Moral High Ground: Crew of the Ninja #1

by Joseph Bradshire

  The cadets clapped and started hooting but went silent when Sam glared at them.

  The second round went even faster. Jon acted as if he was going to circle again but instead reversed his feet, tossing his blade to his other hand. He caught Sam completely flat footed and jabbed him in the heart with an extended off hand thrust.

  This time the cadets let up a roar that not even Sam’s glare could quash. Jon was happy, smiling for the first time in weeks. His worry quickly returned though, it was hard to be elated when your career was in limbo.

  “Okay, okay,” Sam said. “We’ve had our fun for the day. Captain Aichele will now lead us on a leisurely 10k jaunt. Anyone lagging will be first in line to assist my warm up tomorrow.”

  Goddamn Walchli. Running. Jon wasn’t built for it. He hadn’t run any serious distance in years outside of the treadmill time required of all active officers. Jon’s homeworld, Cornhaul, had an extra 22% gravity over Earth. So at least he had that advantage. Still, he was going to need a float chair after this.

  Jon started running. Steeling himself for the ordeal. Sam was right beside him, loping along easily in the Earth gravity, grinning.

  * * *

  Jon laid on his bed and stared up at the ceiling. Going over the incident in his head over and over. He couldn’t see exactly where he’d gone wrong, but then he’d see a flaw in his decision making process. Then dismiss it as trivial. Over and over he ran the scenario. Save the shuttle. Shoot it down. Life and death. Lose your first command or stay in place. Respect. Career.

  He heard a knock at the door. A pounding really. Goddamn Sam. Jon was still exhausted from that morning’s run.

  “What do you want you big beef steak? I know it’s you, I can tell from the ham fist banging on the door.”

  Sam let himself in. “Let’s go out for a drink.”

  A drink? That was the last thing Jon wanted to do. He’d rather sit in his room and brood. Plan a strategy to defend himself at the tribunal.

  “Look Sam I think I’m just going to hang out here. Maybe read up a bit more on the legal precedents. Go over logs again, maybe. I have a lot on my mind.”

  “I know. Letting you win in the circle today didn’t clear your head. So that’s why you come out with me. Alcohol. Clears the mind. Like magic.”

  “Let me win, huh?”

  Sam did have a point. Maybe a little distraction was in order?

  Sam continued, “Come on Captain. I know the perfect place. You’ll love it.”

  * * *

  Sam took Jon halfway across Chicago to a place called The Might and Sword. Jon had never heard of it, but Sam was rarely wrong when it came to drinking establishments. Being with an old friend, seeing Chicago for the first time in a few years, it all helped to keep his mind off his career trouble.

  Sam led the way inside, through double swinging doors, and marched straight to the back wall. There was an open table. Jon suspected it was Sam’s favorite. It had a Sam sized bench fit for his brick house frame.

  The bartender came from behind the bar along with another man, the other man spoke, “Sir, I am the owner of this establishment. We will not tolerate the behavior you displayed last time. We will not hesitate to call the police.”

  Great. Sam had history at this bar. Of course he did.

  Sam tried for his best imitation of an innocent face. His face was all leather and creases, so it came off comical.

  “Sir last time was a huge misunderstanding. I promise you, this time, no fights.”

  The bartender looked unconvinced but the owner said, “I will take you at your word, this time. Do not make me regret it.”

  With that the owner turned around and left, back to whatever he’d been doing before they’d walked in. The bartender backed away slowly, eyes still on Sam, as if challenging him. He probably thought he looked authoritative or intimidating. Sam got up quickly to remove his jacket and the bartender jumped, just a little.

  Sam looked down at Jon and they both laughed.

  “Two pineapple juices please,” Sam ordered.

  While their drinks were coming Jon looked around at the place. Something was off but he couldn’t quite place it. There was a large crucifix on one wall, with crossed swords. It reminded Jon of something, something he couldn’t place. Sword and cross.

  Then it all clicked. Oh my God. They were in a Crusader bar. A place where Humanists on their religious mission could go to relax with other Humanists. It was every Humanist’s duty to volunteer for two years, usually in their early 20’s, to go out into the galaxy and spread the gospel, to do good works in service to the The Great Church of Humanity.

