Outpost

by W. P. Brothers

  “Something?” Morden’s brow furrowed.

  “It was very far away and the smoke was pretty thick.” Christine closed her eyes, trying to picture what she’d seen. “It was very large, tan in color. It held position in the smoke cloud. I could barely see it.”

  Morden turned to Neville. “Would the fort have detected a space vessel entering the atmosphere?”

  Neville turned red again. “Unfortunately, no. We don’t have a planetary scanning grid.”

  “You don’t have one?” Holsey crossed her arms. “Why? Have you not repaired it, either?”

  Neville shook his head. “I guess they didn’t install one.”

  Christine felt her nose wrinkle slightly. The man was in charge of the fort and he didn’t know a thing about the station. She suppressed her disgusted snort by speaking instead. “It had one, but a lot of the planet’s scanning hardware was dismantled after the war for use on the Milipa frontier. There are big gaps in the system now, especially on the side of the planet opposite the fort.”

  Neville glared at Christine. She knew she had embarrassed him, but she wasn’t going to leave out details to spare his ego.

  Wilcox sighed. “And so, this something the lieutenant saw could have entered the atmosphere somewhere else and flown low enough to approach the Barracuda undetected.”

  “Yes, sir,” Christine said.

  “If they’ve got a warship out there...” Voth’s voice trailed off, his gaze meeting Morden’s.

  “Why didn’t you mention this something you saw earlier, Lieutenant?” The disgust in Neville’s voice was obvious, all sugar coating gone.

  Christine met his gaze, refused to blink. Under the table, she pressed her thumb against her engagement ring, keeping an image of Ryan in her head. “I thought it was the smoke playing tricks on me. It was there, then gone a second later.”

  Morden’s frown deepened. “Do these facilities still have any way to defend themselves against space vessels?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Christine replied. “The fort still controls a couple dozen or so ground-to-space silos.”

  “We’re not totally desolate, you see.” Neville raised his chin. “The fort has a sufficient armament to even destroy a carrier.”

  “If it can see them,” Christine said.

  Morden leaned forward, cutting off whatever Neville was about to say. “After you left the hill to meet Third Platoon, were you ever in view of the harbor?”

  “No, ma’am,” Christine replied. “We stuck to the ravines and the forest. We didn’t want to be spotted approaching the area.”

  “If there had been a ship, that would have given them ample time to lift off the destroyer.” Voth squinted at the map, clearly deep in thought.

  “Which means the group that ambushed us really was just the cleaning crew,” said Osterman. “I knew there were too few to have attacked a destroyer.”

  “Some cleaning crew.” Wilcox frowned. “And when Fifth and Third Platoons arrived at Bunker Fifty, they saw the cargo tenders taking this group away one load at a time and heading somewhere to the northeast—”

  “Which means they’re still out there.” Osterman finished Wilcox’s sentence.

  “So,” Holsey said, laying her hands flat on the table. “We have a missing destroyer, a possible enemy warship with at least enough infantry on board to assault said destroyer, and no idea who these people are.”

  There was silence for a moment.

  Finally, Morden spoke, looking at Neville. “Colonel, if they’re hiding somewhere, it’s probably fairly close by. Are there any areas outside the complex where they could stage an attack?”

  Neville shook his head. “I—I don’t think so, Captain. I can’t think of anywhere they would be other than in the forest. These woods are quite dense, you know.”

  Morden raised an eyebrow and looked over at Christine. “Flores, Squires, you spend a lot of time on foot throughout this area. Is there anywhere close to the complex they could be hiding a warship?”

  “A warship, no,” Squires said. “The terrain is too hilly for hundreds of miles, and they’d need to clear the forest. We’d have noticed that.”

  “Not a warship,” Christine said, studying the map. “But infantry? Yes.”

  “Where?” Wilcox gestured at the map.

  Christine stood, rounded the end of the table, and stood next to the display screen. “The trees north of here are very thick, like the colonel said. If they wanted to hide under the canopy, they could have parked their space ship somewhere and hiked overland.” Christine drew an imaginary line with her finger from the northern coast, about sixty miles from the harbor, down toward the Kensington complex. “But I don’t think they’d be too comfortable for long.”

