Elemental

by Steven Savile

  When Owani stood it put his eyes on a level with hers. They were space black and equally cold. “Hear me, and hear me good, Ensign … First, I don’t give a shit who your father is, unless he can provide me with the 200 tons of field rations that this vessel is supposed to have but doesn’t.

  “Secondly, I took a tour through your P-1, and there are good reasons why the folks at BuPers denied your request for Intel school. You can’t speak Thrakie half as well as you think you can, you lack the psych profile required to work with XTs [extraterrestrials], and the spooks are hot for techies right now.

  “Thirdly, you may have heard that the Confederacy of Sentient Beings is currently at war with the Ramanthians. That means that while you were sitting on your ass, damned near flunking out of supply school, thousands of good men, women, and cyborgs were out there dying for you.”

  Owani put his weight on his fingertips. “Some of them died because they were outnumbered, outmaneuvered, or outsmarted. That’s how war is … But some of those poor bastards died because they didn’t have what it takes to win. Can you tell me what this is?”

  The shell had been sitting on the corner of Owani’s desk, half hidden by all the clutter. But when the naval officer grabbed the piece of ordinance and held it up for her to examine, Tevo recognized the object for what it was. “Sir, that’s a .50 caliber round, sir.”

  “That’s right,” Owani agreed soberly. “But this isn’t just any .50 caliber round … It’s special—and I’ll tell you why. Back during the second Hudathan war, before the ridgeheads came over to our side, a little-known skirmish was fought on the surface of a planet called Devo-Dor. The battle took place between a company of legionnaires and a battalion-sized force of Hudathans. Well, the ridgeheads won, but only after losing sixty-eight percent of their troops. Not because they outfought the Legion, but because the poor misbegotten box heads [cyborgs] ran out of ammo and were slaughtered.

  “A brigade of marines hit dirt one rotation later, the Hudathans were forced to pull out, and Devo-Dor was ours once again. Later, when my recovery team put down on the battlefield, we had to clear each legionnaire’s weapon before we could crate them. And guess what? The legionnaires had only one round of ammunition left between them when they were wiped out—and this was it.”

  Light glinted off the brass casing and Tevo discovered that she couldn’t take her eyes off of the shell. “Sir, yes, sir.”

  “So,” Owani concluded as he put the round back on his desk, “the point is this … Supply is the most important function in the whole goddamned navy—and anyone who tells you different is an idiot. Therefore, given the importance of your existing specialty, your request for Intel school is hereby denied.

  “Now, having agreed on what you aren’t going to do, let’s talk about what you are going to do. It seems that the bugs [Ramanthians] are extremely good at killing Lieutenants. That being the case I have no choice but to send ensigns like yourself to planets like Hardscrabble. I hear the planet is a paradise … You’ll love it.”

  Tevo, who was still at rigid attention, fought to keep the disappointment off her face. “Sir, yes, sir.”

  Owani nodded. “Dismissed.”

  Tevo did a neat about-face, took two steps, and was about to complete her escape when the XO spoke again. “And one more thing …”

  “Sir?”

  “Don’t screw up.”

  RIM PLANET CR-7201, HARDSCRABBLE STATION

  The station’s interior had been immaculate prior to the battle that had taken place within its passageways, and it was once more, thanks to ex-lieutenant commander Halby and her troops. As the officer made her way down the main corridor she could see where a section of bulkhead had been repainted, blood had been scrubbed off the deck, and the C & C Center’s blast-damaged durasteel door had been removed. The strike team’s com tech turned as the officer entered the compartment. She was seated at what had been Corporal Wamby’s console—and was wearing his camos. They were slightly too large, but there weren’t all that many choices, so Chow had to make do. She sported a page boy hair cut, almond shaped eyes, and wore a skull and crossbones tattoo on her left cheek. “Hey, boss … Look at this.”

  Even though most of the syndicate’s members had military backgrounds and the organization was structured much as the confed navy was, an element of pirate-style democracy had crept in over the years. Traditional military courtesies were a thing of the past; commanding officers could be voted out if they failed to perform adequately, and everyone was entitled to a share of the loot. All of which meant that while “Hey, boss,” was a perfectly acceptable form of address under normal circumstances, it was out of place within what was supposed to be a platoon of marines. “Watch it,” Halby cautioned mildly. “I’m a gunnery sergeant … Remember?”

