Chapter Twenty-Four
“Don’t get mad, get even!” Harry said reprovingly, offering a gauntleted hand to the RockHound. The man was floating just out of reach of the handholds projecting from the impact mat. Originally white, the stained and scuffed ad hoc padding covered all the heavy equipment and most of the surfaces of the mining and salvage skiff hangar. Here and there, yellow-painted maintenance carts and ramps were chained to the deck, peeking from beneath improvised protection. Under the goad of a lucky hit or painful joint lock, sparring routinely accelerated into full speed fighting, but the EVA suits and padding generally sufficed to turn potential broken bones and contusions into bruises and deflated egos. There was a surfeit of both, especially among the host station personnel, who were getting their first taste of Terran aggression.
“Let’s go again. This time try to escape faster. Fight near the bulkheads and deck. A man without an anchor has no leverage in micro.”
“This is an unfair test!” the RockHound insisted, ignoring Harry’s hand. He grabbed a handhold, levering himself to an “up” position unassisted. As he spoke, he tugged his twisted and bunched black EVA suit into a more comfortable position. “How can I win, when there are two of you attacking me? You shame me to justify a plan to use inferior Terrans in your mission!”
There was a stir as two men grabbed for a third as he prepared to challenge the angry RockHound.
“Inferior my ass!” shouted Rico Grave de Peralto, a compact and intense Cuban American. Furious Flea, as he was called by his buddies, had been a Navy gunner’s mate before he was blown over the side of his ship during a fire support mission in Vietnam. The Flea had a short man’s readiness to charge any hill and a temper that made every knoll a good hill to charge. Fortunately, this particular mountain would remain out of reach. Another American caught Harry’s eye and received a nod in reply.
A ham-sized fist snagged Flea’s ankle, aborting the mad Cuban’s attempt to push off a wall toward the angry RockHound. The fist belonged to Brent Roeder, a mild-mannered man whose World War II submarine had vanished on patrol. He’d been left in stasis due to undiagnosed terminal cancer, which Dornaani medicine had easily resolved. He was also the size of a medium-large bear, and what he grabbed tended to stop as though anchored in concrete. He ignored the minor violences Rico tried to inflict on him and merely raised his eyebrows in mild amusement.
The incipient brawl successfully nipped in the bud, Harry calmly wiped his sweaty forehead with a scratchy but absorbent chem wipe. The RockHound facing him, a normally polite noncom named Markaz, visibly relaxed while Harry took his time deliberately drying all the skin he could reach. The rough recyclable paper towels were found everywhere in the station, including both the heads and the refectory, inspiring several jokes among the Lawless. Harry had specified full EVA gear for the exercise, and, given the soaked state of his own unitard, he imagined the others were swimming in their suits, too. His one concession to comfort thus far was to let them leave their helms open. Not only did drilling with open faceplates ease communications in the hangar they were using for training, but it was also much easier to scratch your face.
Harry looked over at his assistant and made a little “go ahead” motion with his hand.
“We don’t try to disqualify anyone, Markaz,” Senior Sergeant Pham Kai said stolidly, his Ktoran nearly perfect, if heavily accented. Ironically, his command of the alien language was much better than his choppy English, courtesy of the Dornaani language programs. He was another Vietnam War–era abductee. Pham had been detached from his North Vietnamese regiment, advising Viet Cong allies in Cambodia, when an American Arc Light strike wiped out nearly everyone he’d been training. If coaching RockHounds in close combat techniques was a stretch for the wiry, shaven-headed Terran, Harry couldn’t detect it. “Every remaining candidate possesses basic and intermediate freefall skills. The point of this exercise is to determine the best method to render Kulsian opponents mission-incapable in freefall, in the shortest possible time. You RockHounds are most likely to have skills and experience similar to the opposition we will face, so we use you, as Americans say, as practice dummies.”
