by Dean M. Cole
The young man relented, his weapon's muzzle lowering to point at the floor.
Behind the lieutenant, one of her Marines stumbled into the room. Remulkin noticed a dab of liquid glistening on the man's chin. Before Thramorus had time to wonder about its origin, the Marine, even paler than his commanding officer, doubled over and tossed the rest of his breakfast across the bridge's deck.
After giving the retching man a sympathetic glance, the lieutenant shifted her gaze to Thramorus. "I saw why you're the only one left. It's a good thing you were still in the forward airlock when the weapon hit. Otherwise, we would've lost you, too. I owe you an apology, sir."
Remulkin ground his teeth. "You see a couple of bloody bisected bodies, and suddenly we're best friends? Stuff your apology, Lieutenant."
Surprise at his appropriate use of her rank registered on the female officer's face.
"Yes, Lieutenant, I know how to read Marine rank insignia. It's the first thing they teach Space Marines."
At her questioning look, he gave the woman a less than crisp salute. "Staff Sergeant Remulkin Thramorus of the First Space Marines," he said gruffly. "But that was before I attended university. I left that life a long time ago and way behind me." He almost added that it was way beneath him, too, but thought better of it.
Both the private who'd guarded him and the corporal—who had ceased his vomiting—regarded Remulkin with belated admiration. Even the lieutenant's expression changed, but all Thramorus saw was their concern.
He glared at the three Marines and said, "I neither want nor need your godsdamned sympathy."
More Marines stumbled into the bridge. Most were as pale as the corporal. Hearing the scientist's raised voice, they exchanged confused glances.
"There's only one thing I need," Remulkin added.
The lieutenant's eyes narrowed. "What's that, Sergeant?"
Her derisive use of his former military rank compounded the apparent confusion of the late arrivals.
Remulkin shifted his glare from the collected Marines to their leader. "You can't provide it, Lieutenant," he said pouring just as much condescension into his use of her junior officer rank as she had into his former enlisted grade. Remulkin paused, his scowl morphing into a grin.
"But Admiral Tekamah can."
***
After being deposited on the invisible raised floor of the Helm Warden bridge's command deck, the portly man scanned the scattered officers. Apparently identifying his quarry, the balding scientist locked eyes with Tekamah. The admiral recognized the man from their video conversation during the battle. Quickly closing the gap, the scientist came to a breathless stop in front of Ashtara.
Considering his appearance and pale, mottled skin, Tekamah had a difficult time picturing the scientist as a Space Marine.
"Mr. Thramorus, thank you for alerting us," the admiral said. "If you hadn't called when you did …" Ashtara stopped, not wanting to finish the thought.
A storm of emotions crossed the scientist's face. Beneath it all, Ashtara saw a resolute man whose eyes displayed obvious intelligence. The man stood at something approximating attention, his previous military experience not quite allowing him to be completely at ease in the presence of a senior military officer.
A moment later, a look of determination triumphed, banishing the myriad emotions crossing Thramorus's visage. "I want back in."
Ashtara blinked. "I'm sorry … what?"
Remulkin's jaw clenched visibly, and the scientist stood a little taller. Suddenly he stood at rigid attention and saluted, Space Marine style: elbow straight forward, head bowed slightly, fingertips of his right hand held to the forehead. Loud enough to echo across the bridge, the scientist said, "Sir, Staff Sergeant Remulkin Thramorus requesting reactivation."
Tekamah scanned the bridge. Every eye was on the scientist. After a brief hesitation, the admiral returned the salute. Lowering his arm, he said, "Please come to my quarters, Mr. Thramorus."
Remulkin blinked, "Sir?"
"Let's go to my cabin. We can discuss our options there."
Tekamah had no interest in wasting additional time with the scientist, but he felt he owed the man at least a moment of his time. Gesturing toward the lift, he said, "This way."
A few minutes later, the two men stood side-by-side studying the assembled fleet visible through the admiral's personal view-wall.
After a few moments of silence, the scientist began fidgeting.
Tekamah turned to him. "What do you want, Mr. Thramorus?"
