Outpost

by W. P. Brothers

  “With all the powdered creamer and sugar you like.”

  “Hallelujah!” Morris wiped his hands on his work coveralls. “Care to join, sir?”

  “No, thanks.” Jack tapped the pocket that held the computer pad. “I’ll get over to the workshop and give them the bad news to keep working.” Jack could keep the ball rolling while Morris had a break.

  “You don’t have to tell me twice.” Morris strode toward the door.

  Jack hadn’t been in the workshop since… ever, really. He tried to remember the name of the person in charge there. “Hold on a second, Ensign. Who’s the chief armorer over there? Chief Ruiz?”

  Morris stopped in his tracks, looked over his shoulder, a pinched expression on his face. “Ruiz got killed, sir.”

  The air left Jack’s lungs, and heat rushed to his face. “Oh.”

  “I don’t expect you’d have had a chance to know that.” Morris pursed his lips together. “You don’t work down there, I mean.”

  It was kind of Morris to add the last part, but Jack knew what he really meant. “I see.”

  “Petty Officer Hundegger is filling in for the moment.”

  “Right.” Jack forced a pleasant expression onto his face. “Enjoy your break, Ensign.”

  Morris tilted his head in acknowledgement and walked out the door, leaving Jack alone, all too aware of the scars of battle on the walls around him.

  Chapter Four

  Lieutenant Marcus Hillman ignored the stares of the ground crew techs as he walked across the hanger, stepped over wires and spare parts laid out on the floor. Why did people still look?

  He took a deep breath, walked faster, his eyes focused on his destination, the door to the flight deck office.

  “That’s Bug Stomper Hillman?” One of the techs whispered a bit too loudly to her friend.

  “Yeah. They say he killed every one of the Frontin on that ship,” another voice answered.

  Bug Stomper Hillman. The idiot name that had followed Marcus ever since the battle. He ignored the all-too-audible whispers, relieved to reach the door. He pulled it open, jogged up the narrow metal staircase, and emerged on a small landing. Offices and crew rooms opened up on the right, a closed door to his left with the words “Air Wing Commander” above it. Marcus knocked.

  “Come in.”

  Marcus swung the door open, stepped inside, and closed it behind him. He turned in time to see Commander Frost lifting his tall, muscular frame from the chair behind his desk. Marcus realized Frost was waiting and saluted.

  Frost returned the salute, then leaned across his desk and offered his hand. “Nice to see you, Lieutenant.”

  Marcus took Frost’s hand, shook it. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Sit down.” Frost gestured to the seat opposite his, and sat down.

  “Thank you, sir,” Marcus repeated, pulling his own chair out and easing himself into it.

  Frost turned to the computer, seemed to be looking for something. Marcus drummed his fingers on his thighs, took in the perfect cleanliness of Frost’s office, everything stacked, neat, immaculate. There were hardly any of the personal signs that a living man worked there. A framed certificate with the Royal Marine crest and a second lieutenant’s silver shield pins attached to it was on the wall behind Frost. On the desk was a picture of a young woman, who looked to be about eighteen.

  Marcus looked to Frost, whose pale blue eyes were moving back and forth, reading the screen in front of him.

  He cleared his throat, pointed at the picture. “Your daughter, sir?”

  Frost looked over at the picture, and his expression tightened ever so slightly. “No.”

  “Ah.” Marcus looked away, not sure what he’d done to bother the man. They sat there in silence for what felt like an hour before Frost cleared his voice.

  “I don’t understand your request, Lieutenant. Frankly, I don’t know why you didn’t handle this with Mr. Blake.”

  “Mr. Blake isn’t on duty right now, sir, and I wanted this resolved quickly.” Marcus paused. “As for the other matter, I think it’s clear enough in my report.”

  Frost massaged his temple. “Blake’s off, eh? I’ve got everyone working around the clock on repairing our embarked craft, and he—” Frost interrupted himself. “Blake’s my problem to deal with, Lieutenant. Forget about it.” He pointed at his screen. “I understand what your request is. I just don’t understand why.”