“Is this an insult?” Markaz stiffened. He was among the relatively few RockHound volunteers who combined a willingness to work under the Terrans and had accepted the vague mission information shared thus far. Markaz was also somewhat mentally flexible—for a RockHound. In Harry’s experience, that meant he only questioned every third order, placing Markaz well ahead of the rest of his people.
“I do not understand this word, ‘dummy,’” Markaz added.
The loud, prolonged exchange was attracting attention, and Harry’s assistant instructor, Volo, floated over to listen in. The other candidates were close behind, Harry’s favorite RockHound among them: Korelon’s inclusion in the training had been a concession upon which the Legate had insisted. As far as Harry could see, Korelon was as excited to be involved as Harry was to have him. Like the others, Korelon turned as he approached, automatically orienting to the natural up and down of the compartment. Harry had requisitioned the hangar at the hub portion of the station, taking advantage of the microgravity environment found there, earning the ire of every RockHound captain now forced to use less convenient approaches to their berths.
“And the incessant training in full suits!” Korelon picked up the thread, ready to air his own grievances. “Are we unproven novitiates, owed no respect? Nay, I am a fully qualified salvage captain. Is it necessary to maintain discomfort to demonstrate my resolve, already proven in twenty thousand hours of ship duty? No Terran can handle himself in micro as well as we can, and yet here you are, teaching us?”
Harry had known this was coming. He stared at Korelon in his fancy-pants black captain’s suit and then exhaled. He shrugged a bit, like a man settling the weight of a heavy pack. Might as well address it now.
“All right, everybody, rally up.” Harry raised his voice and waved a forefinger above his head, describing a circle. He waited a moment while the nearly two dozen men making up the training cohort came within easy speaking distance. He spotted Murphy’s hapless aide about to drift beyond reach of a handhold. “Grab something, Makarov, before you float away.
“We’ve got a tough mission, and the success of all our clans—sorry, Families—depends upon it,” Harry began, maintaining his own position. “I don’t know all the details yet. I can’t share everything I know, either. However, the terms of our call for volunteers included extended EVA time. You volunteers know we’re preparing for direct action at close quarters with a hostile force of unknown size. We don’t have much time to master several important skills. We need to be ready to work in microgravity, and yes, under acceleration as well.”
Acceleration, ha! These poor fuckers have no idea.
Better them than Momma Tapper’s boy.
Harry had agreed to train the assault force contingent on learning more about the mission, and Murphy had reluctantly acquiesced. The operational profile was as ugly as anything Harry had ever heard of, and he’d been on the Panama airfield op.
“The ability to handle yourself in zero gee and under heavy accel is important, but it’s not everything. The team will need to work very fast indeed, under severe pressure, and while in direct infantry combat. That means clear and precise communications, instinctive teamwork, and split-second timing. But, above all, one thing is required when you invade another man’s space and take it from him: violence of action. Fast, brutal fighting at very close quarters. Close enough to feel his breath on your face when you run your knife into his belly. And that’s the kind of fighting at which we Terrans excel.”
Some Ktoran muttering was audible.
“Yes, the training is uncomfortable. It’s intended to be. We Terrans have a saying: The more you sweat in peace, the less you bleed in war. Training when you’re uncomfortable, tired, and aggravated is good training. When the time comes to fight, you won’t depend on ideal conditions and those Kulsian pussi—fools with their fancy technology and complacent attitude will be meat on our table!”
This time the muttering was tinged with approval.
Inspired, Harry looked for someone he’d worked with who the Hounds would find a credible source.
“Volo has worked with us in several operations,” Harry said, motioning to the SpinDog who’d been listening avidly. “Volo, can you explain why I assigned two attackers to Markaz?”
“His training is sufficiently high that two attackers are required to rapidly subdue him,” Volo said, assuaging the ever-touchy RockHound honor. “Therefore, his skill is not a deficiency, but a point of honor—is it not?”
With an audience of his peers present, keeping RockHound honor unruffled required a soft touch, and Harry appreciated the assistance.
