by Nick Webb
That very night they’d gone to a bar, and Ben got him out of his very first fight—in the loosest sense, as got out really meant he pummeled the Imperial officers assailing Jake to a bloody pulp. All that martial arts training came in handy after all, and as Ben grinned at the men writhing in pain on the floor from broken limbs, Jake, laying on the ground, saluted him with a bloody finger.
He walked past his quarters and up to the door five down from his, and entered.
“Tell me what the master’s first words were to you. What did Stone tell you?”
The man still cowered in the corner, in the dark, covered in a navy-blue blanket. “What?”
“After he injected you. What did he say? What were his orders?”
Rhys hesitated. “I—I don’t remember. I don’t know.”
“Think.” Ben took another step into the room and the door slid shut behind him.
Rhys paused, biting his lip and squeezing his eyes shut, as if forcing the answer to his memory.
He opened his eyes. His voice was eerily calm. Dead, and croaking. “You will obey my every command.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes. He would be my master and I his servant for all eternity.” Rhys looked up. “Why? What did he tell you?”
You will obey my every command. That was what the master had told Rhys. And it appeared to have worked. The broken shell of a man indeed had obeyed his master down to the smallest command. That was why he’d broken so easily. So completely.
“What did he tell you?” Rhys repeated.
YOU WILL HURT THOSE CLOSEST TO YOU!
Ben turned and walked through the door sliding open. “Nothing. Get some rest, Rhys.”
***
In the morning, Jake woke up to the sound of the comm buzzing persistently at him.
“Yeah?” he grumbled.
“Captain, Ensign Falstaff on the bridge. You’ve got several messages waiting for you, sir. Sergeant Tomaga wants to talk to you, as does Captain Brand. And then there’s the Prime Minister’s office—they called early this morning. Something about inviting you to a banquet or some nonsense.”
“Is that all?” he mumbled again, this time into his pillow. He reckoned only four hours had passed since he’d collapsed on the bed, fresh from being patched up in sickbay. What the hell have you been doing down there, son? the Doctor’s reprimanded when he’d walked in, face still showing signs of dried blood. He’d managed to bring the purple bruising under control, but the broken nose would have to heal on its own—no bone mending medication for Jake this time. He flatly refused after his experience with the stuff after the mishap with the motorcycle and the canyon.
“That’s all, sir. Will you be up here soon?”
Jake wiped a bit of drool from the corner of his lips. “Working on it.” He’d have to teach the bridge crew not to contact him before six in the morning. He glanced at his clock.
Nine-thirty.
Dammit. “I’ll be there shortly. Mercer out.”
After throwing on some clothes and shaving off yesterday’s stubble, he took the elevator down to deck fifteen, hoping to see what Tomaga wanted before he headed up to the bridge and faced the inevitable deluge of administrative work, approving work orders, and answering all the calls he’d missed by daring to get four hours of sleep.
The door to the elevator slid noisily open—he should have one of the techs look at that, after the rest of the critical systems had been fixed, of course—and took in the scene before him.
To his right and left stood the marine guards he’d set at the entrance to the elevator, as a subtle reminder to the 51st brigade that though they were guests, they were also not free to walk around the ship unaccompanied. But in the middle of the large open space of deck fifteen was a group of the 51st brigade massed around two men, who were throwing things at the wall.
It was Tomaga, and Sergeant Logan Jayce—one of the rough and tumble marines he’d seen in the rescue force Po had sent down to Destiny—playing darts. With each throw of Tomaga the men alternated between cheering and moaning as the shots either found their mark or went wide.
Jake watched for a moment as the two concluded the round, which ended when Sergeant Jayce landed his last dart right in the center of the board, eliciting a chorus of moans from the gathered marines of the 51st brigade, and a curt, polite nod from Tomaga. The other man caught Mercer’s eye and walked over.
“Captain, thank you for coming to see me,” said the soldier, who carried himself with the bearing of an officer.