  “I’d like to get back out there. I want to be useful.” It was the only explanation anyone needed to hear. Frost didn’t need to know about the gossip, the hero worship among the crew — or the sleepless nights spent reliving that battle, the sight of every one of his squadmates incinerating under the hail of enemy fire.

  Frost shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hillman. Regulations are very clear here. Someone who dealt with your situation is to be on rest leave for a full ninety days while we evaluate your emotional condition.” He leaned back in his chair. “Besides, we’re going to be in repairs at Kensington for a good long while. I doubt we’ll have any need for you.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to be back on active duty. Doctor Cadogan—”

  “Yes, yes, I see here he cleared you, and it’s not the same to me.” He raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t some kind of tough-guy act is it? Has all that Bug Stomper nonsense got to your head?”

  Marcus had to keep himself from wincing at the sound of his unfortunate title. He hadn’t realized the stories had made it up to the command officers. “No, sir.” He squirmed, not sure how much to say. “To be honest, I don’t much care for it. I’d like to get back out there, if I can. I don’t want to let my skills get rusty, and…” He trailed off, the next bit a little too close to the truth.

  “And?”

  Marcus kept his voice neutral, refused to look away. “And I’d like to get to know the pilots I’ll be squadded with sooner rather than later. Now that Raptor Squad is gone, I mean.”

  “I see.” Frost stared at him for a few seconds, seemed to be studying him. “You know, Lieutenant, Raptor Squad is not really gone. We’ll bring the name out again as soon as we have pilots to fill it. You’ll still have your position as squadron leader, assuming brass don’t promote you.”

  “Yes, sir. All the same, I’d like to stay active.”

  Frost sighed, chuckled. “I wish I could put your motivation in a bottle and slip some of it to Lieutenant Blake.”

  “Sir?” It was more or less an open secret onboard the Verdun that Frost, all rules and discipline and drive, was not pleased with his easygoing deck officer. Marcus hadn’t realized Frost’s disappointment was so acute.

  “Forget about it.” Frost picked up a stylus, ran it over the touchpad beside his keyboard. “There, you have my approval. I’ll have Mr. Blake pass down some shift rotations tomorrow. But don’t expect anything too substantial. We’ll start you off on half duty, and I still expect you to check in with Doctor Cadogan. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, sir.” Marcus’ spirits rose. He was getting back in the cockpit, away from the exaggerated chatter of his shipmates.

  “Anything else?”

  Marcus got to his feet. “No, sir. Thank you, sir.” Marcus saluted.

  Frost saluted back. “Dismissed.”

  Marcus turned on his heels and left the room, the Commander’s voice following him as he walked.

  “And if you see Blake, tell him to get his ass in here.”

  Kim finished the report and sent it on to Wilcox and Holsey for their signatures. She called in a breakfast order to the galley and then walked into her bedroom. She sat on her bed to wait for the meal, grateful to sit on a surface softer than her work chair. When she started to fall asleep sitting up, she undressed and slipped into the shower. Leaning her head against the cold tile, she let the warm water wash over her aching shoulder.

  Breakfast arrived right as she finished putting on a fresh uniform. Kim thanked the shipman who brought her tray, then shoveled the food down. Standard
-issue bacon with powdered scrambled eggs, a section of baguette, a cake of butter, a small container of jam, and some canned fruit with a cup of coffee. While part of it may have been the caffeine, Kim felt like a new woman when she emerged from her quarters fifteen minutes later, carrying her empty tray between one arm and her hip.

  Kim walked toward the officer’s mess, returning the salutes of crewmembers and officers she passed as she walked. Work crews moved up and down the corridors, carrying all manner of tools, replacement parts, pieces of new bulkhead plating. The ship was in much better condition than the last time she had emerged a few days ago. Hell, compared to the mess it has been when they’d left Derek’s Triangle three months ago, it looked practically brand new. None of the lights were flickering, all the damaged sections had been cleared of debris, and the gentle thrumming that carried through the deck told Kim that the engines were fully operational again. The crew was clearly swamped with activity, and Kim felt a pang of regret that she had stayed in her room so long.

