actually set up a shop. Seven hours later, they busted him with a box of the stuff.”
“Good,” the colonel said. “From what I hear, the drug is highly addictive to humans.”
“To several races, sir…several,” Nate agreed.
“We’ll go over the plan and tweak it, but I think we’re ready,” the colonel said, getting back to the mission at hand. “Do you have any concerns?”
“No, sir,” Nate said. “I think it’s solid. We hit the split brigade first, and move out to engage the next. The only issue we may encounter is if the third and fourth combine and have us facing half their troops in one engagement. If we can get the help from the fleet with all the Marines, we could have another unit flank them in the final battle.”
“They have good equipment,” Colonel Arthok commented. “They have many more tanks than we do, as well as artillery. Their mechs, however, seem to be several generations behind ours. Theirs remind me of Captain Cameron’s multi-legged one.”
“They do,” agreed Nate, “but I can guarantee theirs don’t have the modifications Cameron and his crew put into their war machines.”
“True,” admitted the colonel with a grin. “I heard his had a flame thrower.”
“Well,” Nate said, serious again, “once the Fleet secures the system an
d they deploy us, the Bolts will be ready to come in on their rear and surprise them. Give us the day we agreed on to get into place, and we’ll be in position before your assault on the other half.”
“Yes,” Arthok agreed with a nod of his shaggy head. “We hit the different parts of the split unit at the same time. Perhaps one of their brigades being taken so easily will make them reconsider whether they want to continue to occupy a peaceful world.”
“It’s too bad we can’t count on the Nazrooth rising up and helping,” Nate observed.
“They won’t fight.” Arthok sighed. “After more than a hundred years, the fight has gone out of them. They are truly pacifists, to the detriment of their own babies. I can’t understand this type of thinking. No Withaloo could do that.”
“Nor Humans,” Nate said, looking back through the clear-steel portal to the bay below, “or any one of thousands of other races, for that matter.”
* * *
Vehicle Staging Bay
Special Delivery
“You can chitter at me all you want,” Corporal Zarmlon said, hands on her hips and a look on her face that showed she meant business. “I don’t care; you just make it happen.”
In frustration, Corporal Lisa threw her top two pincers into the air and stomped off. Well, skittered off, really. The purple Smilp was not happy. She went looking for her sergeant to complain.
“What’s the issue, Corporal?” asked Specialist Pailoth.
“There’s no way to make coffee in the commander’s new Stomper,” Zarmlon explained. “You know he likes to have a cup first thing in the morning. They’re going to put a sustenance replicator or a coffeemaker or something in there or, I swear to Creator, I’ll go down to their maintenance track and jerk theirs right off the wall. I’m not messing around.”
“I hear you, Corporal,” the young Withaloo agreed. She turned back to her huge backpack, doublechecking to ensure she had everything she felt she might need in the aid bag. Plenty of nanite kits, bandages, splints, pain killers, and fluid bags. She had supplies for Humans, Withaloo, Yalteen, Prithmar, and many things capable of use on multiple species. It was a heavy bag, but at a little over seven feet tall, she was large for a female Withaloo and very strong, so it didn’t bother her. The responsibility of being the medic assigned to Headquarters Platoon, including the Bolts’ commander, weighed on her the most.
“Too bad the EMT Mark XI suits weren’t available yet. Rumor has it some of the first were going to be issued to the Bolts,” Zarmlon said, watching her friend check her gear. “I hear they’ll make their wearer like a field surgeon or something.”
“Well, not really a surgeon,” explained the medic. “It evaluates the patient and administers the proper emergency nanite treatment on the spot. Most races are in its data banks. I think the holdup is adding races that aren’t programmed.”
“When you get issued yours, expect to see me on weekends looking for a hangover cure.” Zarmlon grinned.
“I got you, Corporal. You know, you could always get Top involved,” suggested Pailoth, looking over her shoulder at Zarmlon.
“If they give me anymore squat about it, I’ll let First Sergeant Lonkle know; you can bet on it,” agreed Zarmlon.
First Sergeant Lonkle was a Caldivar. He’d come to the Bolts a little over a year ago as an experienced staff sergeant. He’d spent time in two different mercenary companies, the last a unit based out of the Georgia System. The owner and commander of the unit had retired and disbanded them all. Lonkle came to Salvage looking to continue as a merc. He never expected to move into a senior noncommissioned officer position, much less the unit’s senior NCO, but he’d accepted the promotions and had been a great example of leadership since.
“First Sergeant’s a great guy, and they don’t want him coming down on them, that’s for sure,” Pailoth said.
“Yeah,” agreed Zarmlon. “He’s as easy going as they come as long as you know your job, do your job, and stay out of trouble. What the commander wants or needs will happen, or he’ll transform into a nightmare for the offender.”
“I wouldn’t want to be them,” Pailoth added. “Especially if he doesn’t yell. He looks at you calmly and says in a quiet voice ‘make it happen, now.’ And that look with all three eyes boring through you. No thanks. I’ll just keep my squat straight.”
