by Nick Webb
“A fight, sir,” said the heaving man.
“Really?” She tried to keep her voice sarcastic, but not petty or girly. She knew the men would not respond to a high, snippy tone. “Looked like a bitchy hissy-fit to me.”
A chorus of laughter came from the circle of soldiers standing at attention. She kept her steely gaze on the bloody men still gasping for breath, but inwardly delighted at the laughter.
“They insulted the Earth Resistance, sir. Called us all a bunch of cock-sucking motherfucking manwh—”
“I don’t care what they called you, Sergeant. It may even have been true for all I know. But that doesn’t give you permission to beat the shit out of them.” She eyed the blood seeping from his forehead into his left eye. “Though it looks like it’s not him I have to worry about.”
She glanced around the circle of soldiers standing at attention. “So why haven’t the rest of you joined in? He insulted all of us, didn’t he? What are you waiting for?” She kept her tone ambivalent, trying to see what their reaction would be. Would they think about taking her up on the offer?
“Uh, sir, we’re just blowing off some steam,” said a tattooed young woman nearby—a private.
And Po understood. They were lucky to be alive, and they all knew it. But they also, each of them, were mourning the loss of their friends. And she knew the marines had born the brunt of it, being at the front line to fend off both Imperial boarding parties. Behind the gruff manner of the men and women standing before her, she could see the strain in their eyes, and behind that, the pain. They needed this.
“Just don’t kill yourselves. Anyone who is not ready for duty because of this will find themselves in the brig for a few days. People, we’re fighting a war here. Don’t do anything stupid. And that goes for our guests, too.” She turned to Sergeant Tomaga, who she now noticed outside the circle, still sitting in a chair. “If I find that any of you are causing my men trouble, we’ll set you down on the nearest Imperial world we find. Somehow I doubt Admiral Trajan will be slapping your asses and sitting you down for a frothy craft beer.” She turned to leave, but caught the eye of the man in a chair leaning back against the wall.
“Sergeant Tomaga. A word?”
She beckoned to the Imperial marine Sergeant, and he reluctantly rose to follow her to another area of the mess deck. The sounds of the resumed fight followed them as the two men started up again to cheers and hollers.
When they were out of earshot of the crowd, she turned to face the man behind her. Eyeing the vaguely Japanese sweep of his forehead and eyes, she wondered if he was from New Kyoto, one of the three triumvirate worlds—the original three planets that held a sort of special governing status in the Empire, though, ostensibly, each world was equal in all rights and privileges, provided that world displayed good behavior.
“You let this happen? Do you have any control of your men at all?” she snapped at him.
“I could ask the same of you, Commander Po. Did you not just let them resume their fight?” The man’s voice remained neutral—speaking carefully as he thought she were judging his every word, including his tone. In reality, she was. She had to know how much they could trust the Fifty-First Brigade, and how much to trust the Sergeant. That level of trust would determine whether or not they would indeed just set the Brigade down on the first Imperial planet they came across.
“True.” She let out a small smile. “They seem to need a distraction. Still, I worry that it will escalate.”
Tomaga lowered his chin and looked her in the eye. “I assure you, Commander, I will not let it get to that point. I know that we are guests on this ship and are at your mercy. I promise good behavior from my men, as I promised before,” he said, in as calm and level a tone as she’d ever heard. She wondered just how nervous the man was. Or perhaps he was actually planning something. Getting in the Phoenix’s good graces just enough so they’d lower their guard. Just long enough to strike. A well-placed bullet in the head of Mercer, for example, or a surreptitiously placed charge at the base of the anti-matter engine.
She glanced back at the men fighting, who seemed to have slowed down, weary, bleeding, and squinting in pain. “So what set this off?”
Tomaga looked at the two men now slowly circling each other. Sergeant Jayce lunged for the other man’s legs, and the pair went crashing back to the deck. “Your Staff Sergeant there insulted Private Ling. Private Ling responded with a series of insults that your man accurately described to you. The exchange was entirely mutual, Commander. You should know that Sergeant Jayce was the one who pulled the trigger that killed five of my men. Five men whose families won’t even receive a body to cremate.”
