Derelict: Marines (Derelict Saga Book 1)

by Paul E. Cooley

  That was the question, wasn’t it? She blew a sigh through her mouth and water droplets flew to the stall wall. Not only was this the third training exercise she’d failed, it was the first time her entire squad had been eliminated without firing a shot. Taulbee and Cartwright had never removed all light from the dome before. Hell, there hadn’t even been starlight coming through the roof. Instead, the place had been a tomb. And with her visor locked to see only the ship and her squad, it had been impossible to lead them.

  If that wasn’t bad enough, her squad didn’t even use common sense! Did she really have to tell them how to protect themselves from an ambush? Or how to check their goddamned six? It was like bringing little kids into combat. At least she didn’t have to change their fucking diapers.

  Lance corporals, marines who had been trained to kill in zero-g combat just like she was, and they acted as though they’d never even seen space before. They were Cartwright’s people. Taulbee’s people. And they’d acted like civvies.

  Carbonaro, Wendt, and Elliott, three out of the four most experienced non-rates in the company, wouldn’t do their jobs. Their surly attitudes destroyed any benefit she could get from their experience.

  Carbonaro and Dickerson were the only two non-rates in the company that had served on Mars. Wendt and Elliott had several years of search and rescue experience as well as a few run-ins with insurgents at Titan Station. The four marines were capable and combat ready. Supposedly.

  That, however, was not what had caught her eye. It was the slew of disciplinary marks in their collective jackets. Both Carbonaro and Dickerson had been to the mast twice for insubordination. Dickerson spent a full three months in the brig on Mars for slugging a sergeant when he was a corporal. They’d dropped him to PFC and he’d had to work his way back up to lance corporal.

  Carbonaro was just a bitch with a lot of attitude. But Dickerson? He was a problem child. And all those disciplinary marks had washed away the commendations he’d received during the Mars Satellite Battle as well as the Schiaparelli Rebellion. More than twelve confirmed kills under his belt, two medals for bravery during rescue operations, three Purple Hearts, and a promising career. And he’d thrown it away with both hands after the battle in space.

  The one maddening part of the records was the lack of context. All she could tell was that upon his release from the brig, he was immediately reassigned to S&R Black Company. SFMC Mars Command was probably glad to be rid of him.

  A little more than a year ago, Dickerson had been promoted to lance corporal. She imagined he wouldn’t be going any higher than that, not with that jacket.

  Carbonaro? Similar story. Although her main offense hadn’t been slugging a sergeant. Instead, she had, for some reason, decided to destroy a perfectly good T-87 at the end of the Mars Satellite Battle. Two SFMC marines had been injured in the blast. The records didn’t contain any context about that either. After spending six months in the brig, she’d ended up with S&R Black Company as well.

  Wendt? Elliott? The usual disciplinary problems—insubordination, AWOL at Titan Station, and a variety of other bullshit.

  Somehow, the four of them had attained, or retained, the rank of lance corporal when they should have been thrown out of the Corps. Instead of dishonorable discharges, Captain Dunn had taken all four of them in. And now, three of them were her problem.

  She ran a hand across her freshly razored scalp. The migraine threatening to pound her brain to mush was getting worse. She massaged her temples and tried to focus on the water caressing her naked skin. The bio-nannies would kick in before long, flooding her system with triptans to block the pain. She hadn’t gone blind in one eye yet, so at least that was good news. But she needed sleep.

  Sleep. That was the problem. She’d been up all night preparing for the combat training exercise, studying radio calls, replaying holos of Cartwright’s strategies, and designing a gameplan. Kali had been as well prepared as she could. And then that asshole Taulbee had thrown her a curve—the T-87.

  The Neptune Shipyards and SFMC Trident Base contained four training domes. She’d only been with S&R Black for a month and a half and they’d never even trained in the T-87 arena. When she and her squad showed up for the mission briefing with Lt. Taulbee, they’d only had time to go over the T-87 diagrams looking for ingress and egress points. Taulbee had also changed mission parameters—her team’s mission was to eliminate enemy personnel rather than simply hold a position. In other words, she’d been completely unprepared and had to think on her feet.

