Jethro 3: No Place Like Home

by Chris Hechtl

  “Which one bothers you most?” Firefly asked again. Jethro blinked and then flicked his ears. The AI had asked him twice that question apparently while he had been woolgathering.

  “Sorry, sir. Um, Bart.”

  “I see. Private Quiposki. He was close to you? I don't remember anything in his record.”

  “No sir. He wasn't. Quiet kid, smart. Fresh out of boot. But it just...”

  “Sucked. Yes. Sucked the life out of him. He knew the risks. He followed orders, and I know the saying sucks, but he took one for the team. He absorbed the enemies attention and fire long enough for the rest of the squad to redeploy and save the ship. In the end he did good. He made his death mean something.”

  “Did he? Another minute...”

  “Would have ended you, the ship, and everyone else on board. Gunny, you know this.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You think it should have been you?”

  “I...yeah. If anyone yes.”

  “Your responsibility isn't to make certain that they all get home. It's to make certain that they don't die in vain. That the mission is accomplished. They know this. However, I know organics have a...deep seated guilt for this sort of thing. Please do not allow it to go to your head.”

  “I'll try not to, sir.”

  “Good,” the AI said, marking the Gunny's file to have a follow-up consult with a trained therapist later. “Put the letters aside for now. They can keep until later.”

  Jethro straightened. It was sorely tempting to take the easy way out. To put it off. To bury himself in paperwork or some other project. But he was a Marine; he didn't take the easy way out. Not when a duty had to be performed.

  He stilled for a long moment, realizing that was the answer. Bart had indeed done his duty, knowing the sacrifice involved. Knowing it would most likely be his life. But he'd done it anyway. The panther shook his head. “No, sir. With respect...I need to do this. I need to get it out of my system and then move on.”

  “Good man,” the AI said, nodding. “I'll leave you to it. Give me a call if you need help.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Jethro said voice picking up with renewed purpose and pride.

  The AI made a note of this too. Something had changed, either something the AI had said or something the organic had concluded on his own. He closed the link to the panther's implants and thought for a brief moment about how organics were so...flighty, sometimes delightfully, sometimes maddeningly. They could adapt much better than they admitted when they wanted to do so. The insight was logged for later review during his downtime before another subject came to his attention.

  ---( | ) --- ( | )---

  Staff Sergeant Spitterman wasn't having a good day. Hell, make that a good couple of months, he thought darkly. When he had first joined the Marines he'd ignored the zeal and patriotic crap; he wanted a paycheck. He had been tired of the dead-end crap he'd put up with on Port-a-Prince. He was glad he'd transferred; after he had the place had been all jacked up by that solar flare. He'd taken it as a sign he was on the right track.

  Like just about everyone breathing, he'd had a job so he could stay breathing. Saving up for some sort of retirement? Don't make me laugh, he thought wryly, smirking as he checked his gear over carefully. He checked the HUD, the shuttle was still fifteen minutes out from their target, some sort of big ass cruise liner. He turned, scanning the others with what he thought was a professional air. Most were sleeping. He leaned back and then relaxed, going back to woolgathering since he couldn't sleep and had nothing better to do.

  Retirement before the admiral had come along had meant a long walk out a short airlock or into a molecular furnace. If you couldn't work, you were a liability. If you didn't have someone to care for you, well, that was the breaks. What the Admiral had offered when he'd come in to Pyrax had been a dream come true for thousands. An end to the dead-end nightmare. He'd gotten the hell out of that colony and never looked back.

  Now he, like a lot of his fellows, had some pot at the end of the rainbow to look forward to. Not only a cushy retirement, but also full medical, and hell, college if he wanted it! And he could spin his civilian career into whatever he wanted! Hell, with careful investing he could start his own merchant house and let others do the work while he sat back and gloated. Or he could save the paperwork headache and work for someone else. He'd heard that people with military experience were highly sought after in Pyrax.