  When she reached the wooden double doors to the officer’s mess, Kim stopped. She was tempted to turn around and drop the tray outside her room, where someone from the galley would pick it up. Kim took a deep breath, raised her head high, and entered.

  Two dozen or so officers were clumped here and there, sitting and finishing breakfast. A couple marine officers in service dress reds were leaning near the hot bar. They all looked up at her and stood.

  “As you were.” Kim walked over to the window to the dish room and passed her tray through, then turned and walked over to the closest group of officers. Everyone’s eyes followed her, even though they had continued their conversations. Captain Knight had always made this seem so easy.

  She cleared her throat. “Lieutenant Kepperling, how is fire control?”

  Kepperling, a tall woman with dark skin and black hair, looked nervously up at her. “Quite well, ma’am.”

  “You have reason to be proud. You all did wonderfully.” Kim tried to fill her voice with booming confidence she didn’t feel.

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”

  Kim moved about the room, saying a few words to each of the officers there. When at last she was in the corridor again, Kim breathed a sigh of relief — though she couldn’t help but grin. Being a pep-talker was never her skill set. She’d been the organizer, the executor, the right arm of the captain. But she was learning.

  A few minutes later, Kim stepped onto the bridge and felt the last trace of tension leave her. This was her place. She surveyed the room, gathering an idea of her crew’s activities by their distribution around it. The bridge was a rectangular room, brightly lit by small circular lamps, caged in metal wire, spaced around the high ceiling. The holoports, long rectangular screens running the circumference of the room around the top of the wall, were working again and showed the star-streaked void outside the Verdun. To the left of the door was the holographic action table, in pieces and surrounded by a repair crew. In the center of the room was Kim’s chair and foldaway computer terminal, set on a raised platform. Lieutenants Urquhart and Stetler were talking to each other at the helm, set in a lowered pit forward of Kim’s chair. Holsey and Lieutenant Voth were standing next to Holsey’s computer, to the left and behind the command platform. Several crewmembers were clustered around the radio communications station set against the wall to Kim’s right. Across the room from them was Wilcox’s operations station. Wilcox himself was bent over his computer, concentrating hard on his damage control panel. With all the various repair crews to coordinate, the man had been more than busy, pulling extra weight to keep the ship running.

  Stetler glanced over, saw Kim. “Captain on the bridge.” Everyone looked at Kim, then went back to work, except for Urquhart, who smiled at her.

  “Good morning, Captain.”

  Kim returned the smile. “Thank you, Lieutenant. As you were.” The bridge was about business, not ceremony. Kim liked that. But she was always grateful for Callista’s sunny disposition.

  Kim settled herself into the command chair and folded down her computer terminal. The screen flashed blue and turned on, showing an exterior camera view that angled toward the front of the ship and the expanse of space beyond. Kim looked over at Holsey, catching her eye.

  “Commander, what is our status?”

  “We’ll be arriving at Kensington Station in five hours, ma’am.”

  “Excellent,” Kim swiveled her chair to face the communications console. “Has the station confirmed they have what we need?”

  The radio operator turned, frowned. “No, ma’am. We haven’t been able reach them at all. Even accounting for the time delay from our transmission, the communication relay doesn’t seem to be functioning.”

  Kim drummed her fingers on the chair’s armrest. It was bad enough that the Verdun was not part of Kensington’s schedule, but being unable to give the station time to prepare was worse. It would take that much longer to get supplies ready and coordinate work crews with the station personnel.

  “Captain,” Voth stepped forward. “Suggest we put fighter squadrons on standby.”

  “Who’s going to attack us here?” Urquhart piped up. “We’re in friendly space.”

  Voth shrugged. “I’d rather be overcautious than be ambushed in our current state.”

  Kim felt Holsey’s gaze boring into her, but she kept her eyes fixed on Voth and nodded her head. Prepping fighters when communications were down was standard procedure. “Agreed. Mr. Voth, inform Commander Frost.”

