Galactic Council Realm 1: On Station

by J. Clifton Slater

  “Let’s put a few truths on the table first,” I said, “One is you are the head of the smugglers on hydroxyl Station. Two, your position as the Director of Personnel means you smuggle more than happy pills from the chemical Station. Three, you know about the box in the crate. What I want to know is who is going to pick up that box? Now it’s your turn.”

  “I don’t know anything about smuggling,” he began until I pushed his head under the water.

  As his bubbles began to fade, I pulled him up.

  “Sorry, that was the wrong answer,” I said leaving my hand where it was, “Let’s try again. Smuggling?”

  “Alright, I run a few operations that are illegal. Like getting pills for the Houses to sell to customers,” he confessed, “or to dodge taxes for more expensive things. But, I don’t know any more.”

  “So here’s my problem Noriko,” I said while applying pressure to the top of his head, “I need to know who you deal with for the other things. Like people big enough to have a ghost Yacht with fake papers.”

  “I don’t know,” he began and gurgled as the water closed around his mouth.

  There weren’t as many bubbles this time. I pulled him up and he coughed hard and spit water.

  “Noriko, I haven’t got all watch,” I explained, “I will have to kill you and move on to the next member of your little crime family. So, one more time, tell me who is coming for the box and what do you know about the Yacht.”

  “You wouldn’t,” and he was back under water before he could finish.

  I held him down a long time. The cold was draining his body heat and there was some water in his lungs so he was as close to death as a person could get. When he coughed under water, I jerked him up before he inhaled a larger dose.

  His eyes were glassy and his lips were seriously blue. I didn’t have much time to get answers based on his appearance.

  “Noriko, Noriko Danno, stay with me now,” I coached him, “The Yacht, the box, tell me about them.”

  “We just smuggle for the families,” he whined too sick now to be cold or too cold to feel the icy water, “Someone sent me a message about the box. It came in through our usually pipeline. Store it someplace for two days they said. That’s all I know.”

  I lifted him from the tub and wrapped him in a dry blanket.

  “He’s just the Station’s smuggler,” I said to the Druids, “I could cut off his arm and he still wouldn’t tell us anything else.”

  “We agree,” Druid two said.

  “I believe the same people behind the White Heart attack also sent the box,” I explained looking at down at Noriko, “Like terrorists have done for centuries, they’re using a common criminal network to move their equipment. If he’s right and, I don’t believe he lied, we have to watch the box for two more days.”

  “It shall be as you wish,” Druid three said.

  The two Druids had switched positions while I was looking down. It’s part of their mystique, not to give names and to switch spaces. It supposed to keep common folks off guard and confused. I wasn’t folk.

  “Now, can you keep this animal alive and keep him here for two more days?” I asked pointing to the sleeping man.

  “That also shall be done,” Druid number two said.

  My investigation was on hold for two days. Enough time to check the Station logs for incoming ships and to enjoy some of the hydroxyl Station’s hospitalities. But right now, I wanted to get some sleep.

  Chapter 27

  I dreamed of fanatics. The kind that wouldn’t support each other because they’re individually committed to dying for their cause. It didn’t matter how many died along with them. As long as, the cause was served.

  I’d fought fanatics who’d imbedded themselves with Rebels like that and, I’d fought Pirates bands. I prefer fighting people who didn’t crave dying for their cause.

  The Patrol Boat, Filippa LLII had been canvassing space on the far reach of the BattleShip’s screen. I was a Corporal again and my Fire Team and I were bored. While the Boat’s crew of eleven scanned and did the mundane chores of space flight, we Marines played games on our PIDs, talked in circular conversation that didn’t go anywhere or we slept. Our headsets were tuned to the pilot’s channel and even that was dull routine chatter.

  “Combat Control to Filippa 102,” Combat Control from the BattleShip called.

  “Go Combat Control,” responded our pilot.

  “Be advised the independent transport Potifar has broadcast a distress call,” Combat Control stated, “You are ordered to proceed to their last posted location and render assistance.”

  “Time of signal? What is the nature of assistance required?” the pilot of the Filippa asked.