  “Oops! Sorry about that,” Chow responded wryly. “You look good in camos!”

  “Yeah, sure I do,” Halby replied skeptically. “Okay, what have you got?”

  “Well, it looks like the stuff the informant provided was accurate … Not only are we standing on top of an SFR [strategic fuel reserve] containing 250 million barrels of A-5 [military grade aerospace fuel], there’s a nice subsurface ammo dump buried about five miles east of here, all of which should add up to a nice payday.”

  “Yes, it should,” Halby said gloomily. “Assuming that the tankers enter orbit on time—and we can boost all that A-5 into space.”

  “That’s the part I don’t understand,” the com tech put in. “Why place an SFR on the surface of a planet? Why not put it on a moon? It would be a helluva lot easier, not to mention cheaper, to transfer fuel under zero-gee conditions.”

  “And you can be sure that the Confederacy has zero-gee SFRs,” Halby answered confidently. “Lots of them. But some, like this one, are positioned to support FCBs [Forward Combat Bases]. Let’s say the bugs take a run at this sector … All the feddies have to do is route a combat supply vessel to Hardscrabble, drop a few hundred thousand tons of material onto the surface, and presto! They’re ready to construct a base on top of the SFR … Then, about two weeks later, they’d be ready to fight.”

  Chow nodded. “That makes sense … So what’s next?”

  Halby glanced at her wrist comp. The LST had cleared the atmosphere twelve hours earlier. So, assuming that all went well, the transport would rendezvous with the tankers and escort them back. In the meantime, a real Confed supply ship was scheduled to land on Hardscrabble with mail, fresh food, and other supplies. Assuming that Halby and her strike team were able to successfully fool the people aboard the LST, the feddies would depart the planet none the wiser and thereby extend the amount of time available to suck the SFR dry.

  Or, if that strategy failed, they would kill the transport’s crew and upload as much A-5 as they could before the navy came looking for their LST. The renegade had her doubts about that, but it wouldn’t do to share them, so she grinned instead. “Well, I don’t know about you, marine … But I could use some shut-eye.”

  ABOARD LST-041, MAMA’S GIRL

  Even the transport was relatively small; she was large enough to mount a hyperdrive and carry a four-person crew, plus a six-person security detail and a passenger. All of whom were temporarily under the command of Ensign Tarla Tevo, who had sequestered herself within the tiny cabin set aside for use by the ship’s CO [commanding officer]. It consisted of a locker, a narrow bunk, and a fold-down desk.

  Now, as Tevo stared at the display in front of her, the challenge was to bring herself up to speed regarding the ship, its mission, and the people she had suddenly become responsible for. Tevo had left Owani’s office only to discover that she had been placed in temporary command of LST-041, and the ship was departing for Hardscrabble Station in less than six hours. So while there was every reason to feel sorry for herself, there had been no time in which to actually do so. And now, in a desperate attempt to live up to her new responsibilities, Tevo was scrolling through her crew’s personnel files.

  The L
ST’s pilot was a warrant officer named Lars Womack, who, in addition to successfully working his way up through the enlisted ranks, had numerous commendations to his credit.

  The copilot, a chief petty officer named Liz Yanty, was not so distinguished. Not only had she been busted back to first class prior to making chief again, it appeared that the noncom had an on-again off-again drinking problem.

  A first class petty officer named Omada was the ship’s power tech, and a first class named Richy was the load master. Both had been in the service for quite awhile, had received good ratings over the years, and appeared to be reliable.

  Tevo didn’t have access to the P-1’s for Staff Sergeant Pepe Mendoza and the six marines under his command, but took comfort from the fact that the jarheads certainly looked sharp. As for Marine Lieutenant Tony Pasco, who had orders to assume command of the marine detachment on Hardscrabble, he was along for the ride.

