by Jean Johnson
“I did pay attention to our instructions on hexawalker operations, sir,” she countered dryly.
“I meant, how did you know how to explain it in a way that Recruit Kumanei understood?” Ferrar corrected. “You weren’t using the standard explanations and terminology the Terran military gives to its recruits.”
“She’s from Tokyo Underside, sir,” Ia explained. “They use a lot of public transport, a few hover vehicles, some ground cars, and a lot of wall-crawlers. Of those four, the wall-crawlers are probably the closest to a hexawalker. Where I grew up, we have numerous kinds of vehicles for wilderness explorations, both for surface and subterranean. I’ve manned both hexawalkers and wall-crawlers back home,” she confessed, shrugging. “I took a chance that she might know how to operate one—I’ve heard they’re popular among teenagers down in the Underside. Luckily, she did.”
“Your reaction time on your fellow recruit’s crisis was also commendable. How did you know she was in trouble?” the lieutenant asked next.
This was an easy question to answer. “I was keeping an eye on my squad mates as well as on the exercise objectives, sir. Kumanei just happened to be next in line when I looked up and saw that she didn’t look right. Knowing her background, it was easy enough to guess that she’d mixed up her control commands.”
“Yes,” Lt. Ferrar murmured, brown eyes flicking between her and his workstation screen. “Your profile suggests you’re rather quick in many things.” Bracing his forearms on the edge of his desk, Ferrar laced his fingers together and gave her a look of polite interest. Not quite a smile, but polite and attentive. “Alright. You tell me why I should make you a Buck Sergeant.”
“You shouldn’t.” Ia watched him blink, and guessed he had made the offer to see if she was the kind of glory-hog who would take the promotion. She didn’t wait for him to respond beyond that, but laid out her logic. “I’m a wet-behind-the-ears recruit fresh out of Basic, sir. No one in your outfit would be willing to take a sergeant’s level of orders from someone like me. Corporal, you might be able to get away with. It’s a higher rank than PFC, but not that much higher in responsibility and authority. It would be a challenge since I am fresh out of Basic, but that level of promotion wouldn’t stir up anywhere near the same degree of resentment and resistance as making me a sergeant would, sir. Not even a relatively lowly Buck Sergeant.”
“So you think I should make you a Corporal? Or even a Lance Corporal?” Ferrar asked her.
She wasn’t going to fall into that trap. “The easiest course, Lieutenant, would be to keep me a Private First Class, see how I do, and then promote me based on merit, as is standard, sir.”
He studied her a long moment, then opened up one of the latched drawers in his desk. “I don’t ‘do’ the easiest course. Your new assignment is under Lieutenant D’kora’s command, 2nd Platoon, position A Squad Alpha. Your teammate is Corporal Angela Estes, and your shared quarters are on Deck 7, Section D, Corridor 4 Foxtrot A Alpha.” Ferrar stood and held out the two objects he had extracted from the drawer. One was a headsized box stuffed with the patches and pins bearing the two chevron stripes and one curved rocker of her new rank. The other was a datachip. “The chip has the protocols and operations manual for this Company on it. Study it. As the senior corporal for your Squad, you’ll be expected to help enforce it.
“Welcome to Ferrar’s Fighters, Lance Corporal Ia,” he stated firmly. “The DoI says you can do the job. Don’t prove them wrong. Go and get familiar with your new life. Our next call to arms could come any day, and you’ll need to be ready for it.”
She stood as well, accepting the box and chip with a salute. “I’ll do my best, sir.”
“So we’ve heard. Don’t disappoint us,” Lt. D’kora murmured. Rising, she nodded at the door. “I’ll show you to your quarters and introduce you to your squad mates, Corporal. They’re in the gym right now.”
Pausing just long enough to unsnap her left sleeves and slot the manual chip into her arm unit for download, Ia grabbed her belongings and followed the other woman back into the corridors of the ship. Her promotion didn’t entirely surprise her. Either the rank of Lance Corporal or Private First Class she knew she could manage, and manage well enough to guide her future along the best path. Being promoted to Buck Sergeant would have stirred too many resentments to overcome. Without that as an issue to be overcome, Ia could turn more of her attention to the reality, and not just the theory, of life on board a military starship.
