Renegades (Expeditionary Force Book 7)

by Craig Alanson

  “Great. I want to talk privately, understood? Not even you listening. If I need to contact you, I’ll send a text.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “I can trust you on this?”

  “Joe, I am at heart a supreme asshole. But I would not risk Margaret getting upset at me. Signing off now.”

  My parents’ basement was unfinished, the furnace and water heater were down there, plus they used it for storage. Just after Columbus Day, when people moved out of the cities due to lack of electricity and my parents took in refugees, the basement was crowded with furniture from upstairs rooms that had been converted into bedrooms. My father had built shelves to store food provided by the government, and at one point a teenage boy had been living down there to get some measure of privacy. Now the place was mostly empty, a few boxes and tins of leftover food, plus all the vegetables and fruit my mother canned from her garden. I sat down on an empty crate and popped open a jar of blackberry jam. Call me, I texted to Adams.

  The phone flashed immediately. “How are you doing, Sir?” She asked.

  My first reaction was a sigh, which was not a good move. Signaling you are frustrated is not the best way to begin a conversation. “Sorry, it’s been a rough couple weeks. Can you not call me ‘Sir’, please? I’m a staff sergeant now that we’re dirtside.”

  “We both know that will change soon. The Maxolhx are coming, so you know we’re going back out. How about we compromise, and pretend ‘Sir’ is a nickname?”

  “Depends. The ship is probably going back out, I don’t know if we will be invited. Can I call you Marge? Or Margaret?” Silence was the only response, so I tried again. “Ok, how about we pretend your nickname is ‘Adams’?”

  “That’s better. When did they release you from Wright-Pat?”

  We chatted for a while about our debriefings, which we both called interrogations because that’s what they were. Adams had been held at Wright-Pat for only two days before they flew her to Quantico, because the Marine Corps wanted to debrief her. The Army had come to Wright-Pat to talk with me, so I guess I got lucky there. Except the Marines had been more interested in learning from her than bitching at her, while my experience had been all bitching, all the time. “You got your zPhone from Skippy?” I asked.

  “Yes, he told me one of his bots snuck it into the house, I don’t know how he did it. You have security people watching you?”

  “Two teams,” I reported. “one of them got an earful from my mother when their RV command post went too far off the road, and ran over the flowerbed near the mailbox.”

  “I’m lucky, then. All I have here is two Marines and they’re keeping their distance. Sir, Skippy found listening bugs in the house here.”

  “They bugged this house, my parents’ cars too, that pissed me off. They don’t trust us.”

  “At Quantico, a brigadier told me scuttlebutt is when the Dutchman goes out again, her mission might be to contact the Jeraptha, try to make a deal with the Rindhalu. I don’t know if the UN is serious about that, or just kicking ideas around.”

  “I was afraid of that, people at Wright-Pat were talking about that strategy, and they didn’t want to hear when I told them it was a bad idea.”

  “It’s a totally bullshit idea,” she agreed. “Two Maxolhx ships coming here has them in a panic.”

  “It has me scared out of my mind too,” I admitted. “Contacting the Jeraptha is an awful idea, but it may be the best we’ve got. No way can the Dutchman take on a pair of Maxolhx cruisers.”

  “Don’t say that. We’ve been in situations worse than this.”

  “No, we haven’t. We have gone up against double-A or triple-A ball clubs like the Kristang and Thuranin, and we got lucky a lot. The Maxolhx are the major leagues. All we have is a beat-up space truck and a beer can.”

  “And monkeys. We are clever, remember.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s wrong, Sir? This isn’t like you.”

  That remark almost got me angry. “Adams, this is me. The real me. I fake it a lot in front of the crew.”

  “Everyone fakes it part of the time. What’s wrong?”

  Before answering, I looked at the phone. Did I want to have this conversation with someone? Yes. I needed to talk about it. And I wanted to talk about it with her more than anyone else, but I wished our relationship was different. It was hard pouring my heart out to someone who always called me ‘Sir’.