“You better,” a voice said behind them both.
Zarmlon and Pailoth quickly stood. First Sergeant Lonkle waived them back to what they were doing. He was intimidating with his broad shoulders and no-nonsense swagger. Without asking, anyone with time in the military knew he had been to the edge of death and stared it in the eye. He wasn’t one to brag or tell stories of missions he’d been a part of, though. He wasn’t arrogant, or one of those senior-ranked beings with a power-hungry attitude. There were times when he was friendly, smoking and joking with the members in his unit, and others when he was deadly serious about the training and missions. He had the ability to flip a switch and knew when to do it. Right now he had a slight smile on his face showing through his lightning tattoo.
“You handle that, Corporal,” the first sergeant said. “I have faith in you. You seem to be able to find, trade, and connive your way to get all kinds of hard to find things around here.” He walked away, headed toward the four other stompers near the rear of the equipment.
One of the four-legged armored personnel carriers was slightly off line and out of formation with the rest, and Zarmlon knew he wasn’t having it. He believed attention to detail on irrelevant things meant serious attention to detail on things that truly mattered in combat. He’d started mentoring the unit’s newest corporal, since they now worked together closely, and Zarmlon appreciated it. She fully agreed with his thoughts on that subject after he’d explained why he was such a stickler for details.
Corporal Zarmlon looked at Specialist Pailoth and said, “I’ll be back. I’m going to find the maintenance sergeant myself. The CO is going to have his coffee, and that’s all there is to it.” She stomped off, leaving the medic with her gear and a grin on her face.
Twenty minutes later three Smilps and a Smitok were bolting a small sustenance replicator to one of the shelves in the small comm room in the commander’s Stomper. It only took about ten minutes to get power to it and the small storage unit for the coffee. Zarmlon owed the maintenance sergeant a favor for moving it up on the priority list, but as far as she was concerned, it was worth it. Sometimes that’s how things worked.
* * * * *
Chapter Thirteen
Desert Shade
Flight Bay
“Corporal?” Lieutenant Commander Nicholson asked. “Are you sure you want to do that? I can get you some help or a grav-skid or something.”
“Yes, sir,” Corporal Galooth said with a grin on her blue face. “What kind of NCO would I be if I had privates carrying my gear? I got it. I’ll carry this to my berth and be on the bridge right after. I wanted to hang around in the bay a while and warn Bar…I mean Ensign Bahroot to be careful out there.”
“Well,” Big Nick said, “he’s loaded in and ready to launch.” Big Nick looked back to the shuttle he and some of his technicians had recovered, repaired, and rebuilt. It was jet black with a special paint coating.
“We have to clear the bay unless we want to suit up,” he added. “We could climb into our mechs, I suppose. I see your mech is over by the rest. Dang sure stands taller, that’s for sure.”
“Yes, sir,” agreed Galooth. “I was able to go down with the first training class on the new heavy mechs. I think I’m the only Marine with one. The others belong to the Ground Forces and the Bolts. Mine is almost like the rest of the heavies; it has a few modifications they don’t have.”
“Maybe you can show me if we get to go to the surface in Nazrooth,” Big Nick suggested. “Well, come on, I’ll show you the way.”
They left the bay, the huge Yalteen carrying all her gear, including her combat armor, in a big mesh bag, with her weapons on her ba
ck and a container with personal items. Big Nick was a strong man, but he doubted he could have carried it all. The battle armor was meant to be worn, so the servo assist could carry much of its own weight. It wasn’t designed to be picked up and carried very far bagged up in pieces.
He had no doubt of her strength or fighting skills, with or without weapons. Whatever a Yalteen decided to do in life, they tended to work on the skills relentlessly in an effort to do it well. He wondered about having a corporal as head of security and leading the emergency repair crew on a light battlecruiser. She’d been Bahroot’s minder since the beginning; Harmon had authorized her transfer himself. The Desert Shade was his assignment, with his stealth shuttle, so she was assigned as well. Then again, it hasn’t been that long ago since I was an enlisted Marine and not in command of a big ship, he thought. We just learn as we go and hope we don’t get everyone killed with a bad decision.
* * *
Another Round
“Lieutenant Commander,” Stan said to his brother up on the main screen.
“Lieutenant Commander,” Hank said back to his brother in a formal voice.
Suddenly both brothers broke into huge grins showing every tooth in their mouths. On both bridges their crew members grinned and hissed in laughter. To most other races, it would be a frightening sight, since the Leethog race was essentially a marsupial race standing about five feet tall which resembled Earth’s opossums.
Stan’s ship, renamed and registered as Another Round, came out of the shipyards fully refurbished. It was a Gritloth ship, salvaged when they’d defeated them and freed the Barlat System. That was when Stan had almost lost his life. Only a few of his original crew had survived with him, deep in the ship’s power plant.
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