  “Comfortable?” Neville scoffed, but no one looked at him.

  “If I wanted to hide soldiers and shelter them, I’d put them here.” Christine pointed at the block on the map that represented the old barracks complex.

  “But that’s part of your own facility,” Osterman said. “How could they hide there?”

  “It’s easy.” Christine turned to face the group, feeling suddenly very out of place. Except for Squires, everyone was neat and spotless, like the room itself. She raised her chin slightly. Daddy had always told her a working person’s got nothing to be ashamed of. “This area used to house regiments being staged here before going to the front. It’s the most isolated spot Kensington has. Given all the other bunkers and facilities we have to patrol and maintain, we only get to any one of them a couple times per year. Especially since we’re… discouraged to waste time on it, since it’s the farthest facility out.” Christine avoided Neville’s gaze, but she could see him shifting uncomfortably out of the corners of her eyes.

  “When was the last time you patrolled this area?” Morden looked up at Christine, a trace of worry on her face.

  “I think Third hit it last.” Christine looked over at Squires.

  Squires closed his eyes, seemed to be thinking hard. “Yeah, I think we were out there about two months ago.”

  “Then we know where to start.” Morden turned to face the rest of the group. “First and foremost, I want re-supplying and repairing the Verdun to be a top priority for both crews. I want this ship prepared for a fight. Once the Verdun is ready, I want us out of the water, where we are vulnerable, and in space to investigate and repair the damage to the relay system. Second, we need to secure all parts of Kensington Station. Major Osterman, coordinate with Colonel Neville to combine your marines with ranger platoons. I want every bunker and redoubt searched to make sure they’re not using any of them. Once we’ve checked the smaller facilities, I want a combined force to move in strength on the barracks.”

  “Why not send a fighter escort?” The air commander, Frost, raised an eyebrow.

  Morden swiveled to look at him. “We only have tatters of our fighter compliment left after the Triangle. I’d rather have them in the air and screening us here than spread out elsewhere. Once the Verdun is in shape again, we’ll use them to do all the scouting we need.”

  Morden paused, looking around the table. “No further, questions? Get to it.”

  There was a general chorus of “Yes, ma’am” from everyone at the table, everyone except Neville, who stared in front of him.

  “We’ll issue woodland uniforms and armor.” Osterman shifted in his seat to face Christine and Squires. “It will make our operations with the rangers go more smoothly.”

  Christine returned Osterman’s gaze and nodded.

  Good call.

  The marines would blend in much better in their ODs. To a ranger, approaching the enemy unseen was a necessity.

  “You have complete discretion, Major. Dismissed.” Morden stood and walked out of the room, and her officers filed behind her. Christine stood and turned to follow them.

  “Squires, Flores!” Neville’s bark stopped Christine in her tracks.

  She turned. Neville, his fists clenched at his side, strode
toward her and Squires. She wondered if he was going to punch her, hoped he would give her an excuse to wipe the floor with his pudgy ass, but he stopped a few inches in front of them. She stood at attention, looking into Neville’s eyes. He was so close she could see the pores on his nose.

  “I suppose you think I’m going to pin medals on you because you won today,” Neville said, spraying Christine’s face with spit. He turned to look at Squires, who stood as straight as a rifle barrel.

  “But remember, once Captain Ooh-la-la is gone, I’m still in command. You damn well never forget it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Squires said, though Christine knew he didn’t mean it.

  Neville turned to her again, his nostrils flaring.

  “Yes, sir,” Christine said.

  Neville grinned at her, clearly satisfied. Then his nose wrinkled. “And take a bath, you two. You’re an embarrassment to me like that.” He pushed past them and out the door.

  Squires chuckled. “Hike your ass off, risk your life, save the day—”

  “And get reamed,” Christine finished. “C’mon. Let’s see if they have any food on this thing.”

  Christine nudged Squires with her elbow, and they walked out the door together.