  First, if Combat Control made the call it wouldn’t be a fire or accident on the Transport Potifar. It would be an armed mutiny or an attack by Pirates. In both cases, there would be business for the Marines.

  Secondly, I thought, an independent transport is troublesome. Those Tramp Steamers were slammed together hulls and engines from old scraped ships. They could have kilometers of decking with multiple engine rooms or be small transports where by standing in the main passageway you could see fore and aft. One was a quick patrol of a few spaces while the other required hours of search and secure by the Marines.

  Third, the Pilot needed the time of the signal in order to find the distressed ship. Four hours at even Internal Drive and the Potifar would disappear into the void of space. If the ship did have time to travel, there wouldn’t be any work today for the Marines.

  “Data is being transmitted,” Combat Control announced.

  There was data being sent over the command network. As a Corporal, I didn’t have access to the information. However, my squad Sergeant did have access. She called for a Fire Team leader meeting.

  “WEBED protocol,” Sergeant Rashid ordered as she stood and pointed to her four Corporals. We stood and accepted her orders without comment. No part of the assignment was better than the other. Except for command post security. It wasn’t too bad except you had our Sergeant looking over your shoulder for the entire mission. Most of us would rather fight Pirates then stand inspection by our Sergeant. I followed my fellow team leaders as the meeting broke up.

  I was the farthest back in the compartment and as I worked my way past Marines pulling on equipment, I thought about WEBED.

  This must be a big transport. If we were instituting the protocol, it was most likely a major operation requiring all four of Rashid’s Fire Teams.

  Years ago, Marine Command had ordered two doomed squads of Marines onto a distressed Transport. Figuring standard squad tactics would be enough to carry them to victory, the squads began to recapture the ship. They ran into a series of well-coordinated ambushes. The Transport had almost slipped away with the Marines still fighting for their lives. It was the arrival, days later, of a flight of Fighters and their tracking of the ship that saved some of the Marines. Once the action was dissected, errors analyzed, and recommendations offered, WEBED Protocol was instituted.

  “Ladies and gentleman,” Marine Corps Sergeant Kamaria Rashid had stated once her Corporals were gathered, “We are using WEBED Protocol.”

  Kamaria Rashid was dark like most of her Clan but on the short side in height. She made up for her lack of height with ferocity. Her thin frame was muscular and she was a tough Sergeant. However, in situations like this, we were glad to have a warrior in charge.

  “Hotel 2-1, your team is on wave suppression,” she’d instructed the first Fire Team of second squad, “2-2, you’re to secure Engineering and, 2-3 you have the Bridge and Environmental.”

  WEBED: Wave, Engineering, Bridge, Environmental & Decks. We’d drilled each segment of the protocol time and time again.

  Sergeant Rashid commanded the second squad of Hotel Company. The rest of the Company squads were spread out in Patrol Boats patrolling other sectors of the screen. We were the only Marines nearby and Kamaria was the senior Marine aboard. She didn’t need
to consult with the Pilot or First Mate on the Filippa as they were now under her command.

  The assignments she’d given out followed the protocol. W stood for Wave suppression of the enemy’s transmissions. Our Fire Team 2-1 would set up and guard the command post and the electronic suppression equipment. The gear would shut down the enemy’s communication network. Team two, 2-2, would fight its way to Engineering and secure the engines so the Transport stayed in our portion of space. While the third team would head directly for the Bridge. This was the most important of the WEBDED procedure. Pirates and Rebels almost always put the bulk of their forces on the Bridge so the fight would be intense. From the Bridge they controlled the direction of the ship and the air flow from Environmental. Fire Team 2-3’s success would give us air and time to complete the final phase of the Protocol. The final phase meant clearing the ship Deck by deck. Some of these tramp steamers have hundreds of hallways and passageways.

  “Team 2-4, you’re on Decks,” my Sergeant directed, “All right, if there are no questions, go check your teams and, prepare for infiltration.”

  There it was, the most grueling aspect of WEBED. Hallway by hallway, room by room a grueling slog searching for enemy combatants. My Fire Team was going to be so happy to get the D.