  The migraine had started the moment she entered the dome, slowly rising in intensity until she could barely think. The stress of trying to accomplish a nearly impossible mission had been more than she was prepared to deal with. No wonder she’d failed.

  She blew out another sigh, put her arms by her sides, and simply stood as the water continued to flow. No doubt it would shut off in a moment or she’d be docked for water waste. Not that she gave a shit. The scavengers were always towing in Kuiper Belt ice balls, sending them to the refinery, and then getting paid for their trouble. It also meant that Trident Station had a nearly inexhaustible supply of water. So fuck ‘em.

  As if on cue, the water ceased flowing. Kali put her hands on her naked hips. “Goddammit,” she said to no one. She pressed the “dry” button and slowly turned around as warm air blew across her skin sending beads of water flying. After a moment, body mostly dry, she stepped out of the stall and into her shower sandals. The stall’s rear closed and it hummed as the reclamation cycle began. Any water remaining on the floor and walls was gathered and then shunted back into the facility’s water system.

  Still naked, Kali walked between the rows of lockers to S&R Black’s area. A stenciled monster glowed from a digital banner above her team’s row. The creature, a massive amorphous conglomeration of an ancient earth sea creature with insectile features, lashed black tentacles back and forth in a menacing animation. Kali placed a hand on a locker panel and it slid open with a whisper.

  The pounding in her head receded slightly. The bio-nannies had started doing their thing. Maybe after a nap she’d be just fine. Just fine, she said to herself. You’ll still have failed another exercise. Kali sneered at the locker and pulled out a fresh jumpsuit. The flexible dark blue fabric creased in her fingers and then immediately returned to its pressed state. Kali pulled on a pair of panties and stepped into the jumpsuit. As she finished pulling it on, she sat down on the long bench separating the adjacent row of lockers.

  All she had left to do was don a pair of socks, her boots, and walk back to the barracks. She could climb into her coffin, turn off the lights, the grav-plate, and float. Just like zero-g, she said to herself, except without the suit. She often slept naked in the coffin with her clothes carefully folded in the storage space. She’d been doing that ever since she passed bootcamp. Now, she wasn’t sure she could sleep any other way.

  “Corporal Kalimura,” a tenor voice said.

  She stiffened and turned to her left. LCpl Sam Dickerson stood naked at the end of the bench. He had his arms folded across his chest and wore a smile that could light a room. She rolled her eyes. “Getting a shower or are you done?”

  Dickerson turned from her and walked to his locker. “About to get dressed. Have a report to write.”

  “Yeah, I know. So do I.” She rubbed her temples. “All I want is a damned nap.”

  “Heard that,” Dickerson said. He opened the locker door and slowly brought out his clothes. Kali studied the web of scar tissue covering his back. No doubt administered during Mast. Discipline in the marines could be brutal. Training exercises, doubly so. “I take it you’re still pissed.”

  She slapped her hands on her knees and kept them there, her eyes focused on her own locker. “That surprise you, Dickerson?”

  “No, Corporal,” he said and closed his locker door. He shrugged into his jumpsuit and sat on the bench. He turned to her as he unrolled a pair of socks. “I’d be pissed. I’d be beyond pisse
d.”

  “Wasn’t a fair test,” she said. Dickerson giggled. She swung her head around and glared at him. “That’s funny to you, Lance Corporal?” She emphasized the first part of his rank as if to remind him he wasn’t an NCO.

  “No, Corporal,” he said. Placing the pair of socks on the bench, he rotated his torso and stared at her. “I’d be pissed if I fucked up that badly. If I got my squad killed. But I wouldn’t blame the LT or Gunny. I’d blame myself.”

  “Blame? Myself?” She hissed through her teeth. “They changed the goddamned exercise. Made it impossible to win.”

  “They didn’t change the exercise, Corporal.”