“Indeed,” the man said, unbending a touch. “I thank you.”
Of course, Volo couldn’t stop there.
“Further, Major Tapper made certain all are tired, sweaty, and thirsty when we fight. We are learning just how fast we can subdue our enemies, evaluating both attack and defense, even when we are uncomfortable. Perhaps especially when we’re uncomfortable. This is good training. My first exposure to Terran ideas of good training involved attaching somewhat unreliable chemical rockets to an orbital interface craft to improve the craft’s maneuvering characteristics in atmosphere.”
A few of the RockHounds winced.
“It cost most of our ships to do it, and no one was ever comfortable or happy, but the mission was subsequently completed. Good training, you see.”
“Thanks, Volo,” Harry said, hoping his grudging thanks weren’t too obvious. He could’ve done without the recitation of historical losses.
“You’re welcome,” Volo replied nonchalantly, before turning back to Markaz. “I suggest, fellow spacer, you work closely with the Terran sergeants Rodriguez and Pham. They are experienced with no-limits, to-the-death combat. They have thousands of hours in that environment, quite different from honor duels and arena competition. That may be the edge that helps you succeed.”
Harry took the opportunity to look at the Vietnamese sergeant, catching the carefully blank look on Pham’s face, which was creased like old leather. Recommended by Makarov, the lightly built, phlegmatic noncom had formed an unlikely friendship with Rodriguez, another veteran of the same conflict. Both men had crystal-clear memories of the lessons the US invasion of Vietnam had taught the respective combatants and shared a passionate hatred for incompetent leaders. Had they been talking with Volo?
Transitioning to another convenient handhold, Harry scanned the group of volunteers, some of whom were dispersing back to their own corners of the hangar. Beyond them, a distinctive white EVA suit, marked with the four gold rings of a Terran colonel, was perched high on the bulkhead just inside the main doors. There was only one suit like that on the station, and the occupant was no doubt taking advantage of the sensitive binaural exterior microphones on his helmet to listen in and evaluate Harry’s performance.
“All right, Sergeant, they’re all yours,” Harry said to Pham, speaking loudly for the benefit of the group. “Run the drills for another fifteen, rotating through roles. Then we’ll take a break and do it again with the faceplates closed.”
The group gave a low, collective groan.
“Good training, remember!” Having delivered that gem, Harry oriented and pushed off to go see what the good colonel wanted.
Approaching the main doors, Harry lightly touched down on the deck and gently pushed off. Terrans had a tendency to overcontrol body movements in micro, but he timed it just right, reaching the bulkhead at a speed that let him grab a handy bracket and come to a stop without ricocheting off.
“Sir.”
“I don’t want to interrupt, Harry,” Murphy said, clearing his opaque visor and raising it. “How are they shaping up?”
They both watched the action in the hangar. Spread out in clusters of three and four, every group included Terrans and RockHounds. Harry could easily distinguish between students by suit color. Command deck black, miner red, and the whitish-gray of station maintenance personnel made for a kaleidoscope of colors just from the RockHounds. The Terrans used a slightly different design, borrowed from the SpinDogs. The dirty white of the uniform contrasted nicely with the oversize rank insignia on the suit sleeves. Regardless of color, pairs of attackers were trying to immobilize the singleton defenders, applying various submission and compliance holds. Defenders fished about, writhing to break the attackers’ grip while maintaining a position that allowed them to strike more effectively. Harry and his instructors had again encouraged all hands to move at half speed to avoid injury, but the innate competitiveness found among men-at-arms eroded that admonition in nothing flat.