  But he also liked the career in the military. He'd put in for his Sergeant’s stripes because he didn't want to be the low man on the totem pole; he wanted to be somebody, to be the guy passing the orders, the one everyone looked up to, which was why he'd built up his little empire in Marine logistics in first Pyrax and later Agnosta. He'd thought he'd be able to skim some equipment off to the black market, but he'd heard some guys had gotten caught and a world of hurt had come down on them so, he'd wisely kept his cool and refrained.

  He'd been bored to tears in Agnosta though, not by the work, there was a lot of it, but because there was little to do on the base. You had to get a pass to town to really do anything. Promotions had slowed to a crawl. A lot of what they had been doing had been make-work in his estimation. Then the call for Firefly had come in. He'd been tapped.

  He'd had first, second and even third thoughts about it. He'd finally decided that it would be good for his future with a combat tab on his dossier...if he survived. If he was wounded? Well, like the Gashg said, chicks dig scars and good war stories.

  But then he'd run into that damn panther. He'd hated the busy body at first, but then when he'd cooled off and had a couple sims under his belt, he'd had time to think. He'd reluctantly come to the conclusion the panther had been right. He'd realized in the sims that he could very well die in combat if he didn't wise up. And if the guys and gals around him didn't have a clue and coasted like he'd planned...well, he'd definitely end up toast.

  He checked his HUD. “Five minutes people. Boots and safety check. Wake up and get your game faces on,” he growled.

  There was a bit of muttering. “Five more minutes mommy,” Private Kei Wong said in a little girl's voice. Her buddy Private Alice Clemens poked her sharply. The girl's eyes fluttered, and then she rubbed the crust out of her Asian eyes with one gloved hand. “Damn.”

  “Sleep when you're dead,” Spitterman said, undogging his safety harness and then pulling himself to his feet. He ignored the dark look of the cargo master as he checked his people over. “Buddy check. Remember people, by the numbers. We're not sure what we're in for.”

  “This going to be another cake walk sarge?” Clemens asked.

  “Hell no. Don't judge the damn ship because she's a civy! We have no idea what's on the other side of the lock so don't fuck up. Or you'll have my boot so far up your ass...” Spitterman shook his head. Clemens nodded dutifully as she checked her Impaler and then checked her partner's suit. Spitterman watched Shayne and Dotterman exchange MREs and then check their ammo clips. He nodded. By now his people were experienced; that was good.

  He checked his right arm, flexing it. He'd taken a light hit in their last engagement, scaring the hell out of him. It'd hurt like hell until his implants had killed the pain and stopped the bleeding. The medic Angel had taken a look and told him it was a scratch after she sprayed it with biofoam. Scratch hell, he'd use it to get a purple heart for sure. A medal was a multiplier for promotion, and besides, the scar and the medal would land him a lady and some free beer in port.

  “Turn,” he said, leaning over Private Cheb, his buddy. The Neomutt turned. Al ran a quick scan over the guy's suit, then checked the seals. You never could be too careful, and his life depended on his partner. Twice he'd gotten his sorry ass saved by the dog's sharp reflexes and even sharper nose. “You're good,” he said, tugging on the dog's shoulder rig.

  “Five by five,” Cheb said, turning back and then motioning for Al to turn. Al turned and felt the professional hands of the neodog run over his suit. He liked the guy, even if he
and the other Neos stank to high heaven when they took a shower. Nothing got him sneezing faster than a shedding Neo other than the smell of wet dog.

  “You're good,” the dog said.

  “Good, set,” Al said, checking his people. All nodded. “Remember the drill. Check your corners. Don't go off willy nilly. You see something, report it. Stick to your buddy. Stick. To. Your. Buddy. We're going to assess the situation and then secure the primaries. I'll call the ball. We're on our own, so don't hesitate.”

  “So no back up?” Clemens asked dryly.

  “No, no one to hold our hands. Command thinks we can wipe our own ass. So let's prove them right shall we?” Al said, giving her a look. She blushed and looked away. After a moment he nodded.

  “Docking in five...” the cargo master said, and then counted down with his free hand as the other held onto the grab bar near the lock. They'd run into several ships where the Horathians had welded the lock shut or had depressurized it. Plus some nasty IED shit too. There was no taking chances.