  Confident that she had a handle on the human part of the equation, Tevo turned her attention to reviewing the many processes and procedures related to delivering, and accounting for twenty tons of valuable supplies. A task made all the more difficult by her failure to pay attention at supply school. Something she had already come to regret.

  Two hours later Tevo emerged from the tiny cabin, nodded to Mendoza as the marine squeezed past her, and made her way forward. Omada was seated in the tiny C & C Center with his back to the corridor. He had black hair, Eurasian features, and the broad shoulders of a gymnast. As with most of the crew, the power tech knew the ensign was green as grass, but he was willing to cut the pork chop [supply officer] some slack so long as she didn’t come on too strong. He raised his ever-present coffee mug by way of a greeting and was pleased when she took a moment to chat with him.

  Then, confident that Omada knew what he was doing, Tevo stuck her head into the control room. It, like everything else on the ship, was small. There were two passenger seats, one of which belonged to Tevo, fronted by positions for the pilots, only one of which was occupied. Chief Yanty had the watch, and because the ship was in hyperspace, she didn’t have a whole lot to do. She turned to see who had entered the compartment. She had frizzy red hair, broad cheekbones, and lots of freckles. Her eyes were small and bright. “So,” Yanty began, “how was your nap?”

  Tevo took note of both the petty officer’s tone and what could only be described as a lack of military courtesy. The officer chose to ignore the petty officer’s question and settled into the pilot’s chair. “I took a look at your flight log, Chief,” Tevo said evenly, “and I noticed that you and Womack have been to Hardscrabble before. That makes you an expert … So, tell me everything there is to know about Hardscrabble, starting with those nasty storms. Then I’d like to hear what the Confederation has on the surface—followed by whatever you can tell me about the poor bastards who are stationed there.”

  “Yeah, I’d like to hear that stuff too,” a male voice put in, and Tevo turned to find that Lieutenant Pasco had entered the compartment. He had a wolfish countenance, hollow cheeks, and thin, nearly nonexistent lips. Not a pretty man, but the sort who looked as if he could think his way through most problems, and kill the rest.

  Tevo nodded. “Welcome to the class, Lieutenant. Have a seat.”

  Within a matter of seconds, Yanty had been put in her place and elevated to the status of a subject matter expert. And, because she’d been dealing with officers for more than fifteen years, the petty officer couldn’t help admiring the skill with which the feat had been accomplished. The result was a subtle change of expression and a grudging sense of respect for the young ensign, as she began what turned into a one-hour seminar on the planet Hardscrabble.

  Eventually, after both officers had exited the cockpit, Womack came to relieve Yanty. He had a long, sorrowful face, a pilot’s passion for detail, and a penchant for games of chance. Though not the sort of friends who go on liberty together, the twosome had a good working relationship and shared a common skepticism where regular officers were concerned. “So, how’s the princess?” Womack inquired as he settled into the prewarmed seat. “Omada told me that she spent more than an hour up here.”

  “The ensign has a lot to learn,” Yanty commented as she got up to leave. “But she knows that—and is willing to listen.”

  Womack’s bushy eyebrows rose slightly. “That’s high praise coming from you.”

  Yanty paused in order to look back over her shoulder. “Screw you, sir. No disrespect intended.” Both of the pilots laughed.

  RIM PLANET CR-7201, HARDSCRABBLE STATION

  The tension within the underground C & C Center was so thick that Halby could have cut it with a knife as Chow’s right index finger made contact with the screen before her. “Here they are,” the com tech announced. “Right on time.”

  “Excellent,” the officer replied grimly. “Challenge the bastards … and make it sound good.”

  So Chow demanded codes, a chief petty officer named Yanty provided the proper responses, and the incoming LST was cleared to land. Halby took advantage of the intervening time to hold a last-minute team meeting. “Remember,” she concluded, “fool them if you can … But if it looks like one of them is onto you, kill them and put out the word. It would be nice to have the extra time, but we can lift a lot of A-5 without it, so don’t hesitate to pull the plug. Questions?”