Still looking through the view-wall, Thramorus narrowed his eyes. "Revenge," he said, his voice cold and calculated. Then a shudder passed through the man, and he turned to face Tekamah. "I want the fuckers to pay!" he yelled. The man's eyes widened, and after a moment he sighed. "Listen, I, uh … Damn it! Sorry, sir." The scientist closed his eyes and took a deep breath. After a moment, he appeared to collect himself and said, "Sir, I lost my whole family. They were all I had. Hell, I don't even have my work. Those scaleheads took everything from me."
Tekamah winced inwardly at the scientist's use of the denigrating slang for all sentient reptilians.
Apparently mistaking Ashtara's poorly hidden revulsion as agreement, Thramorus nodded and continued. "Anyway, sir, I want a chance to balance the scales."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Thramorus." He paused, casting a meaningful glance at the portly man's physique. "I'm afraid your Space Marine days are too far astern."
Remulkin opened his mouth to protest, but the admiral held up a hand and then gestured outside, pointing to the Liberator. "As you know, I am a bit short-handed. In the near term, I'm in no position to turn down assistance. Considering your post-military education, I am issuing a battlefield promotion. You are hereby returned to active duty as Second Lieutenant Remulkin Thramorus," Tekamah said and then thought, For better or worse.
Remulkin stared, finally speechless.
"Don't make me regret this, Lieutenant."
Breaking out of his trance, the scientist snapped to attention, the motion sending waves across the man's ample belly. Bowing his head and saluting, he said, "I won't, sir."
Admiral Tekamah shut down his EON's visual overlay and closed his eyes. After dismissing the newly minted Lieutenant Thramorus, he'd tackled the rest of his staffing issues. He'd shifted his command structure to fill the vacated leadership positions. Tekamah had given the new commanders limited authority to recruit personnel from each of the ships within the fleet. Soon, his entire complement of battlecruisers would be operating at their minimum crew levels. At those reduced staffing levels, they would need significant training and drills before the fleet would again be ready for combat.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. As badly as he wanted to continue to the next sector, he needed to regroup.
Sector 64 was still annoyingly silent. He resisted the urge to call up the network backup of Admiral Thoyd Feyhdyak. The computer-based version had no more data than did Tekamah. And at the moment, Ashtara had no desire to deal with the disconnected personality's unending worries. He'd want closure, push Tekamah to send scouts. The Helm Warden fleet wasn't yet ready for another engagement, and any route scouts took, no matter how circuitous, could reveal the weakened fleet's whereabouts. The only thing protecting them now was the nature of their emergency egress from the Chuvarti system. If Tekamah hadn't dropped an egress transponder buoy outside of the disruptor field, the Zoxyth could have followed the signature of their parallel-space trail to the fallback position. It had bought them time. But he would need to find out what happened in Earth space sooner rather than later.
And Tekamah still needed to find an answer for Thrakst's new weapon.
***
"Where are they?!" Lord Thrakst yelled.
The trembling communications officer shook his head. "There's no parallel-space signature, my Lord. I can't track them. The GDF must've dropped an emergency egress transponder."
It was all Thrakst could do not to kill the idiot where he stood. "What abou
t Salyth?"
"Still nothing, my Lord."
Thrakst roared and slammed a clenched fist against the black basalt arm of his cathedra. "Plot a course for Sector Sixty-Four."
Now even the helmsman looked nervous. Bowing deeply, he said, "My Lord, our core is too depleted. If we make another jump, it won't have sufficient power to charge the weapon."
Thrakst glared at the officer.
On the supreme commander's right, Raja Phascyre stirred and turned his good eye to regard Thrakst. "No sense impaling the courier, my Lord." He paused and activated a datapad. A navigational hologram popped into existence ahead of the two warriors. The Raja manipulated the display, quickly zooming into a specific star system within Sector 64. As the individual planets resolved, Thrakst recognized it as the Sol system.
Phascyre dropped a navigational waypoint on the third orbital body and then zoomed out of the system until the portion of the galaxy between Earth and their current location flowed into the display. Closer to the core, Chuvarti occupied the same galactic arm as Sector 64. Cutting a direct path through the river of stars, a red route line now connected their fleet and Earth's star.