  Some did humanitarian stints on backwater worlds, some others went to the academy and joined Battlefleet. Many others went into a paramilitary religious order, the Crusaders, serving on ships that observed strict religious codes. They often served as auxiliaries to the main Terran Protectorate Battlefleet.

  They did a damn good job of it too. They were a real asset to Battlefleet as long as they stayed out of the way when the warheads started flying. They didn’t drink though. Not a drop of alcohol. No exceptions.

  “Sam. I hate you,” Jon said. “Honestly. I really do hate you.”

  Sam said nothing until their drinks came. He sniffed his drink and said, “What? You don’t like juice bars? Best juice bar in Chicago.” He waived his hands around theatrically, as if giving Jon a grand tour of a treasured museum.

  “I thought we were going out boozing. You know, get my mind off of things maybe?”

  Silently, but without even the slightest attempt to hide it, Sam pulled out a large pocket flask, topping off their juice beverages.

  “There. Now we’re drinking. Don’t be such a whiner.”

  “Is this Valhallan Break Gin?” Jon asked.

  “Maybe. Just drink it. You’ll like it.”

  “You know it’s illegal, right?”

  “No. Importing it is illegal. Selling it is illegal. Possession is not. Not on Earth. I checked.”

  Which meant Sam probably cooked up this batch himself. Which is also illegal. Jon sighed and took a sip. Gin and pineapple sounded terrible but it was Jon’s favorite cocktail. Sam was well aware of that.

  The problem with the stuff was how fast it acted. Which was why it was illegal. Idiots would down a whole glass and lose their minds. It was a sipping beverage. Sip a little, get a buzz. Sip a little more, and so on. You really needed to know how to handle your booze or things could get real ugly.

  Jon was starting to relax when three men wearing sword and cross insignia approached their table. Crusaders. Tough guys. Jon looked over at Sam and could see the excitement. Antagonizing tough guys was one of Sam’s favorite activities.

  “You know this is a dry bar,” the middle Crusader said. It was not a question. He was doing his best to sound commanding. He almost pulled it off.

  “Yes. It’s a juice bar,” Jon answered. “Best in Chicago.” Jon waived his hands around theatrically, mimicking Sam’s earlier flourish.

  Sam was silent. The Crusaders probably thought that was encouraging, emboldening.

  “Well that’s not juice you’re drinking. We saw the flask. Alcohol isn’t permitted here.”

  With that the middle Crusader, the defacto leader, reached down and picked up Jon’s drink. He poured it out onto the floor. Jon looked around, there were at least 10 other Crusaders and maybe a dozen other tough guys standing up all around the bar. Everyone looking in Jon’s direction.

  Jon remained seated. He really wasn’t interested in getting into a fight. Not with the entire bar. He wasn’t nearly drunk enough for that, not yet. Then the Crusader did one of the stupidest things he could have done in that moment.

  He reached for Sam’s drink.

  The table didn’t actually explode. It splintered, and pieces flew all over the bar, so a person viewing the scene after the fact might think an explosion occurred. But that’s not what happened.

  Sam happened. Growing up in 182% grav
ity makes furniture a delicate thing. Bolting a table to the floor, so that it couldn’t be moved, becomes more of a suggestion than a surety. Sam ripped the table up off of its mountings and half slid it, half threw it at the three Crusaders.

  All three went down under the table with Sam on top, pressing the splintered remains of the table onto them.

  Jon was ready. This wasn’t the first time Sam had pulled something like this, so Jon was prepared when half a dozen Crusaders jumped Sam from behind.

  You gotta hand it to those Crusader boys. Strictly religious, sure, and that can be annoying if you aren’t religious yourself, but when it came to fighting you can count on them to step up. And step up they did.

  For the moment they were ignoring Jon and trying to drag Sam down. There were enough of them to do the job too, Sam was tough but not super human.

  Done hesitating, Jon waded into the fray. Unlike Sam, who was more likely to wrestle and throw men around, Jon went straight for the knock out. Punching men in the head left and right. There were plenty of heads to punch.