  She furrowed a brow. “They didn’t? I don’t remember ever seeing that in the—”

  “There’s no such thing as a script for the exercises.” Dickerson lifted a foot and rolled it into one of the heavy socks. “If there were, it would invalidate their purpose.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He finished putting on the sock and began working on the other foot. “When we’re out in the shit, there’s no script. When the plan you’ve made goes to shit, there’s no script. Life doesn’t have a script, Corporal.” He put his feet back on the floor and stood. Hands on hips, he stared down at her with a solemn smile. “Your job is to get your squad through the mission, whatever that mission might be. If Gunny and the officers fuck up? Then you’re going to be in trouble. And what happens when they can’t help you make decisions or give you advice?”

  She frowned and dropped her gaze. The part of her that felt cheated screamed like a child in the midst of a tantrum. But what Dickerson said made sense. It didn’t mean she had to like it. “So, Dickerson,” she said without returning her eyes to his face, “failure is expected.”

  “Not exactly, Corporal.” Dickerson put on his combat boots, the centers zipping up by themselves. “More like mistakes will be made and you have to learn how to recover from them. And, with all due respect, Corporal, you could try getting help from those of us with a little more experience.”

  She flipped her head up and glared at him. Dickerson didn’t flinch, the light smile on his face staying rock solid. “A little more experience,” she said. “What does that mean, Lance Corporal Dickerson?”

  “It means, Corporal Kalimura, that several of us have been in real combat, where real human beings died. Some of their corpses are still floating out there in space and will never be recovered. Some of them were friends, others faceless enemies. And although I may be standing here today, it’s only because I either adapted to the situation, or an NCO made a decision that kept me alive. And no amount of time in the goddamned dome is going to help you deal with the real world.” He stood and closed his locker. He leaned against it and grinned. “So do me a favor. When we’re in the shit? Cover my ass as well as your own.” He tapped a fist against the locker, the metallic bang echoing off the ceiling. “Have a good one, Corporal Kalimura.”

  He quickly and silently disappeared into the rows of lockers, presumably headed to write his report. Kali dropped her eyes to the floor and stared at one of the metal grav-plates. She should have ripped Dickerson’s ass for addressing her the way he did. She should have cautioned him against insubordination. She should have said a number of things to put him in his place. Instead, all she’d had the strength to do was listen and think.

  The migraine ached, but it was beginning to fade into the background. Maybe sleep wasn’t what she needed. At least not until after she finished the report and then studied the holos of the exercise. Maybe then she’d be able to see what she should have done besides the obvious that Gunny Cartwright and the LT pointed out. Maybe she had to admit she had a lot to learn.

  Chapter Four

  The SFMC Search & Rescue vessel “Black” sat in the bay atop a maintenance bubble. While the shipyard maintenance crew tinkered with engines, checked for cracks in the hull, and tested the avionics and life support systems, S&R Black’s engineer, 2nd Lieutenant Nobel, watched a set of holo displays. Taulbee saw the engineer’s fingers dancing before the displays, images, and readouts shifting before the man’s eyes. Captain Dunn stood a few meters behind him, his eyes buried in his own holo.

  Taulbee and Cartwright walked up the steps to the observation deck above S&R Black. While the AIs and shipyard personnel scoured S&R Black for possible problems, Nobel monitored their tests and ran additional scans. That was normal before S&R Black left for a mission. Taulbee held back a grin. He’d been right—they had a mission. Something serious, too. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have the attention of everyone in the maintenance crew.

  When they reached the observation deck, Taulbee and Cartwright stopped next to Nobel’s consoles, each man stiffening into attention. “Excuse me, Captain,” Taulbee said. “Lt. Taulbee and Gunny Cartwright reporting.”

  Dunn waved a hand in the air without looking away from his holo. “At ease. And get your asses over here.”

  Taulbee wasn’t sure, but he thought Cartwright’s stern countenance had twitched. Taulbee, on the other hand, was grinning like a child and he knew it. Captain Dunn didn’t stand on ceremony. It was one of the things that probably drove the Colonel, a stickler for ceremony and ritual, absolutely insane. But the Colonel could afford to demand that—he was in the rear and far away from any danger. Dunn had apparently realized a long time ago that such courtesies and protocols were useful to a point, but eventually turned into its own bureaucracy of sorts.