The Raja reached into the display and hooked a talon on the glowing line. Caught like an elastic string, the center of the snagged red thread followed Phascyre's claw as he dragged it to the adjacent galactic arm. When the Raja's talon touched a recognizable formation of stars, the line appeared to lock onto a particular point.
Phascyre drew his talon along the line's distinct ninety-degree bend. "My Lord, we can deviate to the Xyglatek system. It's on the edge of Zoxyth space and provides our shortest option. We can be in and out in no time. They have everything we will need to finish off the GDF."
Thrakst turned from the warrior and glared at Sol's floating holographic pinprick of light. He leaned close, as if doing so might reveal to him the location of the missing fleet. In the dank, dark, cavernous bridge, the galactic arm cast its glow across the Lord's scowling face. A deep, rumbling growl emanated from his massive chest. The talons of both hands clenched, relaxed, and clenched again. "What have you done, Salyth?"
The Lord slowly shook his head. Thrakst leaned back. His massive bulk thudded into the rock back of his cathedra. After releasing a long, rumbling exhalation, he looked at Phascyre and gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"Piece of shit," Remulkin growled as he tugged at the neck of his newly issued battle uniform. In spite of its nanobot-infused smart material, the garments were historically uncomfortable and still required a certain amount of breaking in. Also, he didn't remember the uniform being so snug in the mid-section.
Walking down the long corridor, he approached the door to an office. His EON—newly authorized and augmented with both tactical features and military data—identified the room beyond as belonging to his new commanding officer, First Lieutenant Jenkinson.
Before Remulkin had departed the Helm Warden, the carrier's executive officer assigned freshly minted Second Lieutenant Remulkin Thramorus to the Liberator—the battlecruiser whose doomed crew had recovered Thramorus. After assigning him, the executive officer had ordered Remulkin to catch a shuttle to the battlecruiser and report to this First Lieutenant Jenkinson.
Technically, the unknown lieutenant outranked Remulkin. However, the scientist damned sure wouldn't allow some wet-behind-the-ears young man to Lord over him. He had had more time in the chow line than this Lieutenant Jenkinson had had in the military.
As he approached the door, Remulkin's EON transmitted his identity, but the hatch didn't open. His belly bumped into its surface, and he stumbled backward.
"Damn it!"
A moment later the door finally opened, and a gruff feminine voice said, "Enter."
Thramorus stepped through the opening. Emerging into the room, he froze, realizing the voice had been all too familiar.
"Hello, Thramorus," said his commanding officer—who was neither male nor young. "I see you've been promoted from asshole to second lieutenant."
"You're shitting me!" Thramorus said as he stared incredulously at the woman who'd threatened to shoot him. When she'd first encountered him aboard the emptied battlecruiser, she'd all but accused him of killing everyone on Chuvarti and the Liberator.
"I wish I was, Lieutenant. But we're stuck with one another. I know why I'm here, but for the life of me, I can't figure out why a man of your years would want to return to duty."
Remulkin cocked an eyebrow. "You're not exactly a planting season pup yourself, ma'am," Remulkin said. His face darkened. "You have no idea what I've been through. I lost everything and everyone down—"
"You think you're the only one to lose someone, Lieutenant?" she said, cutting him off. Jenkinson stood, her face darkening as well. "How do you think this not so young Space Marine became a lieutenant?" She walked around her desk and stood directly in front of him. "Get over yourself, Thramorus. Between yesterday's events and the battles of the last year, everyone on this ship has lost friends, loved ones, and comrades."
Indifferently, Remulkin stared back at the lieutenant.
After a long, silent minute, the woman shook her head and returned to her desk. A chair grew from the floor, and she dropped into it.
"Report to Sergeant Kraiger. He'll set you up with quarters. I've ordered him to get you into the incubator as well."
"The incubator? I-I don't need that!"
She gave his belly a meaningful glance. "That says different."