“And Private Ling? How many of ours did he kill?” she retorted.
“Six,” he said, adding with a shrug, “That’s what Ling claims, anyway.”
Megan wanted to blast a hole in the man’s head herself. Six. Six more patriots killed by Imperial vermin. She wondered what in the world Jake was thinking letting the group escape with their lives.
But she caught herself. The Imperials might still have their lives, but that meant that half of her marines in the mess hall also had theirs. If Jake hadn’t made his risky decision, there would be no boxing match on the mess deck, no cheers and jeers, no camaraderie among the crew. There would only be another pile of bodies blown out the fighter bay airlock the day before.
She watched the fight end as Jayce banged on the deckplate underneath him in a signal for mercy and Ling jumped off to the cheers of the rest of the Fifty-First Brigade. Before Ling returned to his buddies, he extended a bloody hand down to Jayce, who swore, but took the offer, and once hoisted to his feet strode back to the Phoenix marines, sniffing the blood still seeping from his nose.
A thought suddenly struck Po.
“Sergeant Tomaga. You and I both know that an idle marine can be a dangerous one. Almost more dangerous than one with a mission. What would you say to a few joint training exercises, perhaps with just a handful of yours and a handful of ours? It might go a long way towards lowering the level of tension between our men.”
Tomaga stared at Po. “What makes you think we’d want to fight alongside you? Your rebellion goes against everything my people stand for. We like order. We like the safety the Empire provides the galaxy. The stability. The peace. All you people seem to want is war,” he said, falling silent for a moment. “Why should we help you?”
Po shook her head and turned. She paced for a moment, stopping at a foosball table and idly spinning a few of the handles.
“I disagree with your characterization of us. We hate war, Sergeant. All we want is peace, and to be left alone. But that is not the point. I’m not asking you to help us. I’m asking you to help your men live. If tensions get out of hand, then we’ll have to assign you all to the brig, which as you know was not our original agreement, but it is a step that I will take if necessary. And in response, you can either go willingly, or perhaps you choose to continue our aborted fight.” She spun a few more handles, then glanced back up at him. “Or, we can get our men training together and let them shoot some bullets that aren’t aimed at each other. Keep them busy and occupied. You might find that if we provide them with that, your stay on board may go much smoother.”
Tomaga, lost in thought, walked over to the other side of the foosball table. “You play?” he said, indicating the rows of men attached to the steel shafts arrayed down the length of the table.
“Foosball? Yeah, I suppose. The Captain and Commander Jemez and I played a bit during our tour together in Viper squad.” She looked up at him suspiciously. “What, you mean now?”
“Why not? If our men can blow off steam, then why not us?”
She couldn’t even fathom what he was trying to do. Was he trying to make a genuine effort to get to know her? To lessen the tension? Or was this part of a gambit, to get in her good graces, hoping that she would slip up, grant him access to some vital part of the ship, or glean some sensitive information
from her in a moment of unguarded weakness?
“I usually try not to socialize with enlisted men,” she said, dodging the request.
“We’re not even in the same fleet, Commander. I consider you no more an officer I should obey than a civilian. I was only offering—”
“Fine,” she said, and picked up a ball and tossed it onto the table. “But only for a few minutes. I’m still making my rounds.”
“Is the ship your patient?” said Tomaga, twisting several of the handles with a familiarity that suggested he’d spent many long hours playing the game.
“The ship. The crew. They’re all my patients. My children, if you will.”
“Interesting. I’ve never heard an XO talk like that.” With a flick of his wrist he scored a decisive point, and tossed the ball back onto the table. “Do you have children of your own?”
Po’s lips tightened, but she couldn’t let the man see it. He couldn’t know. He mustn’t know. His question made her instantly hate him. Loathe him. With one simple question he embodied her sons’ murderers. He was the Empire. She had to be a blank page to him. An iron plate. No weakness, or he’d take advantage of her. Of them.