“They’re coming along pretty well. They have plenty of fire. Add in the competition between the Terrans and the RockHounds, and I’m a bit surprised no one’s been seriously injured yet,” Harry said, studying one group in particular. They had ignored the basic principle of fighting in micro and drifted away from any possible hold or surface, reducing them to a spasming, cursing ball. Harry recognized Mike Zymanski, a burly, red-nosed submarine man. Harry couldn’t be certain, but judging from the unscientific punches the chief was throwing, he might be drinking the product of his own still again. Another, steadier and quieter Navy submariner, McPherson, attempted to use recently acquired skills to stop the fight, but merely added to the ball of angry humanity floating farther and farther from the bulkhead. Finally, Harry watched Pham push off from the nearest bulkhead, blowing a small tin whistle to break up the wrestlers before pushing them to the deck for a debrief.
“Have you decided on the assault group?” Murphy asked. “Chalmers’s team planetside is building intelligence on the lighter schedule and building their contacts so he can make the snatch in the next month or two. Bowden’s training with the RockHounds, flying approaches—to comets of all things—and getting familiar with their ships. You’ll have to be ready to move soon.”
“Tonight I’m asking the hangar boss to pump this space down to vacuum, and we’ll keep sparring. Tomorrow, we’ll do the same thing in the black,” Harry said, disregarding Murphy’s use of you’ll. He focused on watching Pham work. A few individuals were still having trouble remembering the core lessons they’d reviewed earlier. Pham demonstrated the technique again, swarming his target, almost as though he was swimming, rapidly achieving a back mount before simulating a knife hand to the hapless RockHound’s Adam’s apple. The Hound wisely and quickly tapped the sergeant’s forearm, acknowledging the strike. “The specs on the habitat modules mean we can have up to six people in each for up to three weeks. It’s going to be very, very hard on the men. The habs aren’t much larger than an old-school CONEX box, Murph.”
“Astronauts lived in Spacelab for months at a time, Harry,” Murphy answered, although his wince ceded Harry’s point. “It had about as much volume as a shipping container, too. None of the old-school astronauts thought it was a picnic, but it was the mission, and they accomplished it. This team will, too. Also, we solved the shielding issues. We can use the railgun system to send care packages along the team’s trajectory for resupply, but it’s a work in progress. The teams will have to EVA frequently, but the exposure to ionizing radiation from the primary is within healthy limits. We’re lucky this system’s primary is less energetic than Sol or Barnard’s Star. There are stars that reduce maximum EVA time to only a few minutes in total.”
“The mission profile is already miserable, and additional EVAs will make it worse, particularly since the habs will have limited facilities for showering and such,” Harry replied, recalling his own experiences with intense discomfort during a mission. “There’s an upside, sort of. The unavoidable side effect of an unpleasant insert is to aggravate the hell out of your assault force. The more shit we had to eat on the way in, the more we had stored up to take out on the target once we engaged. Given what you’re going to subject the teams to, I wouldn’t expect any Kulsian survivors, sir.”
It’s going to be a shit show. Your shit show.
“I’m not counting on any,” Murphy said flatly.
No one ever said Murphy wasn’t ruthless.
Yeah, but to his own side, too?
“About our secrecy, Colonel. Between the specialized weapons and the tactics I’m going to teach them, the assault team is going to figure out what we’re doing, regardless of how much I’m forced to leave out of your mission profile, sir. So, as soon as we finish the basics and finalize teams, they’ll need to go into isolation, which is yet another pain in the ass, if you don’t mind me saying so again.”
“I know we have leaks,” Murphy said flatly, his eyes narrowing as a figure was thrown heavily into a lumpy, if padded, tractor unit, eliciting a yell of pain. “We might even have an active saboteur somewhere in this station. Or more than one. Segregating the mission teams reduces the information risk until you are isolated and prepped for insertion.”
“You mean, until they are prepped, right?”
Below them, a RockHound medtech approached and began examining the injured man’s leg. When he attempted to straighten it, the student yelled again and batted the medtech’s hands away from his knee.
“Is that man all right?” Murphy asked, ignoring Harry’s question. “And why are you so focused on the hand-to-hand skills? Everyone should be armed to the teeth.”