Psychological studies had proven ages ago that Humans needed certain things to remain healthy, including when serving in the military. If it didn’t require privacy, the best places to socialize, work on projects, and relax were usually the commons, large rooms with couches, chairs, tables, general access workstations, and entertainment facilities. The Navy had their own designated relaxation areas on higher decks, while the Marines had three commons, one for each platoon. Standard crew quarters contained a head, a bedroom with two bunks, and a living area that was the size of sleeping quarters and head combined. Neither overly cramped, nor overly large.
The corridors were also designed just wide enough for three people to pass, though narrow enough that one could reach out and grab the maneuvering rails if necessary. The internal safety fields, visible as black-paneled nodes spaced every two meters both down by the floors and up by the ceilings, would actually save the crew from a truly bad shake.
The most interesting, if subtle visual effect, belonged to the frames holding the placards naming everything. If it was on a forward wall, facing toward the bow of the ship, the top and bottom edges were rimmed with blue. If it was on an aft wall, top and bottom were yellow. The starboard-side edge was always marked with green, and the port side was always edged in red. Since there were no portals peering out into the depths of space this deep inside the ship, it wasn’t always easy to tell fore from aft, port from starboard. The same rules applied to the bulkheads and doors when one faced starboard or port: to the starboard, top and bottom were green, with the left side blue and the right side yellow, and if it was port, blue and yellow were reversed, with top and bottom edged in red.
It was an important, if subtle clue. The regularly spaced section doors didn’t help, for they were all uniformly bulky, rounded at the corners to improve their sealing ability and gear-wheeled in the middle, capable of being opened or closed manually if the ship lost all power. The three passenger ships Ia had taken to get to Earth had boasted more friendly looking doors, with the section seals spaced farther apart, but then they weren’t expected to be space-worthy under battle conditions.
Most of these corridors were painted in bland, easily cleaned shades of beige, blue, and grey broken up by the glossy black safety field nodes, silvery rails, color-coded placards pointing out the various door, facility, floor, sector, and corridor names, lockers stuffed with emergency gear and other equipment, engineering access panels, so on and so forth. However, someone had taken the effort to hang flatpics of landscapes from various planets, mostly of inhabited M-Class worlds, brightening up the view and breaking up the institutional-style monotony. There were paintings from old China even in the boxy cabin of the lift, providing something to look at as they rode up one level.
The closer they came to actual living quarters, the more such pictures could be seen, setting apart the practical sections of the battleship from the domestic. D’kora pointed at a junction marked on the right-hand side, one made slightly more memorable thanks to a flatpic print of a pastoral picnic set in ancient China as they approached.
“All forward-to-aft corridors are numbered. All port-tostarboard corridors are lettered phonetically. To reach the 2nd Platoon Commons, you take Corridor 4 aft-ward down to the double doors on the right, just past cross-corridor Juliett. To reach the 2nd Platoon Cafeteria, you take Corridor 4 aft-ward to the double doors on the left just past Juliett, directly across from our Commons. To reach the gym facilities used by the Marines, you take Corridor 4 forward to the lifts loc
ated at cross-corridor Echo, ride up to Deck 5, take Corridor 4 aft-ward to the double doors just past cross-corridor Juliett and use the facilities on the right. The gym on the left is reserved for Navy personnel.
“The Liu Ji has a larger crew complement than we do, but the Marines have the same size gym facilities, as we are expected to maintain ourselves in greater physical shape. We are also expected to get out of their way when it comes to shipboard maintenance, drills, and emergencies. Study your manual to learn all the zones to stay out of or head into during a ship emergency,” D’kora lectured, taking a side passage marked as Corridor Foxtrot. She stopped at the first door on the forward side of the hall, designated by the bluish trim at the top and bottom of the plate, with red on the left and green on the right. “These are your quarters. I’ll sync your wrist unit to the privacy lock now. Only yourself, Corporal Estes, myself, Lt. Ferrar, ranking medical staff, and the command staff of the Liu Ji will have access to that locking code.