She cleared her throat. “No. The ship is my family, Tomaga. Surely you can understand that? Is Earth so foreign to you that the idea of family doesn’t register?” She said, trying to keep the coldness out of her voice.
“Not at all, Commander. It was just an innocent question. Nothing more.” He eyed her, as if trying to read behind her face, behind her mask.
What the hell was she doing?
He scored again, the ball clattering into her goal. She smiled, and stepped away. “Excellent game, Sergeant. Thank you for taking the time. Please give some thought to my proposal. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” she said, turning towards the door.
“Commander,” he called after her. She glanced back at him. “We’d be honored to join your marines for training exercises.”
She let a thin smile through, and struggled to make it warmer than she felt. “Wonderful. I’ll be in touch.”
As she left the mess hall, she let out a held breath she hadn’t even been aware she’d kept in.
What the hell am I doing?
***
Jake struggled into the jeans, but they simply were not going to fit. The brown shirt, the dusty old vest, even the worn leather boots were his size, but the pants seemed hopeless. With one more attempt, he strained, red-faced, huffing with exasperation as the door to his ready room slid open and Ben walked through, decked out in perfectly fitting, even stylish, frontier clothing. Jake rolled his eyes—even with dusty old second-hand clothing, Ben still managed to look like a French clothing model, only with far more muscle and far less pouting.
“Having some issues?” Ben raised an eyebrow, and fought to keep from smiling.
“I’m having about twenty pounds of extra issues. Hey, any more pants in that sack you took down to the marines?”
“Yeah. There should be a pair in there that’ll fit you. What’s the matter, Jake, have your thirties caught up with you?”
Jake glowered at his friend. “Jackass,” he muttered, “I’m twenty-nine.”
Ben couldn’t stop the wry grin. “My mistake.” But with a wrinkle of his nose he put on his customary scowl. “Jake, this is a bad idea. Fleet Regulation fifty-nine section A, paragraph two: No flag officers are to travel to planetside destinations known to harbor pirates, abductors, kidnappers, or areas otherwise likely to result in capture and demand for ransom, without a substantial security detail. And if you ask me it’s a very sensible rule.”
Jake scowled back. “You’re quoting the Imperial regulation at me?”
“Do you want the old Resistance Fleet manual? The wording is nearly the same—as I said, it’s a very sensible rule.”
Jake sighed. “Can’t get anything past you, can I?”
“Have you ever?”
“Ben, look. We need this neodymium, and these pirates aren’t going to negotiate with anyone but the Captain.” Right as he said it he nearly winced, knowing all too well that, after all, it should be Ben negotiating with the pirates. “And besides, you’re coming with me. There’s my substantial security detail. Better than twenty marines if you ask me.”
Ben made a mock-embarrassed face. “Oh gosh. You’re making me blush.”
Jake stripped off the too-tight pants and pulled his regular uniform back on. “Hey, speaking of marines, are they ready?”
“Yeah. They’ll meet us in the shuttle bay after we shift into orbit around Destiny’s star. They’ll have firearms for us and Bernoulli.”
“Good.” Jake sat down in the captain’s chair to pull the dusty boots on. He realized that was the first time he’d actually sat in it. “How’s the security force, Ben? What’s morale like?”
Ben shrugged. “As good as can be expected. We lost over half our forces during the incursions by the two boarding parties. And now they’re a little pissed that thirty-two of the guys who shot their buddies dead are now lounging around on the mess deck.”
“Yeah, I don’t like it either, but it was the best solution at the time. People lived because of it.”
Ben eyed the captain’s chair. “And people might still die because of it, you know. I don’t think we can trust them. Sergeant Tomaga seems ok, but some of his men look a little sketchy. I wouldn’t be surprised if many of them are through and through loyal Imperials.”
Jake nodded. “Just keep armed guards posted throughout that deck.”
“Already done.” Ben’s previous grin had disappeared, replaced by his ever-present no-nonsense scowl.