  Oh, what the hell. Adams and I had been through a lot together. Maybe no one else could understand. “What’s wrong this time is, this is all my fault. The Maxolhx are coming here because I asked Skippy to screw with wormholes, without considering the consequences. I may have killed us all. This is my fault.”

  “Maybe it is.”

  “Uh, what?”

  “You expected me to pat your head and tell you it’s not your fault?” She scolded me. “Maybe it is your fault. From what I remember, you have done a lot of stupid shit, Sir.”

  “Remind me never to ask you for a pep talk, Gunny.”

  “You don’t need a pep talk, you need to man up and. Fix. The. Problem. If you fucked this up, you need to fix it, not indulge in weepy moping on the Goddamned phone, Sir. I’ll tell you what I know. Without you, the crew would already be dead, and Earth would be doomed for sure. The beer can screwing with wormholes is how we got around the galaxy fast enough to complete our missions, so we had to do it. We didn’t have a choice at the time. Think about this: the Maxolhx were coming here eventually anyway. We know the senior species were alarmed when the wormhole near Earth shut down, that is behavior they hadn’t seen a wormhole exhibit before. We were on the clock as soon as Skippy shut down that wormhole the first time.”

  It took me a moment to process that. “Can I indulge in weepy moping for another few minutes, before we have to dream up a plan to save the freakin’ world again?”

  “Yes,” she laughed. “As long as those minutes are tonight while you’re asleep.”

  “Fair enough. Ah, I guess UNEF Command will have to listen to us whether they want to or not. They’ll need us and Skippy to fly out there if they want to contact the Jeraptha.”

  “Not anymore, they don’t. Remember? We screwed ourselves. Skippy fixed it so we monkeys can fly this ship on our own, without him.”

  “Shit,” I slapped my forehead. There are still a few bugs he was working out when we arrived at Earth, but he might have fixed them by now. “Oh, crap! They don’t even need Skippy to use the magic beanstalk. We did screw ourselves.” At my request, Skippy had cobbled together some parts hooked to our Elder wormhole controller module, so if something bad happened to him, we could use it to reopen the dormant wormhole and get back home to Earth. The device was a one-time-use item, as it would burn out and lose its connection to higher spacetime. The intention of the device was so the Flying Dutchman could fly through the wormhole inbound. But UNEF Command could also use it outbound, to get to an area where they could contact the Thuranin. “This is a pleasant conversation.”

  “We can change the subject,” she suggested. “How are your folks?”

  We chatted about our families, friends we had seen since we got back, domestic stuff like that. The conversation went on long enough that I ate half the jar of jam with my fingers, and wished I had brought a cup of coffee Somehow the conversation got onto my experience in the grocery store, with the woman who wanted me to bring her son back from Paradise.

  “I feel for her,” Adams said after a pause. “I can’t imagine what that is like.”

  “It may be worse for us.”

  “Sir? How’s that?”

  “We know why UNEF is really trapped on Paradise. We could do something about it, but we won’t.”

  “No, we can’t do anything about it.”

  “Adams, we chose not to bring our troops home. It’s the only rational choice, but it is a choice. Damn it, if the Dutchman’s next mission is to throw ourselves at the feet of the Jeraptha and beg for mercy, we should go to P
aradise first, let those people know they have not been abandoned. Not been forgotten.”

  “We can’t let that happen.”

  She had me confused. “Can’t let them be forgotten?”

  “No. We can’t let the Dutchman’s next flight to be for surrendering to the enemy. Or surrendering to friends.”

  “We don’t have any friends out there.”

  “You got that right. Sir, I have to go, I’m meeting friends for lunch.”

  “Yeah. Hey, my folks are planning to take some time off next week, and my sister too. We are thinking of going down to the coast or camping or something.” My sister had never been a fan of camping, so I doubted that would be part of our plans. “Whatever we do, I gotta get it cleared with the security team first. Ok, I’ll talk to you later.”