“Glad to. You boys doing ok down here?”
Tomaga nodded. “As good as might be.” He paused, and seemed to hesitate. “Captain, how is the investigation progressing into Private Ling’s murder?”
Jake kicked himself on the inside. He’d barely had the time to think about the troubling matter since he’d returned. Private Ling, with his windpipe savagely crushed, had been found in empty quarters in the aftermath of the battle over Destiny five days ago.
“Honestly? Not well. As you know we’ve been a little preoccupied trying to fend off the assault, again, from our good friend Admiral Trajan, and then, another one from the Vikorhov strike force. We’ve just barely docked at Oberon just yesterday. But I promise you, we’re on it. I’ll keep you apprised, of course.” He lied through his teeth. He hadn’t so much as thought about the investigation, and in fact had been hanging out in a bar late the previous night. Of course, he’d only been doing so to try and help Ben, his best friend and chief of security, but still the guilt gnawed at him. He should really meet with Lieutenant Valkyrie to discuss her preliminary results.
Tomaga set his jaw and did his best not to appear angry, but for a brief moment his utter professionalism slipped. “Captain, one of my men lies dead in your morgue and the murderer is currently walking the halls of your ship.”
Jake grit his own teeth but nodded. “I realize that, Sergeant, and I assure you we’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“I hope so, Captain. The assailant could strike again, and this time the victim might not be a member of the 51st brigade.”
Was that a threat? Jake bristled on the inside, but kept his cool. He wanted to point out that Private Ling was found far outside the boundaries he’d set for them on deck fifteen, but thought better of it. Best not inflame a tense situation. “I understand, Sergeant Tomaga. I’m indeed sorry for your loss, and I won’t tolerate this behavior among my crew. I promise you the perpetrator will be brought to justice.”
“Or the perpetrators,” Tomaga added, emphasizing the plural. “The chance that one man could take down Private Ling and murder him without any weapon other than their hands and feet is nothing short of miraculous. There may be a conspiracy aboard your ship, Captain.”
Jake nodded—the man had a point. The first order Captain Watson had given him was to go out among the crew and get a read on them. They needed to know who was loyal to the Resistance and who were Imperialists. He and Po had started, and it turned out the most of the crew was former Resistance to begin with, but they’d never finished their job.
But why would an Imperial loyalist be murdering members of the 51st brigade? It didn’t make any sense.
“I assure you, Sergeant, I am doing my best to get at the bottom of this.”
“Thank you, Captain, I just hope that your best is enough.”
Tomaga let the question linger in the air before Jake encouraged them to continue their game, cheering when one of Tomaga’s soldiers, Corporal Kapoor, beat Logan Jayce in another game.
Jake did his best to calm the tension he’d apparently caused on deck fifteen with his arrival, even playing a game of darts, doubling up with Sergeant Jayce against Tomaga and one of his soldiers, Corporal Kapoor, a spry Indian woman who was far better at darts than Tomaga, staying until the atmosphere relaxed.
Once on board the elevator to the bridge twenty minutes later he breathed a sigh of relief. From disaster to disaster, it seemed. And he’d only been in command f
or a month.
The door to the bridge slid open and Ensign Falstaff greeted him. The bridge was running on a skeleton crew, with most of the rest of the staff either asleep or on leave in Oberon’s capital city, getting some well-deserved rest and diversion. With the death of their crew mates and the constant state of battle and tension since Liberty Station, he’d wondered how they’d held it together for so long without a break.
“Shall I raise Captain Brand on the comm, sir?” said Falstaff, rising reluctantly from the captain’s chair and returning to his place at communications.
“By all means, Ensign. Good job with your first stint in the big seat,” he said, thumbing over to the captain’s chair.
“Thank you, sir.” Falstaff fiddled with the comm controls before momentarily glancing back over at him. “I’ve got Captain Brand now, sir. He’s apparently been waiting for you.”