Jake wondered where they would be right then if he hadn’t made his fateful decision. The decision that had robbed Ben of the chair he now sat on. Would they really be dead? Or just captured, waiting to be sent to the penal colony of Glazov? Jake supposed there was a chance that Ben might have actually pulled through with some brilliant plan—the man was very bright, after all, and as stubborn as they come. Just stubborn in the wrong way. Stubborn for rules. Decorum. Doing things the right way. Doing things the right way was not how you stayed alive.
The right way was not always the best way. The best way was to save as many lives as possible. But it was also whatever way that would make those lives worth living.
He eyed his friend, who he noticed was still staring straight at the captain’s chair. “Ben, I know we haven’t talked much one-on-one since everything went down. I just wanted to say that I’m sorry it didn’t turn out how you thought it would.” He paused, studying his friend’s face. “He mentioned you, you know. Captain Watson. He praised you. Said you were the best officer a captain could ever hope for, and that you would make a fine captain yourself.”
At least, Jake knew that was what the Captain was thinking.
Ben turned to leave, and looked down at the ground, shifting in his beat-up cowboy boots, studying them. “Jake, don’t. I know what you’re doing. I appreciate you trying to motivate me and help me feel valued, but it’s really not necessary. What’s done is done, and we’ve both got work to do. I know my duty and you know yours. So let’s just do it.”
“Fine.” Jake stood up and walked out the door with his friend. He wondered if he would ever, someday, build up the courage to tell Ben the truth about what really happened in that sickbay. How would he react? It was easy to imagine Ben becoming a captain of his own ship one day, then maybe an admiral, until eventually the two of them would sit on some front porch somewhere in Florida as two dirty old men, hooting at the passing beautiful women and yelling at the kids to get off the lawn.
The comm officer looked up. “Captain, we’ve received the coordinates from Volaski’s ship.”
He nodded his acknowledgment. “Thank you, Ensign. Hail them.”
“Yes, sir, opening a visual channel.”
The viewscreen came to life, revealing the faces of Captain Volaski and Velar. “Mercer. We’ve sent you the coordinates. Are you ready?” said Volask
i.
“We are.”
“Good.” Volaski nodded his approval. “We’ll be under way then. We will shift to the star in the Destiny system, and then shift to the planet. We ask, Captain, that you park your vessel over Destiny’s north pole. It would be best if no one noticed you were there—wouldn’t be good for business.”
Jake demurred. “That wasn’t part of our original plan, Captain. Parking over the north pole will require a tremendous amount of energy to counteract gravity. We’ll have to have our gravitic drive engaged at a constant ten percent or so.” The alteration in the agreement unnerved him a little, and he questioned whether they should even go through with it. But the bridge crew were all looking at him. He couldn’t change his mind now—he’d look indecisive. Wishy-washy. Captains couldn’t afford to appear wishy-washy. Not the good ones, anyway.
“Velar and I discussed it just moments ago and we think it will be for the best. Will that be a problem?”
Jake tried to look nonchalant. “Of course not, Captain. When we arrive, my team and I will disembark on a shuttle and meet your ship. We’ll follow you down through the atmosphere.”
“Sounds like a plan, then,” said Volaski, in his thick Russian accent. He bowed slightly before glancing towards Velar, who simply nodded once. “We will talk to you at Destiny, then. Volaski out.”
Jake turned to Po and Jemez, who stood behind his console at the XO’s station. “What do you think?” he said.
Ben raised his hands in a shrug. “You know what I think, Captain. And now they’ve altered the plan. It looks even more suspicious to me.”
Everything looked suspicious to him, Jake thought. But he was grateful for the consistent advice, at least. “Megan?”
“We’ll monitor you from the ship. I’ve checked the computer records for data on Destiny, and they’ve got a healthy magnetic field like Earth, and a fairly active star. The ionic activity at the poles will mask our presence, like Velar and Volaski are hoping, but it will also impede communications, and our ability to track you.”