“Command staff access requires probable cause with their reasons broadcast through the comms either to you, your roommate, or into your quarters beforehand. Medical staff has the right to enter any quarters in a medical emergency at any time, with or without prior warning. Inspections are held every duty shift morning cycle after breakfast; you will follow the Lock & Web Law at all times. As I do not currently have a platoon sergeant to oversee such things, I will be handling the inspections for 2nd Platoon myself. Other than these instances, your private quarters are private. The only person you cannot lock out under any circumstance is your roommate. If you have any questions, speak up now, or save them for later.”
“I did pay attention in Basic, Lieutenant,” Ia reassured her. Lifting her wrist unit, she flipped up the display and waited while D’kora did the same. A few quick taps synchronized their units, allowing the Second Lieutenant to download the code. As soon as her wrist unit blipped, Ia put her left hand on the access panel. The proximity to her wrist unit slid the door open, revealing the living area. The lieutenant’s voice stopped her from entering.
“2nd Platoon is scheduled for gym exercises at this hour.” D’kora checked the chronometer on her unit. “In forty minutes, they will break for a half hour of cleanup, followed by mechsuit drills in the 2nd’s prep bay, which is located down on Deck 10, Sector F, Corridor 3 Kilo. By that point, the Navy should have your mechsuit case delivered to the combat lockers, which are located Deck 10, Sector F, Corridor 3 Golf.”
Since her immediate superior was still talking to her, Ia remained in place. The door slid shut automatically, sealing off the room with Ia still outside, patiently listening to her platoon commander’s instructions.
“Be advised that the cross-corridors correspond to distances on board this ship, and do not necessarily follow the standard progressive alphabetical order,” D’kora continued. “Deck 10 only has five cross-corridors, Bravo, Golf, Lima, Quebec, and X-Ray. Marine personnel are not permitted access to any section of the ship forward of cross-corridor Bravo, or aft-ward of cross-corridor Sierra unless given specific orders. Study your manual in full; any infraction after the leeway of your first three days in this Company will be punished accordingly. You will not like being assigned demerit duties under me.” She paused for a few moments, then continued briskly. “Since you have no further questions, I will see you in the gym in twenty minutes.”
Nodding briskly, D’kora turned and left, headed back the way they had come.
“Sir, yes, sir,” Ia murmured, watching her go. Palming the door open again, she wheeled her case inside, kitbag balanced on her right shoulder, and nudged the light switch panel inside, illuminating the cabin.
The contents of the room were both familiar and new to her. The personal touches which Corporal Estes had given to the otherwise bland, grey-walled room included a row of folding fans spread out and clipped to the bulkheads via magnets, a poster of some vid star Ia was only vaguely familiar with, and the shifting images of a flatpic frame. Some were of various locations around the Liu Ji’s patrol zone, but mostly of the absent corporal’s friends, family, and home colony dome on what looked like Mars. Or maybe it was Dante’s Refuge. Ia didn’t know, and didn’t care.
She knew enough about her teammate to know how to influence the other woman at key points in the upcoming months. Beyond that, she couldn’t afford to care; there were far too many future possibilities for Ia to risk foreseeing the unnecessary ones, and far too little time in her life to peer into someone’s past if such things weren’t necessary.
And they’re not, Ia reminded herself, wheeling her case past the beige, padded couch bolted to the floor along one side of the smallish living room. Across from it was a flatpic screen, currently dark. At the near end of the couch was a workstation desk, and in the corner across from it, over by the front door, was a locker with pressure-suits, emergency rations, and other goods in case anyone needed to wait out a hull breach or other containment problem. In the corner on the other side of the flatpic screen was a small dispensary with a caf’ machine, sink, miniature fridge, and storage cupboard, while the far end of the sofa held a second workstation desk.
Taking the door opposite the entrance, she maneuvered the case down the short hall past the head, archaic nautical term for the bathroom, and tucked the wheeled carry-all into the corner between the bunk beds and the built-in cupboards and drawers. She unpacked her kitbag first, pausing to apply her new rank patches to the various shirts and the pins to the collars. Most of her clothes went into the drawers below, and her brown dress uniform went into the locker with her spare boots and training shoes.