“Always late but worth the wait. Patch him through.” Jake listened to the speakers scratch on. “Captain Brand, this is Captain Mercer. Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning to you, Mercer. I just wanted to inform you that our factories have completed your armament request.”
Jake’s eyebrows raised. “All of it? All the rounds of railgun slugs? All five hundred tons of it?”
“That’s correct, Mercer. When I told the Prime minister that the sooner you got your supplies the sooner you’d be gone, well shit, he just opened right up and pushed the order through. I guess bureaucrats can come in handy sometimes. Heh,” he said with a chuckle.
“Well that’s great news, Captain. When can we receive the delivery?”
“I’ll arrange for my men to drop it off throughout the day—it’ll take several shipments. About seven different factories worked all night to crank these babies out. Cost us a pretty penny, too, even after the government discount.”
“I’m sorry,” began Jake, “can I help defray the cost? We have some gold bars over here that might serve as acceptable currency….”
Brand laughed out loud. “Don’t you worry, Mercer. You’ve more than paid us. More than you’ll ever know. You’re responsible for most of my men still being alive, and for that I’m in your debt.”
The words of the Prime Minister came back to him, suggesting that he shouldn’t be throwing in so easily with what the man had essentially claimed were mercenaries.
“It’s nothing, really. We were just in the right place at the right time.”
“Would that I had your luck, Captain Mercer! Expect the shipments within a few hours. Brand out.”
Jake smirked. Would that he had Jake’s luck indeed.
“Captain, the Prime Minister’s office asked to talk to you as well,” said Falstaff.
“Fine. Let’s get this over with. So when are you going down to the surface, Ensign?” he added, changing the subject.
“Someone’s gotta keep your seat warm while you’re gone, sir,” the young Ensign replied with a grin, looking up momentarily from his communications console.
“You’re from New York?” Jake thought he recognized the accent.
“Yes, sir, good old Bronx, USNA.”
Jake had never been up to the northeast, to any of the old cities. Most had been devastated in the Robot Wars of the twenty first century, and some had simply never been rebuilt. New York had risen from the ashes, however, as it had done before. But the old boroughs were as rough as ever, and Jake considered it a miracle that any kid could come out of there and make it through the Imperial Academy as the young Ensign apparently had. “Never been there myself. I’d been meaning to take a trip up there, but then, you know, revolution and armed resistance and all that….”
Falstaff chuckled. “I hear you, sir. Haven’t been back home myself in years. Too busy with the good fight. Mom just about killed me last Christmas when I didn’t show. I was too busy with my Resistance unit—we’d upped our undercover training around then in prep for the Big Op,” he said, referring to the Battle of the Nine just one month ago. “You have family, sir?”
Jake’s thoughts strayed back to his father, sprawled out drunk and incoherent on the musty couch the last time he’d seen him. And his mother, back on Bainbridge Island, fussing and pestering him for a visit. He felt guilty—he never visited her like he said he was going to—he’d bought the flight ticket and everything.
But then war happened. D-Day happened. Instead of visiting Bainbridge Island in Washington, he was stuck in the other Washington, being grilled relentlessly by government officials about his involvement in that last battle. How he disobeyed direct orders to defend the ground installations in Dallas and instead flew up, intercepting all those nukes raining down.
He should have been hailed as a hero, stopping—what was it, twelve nukes all by himself and Po? But, just like in soccer, no one cares about all the potential goals the keeper blocks. The crowd only cares about that one that got away.
The one that incinerated ten million people.
“Sir?”
Jake blinked, and came back to the moment. “Yeah, Ensign. Mom, dad, sister—the whole shebang. Just watched the big game with my dad right before reporting for duty on the Phoenix.”
Falstaff nodded in recognition, and looked about to engage in playful sports banter before his console grabbed his attention. “I’ve got the Prime Minister’s office now, sir.”
