CHAPTER 23
“This is such a mess.” Mehmet stood behind the helmsman station on the Izmir’s bridge. The ship had set down on the landing pad closest to the fuel depot. Burning tanks and tufts of flame dotted the holo all around the ship. Lambert was just behind him, a headset held against his ear. Harris clutched his data keys to his chest.
“The void port is secure,” Lambert said. “There’s a drone perimeter set up and the insurgents are retreating.”
“I don’t think we need to say how volatile the fuel is during transfer,” Harris said.
“My ship is most allergic to bullets as well,” Mehmet said.
“Then let’s take on fuel and my men as quickly as possible,” Lambert said. “Harris . . . it’s time for you to keep to your end of the bargain.”
“Yes, indeed,” Harris chuckled nervously. “Overriding the remote systems now.”
He pulled a data key from the pouch and slid it into the port built into the base of his palm. His eyes rolled back, and his lips twitched and pulled against his teeth.
“Auto-fueling systems engaged,” a digitized voice came from his mouth. “Upload of . . . 697 TEUs commencing.”
The Izmir shuddered as fuel lines beneath the landing pad emerged from underground reservoirs and connected to the ship’s tanks.
“How many?” Mehmet whirled around, his jaw open. “That’s not what you promised, Harris! That’s barely enough to get us out of the sector! Mr. Barnes, the club.”
Barnes grunted and stomped towards them.
“No no no!” One of Harris’ eyes unrolled and locked onto Mehmet. “It seems the locals managed to siphon off some of the fuel stores before we arrived . . . that or the now-dead commander was supplementing his income selling it to the insurgents. I can still deliver on my part of the bargain. We’ll need to make a pit stop along the way to Bretton is all.”
“Not the deal.” Mehmet snapped his fingers twice and Barnes put a heavy, warty hand on Harris’ shoulder.
“We can get to Ulvik!” Harris clutched Lambert’s arm. “I-I-I have people there. There’s a fuel refinery with all the TEU we’ll need. I have all the codes we’ll need. It’s a sequestered system, they won’t even know the Hegemony is gone. It’ll be business as usual for me to refuel the ship. Please. Please!”
Barnes tapped the metal-studded club on Harris’ shoulder.
“Captain . . . he’s likely correct,” Lambert said. “With almost 700 TEUs, how far can we get?”
“Don’t crush his skull yet, Mr. Barnes.” Mehmet opened a star chart in the helmsman’s station. “Ulvik is in range, but there’s an interdiction order. Old one, all the current astrogation warnings have expired with the Hegemony. We come out of hyper without the right codes and the system pickets will either impound us or destroy us.”
“These codes.” Harris waggled another data cylinder in front of his face.
“Where else can we reach?” Lambert asked.
“Harruma, but that’s a Hegemony naval post. Half the tracks we’ve seen leaving the system were going there,” the helmsman said. “Aton VII, but that’s in the Deseret sector—and didn’t this guy say it was already in rebellion?”
“It most certainly is,” Harris said.
“We can’t even get to Alliance space,” Mehmet spat. “He knew. He knew there wasn’t enough fuel at this depot he just wanted to get his lying ass off this planet!”
Mr. Barnes growled.
“I didn’t! But we’ve got enough fuel for Ulvik and there aren’t any picket ships blockading that hyper point.” He licked his thick lips. “We may have lucked out . . . in a fashion. And what’re your other options, hmm? You go to Aton or Harruma or some dead star in range and then what? You think they’ll just give you fuel to reach Bretton? No, whatever faction finds you first will either kill you or draft you and your men, Lambert. Mehmet, this ship’s a bonus prize to them. I doubt your hazard insurance is even valid . . .”
Mehmet beat a fist against the station, startling the helmsman.
“Ding.” Harris’ head popped back and his eyes crossed. “Fuel transfer complete.”
