The Forgotten Outpost

by Gus Flory

  “Identify yourself.”

  No answer.

  The thump repeated against the inside of the stall door.

  “Who’s in there?”

  Diego quietly floated over the tiled floor. He planted his boots and pressed his back against the door of the adjacent stall. He looked over to the doorway at the specialist who was covering him with pistol extended forward.

  Diego held the sergeant’s badge above the panel on the stall door and looked at the specialist, who nodded, narrowed his eyes and aimed his weapon.

  Diego waved the badge over the panel. The door clicked ajar.

  With pistol held upright, Diego pulled the door open.

  Blood and brain matter floated out of the stall. Diego whipped around with his pistol and took aim.

  A female floated above the commode. She was wearing Army trousers and a brown undershirt. Her eye sockets were blackened and hollow, empty of their eyeballs. Her mouth was agape. Her skin was stretched tight over her face. Purple veins spiderwebbed over her cheeks and forehead. Her K4 rifle floated in the stall and thumped against the stall wall.

  The back of her head had been blown out and splattered against the back wall of the stall. The armor-piercing round from her K4 had punched through the back of her skull and then through the ship’s hull.

  The breach in the hull caused her head to be sucked against the wall as the air in the latrine had rushed out the bullet hole into the vacuum of space. Most of the contents of her skull had been sucked into space before the emergency breach system had sealed the hole.

  Despite her disfigurement, Diego recognized her—Spc. Heather Rocha, an analyst in the brigade’s intelligence section.

  “Get the medics in here,” Diego said to the MPs. “Tell them to bring a body bag.”

  ***

  Col. John Butcher sat at his desk. In the large window behind him, in the starry blackness of space, was Saturn—a banded orb of pale colors—blue, green, yellow and white—encircled by the planet’s spectacular rings.

  The colonel was a big, muscular man with a chiseled face. His white hair was cut high and tight, bristly on top, cut to the skin on the sides. His head was large and pockmarked with scars. A scar ran down the side of his face from his temple around his eye to his cheek.

  Col. Butcher studied the picture of Spc. Rocha on his screen.

  “She was young,” he said. He looked up at Diego who sat across the desk from him. “And pretty.”

  “She was a good soldier,” Diego said.

  “What was the behavioral health officer’s assessment?”

  “Captain Meredith wasn’t tracking her. We’ve found nothing conclusive to indicate Specialist Rocha was suicidal. She was genetically screened for suicidal ideation just like all of us. The summary attachments are in my report.”

  “She was born on the Moon. It’s usually we Earthers who blow our brains out on long space voyages.”

  Col. Butcher returned his attention to Diego’s report. He scanned through it.

  The colonel had spoken at Spc. Rocha’s memorial service a week before. He had told the brigade’s soldiers how Spc. Heather Rocha was a good soldier and a patriot who had contributed much to the Army and to the Solar System Federation in the short time since she had enlisted. He told them how it was the responsibility of each and every one of them to keep an eye on their battle buddies and report to their chain of command any sign of aberrant behavior. After his speech, he issued an order to all the brigade leadership to henceforth forbid all talk of Spc. Rocha’s existence.

  “She had broken up with her boyfriend?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s a rifleman in Bandit Troop. A buck sergeant. The relationship ended about six months after we departed Europa.”

  “Then she started seeing Sgt. Moxley. Your soldier...”

  “From what I’ve been able to determine, Staff Sergeant Moxley acted as a mentor to her. She was interested in cross training into PSYOPS. He was giving her guidance and helping her with some of the distance learning courses she had signed up for. I haven’t been able to confirm if the relationship went any further than that. Moxley said Specialist Rocha missed her family and that her younger brother had been killed in action on Ganymede two years ago. But he said he didn’t see any signs indicating she was suicidal.”

  “Moxley likes mentoring young female soldiers.”

  “Yes, sir. And a couple of the male soldiers, too.”

  “What do you think? Was the relationship inappropriate?”