“The RockHounds move very well in micro, don’t get dropsick, and the suits are familiar to them,” Harry said, throttling the defensive tone he knew would piss Murphy off. “Our guys have plenty of aggression and readiness to work in-close. Additionally, the Lawless are much stronger physically, a nice side benefit to living under acceleration your whole entire life. Normally, the way space battles go, physical strength wouldn’t matter. They’re not fighting a space battle, though. The performance I can assess during sparring lets me pick a crew with the best mix of everything. They’ll be ready. All Makarov will have to do is introduce them to the Kulsians and let the lads do their stuff.”
“And the weapons?”
“We’ll bring gas guns, of course,” Harry replied, using the Terran term for the variable-velocity, low-recoil pistols that were produced by both space-based factions. “And shaped charges for cutting hulls, bulkheads, and hatches, if need be. The new items are already prototyped, and Makarov tells me the SpinDogs promised delivery by the weekend.”
“I’m worried about Makarov, Harry.” Murphy was still looking at the students. “I know he volunteered to lead the op. I really can’t spare him, but he insisted. He feels he has to prove himself, but he doesn’t have your experience. I’ve read your reports, and Makarov’s consistently in the bottom half of the group. He would learn much from working under you during the mission, and I would gain another combat-experienced veteran.”
“Both Rodriguez and Pham are going,” Harry said, with a sidelong glance at the colonel. “You requested I help plan the operation and train the teams. You called for volunteers and then stated you would respect my decision to decline participation in the op. That’s where I’m at, sir.”
Murphy was relentless; Harry had to give him that.
Pham’s whistle blew again, and the sergeant ordered the men to take a break. The last trio continued fighting and had to be untangled by several men. Harry watched Rodriguez use an expertly applied arm bar, adapted for micro, to force another Lost Soldier out of the scrum. He couldn’t be sure, but the black-clad figure in mid-tangle was the right height to be Korelon. Accompanied by a few more whistle blasts, the remainder reluctantly allowed themselves to be pulled apart, exchanging angry comments about parentage, martial prowess, and body odor. The chest tabards of a few were stained with telltale red smears. When all combatants were untangled, most gratefully unlocked helmets from their EVA collars and used wipes to sop their necks, faces, and as much of their chests as they could reach. Others beelined for the cooler of chilled, sweetened electrolytes. Harry saw Rodriguez and Pham hanging together near the overhead, comparing notes. He swore under his breath. The class had self-segregated again; Terrans were congregating about the cooler, and the RockHounds were seeking the company of their own faction, circling Korelon, who held a red-stained chem wipe to his lip.
Split lips burned like fire. Pity, that.
“You know what’s riding on this mission, Harry.” Murphy’s voice interrupted Harry’s reverie. He pivoted in place to see Murphy watching him through his open faceplate. “If we don’t snatch the corvette and reproduce it in numbers, the Kulsians will run roughshod over this system. A failure in any mission will alert them to a threat they cannot ignore. They’ll know where to look and what to look for, and our allies will be lucky to avoid being wiped out. Even if some survive, their resources will be insufficient for our larger mission to proceed, and most of us will die.”
Harry just looked at his CO.
Show no fear, be the fucking expressionless Sphinx. Give him nothing.
“Once the RockHounds and SpinDogs are dealt with, the Kulsians will purge the planet of anyone they suspect to have fought the satraps.” Murphy’s arm twitched as though to lay a hand on Harry’s shoulder but stopped mid-motion. “Everyone, Harry. They can’t afford not to. They’ll have plenty of time, not to mention an overwhelming degree of overmatch. Just because you sit this out doesn’t mean R’Bak will be there the way you left it.” Murphy nodded and left with an unusually weary gait. His posture wasn’t the best Harry had ever seen, either.
Heavy is the head and all that shit. But driving that silent rhetorical dagger into his CO’s receding back didn’t slay the core truth of the man’s assertion: if this plan didn’t work, there would be nowhere to hide, and nowhere to run.
Just lots of places to die.