  When I got back up into the kitchen, I saw two of the security guys in dark blue jackets had gotten out of their trailer in the driveway and were looking toward the kitchen windows at me. What I felt like doing was flipping them off, but I knew they were only doing their jobs, so I gave them a friendly gesture with a coffee mug. One of them looked like he was trying not to laugh, while the other guy’s face was red. “Hey, Skippy,” I called softly after turning away from the window. “I was in the basement for a long time, they must have been listening. What fake sounds did you play for them?”

  “Oh, I didn’t know how long you would be talking with Margaret, so at first I made it sound like you were sorting jars on the shelves, sweeping the floor, boring stuff like that.”

  “Uh huh,” I glanced back at the window, where the red-faced guy was climbing back in the trailer with a disgusted look, and the other guy’s shoulders were shaking. “What did you do after that?”

  “Well, I had to think of something plausible you might be doing down there for so long by yourself-”

  “Oh, crap.”

  “The feds are monitoring internet traffic through your router, and I made it look like you were surfing for porn-”

  I face-palmed myself. “Please tell me you didn’t-”

  “Don’t worry, Joe, I didn’t use any of that weird stuff you’ve browsed before, just your typical generic porn. You know, like ‘Horny Housewives’ or-”

  “Oh, I am praying the Maxolhx arrive here right now and nuke this site from orbit.”

  “Well, the feds sure got a chuckle out of it. Except one of them is a devout Mormon, he was praying for your soul. Especially after I played like, moaning and grunting and slapping sounds over the listening bugs- Hey, to make it look more convincing, you should walk around with that goofy satisfied look on your face.”

  “Skippy, I am going to fill the bathtub, plug in a toaster and jump in with it.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  For the first couple days back at my folks’ house, I just chilled. With no duty shift to worry about, I slept late, I did chores around the house and in the barn, I went running in the woods instead of on a treadmill. Running was kind of awkward because at least two FBI agents came with me. One agent was a woman and quite attractive, but they were all business and not in a mood for chit-chat. It felt good to sprint the last quarter-mile back to the house and leave them gasping for breath behind me.

  One morning my body got me up early so I went downstairs and made coffee, puttering round the kitchen until my parents got up. Skippy startled me by whispering in my earpiece. “Joe!” He hissed. “Be careful. Some sketchy homeless guy broke into your parents’ house.”

  “What?” I kept my voice down and stepped beside the fridge. “How did a guy get in with the freakin’ FBI watching the place?”

  “I don’t know. Be careful, he looks dangerous.”

  “Homeless doesn’t mean dangerous, Skippy,” I chided him. When the economy collapsed after Columbus Day, a lot of people had lost their homes, and my parents had taken in several families to live with them.

  “I know, but this guy hasn’t bathed in weeks and his clothes are all torn and filthy and he has a crazy look in his eyes.”

  “Uh,” I looked down at the shirt I was wearing, which was well-worn and had a few food stains from dinner last night. “Where is this guy?”

  “In the kitchen. Be careful.”

  “Oh for- Skippy, that’s me. Damn it, I haven’t shaved for a few days, I’m on leave.”

  “That’s you? Ugh, damn, you have let your standards totally slip. The Army would be ashamed of you. That scraggly fuzz on your face is supposed to be a beard?”

  “It’s stubble,” I rubbed my chin defensively.

  “Huh. Really?”

  “Yes, really. Chicks dig the bad-boy look, Skippy.”

  “Do they dig bad-smelling boys?”

  “I showered yesterday!”

  “You showered after you went running, then you worked around the yard all day. I am guessing, but I think it is unlikely you are fresh as a daisy.”

  Lifting one arm, I sniffed myself, concluding that he may be right. “Ok, I’ll shower before my folks get up.”

  “Good idea. Scrape that fuzz off your face also.”

  “I am not shaving, Skippy. My stubble stays until my leave is over.” The truth is, me not shaving was a form of protest against being second-guessed by a bunch of bureaucrats who had never been offworld.

  “Ugh. I try to give you advice about girls, but-”

  “The last thing I need is advice from a beer can.”