  Spitterman sent a signal to a case near the feet of the cargo master. Sensor drones floated up and then lined up in a row. He only had so many; he wasn't sure when he'd get more. The same went for ammo and flash bangs so he'd cautioned his people to go easy.

  “Here we go!” The cargo master said, hitting the lock controls as the shuttle bumped. Spitterman rocked with it and then as the hatch started cycling open he keyed the first sensor drone. The little electronic spy floated through the gap and then off. He scanned the interior of the airlock and then nodded. “Clear,” he said as the sensor ball hit the switch to cycle the inner airlock hatch and then move on. He was proud of that little trick, bobbing the ball just right to hit the button took finesse and practice.

  When the drone reported the companionway around the lock was clear of life signs and no IEDs were around he sent the other balls in and then hand signed his people forward.

  The ship was a mess, tore up, but he could see a sense of elegance under the grime and damage. It was a civilian ship, from what he'd heard some sort of elegant passenger liner. He was surprised by the large passages and broad open spaces in some areas as they made their way to the bridge. Real carpet, some of it plush. The brass and wood fixtures must have cost a mint. Yes, quite nice. He'd have to see if he could get posted here. It was only fair after all.

  They met with no resistance, which bothered him more than a fierce fight. The ship was dark; one of the ships that had been hit by the AI virus and disabled. She still had life support, but no gravity. He checked over his shoulder briefly. He trusted his implant sensors, but like that panther said, sometimes the mark one eyeball check was best. He nodded and kept moving.

  First up to secure was the bridge. He found it and found their first bodies. Each of the Horathians had apparently decided to go down with the ship; they'd splattered their brains all over the place. He found a naked woman too, chained like some sort of dog to the captain's chair.

  “Dude, that's sick,” Shayne muttered.

  “Can it. Save it for later,” Clemens growled. Al caught her set face and nodded. The woman was growing up fast. She was seriously pissed, but it was a cold pissed. He knew they'd probably find more by the time they were done.

  “Plug in and get us something Cheb,” Al ordered, turning to his partner. The neodog nodded and moved to the engineering console. He checked it carefully for traps then moved the body slumped over the station aside.

  Al turned and noted with a pleased eye two of his people had secured the airlock door, while others had spread the drone eyes out to cover the approaches. Wong had sent one up into the air ducts for a look. Al nodded. In a situation like this, it was never enough to be too careful.

  Doderman was busy with a vac, sucking up the floating globs of blood and crap to keep them from splattering all over them and anything else. He nodded to Al and kept working. Al made a node to have the doberman clear the bag before they moved on.

  “I'm in. I'm using the shuttle's sensors; the ship's computers are still messed up. I applied the unlock that the AIs created, but apparently, the Horathians tried to reformat the system so it's not working.”

  “Great.”

  “We've got some life readings in main engineering, a couple here and there in some of the quarters, and a hell of a lot in a couple of the holds and large spaces.”

  “Really?” Al asked.

  “Yeah,” the dog said, sounding concerned. “I'd estimate hundreds, possibly thousands of people.”

  “Colonists?”

  The neodog turned to look at the frail body of the naked woman. “Something tells me...no.”

  Al turned to follow the dog’s gaze and then set his jaw. He nodded slowly. “Shayne, Doderman, you stay here. Secure the door behind us. Check in every five with us and the shuttle. Do what you can to police the bodies and get the security cameras and life support online. I'll leave you one sensor ball; use it as a door keeper.”

  “Aye, sarge,” the doberman said. He went out into the companionway, looking around before he reached up and pushed a vent panel up. Al wondered briefly what he was doing until the dog moved a camera up into the vent. Al closed his eyes and selected the camera and then nodded. It showed the corridor area. Not as good as if it was out and bobbing around, but at least it wasn't a target.

  “Good. Let's move.”

  “Where we going?” Clemens asked.

  “Engineering first. You know that. Then we'll secure any leakers.” He was worried about the large masses of people. He wasn't sure what was up with that.