  Soon several of the Crusaders were facing off with Jon, and more were jumping into the fray. One picked up a bottle like he was going to use it as a weapon. The bartender grabbed it and scolded him.

  In another bar bottles and pool sticks and chairs would have been used as weapons, but in a Crusader bar that would be bad form. To assault another human with a weapon when it wasn’t necessary, that’s a sin. Fight, sure. That’s fine. But doing real harm out of anger was to be out of control of one’s emotions. That’s not the Crusader way.

  Not that they needed weapons of any kind to beat up Jon. He was being kicked and punched from all directions. Off balance, he was about to go down when Sam grabbed his shoulder and dragged him toward the door.

  Jon and Sam punched and pushed their way to the door, making it outside. Then they ran out into the night, followed by the yelling and hooting of the Crusaders.

  Jon regretted the 10 klicks he’d run earlier that day. Rounding a corner out of sight of the bar Jon stopped, hands on his knees, head hanging.

  “Sam I gotta stop, I don’t think they are chasing us.”

  Sam stuck his head around the corner to check. “Yeah. They aren’t coming. They don’t like fighting heavy worlders. Can’t say I blame them, I wouldn’t like it either.”

  Jon stood, catching his breath while Sam leaned against the building. Sam was battered and bruised in a few places, but no serious damage. Jon had some tenderness in his ribs, but no stabbing pain when he breathed. Meaning his ribs probably weren’t broken. Probably.

  “So Captain, do you feel better now?” Sam asked.

  “Actually…yes. I feel great.” Jon smiled. He did feel great. Better than he’d felt in weeks. No worries. No anxiety. The empty minded bliss of adrenalin. The clarity of the fight or flight mechanism. It was exactly what he’d needed.

  “Good,” Sam said. “For a moment there I thought I’d lost you to despair. Even letting you beat me in the circle in front of all those kids didn’t cure you.”

  “Your counseling methods are effective, Chief, and I thank you. But for the record I beat you fair and square.”

  Sam just smiled, cocking his head. “We’ll see. We’ll rematch tomorrow.”

  Great. Another rough day tomorrow. Jon had almost forgotten what it was like to spend time with Sam. You spent half your time healing. Still, Sam was a great friend. Jon tended to brood on things, to dwell. Sam didn’t allow that.

  “Well now I really do need a drink,” Jon said. Straightening up, mostly recovered.

  “I thought you might,” Sam said. “I know the perfect place. You’ll love it.”

  Chapter Three

  Jon was technically awake, if ‘awake’ was a relative term meaning not exactly asleep. Jon lay in his bed, looking up at the ceiling, wondering if it was the booze or the fighting, or maybe the running and wrestling, that hurt the worst. Jon decided it was probably the booze. Headaches trump a few bruised ribs.

  Jon was about to summon the strength to roll out of bed when he heard a pounding on his door.

  “Dammit Sam, I’m up.” Sam was the only one that would pound on his door this early, he would be up already and infuriatingly fresh.

  Jon keyed the door open.

  It was an ensign, a messenger.

  “Captain Aichele. Good morning. Admiral Aichele would like a word at your earliest convenience.”

  Jon was caught off guard. Why not message him on his pocket com? Sending a flesh and blood messenger was strange. Also, his father, the Admiral, should be out on the Saurian Frontier somewhere, not back on Earth.

  “Sure. I have training this morning at the academy, but any time afterward would be fine.”

  The ensign hesitated, nervous. The zero on his shoulders, the insignia for ensign, looked shiny and new. Fresh out of the academy. Running errands for an admiral was probably the most important thing he’d ever done in his young life.

  “I’m to escort you,” The ensign said, with a touch of guilt. Addressing a superior officer as if ordering him around had to be nerve wracking for the kid.

  “I see.” Jon almost asked questions but knew the ensign wouldn’t know anything.

  “I’m also to confiscate your pocket com.” The ensign looked horrified at this point. Jon must have looked more haggard and scary than usual. Can’t blame the ensign for being nervous though. All this cloak and dagger was strange, even to Jon.

  “Sure kid. Whatever you need to do.” Jon handed over his com.