  “He signed a sworn statement that their relationship was strictly professional. One of Rocha’s pod mates says there might have been something going on, but I’ve found no concrete evidence. There were rumors and innuendo but nothing provable. That being said, none of her pod mates or squad members said they saw anything to indicate she was suicidal.”

  Butcher watched the surveillance video of Spc. Rocha leaving her pod with her rifle. Her platoon had drawn their weapons from the arms room and had been training in the virtual engagement skills trainer. They had taken their weapons back to their pods to clean them.

  Butcher watched on the screen as she floated down the empty corridor. Most everyone aboard ship had been asleep. She entered the latrine where there was no surveillance coverage. Nothing unusual. Just a soldier waking up to use the latrine.

  “It’s strange,” Diego said. “When I went down there, Ozawa couldn’t access this video or the entry log. Neither could the MPs.”

  “What’s the explanation?”

  “The S6 called it operator error. Excitement from the alarm. Wrong keys pushed. I find that hard to believe, but they’re the experts.”

  Butcher watched the video one more time, then looked up from his screen and focused his attention on Diego.

  “What’s your assessment? On Specialist Rocha.”

  “At this point, sir, nothing indicates foul play.”

  “No new information on where she acquired the round?”

  “Negative, sir.”

  Butcher had ordered a shakedown of the ship in a search for contraband ammunition. A few unauthorized items turned up—a Neo-Fascist combat knife that was war booty from Ganymede; five flasks of alcohol stashed in several of the pods; several containers filled with THC patches; and tons of pornographic video files found on everything from laptops to handhelds to flash drives and even in K4 rifle memory chips—anything with storage capacity. But no contraband ammunition.

  “Your investigation has been thorough, Diego. From your report, my assessment is suicide. I’ve seen a few of them in my time. It’s a shame. Tragic. Unless any evidence to the contrary arises, this investigation is closed.”

  “I’ll continue investigating how she attained the round and get to the bottom of the scrubbed surveillance video.”

  “Negative. You’ve done enough.”

  “Are you sure, sir?”

  “My priority now is to prevent this incident from affecting morale.”

  Diego watched as Col. Butcher digitally signed his report.

  On the colonel’s uniform sewn above the Army nametape was an Expert Infantryman Badge. Above it was a Combat Infantryman Badge, a Space Assault Badge, a Space Operations Badge and an Army Astronaut Badge. There wasn’t enough room on his uniform for his Pathfinder Badge and two marksmanship badges.

  Butcher turned his chair away from his screen and gazed out the window. The colors and rings of Saturn were a mesmerizing sight.

  Diego’s eyes fell on the combat patch on the colonel’s right shoulder. The patch bore the dragon fire insignia of the Solar System Federation Army’s 801st Infantry Brigade Combat Team, known as the Dragon Brigade. The brigade’s distinctive patch depicting a fire-breathing dragon was well known across the Solar System by both friend and foe alike. Diego remembered the heroism and ruthless effectiveness of the 801st back on Callisto.

  On Butcher’s shoulder, above the dragon fire patch, were a Spaceborne Ranger tab and a Special Forces tab. He had enough badges, patches and
tabs to intimidate even the most grizzled combat veteran.

  From his chair, Butcher pointed at a small yellow disk in the void beyond Saturn’s rings.

  “There. Titan.”

  “I’m looking forward to setting foot on solid ground again,” Diego said.

  The colonel turned his chair back to Diego. His hard eyes fell on Diego’s uniform.

  On Diego’s chest were a Combat Action Badge and a Space Assault badge. On his right shoulder were a combat patch from the 400th Troop Command and a Spaceborne Ranger tab. His left shoulder now bore the dragon fire patch of the 801st. Diego never said it to anyone, but he was proud to wear it—the patch of the most decorated infantry brigade in the Solar System.

  “I wouldn’t have assigned you this investigation had I known your soldier may have been involved with Specialist Rocha. But you’ve done a thorough job on this report. You’re new to the brigade and we’re just getting to know each other. I can see you have an analytical mind. This investigation has given me a chance to observe how you work.”