  There weren’t any questions, so the renegades dispersed. Some remained in the C & C Center, others sat down to eat, and some went to bed. Each team member knew which feddie they were pretending to be, had memorized that individual’s P-1, and was at least passingly familiar with the dead person’s specialty. Time seemed to crawl as the pirates waited for the LST to make its descent, people spoke in terse sentences, and the trap was ready.

  The dome-shaped shelter was well camouflaged, and if it hadn’t been for the rows of pole-mounted landing beacons that funneled the ship toward it, the blister would have been nearly impossible to see. It was a nice day by local standards, or so Womack thought to himself as he fired the ship’s repellers, countered some moderate wind drift, and goosed the in-system drive.

  Chief Yanty eyed the instrument panel as the ship closed with the dome—ready to warn Womack if any of the LST’s systems fell below minimums. But the readouts remained in the green as the boxy transport passed between the huge metal doors, slowed as Womack fired the bow thrusters, and coasted to a stop. There was a noticeable thump as the skids touched down, followed by a marked increase in visibility as the big doors cycled closed.

  Both Tevo and Pasco had left the cockpit, and the pilot was still in the process of shutting the propulsion system down when Yanty peered out through the view screen. Two people had turned out to greet the ship—but both were strangers. A virtual impossibility, since the petty officer had been on the last ship to land on Hardscrabble. She turned to look at Womack. “Hey, Wo, who are those people?”

  The pilot had anticipated such a moment and was ready. The spring-loaded blade shot down into his right hand, and Yanty felt something slam into her chest as Womack’s arm whipped around. She looked down, saw the metal handle, and felt something give way deep inside her body. The petty officer looked puzzled as she turned to confront the man beside her. “Why, Wo? Why?”

  “I’m sorry,” the warrant officer replied sincerely. “But I lost a lot of money when I was on leave, and the syndicate purchased the debt … It wasn’t personal.”

  Yanty wanted to reply, wanted to tell Womack what an asshole he was, but the copilot lost consciousness before she could speak. There was a soft thump as her forehead made contact with the padded instrument panel, and a pool of blood began to collect in her lap.

  The warrant officer hit the release on his flight harness and came to his feet. Then, having made his way back to the hatch, he slapped a button. Servos whined as the door closed, and there was a discernable click as Womack triggered the lock. The run to Hardscrabble Station was over.

  Dust was still swirling around the ship, an
d the tang of ozone hung heavy in the air as Tevo made her way down the LST’s ramp. Pasco was right behind her with a T-2 bag hanging from each fist. A man who identified himself as Lieutenant Kavar and a woman whom he introduced as Gunnery Sergeant Raster were there to greet the newcomers. Both wore hard suits and clutched helmets to their chests. “It’s good to see you!” Kavar proclaimed enthusiastically. “Especially you, Lieutenant Pasco … Hardscrabble has been fun—but I’m ready to rotate out.”

  “Fun?” Pasco asked doubtfully as he shook the other man’s hand. “It isn’t nice to lie to a fellow officer.” The man playing the part of Kavar laughed dutifully and offered to help with Pasco’s bags.

  In the meantime, each having performed a visual reconnaissance on the other, the women arrived at vastly different conclusions. Halby, in her role as a gunnery sergeant, liked what she saw. Ensign Tevo was young and, judging from the way she handled herself, barely out of supply school. Which meant the newbie would be that much easier to fool.

  For her part Tevo felt somewhat intimidated by the marine noncom, who not only projected an aura of authority greater than that inherent in her rank, but looked to be tough as nails. Although it was unlined, Raster’s face had a hard, almost mannish quality, and her eyes were like blue lasers. “Welcome to Hardscrabble, ma’am,” the gunnery sergeant said, offering Tevo a very precise salute.

  “Thank you,” the ensign replied as she saluted in return. “Our loadmaster is getting ready to push the cargo modules off … Can your people lend a hand?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Halby replied. “We were starting to run short of food—so you can count on some enthusiastic participation! I’ll get a couple of exoskeletons up here and we’ll empty that ship in no time.”

  “Good,” Tevo replied. “We’re supposed to clear the atmosphere by 0800 local tomorrow morning.”

  The sooner, the better, Halby thought to herself, and activated her suit com.