“I never should’ve taken this contract,” the captain said. “Mr. Barnes, take Harris to his quarters and lock him in there. We’re setting course for Ulvik. Lambert, load up your men. A deal is a deal.”
Mehmet swiped a new panel open in the tank and entered a long digit code. A wire diagram of the ship appeared and the cargo ramp lowered. The captain’s brows scrunched as he peered at a camera feed.
“I didn’t deliver a tank . . .”
“Is its mass an issue?” Lambert asked.
“Not really. Suppose it’s better to have one and not need it than need it and not have it.” Mehmet shrugged.
“Fair enough, but I need your ship’s auto-surgeon activated right now. There are wounded,” Lambert said.
“Of course.” Mehmet tapped in another code and watched as Flankers and Cataphracts ran up the ramp. The Wolverine idled at the base, turret scanning from side to side. “There were so many more when we arrived . . . I’m sorry, Lambert.”
“I thank God for saving as many as we have. If you’ll excuse me?”
Mehmet raised a hand and dismissed him.
Corre helped Mason off the back of the Wolverine. His breathing was labored and came in short huffs, likely from broken ribs. Noah was just behind his brother, arms akimbo in case Mason fell to either side.
Mason let out a pained yelp as his boots scuffed along the Izmir’s deck. Soldiers of Bretton sat along the bulkheads, helmets off. All had the long stare of fresh combat in their eyes.
“Sickbay’s open,” Boyle called to them as he trotted over. “Got Felix right in and he’s in the recovery room, which is the mess hall, but whatever. Saw the major in there too. There’s a line for everyone else that’s not urgent or on a litter, but the auto-surgeon’s going through people pretty quick.”
“It giving out pain meds?” Mason asked. “The green pills are the best ones.”
“I’ve got some now if you need some.” Boyle tapped a chest pocket.
“Get him to the doc before you give him anything,” Corre growled. “And how’d you get those so fast? Never mind. I don’t want to know.”
“Ah, hello there?” Colonel Lambert called out. He raised the tip of his cane as he limped over. “Who’s the commander of this . . . thing?”
“Get him over,” Corre said to Noah and Boyle, then turned around and approached Lambert. “I think I am, sir.”
“Sergeant Corre, if I remember right.” Lambert set his cane between his feet and leaned on the handle. “I don’t believe . . . you are rated on this weapon system. These are rather complex machines; how did you even manage to drive it?”
“We didn’t, sir. We recovered Ta’essa here and she came with a driver. We’ll need to add her to our rolls. . . . We’re going home, correct? Sir?”
“Yes, but actually no. The rumor mill is no doubt full of speculation, but I’ve secured our passage back to Bretton. Though our way back may be a bit zigzagged. Things are unwell between Dahrien and home, but we’ll get there before too long. You’ve my word.” Lambert tapped the Wolverine with his cane and a hunk of armor plating fell off.
“We’ll need this secured properly,” Lambert said. “The crew are rather strict about this sort of thing. Can’t have a loose cannon bouncing about, can we?”
“Negative, sir. Let me ask our subject matter expert.” Corre hooked a thumb towards the turret. “She’s . . . a little different.”
“Certainly, a main battle tank amidst infantry. We’ll incorporate her one way or another, but the more the merrier on our way home. Well done securing the void port, sergeant. If you’ll excuse me, there are no doubt many embers about the ship ready to burst into flames that only I can piss on.” Lambert slipped his cane up in a pseudo-salute and walked towards the sick bay. He turned back and said, “‘Ta’essa,’ you said? I rather like it.”
Corre raised a hand and was about to clarify his last statement but let it slide. He climbed back into the tank and dropped down next to the chamber. Felix’s blood was smeared over much of the floor and the entire place reeked of body odor.
“Tessa?” Corre raised a hand to knock on the chamber but ran it through his high-and-tight haircut instead. Dried sweat and blood from a nick he didn’t remember suffering came off.
The chamber rolled open. Tessa removed her air mask and headset, then sat up. She wasn’t particularly tall, Corre realized, and her frame was slight enough that he wasn’t sure she could carry a Flanker carbine into battle.