  I shoved my way to the rear of the compartment dodging arms slinging gear and heads slipping into helmets. Once at my team’s position, I broke the news to them.

  “Gather around,” I said putting my back to the bulkhead.

  “What’s up?” Lance Corporal Cecilius Esmee asked.

  He was my assistant Team Leader and a sharp study. His blond hair, although cut short, was thick enough to highlight his bright blue eyes and he was a half a head taller than me. By his positive presence, he’d made himself popular with the squad and he’d soon be promoted to Corporal. I’d actually be sad to lose him when he took over a Fire Team of his own. He’d be a fine Corporal and a credit to the Corps.

  The second member of my team just stared at me with no expectation. My heavy weapons specialist was Private First Class Zoja Gregor. She has an olive complexion, a strong jaw, and the shoulders to carry and properly use our team’s machine gun. She’d assumed the role of martyr in the team. Getting the Decks duty fit perfectly with her, “why me”, mantra.

  Private First Class Masao Rin acted as if he wanted to say something. His mouth was open but, as he often did, he wouldn’t speak his mind. Being really smart can be a blessing or it can paralyze you like it does Rin. He’d speak only after digesting all the information. Decks duty for him was a puzzle to think on until we moved off the Patrol Boat and onto the Potifar.

  “WEBED Protocol,” I announced, “We’ve got Decks.”

  “Figures,” Zoja said sourly.

  “Oh come on Zoja, It’s a chance to shine,” Cecilius said placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  “You shine blondie, me I want to sit in the CP and eat rations,” Zoja replied, “let someone else do the dirty work.”

  “Actually, the Command Post will be the target of a counter attack 65% of the time,” Rin Masao stated.

  I guess he’d found something to say even if it did incur the wrath of his team mate.

  “You can take your 65%,” Zoja began when I stepped in like a good Corporal.

  “Gear up,” I ordered, “We’ll deploy our GunShips once we go Internal and we’ll dock with the Potifar on a slide approach.”

  Everyone groaned at the thought of our large Patrol Boat beaching on the Transport’s loading dock. It wasn’t just the violent jerk. It was the disorientation of two gravities meshing. The inability to handle conflicting and swirling gravities was the single biggest reason Marines were denied a position in the Fleet Marine Force. Throwing up wasn’t a reason but, laying on the deck, psychotic and screaming was a sure way to get rejected.

  Cecilius helped me on with the torso part of my scaled armor and I helped him. We did the same for our helmets and air packs. Usually the rebreather was enough to handle small insertions, but on a Tramp Steamer with its kilometers of uneven decks, we’d need air packs.

  I took time to personally check each member of the team and their gear. We were ready to go. Now we waited for the Filippa to snap from External drive, launch two GunShips, withstand a home plate slide onto an enemy controlled deck, disembark and engage. Sounds like a day at the beach for Combat Marines. Or, the criminal insane, I sometimes wonder. Which we were?

  A rolling ping flashed across second squad as Rashid sent schematics of the Potifar to our PIDs. Along with the ship’s plan were our individual Fire Team assignments. The only surprise was the size of the Tramp Steamer. It was a convergence of two Clippers, parts from several Sloops, with a sprinkling of Yachts here and there. All together it was an unidentifiable maze of decks, cross walks, and misshapen rooms and storage areas. And it belonged to Fire Team 2-4, my unit.

  The snap from External to Internal drive was like being hit in the back by a charging bull. Before I caught my second breath, and the Patrol Boat completely settled, I heard the flight gates grind open and the emergency power of the GunShips as they launched from an area further aft.

  Moments later the grinding told me the flight gates had closed. I held on tight and focused on my heart beat. Thump, thump, a crushing pain whirled through my brain, my inner ears spun and my legs tried to fly out from under me. I fought the duel gravitational pull. Thump, thump, yup, my heart beat was strong. I stayed focused on the only steady part of my body.

  The screaming of alloy on alloy suddenly stopped and the gravities neutralized along with my internal organs. It must have been a good slide landing as there was no crash of the Filippa colliding with the exterior bulkhead of the Potifar. Light emerged along the lower edge of the wall which began to widen as the entire side of the compartment raised. Like a gull wing, the bulkhead lifted to revel a rusty deck and a wall of air curtains.

