First Command

by Scott Bartlett

  He gave his words a moment to sink in, knowing that Hancock had no way of interrupting him, or even responding. Currently, the man was overseeing four marines and five pirates as they used tools they’d removed from repair drones to cut through the armored citadel the bridge had become.

  Candle had lowered the citadel’s solid-core steel hatches moments before he’d broken step with Hancock’s plan, and now he was patching two camera feeds through to Emmons’ eyepiece: a view of the marine commander’s efforts to break in, and another of the marines and pirates Hancock had assigned to guard the only elevator connecting this deck to the bridge. A few bulkheads and passageways were all that stood between that elevator and the docking bay.

  “We have a delicate situation.” Thatcher planted a left hand on the bulkhead near the control station, shifting his weight for comfort. “How do you respond when an irresponsible leader places such unreasonable demands on you? How can you tell the difference between those truly committed to mutiny and those merely playing along for fear they’d be killed if they did otherwise? You can’t—not at first. You must play along too, at least until you get your bearings. It’s what I would do, and it’s what Lieutenant Commander Billy Candle did. He humored Hancock, playing the part well enough that Hancock left the bridge to him, leaving him in a position to act. But even then, Commander Candle had to take a chance. Could he truly be sure the other officers in the bridge were among the good guys? He thought he knew them, but did he really? He had to gamble. And thanks to his bravery, his heroism, this mutiny will fail.

  “I know that most of you are with me. That you’re loyal to me, to the company that hired you…to the USA, and to humanity. I know you want to do your part in helping Frontier to build a strong Dawn Cluster, so that we can return to Earth Local Space in force and defeat the Xanthic once and for all. I won’t try to entice you with prize money, with riches, because I know you come from better stock than that. You aren’t mere mercenaries hired by some private military company. Frontier Security hires its marines directly from the marines—the U.S. Marine Corps. Once a marine, always a marine. And we all know a real marine can be counted on.

  “But you still have to take a chance, just as Commander Candle did. A few of the men around you really have lost their way, and they will kill you if they can, the moment you show signs of doing the right thing. I’m not going to hide my intentions from you. First, I will take the marines I brought with me to secure the elevator. After that, I’ll deal with Hancock. The rest is up to you, marines. Semper Fi.”

  He placed the mic on its cradle and turned to find the marines accompanying him all standing at attention, saluting him.

  “Oorah!” they shouted as one.

  Thatcher returned their salute, and an exterior helmet speaker delivered his reply. “Oorah!”

  With that, they moved out from the docking bay, navigating using the schematics Candle had forwarded to their eyepieces. Though Thatcher hadn’t worn power armor since his time in the academy, he found it akin to riding a bicycle: he quickly reaccustomed himself to the way the form-fitting suit amplified his every movement, roughly tripling his strength.

  They came to the passageway before the one that led to the elevator, halting before turning the final corner. “How should we proceed, sir?” Emmons asked him.

  Thatcher almost told him to use his own judgment, but stopped himself. This was a highly unusual situation, wasn’t it? Typically, he would have recommended striking hard and fast to take a vessel from a hostile force. But here, that would run counter to his objective—to keep bloodshed to a minimum.

  “Deploy into the next corridor as quickly and as orderly as you can, training your weapons on pirates, not marines. If we must shoot, we’ll shoot them first, then take cover.” The power armor’s protection would buy them a few seconds to safely withdraw, if it became necessary.

  “Yes, sir,” Emmons said. “Marines, move out!”

  They did as Thatcher had ordered, and he rounded the corner with them, pistol raised. As he’d hoped, there was no immediate gunfire. Instead, both forces stared at each other across the long passageway, for several dragged-out seconds. It wasn’t difficult to tell marine from pirate: the latter’s armor was a mismatched patchwork that left plenty of gaps for a marksman to exploit.

  Then, one of the marines guarding the elevator barked a single order: “Marines, fall back!”