  “Roger, sir.”

  “It was an unfortunate incident, but these things happen. I’m taking measures to guard against this happening again.”

  Diego nodded.

  This was the most interaction he’d had with the colonel since he’d joined the brigade staff. Diego had been attached to the brigade late. Two years before, he had come off a combat deployment to Callisto. His deployment on Callisto had been one of the most intense and trying years of his life. Upon his return to Mars, he had been assigned as an operations officer on his battalion staff and wasn’t expecting another deployment for at least three years.

  The initial post-deployment year on Mars had been the best in his life. His unit had been severely depleted on Callisto and was in recovery mode. The duty was light and easy. He was home every afternoon with his wife and two young children.

  But then the attachment order came, and the halcyon days suddenly ended with a rushed spaceflight to Europa where he joined the 801st Infantry Brigade Combat Team just as it was boarding The Diversity Bell for the long voyage to Titan.

  Col. Butcher closed the report and shut his computer screen. He leaned back in his chair and placed his big hands on the steel and glass desktop. A large coin was fixed to the magnetized steel. Butcher pulled the coin from the desktop. He turned and gazed out the window at Saturn, twirling the coin between his thick fingers.

  He stopped fiddling with the coin and looked down at it. He appeared lost in thought.

  Diego could make out an eagle, globe and anchor on the face of the coin, and the words “Semper Fidelis.” The colonel rubbed the coin with his thumb, then twirled it through his fingers again.

  “I’m an infantryman, Diego. I always have been. It’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to be. My entire career has been about closing on the enemy and destroying him. I’ve never been much concerned for hearts and minds. This deployment will be different for me. As far as Division’s concerned, our mission will be seen as a failure if even one Titanian is killed. Going kinetic with the enemy is not what they want from me. Information operations is going to be critical to mission success.”

  “I’ve been in regular contact with my counterpart with the 690th IBCT. She’s set up a meeting with you, me and Governor Cone upon our arrival at Camp Hammersteel. She’ll also introduce us to the Titanian media, the Chamber of Commerce and several key leaders in our area of operations. The Titanian leadership, media and the majority of the populace have been highly supportive of continuing the S.S.F. Army presence on Titan. While the 690th has not engaged in any kinetic action, their nonlethal targeting and effects have been fairly robust. I’ve been preparing to continue their efforts.”

  “Hearts and minds,” Butcher said, waving dismissively, as if shooing away Diego’s words. He returned his gaze to his coin.

  “What is it, sir?” Diego asked, pointing at the coin.

  Butcher flipped the coin with his thumb. The coin spun slowly over the desk in the zero gravity. Diego caught it in his fingers and examined it.

  “What does it mean?”

  “Semper Fi. Always faithful.”

  Diego turned the coin over. On the backside it read, “U.S. Marine Corps. Once a Marine, Always a Marine.”

  “That coin was given to me by my command sergeant major when I was an enlisted man in the United States Marine Corps. He gave it to me the day the Corps and rest of the U.S. military was folded into the Earth Federation Army. My division was broken up a short time later. We were all split up, assigned to newly formed E.F.A. units all around Earth. I never saw that old sergeant major again.”

  “I’ve heard about the United States Marine Corps.”

  “Not many young people have. Especially, non-Earthers.”

  Diego had read about the U.S. Marines in an S.S.F. Army white paper about Neo-Fascism. Many Neo-Fascists were attracted to the symbolism and traditions of pre-Federation nationalist militaries.

  “Where are you from, sir?”

  “Arkansas. That’s what we called it before the war. Heard of it?”

  “No, sir.”

  “No reason you should’ve.”

  “I’d like to visit Earth someday. Take my wife and kids there.”

  Butcher smiled. “You should do that.”

  Diego flipped the coin back to the colonel who caught it and slipped it into the pocket on his chest.