The smallest of her few personal belongings tucked into the bedside drawer built into the underside of the upper bunk, a flatpic frame and a couple of data crystals memorializing her visit to the Afaso Headquarters. Her toiletries went into the equally sturdy, latching cupboards in the head, following the Lock and Web Law of shipboard life. If it didn’t go into a locking drawer or cupboard, it got tucked into a pouch or lashed in place with a security web. Sudden jolts, accelerations, and ship-wide losses of gravity meant that anything could become a hazard, or even a lethal projectile.
Changing out of the brown camies that served as her travel uniform, she stuffed them into the dirty laundry drawer, donned plain brown pants and a T-shirt, fresh socks, and her trainers, and opened up the rolling case. During her brief Leave between Basic and this assignment, she had picked up a special portable workstation, which combined a keyboard, folding screen, and archival-quality printer, plus a sturdy lockbox and two cartons of contiguous paper to feed through the machine. That, too, ended up in a locker, the second of her two allotted storage lockers. Below the boxes of paper, she had packed the individual cases containing her weight suit.
The artificial version of gravity keeping everyone clinging to the deck plates and aware of a distinct sense of “down” could be adjusted on board a ship, but it was a delicate balance. Gravity weaves had a limited radius field, tapering off to negligibility after only thirty or so meters. Thankfully, the K’katta who had invented the things had also figured out a way to make them monodirectional, projecting their field only on one side.
Each deck was lined with the weave under the floor plates pointed up, and in the case of the cabin, beneath the carpeting. But with the next deck not quite four meters up, they didn’t actually run at full strength. They could, in case of damage or even routine maintenance needs. Technically, a gravity weave could run up to 8.5gs if fully engaged, and the internal safety fields were based on a similar principle.
The lowest decks—crawlspaces, really—ran at very low gravity, allowing the decks to build up in their pull so as not to stress the hull. The highest decks also ran weakly, but more to allow the cumulative effects of the lower areas to taper off, so that projectile missiles and space mines couldn’t be pulled into contact with a ship’s hull by sheer proximity to the fields. And while the ships were designed to be rugged and durable in zero gravity as well as standard, th
ey weren’t designed to permit a lot of local variation. Which meant the gyms would be running at a combined total of 1g, and that meant she had to strap on the weight suit in order to get a decent workout.
As soon as the packing cases were loaded back into their carrier and the carrier hung from a hook inside the second locker, she strapped on the weight suit, but didn’t head for the gym. She had five free, unobserved minutes. Hauling her portable writing station and a box of paper back out of the locker, she turned it on, fed one end of the paper into the machine, closed her eyes, composed her thoughts, and reached her mind into the tangle of electrons that served as the machine’s programming.
The keyboard wasn’t necessary, though she could and would use it in the years ahead. Several days of practicing during the trip from Earth out to Battle Platform Hum-Vee, where the Liu Ji was docked, had given her some skill in manipulating the machine electrokinetically, but not a lot of skill. In fact, typing would have been faster, but she needed the practice. One day, she would do this literally as fast as a thought. For now, it was an effort to write up even a simple note, since what she thought in her head had to be translated into a format the workstation could understand.
DATE: TERRAN STANDARD 2513.08.14, SANCTUARY, PASSAGE WARREN, LOCAL TIME 13:14 +/- 2 MINUTES MAX.
LOCATION: SANCTUARY, PASSAGE WARREN, NORTHWEST HUB 5TH TIER, 3RD WING, APARTMENT 325.
RECIPIENT: ALMA “STUTTER” SUVRAMANYA (DARK BROWN EYES, DARK BROWN WAIST-LENGTH BRAID, BLUE BLOUSE, GREEN SLACKS, BEIGE SANDALS, RED AND GOLD CLOISONNÉ CHRONOBRACELET ON LEFT WRIST). RING DOORBELL, STATE “MESSAGE FROM CENTRAL, IA’N SUD-DHA,” DELIVER MESSAGE TO RECIPIENT, MAKE SURE SHE READS IT, THEN LEAVE.