“Mission accomplished?” she asked. Her voice was a fair bit more pleasant when it wasn’t through his earbud.
“Yeah, we’re underway. This is a civvie ship. If some Navy vessel has issue with us, everything will be over pretty quick. But I guess we can relax now. You saved our asses back there. All of us. Whole battalion. I’ll be sure the chain of command knows that. Soon as I figure out what it is.” Corre sat against the hull and let out a sigh.
“Our performance was well below baseline standards.” She raised her arms over her head and stretched from side to side. Her bodysuit framed her chest in such a way that Corre made a mental note to get her into a less flattering set of utilities as soon as possible.
“Ah shit!” He sat forward as a realization hit him. “You’re the only female aboard.”
“All Skien vehicle drivers are female. We tolerate the chamber better than males and our lesser stature makes for easier designs,” she said. “Is that a problem?”
“No, Tessa, you did great as the driver . . . the problem is that you’re the only female on a ship full of infantrymen and scumbag sailors,” Corre said. “Something tells me that you Skiens didn’t have that class during Hegemony Standard Schooling.”
“I don’t understand.” She ran a hand through her short hair. “Sergeant, may I make a personal hygiene request?”
“You don’t have to ask for permission for that sort of thing, Tessa. What do you need?”
“I need,” she leaned closer to him and stared him straight in the eye, “a shower. A hose. A bucket of anything moist to—”
Corre got a whiff of compounded sweat and grunge emanating from her and the chamber.
“Saint’s bones, you do need one, but we take care of our equipment before we take care of ourselves. You’re my soldier, it’s my job to take care of you even if you aren’t from Bretton. Same with Felix.” Corre rubbed a hand under his nose and kept it there to mitigate the smell.
“Our drone magazines are empty. Further, the onboard ammunition supply is below standard. We will need a full inspection to assess damage to the hull and—”
“Tessa, you understand where we’re going? We’re going home. My home. Bretton. Where’s home for you?” Corre asked. “We’ll get Felix back to Syddan or his ship clan one way or another, but he doesn’t seem to be in any real hurry.”
“I do not understand the question.” She scooted back to her chamber and let her knees dangle over the edge. “This is my station.”
Corre rubbed his knees.
“What happens to Skiens once they finish their service? We were drafted for two years of active-duty time. The clock wasn’t ticking while we were in transit,” he said.
“Skiens entered service less than twenty years ago. None has ever been dismissed from their station. Those too injured to function are permanently retired,” she said.
Corre’s face darkened.
“I didn’t know that . . . What do you want to do?” he asked.
“I do not understand the question. My station and my flesh are both viable for service. I estimate at least three more days of continued operation before compounding personal hygiene requirements will negatively impact performance,” she said.
“You know what? Let’s knock down the fifty-meter targets before we aim at the ones on the far end of the firing range,” Corre said.
“Do I have permission to dismount my station?” she asked.
“Granted.” Corre rubbed his face. “I need to secure us some barracks space. Then there’s your privacy needs. This is going to be such a fucking headache.”
“Hey in there,” someone with a thick accent called from outside. “Can you give us a hand securing this to the deck?”
“Moving!” Tessa hopped up and set a foot against the top of the commo station’s seat to boost herself up. Corre got a glimpse of how tight the rest of her bodysuit was.
“Wait, do you have some coveralls or something in here?” Corre asked.
“In a locker at the bottom of my chamber. Why?” She scratched her rear end.
“It’s . . . cold out there—no, just put some more clothes on before I have to beat someone to death today just to save myself the trouble later.”
Felix hopped off the tank and landed hard on the Izmir’s deck. He touched his chest and let out a long sigh.
“Shipboard air . . . finally,” he said.
Boyle dropped down next to him.