  “Every spacer should get the chance to visit Earth at least once—feel the sun on your skin, breathe real air, feel the wind, smell freshly cut grass, hear the roll of thunder and the rain.”

  “Sounds nice, sir.”

  Butcher turned to him and looked him up and down.

  “What do you believe, Diego?”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “Your beliefs. What are they?”

  “Duty. Loyalty. Honor. I believe we have a mission to complete and I’ll work toward fulfilling it to the best of my ability using the training and tools the Army has provided me.”

  “And what do you believe about this war?”

  “We’re fighting for democracy and freedom against the forces of tyranny, terrorism and genocide.”

  Butcher smiled.

  “I was once young and motivated like yourself. A true believer. It’s good to have beliefs. But at times, especially as you get older and learn the nature of things, reality will test those beliefs. You may find yourself questioning them and wondering if they’re worth fighting for.”

  “I don’t understand, sir.”

  “What I’m trying to say is let’s do what we can to ensure we all get home in one piece. That might mean holding true to your beliefs in the face of doubt.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Butcher’s steel blue eyes watched Diego closely. The big colonel held his gaze for a long moment as Diego sat silently across from him.

  “Get with my assistant and have him put the meeting with the Governor on my calendar. Have him schedule us a planning meeting before then so you can square me away on our themes and messages.”

  “Roger, sir.”

  Diego began to rise from his seat but hesitated and sat back down.

  “Sir, I have an alibi.”

  “Yes, Diego.”

  “I don’t know if you saw it in the report but one of Specialist Rocha’s pod mates said she saw her writing in a diary in her bunk every night after lights out.”

  “What was in the diary?”

  “We haven’t been able to locate it.”

  “The contents were deleted off the share drive?”

  “It was a pen and paper diary. It didn’t turn up in the shakedown. All leadership down to squad level have been instructed to keep an eye out for it. I’ve also got the ship’s crew looking for it.”

  “Pen and paper? Odd. That means it must be on the ship somewhere. When it turns up, make sure it gets to Captain Meredith. It might shed light on what was going on in Specialist Rocha’s mind.”

  “Roger
, sir.”

  “Anything more?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Thank you, Diego. That is all.”

  Butcher turned to his screen and began typing an email.

  Diego pushed up from his chair and pulled himself out the doorway.

  He floated down the cavernous corridor. Soldiers acknowledged him with the proper greeting of the day as they passed by.

  Diego nodded as he floated past them.

  Out here in space, day and night did not exist except in the habits and patterns of human custom. The days on the Bell were divided into three eight-hour shifts, which, even for those born on Mars and the moons of Jupiter, corresponded most efficiently with human rhythms.

  Unlike in the movies and novels of the 20th and early 21st centuries, artificial gravity on space ships was nothing more than fantasy. Simulating gravity by rotating a space station to create centrifugal force also turned out to be science fiction, as were terraforming Mars, faster-than-light travel, laser pistols, time travel, aliens, self-aware computers and flying cars.

  The degeneration of human muscle and bone mass on prolonged space voyages was solved through gene editing, electro-muscular stimulation, diet and intense exercise regimens. Gene editing was also used to counteract radiation poisoning and mental illness caused by traveling through the endless void of space. But it was still a developing technology.

  The technology that had shaped the future most was the vertical takeoff, vertical landing (VTVL) rocket, which came into widespread use in the mid-2020s. These rockets allowed for the construction of large interplanetary spaceships in Earth orbit, leading to the colonization of the Moon, Mars, the Asteroid Belt, the moons of Jupiter and eventually Titan.

  Diego had been on The Diversity Bell for almost a year now. Locomotion in zero gravity was second nature. He moved expertly through the ship, turning corners and gliding down the dimly lit corridors.

  He entered Bay 5. He propelled himself past the lower enlisted quarters that consisted of four-person pods. He floated past the female latrine where he had found Spc. Rocha, then past the two-person pods in the NCO quarters. He reached the larger single-person officer pods.

  Diego waved his badge over the panel next to his door. The panel beeped, and the latch clicked open.