Incubator was Space Marine slang for the device officially known as the Combat Conditioning and Training Expeditor. Reversing the effect of his years of physical fitness neglect would require significant time in the device. Remulkin's belabored heart went into overdrive as he considered the interminable hours he would soon spend in its claustrophobic coffin-shaped confines.
"Now," she said, "as you so eloquently put it: fuck off."
***
Lieutenant Thramorus shook his head again. "I told you, I don't want a network backup, don't want another version of me running in your godsdamned system."
In the soft, sterile light of the unit's medical suite, the younger man raised his hands. "But you don't understand, sir," said the sergeant. "It'll run in parallel. With the speed of our network connection, you won't be able to tell where you end and it begins. It's seamless." Sergeant Kraiger shrugged and added, "You need to have a backup running, Lieutenant. The next time the Zox attack, you might not be in the nose of the ship."
Remulkin shook his head and started prying at the bindings on his left wrist.
After Sergeant Kraiger had assigned his quarters, the man had led Thramorus to this room. Apparently acting as the unit's medic as well as its logistician, the young man had guided Remulkin toward a medical device that resembled a torture chair. Remulkin had finally understood the sergeant's intentions when Kraiger began to strap down his left arm.
Presently, he extricated his left wrist from the bindings and closed his eyes. Again the final image of his family within their Chuvarti residence rushed to fill his mind's visual void. This time, he didn't shun it. This was Remulkin's hell to live.
In his mind's eye, the scientist watched the evil, all-consuming light flood through his wife's favorite curtains, turning the umber window coverings ivory. Then, rendered in shades of white, Shikhana and their two children seemed to swim in a lake of blinding light. A shudder rolled down Remulkin's spine as he watched his drowning family disappear beneath the lake's radiant waves.
A year ago, when they'd first discussed traveling to Chuvarti, his wife had used the same arguments as Sergeant Kraiger did now. Remulkin had balked then as well, but for more selfish reasons.
Network backups were usually limited to Argonians assigned to the Galactic Defense Forces. However, colonial governments offered a fee-based version of the service to all new settlers. Thramorus had argued against it. The backup procedure was expensive, and even with the current offering of group plans, the data cha
rges for a family's worth of bandwidth were exorbitant. Remulkin had assured Shikhana that they wouldn't be in any greater risk on Chuvarti than they were on Argonia.
How wrong he had been.
Remulkin opened his eyes and shook his head. "Fucking idiot," he whispered.
Sergeant Kraiger's head snapped back as if slapped. "Excuse me, sir?"
Blinking, Remulkin looked at the young man's reddening face. Still shaking his head, Thramorus said, "Nothing."
He'd made the wrong decision on Argonia, a decision for which he didn't want a second life's worth of regret.
Remulkin swallowed back the lump in his throat and then looked at Kraiger. "Listen, Sergeant. I know you mean well, but I'm not doing the fucking backup."
"Suit yourself," the sergeant said, his tone filling in the omitted "asshole".
Inwardly, Remulkin shook his head and thought, You don't know how right you are, Sergeant.
PART II
"The struggle is always worthwhile, if the end be worthwhile and the means honorable; foreknowledge of defeat is not sufficient reason to withdraw from the contest."
— Steven Brust
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Inside the cockpit of her Phoenix Starfighter, Major Sandra Fitzpatrick could see in every direction. An immersive, unobstructed, omnidirectional rendering of the external universe flowed across the inside of her fighter's spherical display. Flying while wrapped in its immersive imagery was like sailing through space in a lawn chair—except that Sandy could see through herself.
Today, when she had climbed into the fighter, nanobots programmed to fluoresce in polarized light had covered her body from the neck down. Tucking into the woman's every curve, they covered the portions of her form and the ship's adjacent interior structures that would otherwise obscure her view of the spheroidal display's internal surface. As Major Fitzpatrick flew through space, the glowing nanobots that had flowed around her physique and onto the spacecraft's adjacent surfaces formed an active image. Differentiated by her EON's optical feed, their polarized light generated a three-dimensional display that always pumped out a real-time video optimized for her current viewing angle. Regardless of which way Sandy looked, she couldn't differentiate the image of the external universe painted across her body from the one that flowed across the inside of the spherical display.