  The next day, I drove down to Bangor with two old buddies, and met three guys I knew from serving with the Maine National Guard during the first winter after Columbus Day. We went for pizza, then they took me to a ‘gentlemens club’. I should explain this type of club is not a place where gentlemen meet to discuss the stock market over cigars and cognac. This place was more like, let’s call it ‘the ballet’. Girls dance there, if you know what I mean. Ordinarily, seeing girls I couldn’t touch after being away from Earth for so long would have gotten me more depressed than charged up. But, before going to the ballet, we pre-gamed at a couple bars, so I was well-supplied with alcohol and we all had a good time. At least, I was having a good time until a waitress served us drinks and, damn it, I recognized her because we went to high school together. That was awkward, or it was at first. No, Stacey didn’t dance at the club, she just served drinks although the outfit she wore left little to the imagination. My buddies bragged to her about how I was a space soldier even after I begged them to shut up, we were drawing attention and my ever-watchful dark-suit-wearing security detail were inching closer to us. Stacey wrote her number on a napkin and told me to call her so we could catch up on old times, then we bailed out of the club to go bar-hopping. It was some time after 1AM when I crashed into the hotel bed.

  At 1025 the next morning I was rudely awakened by a text message. It was from Stacey. Did I have plans for lunch? I had to think about it. My buddies had all left because they had to work, plus they hadn’t gotten hammered the previous night like I did. In my defense, it had been a while since I went bar-hopping.

  Since all you perverts out there want to know, yes I went to lunch with Stacey. We sat at an outdoor table and caught up on each other’s lives, she moved away right after high school and I hadn’t seen her in years. She told me about her life, and I told her the official cover story about my life. Even trying to make my life sound uninteresting by describing how dull it is to be stuck as a passenger inside a ship in deep space, she wanted to know more. After lunch we walked along the waterfront, then she had to run some errands and get ready for work. Having three feds in dark suits following me everywhere was not great for romance. Stacey told me she’d like to get together on one of her days off, and we made plans, but I explained I might be going somewhere with my folks, and she understood. When she left, she gave me a kiss on the cheek and there was a twinkle in her eyes.

  I think Stacey dug my manly bad-boy stubble.

  To give my parents a continued break and to visit my sister, and partly to annoy my security team, I went to Boston for a couple days aft
er my overnight in Bangor. A security team went with me, this time they smartened up by dressing in casual civilian clothes and hopefully looking like typical tourists. With my accent, I could pass as a local, and with my Red Sox baseball cap pulled down low and sunglasses, nobody recognized me. Or if they did, they left me alone. It was awkward trying to relax with three armed guards shadowing my every move, after a day together we got comfortable with each other and they didn’t hover as much. One of the feds was a woman, she stuck by my side which made it look like we were a couple.

  Yes, she was cute and I wouldn’t have minded, you know, getting to know her better, but she was married with a three-year-old at home. I was on my best behavior.

  We went to Faneuil Hall marketplace, I was craving cookies from the Boston Chipyard, and wanted a batch to bring to my sister and her boyfriend or fiancé or whatever he was. Walking across the square in front of City Hall, I noticed two people wearing silver satin-type robes over their jeans, and I automatically turned away. They were earnestly passing out pamphlets to anyone passing by, I didn’t know what their deal was and I didn’t care.

  My strategy didn’t work, after I turned left to cut across Congress Street near the Sam Adams statue, I ran into two more of the silver-robe brigade. Before I could wave a hand that I wasn’t interested, a beaming woman with silver strands of lace woven into her hair thrust a pamphlet at me. “Sir, have you accepted The Skippy as your lord and savior?”

  I froze in place, gaping at her. When my vapor-locked brain could think again, I held up one finger. No, not that finger, I mean an index finger. “Um, give me, give me, one moment, please. I’ll, I’ll be right back.” Signaling to my security detail that everything was cool, I stepped around the corner and tapped my zPhone while it was still in a pocket. Keeping my tone light and listening through the earpiece, I called the beer can. “Oh, Skiiiipeee?”

  “Hey, Joe, what’s up? Damn, the way you described those chocolate chip cookies almost makes me wish I was a biological trashbag so I could eat them.”