  As one, the New Jersey marines at the end of the passageway drew back, forming up near the elevator and leaving the pirates exchanging confused glances, clearly uncertain how to react.

  “Drop your weapons and put your hands in the air, scumbags!” the same marine barked. This time, Thatcher’s eyepiece analyzed the voice and provided him with a rank and name: Captain Will Avery.

  The pirates shifted even more, their weapons wavering.

  “Yes, I mean you,” Avery said. “You are surrounded by Frontier marines, and if you do not drop your weapons immediately we will shoot you dead.”

  Finally, they seemed to get the message. The pirates slowly crouched, laying their weapons on the deck, then stood with their hands raised.

  That done, Emmons sent marines forward to collect the firearms, safetying them as they did. At the same time, Avery ordered some of his marines to press the pirates against the wall and search them.

  When the pirates were all gathered together, Thatcher crossed the passageway. As he did, the marines in front of the elevator came to attention and saluted him.

  He returned their salute. “You’ve done your ship proud today, gentlemen,” he said. “You showed what marines are capable of. And you stayed true to yourselves. Good work.”

  “Sir,” Avery said, “Major Hancock was my friend. But he put these men in danger for his own greed. I couldn’t stand for that, and neither could they.”

  “You did the right thing. But our work isn’t done.”

  From Thatcher’s little speech over the Charger’s loudspeakers, Hancock had likely concluded his captain would come at him from the corridor behind. That was what Thatcher had wanted him to think, but it was only partly true.

  He would also come from the bridge itself—something he was sure the former marine commander wouldn’t expect, since it required lifting the solid-core barriers protecting the citadel, which would expose Candle and his bridge officers for the time it would take marines to charge through the bridge.

  But Thatcher had ordered Candle to have his officers take what cover they could on the far side of the area, with their sidearms drawn. “Don’t shoot unless you have to,” he told them.

  Whether Hancock expected the move or not, opening up the citadel worked. Emmons rushed into the bridge with three squads of marines, and Avery flanked Hancock from the corridor with another three squads.

  None of the marines or pirates with Hancock attempted to surrender, instead fighting to the last and forcing their attackers to kill them. Maybe Hancock had kept the real mutineers with him, and maybe those marines had acknowledged to themselves what they really were—traitors. If that was so, then in a sense their refusal to surrender was the most honorable thing they could have done. A man like that didn’t truly deserve the opportunity to redeem himself, even though Thatcher would have offered that opportunity.

  But none of those marines pretended to a cause any greater than their own greed. And they died like swine in the bloodbath that followed, which claimed every one of them, and no one else.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Aboard the New Jersey

  Sable System, Dupliss Region

  Earth Year 2290

  Thatcher did Moll the courtesy of saluting him as he disembarked his shuttle into the Jersey’s tiny starboard docking bay, which was just big enough to hold Attack Shuttle Two and a single visiting craft.

  “Commander.” Moll returned the salute, the halogens making his bare head gleam. “At ease.”

  Thatcher folded his hands behind his back, relaxing his stance. Since Sunder structured its
corporate hierarchy along a proper military rank system, Thatcher was more than happy to respect Moll’s rank by saluting first. Too many Cluster PMCs didn’t use ranks at all.

  But Moll did work for a different corp altogether—within a separate chain of command—and that corp was assisting Frontier. It wouldn’t be wise to place the coming operation under Moll’s authority. Which left them in a somewhat delicate situation.

  Their eyes remained locked on each other’s well after the salute, each man waiting for the other to break contact.

  Moll sniffed sharply. “During the recent engagement, I was given to wondering why a Sunder destroyer, captained by a CEO, was expected to follow orders from a Frontier commander in charge of a light cruiser. Especially considering some of the reckless tactics you employed. I did not want to endanger our cause, so I played along, but I must admit it gave me pause.”

  “Perhaps that’s something we can address at today’s meeting. Won’t you come with me?” Thatcher extended his arm toward the hatch.