  “2-4, advance and spread out,” I ordered as I ran.

  To my left, 2-1 was wheeling out four large cases. My team formed a semi-circle in front of them. 2-4 was snapping open the cases and setting up the jamming and secure communications equipment.

  “Report, 2-4?” Rashid demanded from me. We were right in front of her but she wanted to be sure she hadn’t missed anything.

  “No contact,” I replied glancing to either side to check on my team, “Security in place.”

  “2-2 Report,” she said asking about the team heading for Engineering.

  The team leader was breathing hard but his voice was clear, “Light contact. Passing point four.”

  Each team had been assigned way points along their route. This helped with locating a team’s position in a strange ship. Point four meant they were about half way to Engineering.

  “2-3 Report?” The Sergeant asked of the Bridge team.

  I could hear the zing of kinetic rounds as the Team Leader replied, “Heavy contact. Delayed at point two.”

  We needed the Bridge and Environmental to be under control before my team could begin the deck searches.

  “2-3, stand by,” Rashid said, “2-1 where are we?” She asked the team unpacking the gear.

  The Team Leader was bent over one of the cases so his voice was breathy, “Working on it.”

  “Time 2-1, time is of the essence,” Sergeant Rashid said calmly using her words to stress the importance of getting the electronic jammers in place.

  Until the wave machines engaged, she was limited in what information she could put out over our net. I know she wanted to ask 2-3 if he needed reinforcements in order to reach the Bridge. It was bad news if the enemy heard one of our units was in trouble. A smart commander would push their advantage and attack. She didn’t want them to have any advantage.

  “Jammers are on-line, 2-Actual,” the leader from 2-1 reported, “the enemy is blind, I repeat the enemy is blind.”

  “2-3 to 2-Actual,” the Bridge assault team called Sergeant Rashid by her unit designation, “We are moving past point five.
”

  “2-4 push out our envelope,” she directed me to put more distance between 2-1, the jammers and my unit.

  “Aye, ma’am,” I replied and motioned for my guys to bow out our security arc.

  Behind us the hum of the electronic equipment grew louder. Adding to the sounds was the scraping of point defense guns being set up by Fire Team 2-1. The sounds signaled, 2-1 would soon have the command post secured from attack.

  “2-2 to 2-Actual, Engineering is secure,” the team at the ion wall reported, “One injured. It’s a field dressing wound.”

  The injured Marine required only a bandage to patch up the damage. If it’d been serious, the Sergeant would have sent my team in to medivac the injured.

  “Rodger 2-2, report any change,” Rashid said, “set a schedule for situation updates.”

  “Affirmative,” the Fire Team leader from 2-2 replied.

  “2-Actual to 2-3, report?” the Sergeant requested a progress update from the Bridge team.

  “Heavy resistance, I have two walking wounded but still operational,” the team leader from 2-3 replied, “We’re stalled at Point seven.”

  “2-4 get to them and get that Bridge secured,” she radioed to me.

  I looked over my shoulder, gave Sergeant Rashid a thumbs up and ordered my team to move out, “On me Team 2-4, let’s have some fun.”

  “Fun, you call this fun?” Zoja asked but I heard her wrack a round into the breach of her machine gun. She was right behind me.

  In traditional field maneuvers, the order of travel for a Fire Team is, point-man, usually a senior Marine who knows what to look for, followed by the Team Leader who was expected to have a view of the vista to the front of the team. This put him in a command position near the action. The radioman followed and behind him the final member of the team walked the tail end and guarded the rear. For generations, the teams moved in some form of that order. Once we moved to mostly fighting on space ships, the order changed.

  I spearheaded my team through the first air curtain. It was old, made up of mismatched strips and covered in space dust on both sides. We pushed beyond the second curtain and the cargo deck opened to us. It was a broad area with cargo crates placed haphazardly on rusty deck plates. I picked up the pace and we snaked around a few crates until the entrance to the Transport loomed in front of me.