“Patch it through.” He heard the soft beep that indicated the channel had been opened, and clearing his throat he began, “This is Captain Mercer. I understand you wanted to speak to me, Mr. Prime Minister?”
A no-nonsense woman’s voice rang out over the speakers. “This is Drusilla Vale, the Prime Minister’s Chief of Staff. He’s asked me to invite you to a banquet in your honor tomorrow afternoon. Will you be able to attend with your senior officers?”
Jake glanced back at the XO’s chair, where he had grown accustomed to seeing Po. He liked to watch her face during conversations such as these, to see if her expression matched his own thoughts. Because to him this sounded a little odd. Hadn’t the Prime Minister just asked him to leave the planet as soon as possible? Hadn’t he suggested that the Phoenix’s presence there was risking provocation of the Vikorhov Federation? Why now invite the senior staff to a banquet where there would surely be other dignitaries, government officials, and worse: the press? For once, Po wasn’t in her chair. Apparently, she’d finally gone to bed. Even Grizzly needed to sleep.
“I would be honored, Ms. Vale—”
“Your Excellence,” interrupted the Chief of Staff.
“Excuse me?”
“The Chief of Staff of the Executive Branch is usually addressed as your excellence, Captain Mercer.” The reply was matter-of-fact, with a touch of annoyance. It was as if the woman expected him to know the social niceties of a world he’d never been to. Or maybe she was annoyed that she, the Chief of Staff of the executive branch, had been given such a secretarial task. Jake rolled his eyes and flashed a lopsided grin at Falstaff.
“My mistake, your excellence. Yes, your excellence, we would be honored to join the Prime Minister at the banquet. Just give us the time and place, and we’ll be there.”
“Noon, tomorrow, at the Ashari Opera House. It is just outside of the city center and is where the Prime Minister often entertains high profile guests.”
“Will we be treated to some Oberanian Opera?”
“No,” she replied, abruptly. “This is just a social reception. There are a handful of congresspeople and celebrities that wish to meet you, that is all.” She paused, as if talking to someone else nearby her. “Very well, Captain, we shall expect you at noon tomorrow. You and your senior staff, and whoever else you wish to bring. Goodbye,” she left off, abruptly.
“Well now that’s damn peculiar,” said Jake, out loud. Falstaff looked up from his console.
“Sir?”
Jake wasn’t sure if he wanted to discuss high-level Oberanian politics with his communications officer. Oh, what the hell. “Just that as recently as yester
day the Prime Minister was trying to shoo us off Oberon as soon as he could, and now they’re inviting us to dinner.”
Falstaff shrugged. “Looks like something made them change their mind?”
“Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of. I just hope that whatever changed his mind is really just a bunch of curious congresspeople.”
Falstaff shook his head. “As opposed to…?”
“I don’t know. But my bullshit detector just went off. Something about her voice.”
The young man at communications chuckled, “Yeah, she sure sounded like she wasn’t happy to be inviting you.”
“Yeah.” Jake stood up. It was time he got ready to receive the supplies promised by Brand. “Oh well. Free food, right?”
“Hell yeah, Cap’n, that’s what I’d say if I were going,” Falstaff grinned, and swiveled back to his console. Jake decided he liked the young comm officer. “Hey, how about I send you instead?”
“And give up a chance to sit in the captain’s chair for a few more hours? No thanks, sir. Besides, just think how pissed the Prime Minister would be if I showed up instead of you.”
Jake sighed, and walked towards the exit. “Right. You have the bridge again, Ensign.”
***
Ben twisted the accelerator in his grip and raced ahead, swerving around the two motorcycles ahead of him and pulling into the lead. Leaning down hard to the left, hanging halfway off his bike, he peeled around the curve and rocketed far ahead of his companions.
The wind blew his hair back in a wild, unkempt mess, and the warm smell of summer pavement rose up to meet him as the twilit highway zoomed underneath. He wondered when was the last time he’d even ridden a bike and came up empty. Years?