  As they made their way through the ship to main engineering they paused to check the hatches and rooms along their path. What they found both intrigued and then appalled them. The women of the group became more and more grim, eyes haunted by the scenes of torture rooms. Spitterman winced, feeling their helpless rage.

  In main engineering Clemens blew the hatch open, knocking a man down. She leaped over the hatch and then clubbed another man to the deck. He hit and then rebounded, floating off, either unconscious or dead.

  “No one move,” Spitterman said as Wong came in behind her partner. She set herself up on the other side of the hatch. Al directed the drones to scan the compartment and each of the Horathians. Each of the men and women were floating very still, eyes wide in surprise and shock.

  “Surprise,” Clemens said coldly. She turned enough to see someone shiver. She turned to point her Impaler at him. The man froze, hands in the air. “Think it over,” she murmured softly.

  “We give up!” a guy said.

  “Wise decision,” Spitterman said, pulling out plastic zip tie cuffs.

  Ten minutes later he went through another check with the bridge and then took six Marines with him to their next stop. He'd been tempted to leave Wong and Clemens behind, but he'd decided not to. Something told him there would be fewer prisoners if he did. He seriously didn't need the headache that would cause.

  They made their way through the ship to the closest of the large groups of people. He paused, scanning the markings on the hatch and frowned. “Dungeon three?” He murmured, not liking the sound of it.

  “We need to get in there,” Clemens said tightly.

  “Keep it together, Marine,” Wong said softly, eyes cold. She glared at the door. Each of the women took a side of the hatch and then looked expectantly to Spitterman. He frowned but then waved Cheb forward. Cheb checked the lock, but for some reason he cut it off instead of blowing the hatch. They sent a sensor ball through the hatch before it had fully opened and then paused, stunned by what they saw.

  “Spirit of space,” Clemens whispered, eyes tearing as she saw the bodies chained to the walls, ceiling and floor.

  “Medics,” Spitterman said, turning in place. He didn't want to go into that mass of misery anymore. He heard soft whimpering and noted many of the people were crawling into balls, cowering in fear. “Medics!” He snarled over the link. “Get me Medics here on the double! As many as you can get!”<
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  He shook his head, looking back into the compartment. Clemens was on her knees, trying to comfort a pair of women. He could hear the fog of tears in the woman's voice. “Poor sods,” Cheb said softly.

  “Yeah,” Al said roughly. He pulled out his MREs and then handed them to Wong. “Hand these out. Don't spook them.”

  “Right sarge,” she said quietly. She handed over her weapons to Cheb. Al opened his mouth to protest but then closed it. He frowned but just watched as she stepped into the darkened room and spoke quietly.

  “Poor sods indeed,” Al muttered quietly.

  ---( | ) --- ( | )---

  Word got around about what Spitterman's squad and Lieutenant Pongo's squads had found. There were a lot of dark looks towards the captured Horathians. The survivors were gone; for the moment the fight was out of them. But that didn't stop more than one Marine from getting a little rough when they handled them.

  Major Pendeckle thought about counseling his people sternly, hell, landing feet first on the problem before it spun out of control. But then he saw the sorry wretches as they were transported to Firefly's Infirmary. They were huddled under blankets, some little more than skeletons. When he saw a kid, a little girl and boy hugging each other and sobbing softly he decided he'd keep his counsel to himself. The bastards could use a few bruises. That was the least they deserved.

  It was hell in space on that liner. He was glad they'd saved what they could. He'd heard stories and seen the recordings. He wasn't certain about some of the new blood under his command. Some were... not happy. Some grim, some sad. Many seriously pissed.

  A few of the Marines that had signed on with the Admiral had been killed, a few others wounded. For some reason he'd been a bit top heavy in his recruiting, signing many on as officers instead of noncoms or enlisted. That made things a bit awkward for his own people. Integrating the two chains of command into one was one serious headache he wished he didn't have. He made a note to have none of them serve on the liner until it was gone over by intel and cleaned up.