  Voth tilted his head in acknowledgement and walked out of the bridge. Kim looked at Holsey, who nodded slightly before returning to her work. Kim felt a rush of satisfaction. She wouldn’t make the same mistakes again, regardless of what Holsey thought of her. Besides, after this morning, it seemed like she and Holsey might be able to coexist. Not as friends, perhaps, but at least not as open enemies.

  “We’re entering Kensington’s solar system,” Urquhart called out.

  “Slowing for approach,” Stetler added. “We’ll go sub-light near the outer planet.”

  “A nice gas giant by the looks of it,” Wilcox added.

  Now it would just be a few hours’ cruise toward Kensington itself.

  “Mr. Wilcox,” Kim said, raising her voice over the whirr of a tool buzzing from the work crew behind her.

  “Yes, ma’am?” He turned in his chair to face her.

  “Begin assembling teams to load supplies. If we’re not expected, their crews aren’t going to be ready. We’ll want to speed things up.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Commander?” Kim looked back at Holsey. “Have Major Osterman assemble a marine escort for the work crews. Let them have some fresh air.”

  Holsey nodded, and both she and Wilcox strode out of the bridge. The marines had suffered particularly heavy losses in the Triangle. Giving them some exercise under real sun and non-recycled atmosphere would no doubt help boost their morale. Kim knew that Major Osterman, finally cleared by the infirmary for light duty, was chomping at the bit to get out and do something.

  Kim stood and walked around the room. Looking at the smooth efficiency of her crew, she couldn’t imagine how she’d started the day so low. This would be the tone of things from now on, Kim decided. No more hesitation. No more nervousness. Moving forward, everything would be by the book and everything, every detail, would go smoothly.

  Chapter Five

  “Son of a bitch!” Christine swore under her breath as she lay prone, carbine in front of her, and watched the cargo tender take off. She looked to her left, down the line of rangers kneeling behind trees, bushes and fallen logs at the edge of the woods. Several troops were still rushing into position, and one of the machine gun teams was fitting the gun to its tripod. At this rate, they’d be lucky to have anyone to attack by the time they were ready. She looked in front her toward the warehouses, only a hundred yards away across the road and the rail line, and counted how many of the enemy soldiers were left. />
  After identifying the enemy as human, Christine and Squires had quickly surveyed the dockyards through their binoculars, counting the combatants, trying to assess their abilities. Whoever they were, they weren’t lacking for weaponry. They seemed to have standard-issue Alliance Mk3A2 Enfield rifles, machine guns, and even a few handheld rocket launchers. Worse, the troops on the beach had been taken away one cargo load at a time, the small ships flying in a great arc over the bay before heading east and back inland about a mile north of where the rangers were. With no idea where the enemy was going, the possibility of being flanked or cut off from the fort had suddenly become real.

  Christine and Squires had made their way back around the hill to their platoons, shifted their defenses to counter any attack from the northeast, and contacted the fort with their findings, using Lazaar’s long-range radio pack to repeat the signal from Christine’s headset.

  “We need an immediate counter-attack,” Colonel Neville’s voice had crackled over the radio. “Seize the docks and take prisoners.”

  “But we don’t know where they’re going to or coming from,” Christine had explained, her hands pressing her headset to her ear, Squires kneeling next to her. “If there are more of them somewhere in the woods, we can’t ensure our flank.”

  “You have your orders.” Neville hadn’t wanted to listen.

  “Colonel,” Christine had persisted, trying to keep her voice even. “The enemy is leaving the docks of his own accord. We need to secure the northeast perimeter to be sure they’re not mounting an attack there or occupying some other part of the station, like the warehouses or barracks—”

  Neville had cut Christine off. “If you do not attack, I will relieve you of duty and place Lieutenant Squires in command of both platoons.”

  Christine had looked at Squires, who had merely rolled his eyes and flipped a middle finger at the radio pack. Lazaar had bitten his lip not to laugh.

  “Copy. We’ll organize the attack immediately.”