  “Quit being so nervous, I’m not going to snap your head off. Take a seat, I’ll dress and shower and we’ll go straight there.”

  The ensign didn’t sit. He stood at parade rest in the doorway.

  Jon started pulling out a dress uniform, shouting over his shoulder, “If you can send a message with your com to Chief Samson Walchli that I’ll not be at training, it would avoid confusion.”

  The ensign sent the message but otherwise did nothing and said nothing while Jon finished getting ready.

  * * *

  The ensign led Jon down several nondescript corridors at the Battlefleet Central Command building. It was a massive mazelike structure. Jon had no idea where he was when they finally reached their destination. That was probably on purpose. Without his pocket com Jon had no way of discovering his location or telling anyone what was happening. Operational security. Secrets on top of secrets.

  The ensign leading the way, Jon entered a small briefing room. Inside was Jon’s father, Admiral Victor Aichele, sitting behind a large table.

  Jon could tell by the look on his father’s face that something was wrong. That, and all the strangeness proceeding the meeting, put Jon on alert. Something big was up. For a moment he thought it might have something to do with the minor scuffle he’d had with the Crusaders the night before, but no, this was something bigger. Besides, Crusaders aren’t ones to cry to the authorities over a broken table and a few black eyes.

  “Ensign, his com please.” The Admiral held out his hand, the ensign quickly handed over the com.

  “Now wait outside, and close the door.”

  The Ensign left without a word. Not even a “Yes sir” as protocol demanded. The kid’s nerves must be frayed. Jon’s certainly were.

  When the ensign closed the door Jon finally spoke, “Good to see you dad. How’s the Saurian Frontier treating you?”

  “Poorly. More incidents every month, but I’m not here for small talk. Obviously. I have a mission for you. Top secret.” The Admiral spoke quickly, pulling out his own pocket com and showing it to Jon. On the screen was a picture of a woman, and a name. Young Rae.

  “Next week this young lady will graduate from Oxford University. You need to get her off planet after that.”

  “Is that what all this secrecy is about? I thought maybe I was in trouble for something.”

  “No,” The Admiral said. “And I know all about that little adventure at the Might and Sword last night. No. Thi
s is bigger than your poor choice of night clubs. This girl is in some sort of trouble.”

  “Why not just hire a shuttle and get her out? Maybe a regular military escort?” Jon asked.

  “I don’t know. There’s a lot I don’t know. What I do know is that this is a personal request by powerful members in the Protectorate Council, people I’ve worked with for years. They’ve asked me to be as discrete as possible, and have told me next to nothing.”

  The Admiral slid Jon’s com across the desk to him. “You can have this back now, had to make sure you didn’t call anyone or run a tracer that could be tracked. I hope I am sufficiently communicating the highly sensitive nature of this mission.”

  “Yes. I can’t believe you came all the way here personally to deliver orders. How did you know I would be on Earth? You couldn’t have known about my disgrace and recall in time to travel all the way from the frontier.”

  The Admiral sighed. Looking off in the distance, thinking. He didn’t seem angry, not that he ever really got angry. Jon’s father was one of the most level headed men in the galaxy, it made him an especially deadly fleet commander.

  “I didn’t know you were here until I jumped into the system last night. I was going to send Sam before I found out you were here. He was the only one on Earth I trusted 100%. He’s already in Oxford, tailing her. He went out this morning, I held you back a bit so I could talk to you face to face. You’ll join him later today.”

  “I’m supposed to stay in the area,” Jon said. “For the inquiry.” Jon couldn’t hide his shame, looking at the ground. His father was acting like it was no big deal. To Jon, it was everything.

  The Admiral said, softly, “Look son. The inquiry is already over, or never really started. At this level, with your father being an Admiral and with your brother’s handicap, you are going to be subject to political attacks. That’s all your recall was, pure political maneuvering. There is nothing in the ship record that shows you endangered humanity. Protectorate medical teams have already examined and cleared the Homians, they are no danger. Just a minor melanin tweak to avoid skin cancer from their sun. Nothing more. Only the red tape is holding up their integration into the galactic whole.”