  He and Gunny walked past Nobel and stood to the left of Dunn. “What’s up, sir?” Taulbee asked.

  Dunn smiled, froze an image on the holo, and then turned to them. “How’d the training go, Gunny?”

  Cartwright growled low in his throat. “Not good, sir. Corporal Kalimura’s performance was less than stellar.”

  Dunn blinked and then made eye contact with Taulbee. “Is she salvageable?”

  “Isn’t everyone, sir?”

  “James, leave the mother hen routine at home. Is she worth the effort, or not?”

  He exchanged a glance with Cartwright and then looked back at Dunn. “Yes, Captain. I believe she is.”

  Dunn looked at Cartwright. “Gunny?”

  “I agree with the Lieutenant, sir. Kalimura has great potential. If she gets past her ego, she might even be able to live up to it.”

  “Ego?” Dunn mused. “Please elucidate, Gunny.”

  “Well,” Cartwright said, “she hasn’t exactly done a good job of integrating with the team, sir. I believe today’s training exercise would have gone better for her if the squad trusted her. Or even liked her. She’s only been here a few weeks, but she hasn’t exactly made it easy.”

  “Ah,” Dunn said. He rubbed his chin, the flesh whispering across the rough stubble that had already grown there. “Have either of you spoken with her about this?”

  “No, sir,” Taulbee said. “I wasn’t aware it was a real problem until today.”

  “Good to know. Any other revelations about the exercise? Did you give her the T-87?”

  “Yes, sir. That was,” he chuckled, “a bit of a surprise for her.”

  “I’m sure it was.” Dunn clucked his tongue. “Okay. We can talk about that later. We’ll have plenty of time while we’re outbound.”

  A smile appeared on Cartwright’s face. Even through his peripheral vision, Taulbee saw the shark-toothed grin. “Where are we headed, sir?”

  Dunn turned back to the holo. “Take a look, James. You too, Gunny.”

  Both Taulbee and Cartwright crowded in to look at the holo. The display glowed with readouts and a map, if you could call it that. Dunn waved a hand at the display and the dark rectangle filled with stars slowly transforming into bright colors. A legend appeared at the side. The coordinates of the image appeared at the top. Taulbee blinked at them. That was way the hell out in the Kuiper Belt. Way out there.

  “This is past Pluto,” Taulbee said.

  Dunn nodded. “That’s who spotted it.”

  “Pardon me, sir,” Cartw
right said, “but what are we looking at?”

  “Oh, right.” Dunn pointed to the legend. “You see the objects out there, right? The ones the Pluto Observatory has already marked as being ice or rock. What about the little red dot in the corner there?”

  “Red?” Cartwright said and checked the legend. “Metal? This a huge chunk of ore heading into the system? Or something they just recently discovered?”

  “Both,” Dunn said. The excitement in his voice made Taulbee uneasy. Dunn pinched his fingers together and then slowly drew them apart. A rectangle appeared on the screen around the red dot. The display zoomed in. The dot grew until it had a shape.

  “Holy shit,” Taulbee said. “That’s a ship.”

  “Yes, it is. Now. I want you to suspend any disbelief. Allah knows it took me a while to believe it.” Taulbee and Cartwright exchanged a glance, but said nothing. “Here’s where the fun begins.” Dunn slid the image aside and brought up a waveform. “Listen.” He tapped at the play icon.

  The holo emitted a series of beeps much like a heart monitor. The sounds increased, decreased, and then drew into a flat whine. The sound repeated every fifteen seconds.

  “That’s one of ours,” Taulbee said. “Military distress. But it doesn’t sound right. Modification, sir?”

  Cartwright stood to his full height, his face set in a deep frown. “Not a modification, Lieutenant.” Both Taulbee and Dunn looked at the Gunnery Sergeant. “Just old. Very old.”

  “More than fifty years old, in fact,” Dunn said. He pointed a finger at the info icon and the waveform slid to the side, a window of text filling the rest of the display.

  Taulbee looked at the first line and then his brain froze. What he saw didn’t make sense. “That can’t be right,” he said in a dead voice.

  “No, sir,” Cartwright said, “it can’t be.”