  “By all means. After you.” The large man raised his own hand to indicate the portal.

  Clearing his throat, Thatcher wrenched his gaze away and stalked to the hatch, which he pulled open by the handle. “After you,” he said, holding open the hatch as he eyed Moll once more. The CEO returned Thatcher’s gaze with a sardonic grin and strode through, ducking slightly. This time, he was the first to break eye contact.

  Thatcher nodded to himself and followed Moll through. “Ms. Rose awaits us in the Jersey’s conference room, as does Commander Pat Frailey.”

  “I surmised as much. Considering I’m here to meet with them.”

  It didn’t escape Thatcher how Moll tried to minimize him by implying he wasn’t here to meet with him. But since they walked alone, the remark could only diminish him if he allowed it to. He’s trying to knock me off-balance before the meeting begins.

  “I’ve met captains like you before.” Moll didn’t turn to make the remark, instead keeping his eyes on the corridor ahead. “I’ve watched their careers catch fire for a time, only to sputter out in the cold void of the Cluster.”

  “What sort of captain do you mean?”

  “The sort who thinks tactics will keep him safe. Usually, this kind of captain was patted on the head by his instructors all through his training and told what a smart boy he is. Clever tactics may fly in Earth Local Space, where the mommy state is never too far, ready with its super-ships to swoop in and save the day. But things are different here on the Cluster’s outskirts, and tactics will only get you so far. If they’re all you’re playing with, then sooner or later you’ll face an implacable foe who has you right where he wants you. And he will end you.”

  “Have you ever had the opportunity to warn such a captain about this pattern you’ve identified?” Thatcher kept his eyes straight ahead as well.

  “Not before today.”

  “Then please let me say what an honor it is to give you the chance. And also what a privilege it will be to watch the reflection in your eyes as my career grows into an inferno that consumes the entire Dawn Cluster.”

  Moll did look at him now, his beard twitching as he gave a slight smile and nodded. “We shall see.”

  When they entered the conference room, Veronica Rose and Commander Frailey were already deep in discussion about what Frontier’s next move should be.

  “I don’t think we can afford the time it would take to effect any further repairs,” Rose was saying. “Hello, Commander Thatcher. And Captain Moll. Thank you for joining us.”

  “By all means.” The Sunder CEO jerked a chair back and straddled it, openly appraising Commander Frailey as he did. Frailey reddened, lowering her gaze to the conference table.

  His conduct appears much less formal than our first meeting, Thatcher reflected as he took a seat at the head of the table, opposite Rose.

  The Frontier CEO shot Moll a sidelong glance, which he showed no sign of noticing. “We were just discussing whether to linger in Sable while we fully repair our ships.” At Rose’s words, Moll’s eyes finally left Frailey’s face for hers.

  “Didn’t we settle that already?” Thatcher was trying not to glare at Moll as he spoke. “The Charger will require a dry dock, but she’s still operational. So are the other ships that have gathered. We need to strike without delay, before Reardon can further cement its footing.” In addition to Frailey’s Boxer, nine more Frontier ships had arrived in the Sable System since they’d left Frailey here—five corvettes, three frigates, and another light cruiser.

  Rose shook her head. “There’s been a development, Commander. Your XO’s just informed me that another Frontier vessel has arrived in Sable: the Lancer, another cruiser. She’s the latest to try poking her head into the Freedom System, and she met with the most violent response yet. It seems Reardon’s less reluctant to reveal its collusion with pirates than we assumed. A mix of Reardon and pirate ships chased the Lancer out of the system, inflicting considerable damage. Other than the Jersey and the Victorious, she’s now the most powerful ship we have at our disposal, which puts the question of repairs back on the table.”

  “What damage did she take?”

  “All her port-side laser batteries are gone except one, her aft autoturrets were destroyed, and she’s been reduced to sixty-four percent thrust capacity. Not to mention having her cargo bay blown out, along with everything inside it that wasn’t bolted down. Without a repair and resupply, she’ll be a burden on the rest of our force.”