  Chapter Nine

  Tom Petrarcha strode through the endless rows of barracks, his head bent low against the strong wind that was blowing in from the harbor. The weather had begun to change not long after nightfall. Soon, it would be raining, a relief on this sunbaked planet. Even at night, this place never cooled down.

  Tom glanced to either side of him, checking on his people as he passed. They huddled in groups in front of their barracks buildings, talking to one another in low voices, cleaning their rifles, repairing clothing, the glow of cooking fires peeking out through the heavy blankets they’d nailed over the barracks’ doors. They couldn’t risk being discovered, though now Tom supposed it didn’t matter. With the arrival of the warship, everything was different.

  The re-appropriation of the destroyer had gone well enough, better than Tom could have imagined. They’d lost relatively few people in the attack and taken many prisoners. More importantly, they had the ship, the first prize of their campaign. But the bigger warship had surprised them, and now more than a hundred of his people had been slaughtered. Yes, nothing was the same, and Tom expected that was why the Supervisor had called him to talk so late.

  Supervisor.

  The title was vague enough and impressive enough that everyone knew to fear the people who carried it. They made the decisions, everyone followed. Tom supposed the progress they’d made so far proved the Supervisors really were the rightful leaders of the Legion, but, to be honest, he missed the days before they had come.

  In the beginning, the United Worker’s Legion had been a movement of ideas. Meetings held in the dust and filth of the living quarter, speeches and debates about just systems of power and the rights of individuals. The last election had energized the Legion, and where the meetings had once been the secret of a few individuals, they became enormous assemblies with hundreds of people who came to listen, to speak their minds. Then the meetings became networks that helped each other, supported each other. Tom had become the leader of one of them, coordinating its activities. He’d had every member give whatever they could — spare rations, blankets, medicines smuggled from outside the company stores — and whenever someone became ill or was in want of anything, they’d use the supplies to see that person through. The companies had learned of the groups and banned them instantly, and the government had looked the other way, ignoring the laws they had promised to strengthen and enforce during the election. It hadn’t been the first time a political party had disappointed Tom, but after raising his hopes so high? He knew now there could be no compromise. Only action would change things. Only fighting would make people see.

  Then the Supervisors had come, contacting the networks with offers of weapons and supplies. Tom hadn’t trusted them, especially when they’d started taking the role of leaders. He wouldn’t put it beyond the companies to infiltrate the networks and expose them from the inside. But the people had loved them. They’d brought medicines and foods in quantities people had never seen before. When the companies had issued warrants for their arrest, Tom had set aside his misgivings and accepted them. The Supervisors may not have suffered on the production lines, but the actions of the companies had driven them to seek justice, too. Or at least that’s what Tom had told himself.

  The Supervisors had turned the Legion into a crusade, unifying the networks, arming them, pushing them to train and to prepare. They’d even used their connections to steal warships of their own. Tom had felt a rush of exhilaration, knowing that they would soon have the spotlight of the entire Alliance on them and their cause. That was when the Supervisors had pushed to attack the way stations. More strategic targets, they’d said, more likely to draw attention. They selected Kensington as the first, though Tom had yet to see what was strategic about this place. An opportunity to test their strength, his Supervisor had said.

  But something about their mission here was not what Tom had planned for. He had no problem with killing the guilty. He’d seen enough suffering in squalid tenant housing and on the assembly lines to justify a thousand executions. But these Navy men and women — they were not the enemy. Talking to them, it was clear that some of them had lived the same life he had lived. They served the enemy’s interests, indirectly, but they were not guilty. Still, for the cause…

  If it meant justice, Tom would do what he had to.

  Tom met the eyes of a group of his people as he passed them, sipping broth from steaming cups.

  “Good evening, Tom.”

  “Step carefully, leader.”

  Tom nodded back at them. They looked stronger now, their bodies fuller under the stained rags and work coveralls they still wore. These barracks had been a blessing. When the Supervisor had said they might have to live in the forest, Tom had worried his people didn’t have the strength. But the barracks had provided shelter. Hell, even though it was clear they’d been unoccupied and only occasionally maintained for some time, they were far safer than any of the units in the living quarter back home. And they’d held old crates of military rations, which had done wonders for their health, even if they’d been partially gnawed by vermin.

  Tom reached the end of the row of barracks, turned toward the smaller outbuilding that the Supervisor had taken for his post. It was a small square building, made of the same corrugated metal as the others. Outside stood two guards at attention, rifles held in front of them with their butts on the ground. As Tom reached them, they raised their rifles and shouldered them in exact synchronization, an impressive — and unnecessary — display. But then again, the Supervisor had a flair for showmanship.

  Tom nodded to the guards and entered, ducking his tall frame through the door. The smell of roasted meat and toasted ration biscuits hit him in the face, made his mouth water. The room was small, with a cot pushed to one side and a desk with a small battery lamp on the other. A young woman sat on the cot. She looked up, caught Tom’s gaze, and blushed. Somehow the Supervisor never lacked for company. But the Legion was built on the ideals of freedom, and Tom wouldn’t tell any man or woman how to spend their time, even if he disapproved of a leader mingling with those under him.

  Tom diverted his eyes to the Supervisor, who was sitting behind his desk next to the pile of trophies he’d had brought to him from the destroyer. Rifles, bayonets, body armor, and the ship’s ceremonial ensign, a bright blue and white flag with a long, jagged-toothed fish embroidered on it in gold. The Supervisor was bent over slightly, running his hands over a pistol, and Tom realized with a jolt that he had put on one of the Navy uniform jackets, this one with the four bars and one star of a captain on its shoulder boards, the name Edwards embroidered over one of the breast pockets.

  Tom cleared his throat. “Supervisor, you called for me?”

  The Supervisor looked up, his face spli
tting into a grin. He was a slender man, just a bit shorter than Tom, with a weak chin covered with blond stubble, and a shaved head. He placed the pistol on the desk, stood, and walked to Tom, holding out his arms, no doubt to show off his new uniform.

  “What do you think, Commander Petrarcha?” He turned in place, his face beaming in the dim light of the desk lamp.

  “Supervisor?” Tom did his best to hide his annoyance. If he were only here to witness a fashion display, he would be very disappointed.

  “See,” the Supervisor said, pushing a shoulder toward Tom to show off his shoulder boards. “I’m a captain. That makes you a commander.”

  “The movement doesn’t recognize ranks of this type, Supervisor. You know that.”

  The Supervisor worked his face into a pouty frown. “Serious Tom, as always. And I have a name. Smith. Trenton Smith.”

  “Yes Supervisor… Smith.” Tom held the man’s gaze. “What did you call me here to discuss?”

  The Supervisor turned to the young woman on his cot, and waved his hands at her. “Shoo, my dear. We’ll see each other later.”

  The woman stood and walked past Tom, her gaze on her feet as she passed him.

  The Supervisor walked back to his desk, flopped down in his chair, his face transforming to the image of concern.

  “We have a problem, Tom.”

  Tom held back a snort. That much was obvious. “Yes, we’ve suffered higher losses than expected.”

  The Supervisor shook his head, flicked a hand as if to scare away a fly. “No, not that. I think we need to move to a better place.”

  Tom nodded. “I agree. This Kensington mission has failed.”

  The Supervisor chuckled. “That’s what I love about you, Tom. Always so absolute, so honest with your opinions.”

  Tom said nothing.

  “No,” the Supervisor continued. “Our project here has just begun.”

  “Supervisor—”

  “—Smith!” The Supervisor interrupted, smiling again.

  “Smith,” Tom said. “More than a hundred people won’t be returning to their families. Add that to those we lost taking the destroyer. We’ve made our point. We have the destroyer, and we should go before we waste any more people.” Tom didn’t consider himself a smart man, but he wasn’t dumb either. He’d worked hard in the factories, moving from the assembly line to working in the machining room with the CNC equipment. When he’d been younger, he’d even taken pride in helping to make the finest atmospheric compressors in the sector.