  Thatcher stared at the bulkhead beyond Rose’s shoulder for a moment as he considered the information. “I say we leave for Freedom regardless. The Lancer can form part of our reserve.”

  “There’s more, Commander. With the pirates they’ve brought into Freedom, Reardon now outnumbers us two-to-one.”

  “Yes, and in the time it takes to repair and restock a cruiser, they’ll add five more ships to their force. If not ten. The Lancer has taken some damage—so be it. She will belong to our reserve force.”

  “Can someone tell me why he keeps talking about a reserve force?” The way Moll emphasized the last two words seemed to imply the idea of such a force was as ridiculous as a swimming pool on a warship. “We don’t have the luxury of a reserve. We have sixteen ships to their thirty-two, if your Lancer’s report is to be believed. Hitting hard and fast is our only chance.”

  Rose looked back and forth between Thatcher and Moll, apparently at a loss for words. Frailey showed no interest in intervening, even though she held the same rank as Thatcher.

  But Thatcher had plenty to say. “I’m glad you offered your input, Captain Moll.” He extended his hand toward the Sunder CEO, tapping the table for emphasis. “It reminds me that I need to make something clear, before we deploy to Freedom. You are merely a unit in this force, and you will do exactly as you’re told, without question. This is a Frontier operation, and while we greatly appreciate Sunder’s aid, I’m sure you understand we can’t give another corp authority over how the coming engagement will go. Not when it’s so crucial to our company’s future.”

  “I’m putting my ship on the line,” Moll shot back, his face stony. “As well as my crew, and even my corp, considering I’m its CEO. I’m entitled to some say over how we proceed.”

  “Your input will be given its due consideration. But we’ll have the final say on tactical matters.” Thatcher placed a slight emphasis on the word “tactical,” as a callback to their conversation in the corridor. “We also reserve the right to withhold what our tactics will be until the moment we execute them.”

  Moll shook his head, sneering as he turned to Rose. “Why is this employee speaking for Frontier Security?”

  Several seconds passed as Rose stared down the long table at Thatcher. He’d crossed a line again, he knew. She couldn’t be happy with him taking the reins for Frontier’s relationship with Sunder, even for a minute. But if they were to maintain combat effectiveness, someone had to put Moll in his place, and Rose was too diplomatic to
do it.

  “I tend to agree with the commander, Captain.”

  Thatcher’s eyebrows shot up, his shock the rough equal of Moll’s scandalized expression.

  “My father often stressed the importance of having unity of command.” Rose folded her hands on the tabletop. “If we designate two battle commanders, with two completely different ideas of how an engagement should go, then we will only confuse our crews. And this is a Frontier matter. I’m sure you would say similar things, Captain, were our roles reversed.”

  “Fine.” Moll’s clenched fists sat in stark contrast with his level tone. “But surely you don’t mean to make him the commander of your force. He’s barely two months into his first command.”

  “True. Yet, Commander Thatcher’s come through three engagements now without suffering any losses, despite consistent long odds. He came highly recommended by a U.S. Fleet admiral. I’m inclined to trust him.”

  After the meeting, Rose saw Moll to the starboard docking bay, leaving Thatcher to walk Frailey to the port bay. Probably a smart move. Leaving Thatcher alone with Moll again likely wouldn’t do much for intercorporate relations.

  “Thank you kindly for your hospitality, Commander.” Frailey saluted.

  He returned it. “It was a pleasure to have you aboard. Hopefully we have the opportunity again soon, at a less tumultuous time.”

  “I hope so. Although, I’m beginning to doubt there are many of those left.”

  With their visitors departed, Rose sent him a message requesting his presence in her cargo bay office.

  “You said what needed to be said,” she said when he appeared at her desk. “But you need to stop putting your mark on our relationships with outside parties.”

  Thatcher said nothing. He appreciated what she was saying, but he refused to apologize for what had to be done.