“I am both disgusted and relieved to be back aboard this bucket,” Boyle said. “We’re going home, but the trip over was no fun. Nothing but combat drills drills drills and then we had to do ship drills and get in those nasty vac emergency suits.” He shivered.
Felix looked the cargo bay over.
“The dorsal lights aren’t rigged correctly, that’s why the illumination keeps blinking in and out. Hey, do me a favor and don’t tell the crew I’m a spacer. I volunteered for translation duty by accident, and I don’t want to be doing anyone else’s job for them,” Felix said.
“Works for me.” Boyle put his hands on his hips and leaned back for a moment. “I wonder if we’ll actually get to walk under the Hero’s Boughs. We weren’t gone that long. Most come back after at least two years.”
“What’re these ‘boughs’ everyone keeps talking about?” Felix sat against the tank treads and Boyle joined him.
“The main avenue running up Armorica City has Salix oak trees on either side. Legend has it they were planted by Saint Robin himself. The branches arc over the cobblestones and vines native to Bretton will bloom into white flowers with each full moon. You should see it just after dawn, the golden light through the leaves, petals falling over everyone . . . soldiers returning from war get to march under the boughs and then the Lord Bishop blesses our return. He uses Saint Robin’s own Bible to do it, too.” Boyle swiped a hand across an eye.
“You get back from war and they make you march in a parade?” Felix asked.
“It’s worth it. Why, what do Syddan men do when they get off active duty?” Boyle asked.
“Most of them get drunk and fight.” Felix shrugged. “But what you’ve got waiting for you sounds pretty good. Did you say there’s a lot of bakeries where we’re going?”
“Yeah . . . one on most every street,” Boyle said.
“I was thinking about that bag-eat I had on shore leave once. Sat on a grassy field in the middle of a first diaspora city, just munching away on it. It was one of the first times I actually liked being dirtside. Later on I went back to the same bakery and watched them making these twisty things with salt. I wanted to see how they made the bag-eat but they weren’t doing them then,” Felix said.
“Okay, it’s a baguette, and if you keep saying it wrong, a man of Bretton will take offense. And you bake baguettes first thing in the morning. Baguette tradition, but any bread that’s not made as per baguette tradition is not a baguette,” Boyle said. “Takes time to do it right.”
“You guys take your bread seriously. Can you teach me to make it?” Felix asked. “Maybe there’s more to life than void ships and war.”
“His sister Marie can,” Mason said from atop the tank. “She’s got the best pain de campagne in the province.”
“Hey hey hey!” Boyle raised a finger. “None of that talk.”
“You have a sister? She . . . single?” Felix asked.
“We’re not talking about her. Ever.” Boyle stood up. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to take a dump and I want to get in and out of there before any of you stank-ass—ah shit.”
Sergeant Corre turned around one of the cargo containers that held the battalion’s 3D printer foundries. He had a determined look in his eyes.
“Felix,” Mason said. When the other man was looking at him, he mimed a pair of impressively large breasts and canted his head at Boyle.
Felix’s brows shot up.
“Where’s Noah?” Corre asked. The last of the original squad stuck his head out of the turret. “Get down here. We all need to have a little talk.”
“Should I get—”
Corre gave Noah the Look that only NCOs can, and Noah hurried down to the deck.
“Gentlemen . . . Felix, we have a situation with Tessa,” Corre said. “As you’re aware, this entire ship is a sausage fest with the exception of her. Do I need to explain the problem any further?”
“Someone . . . might need a lesson.” Boyle glared at Noah.
“Tessa is not hideous—and even if she was it wouldn’t matter—it is our duty as her squadmates to keep her safe and her honor intact. The woman is . . . off. Apparently the Skiens don’t learn normal human social interactions, so it is up to us to take care of her,” Corre said.
“Yeah, she’s a bit of a weirdo,” Mason said.
“But she is our weirdo,” Corre said. “No one outside of this squad is allowed to try and date her, make jokes about her or even imply she’s a woman of poor character. Just like she’s a nun back home.”
Noah raised a hand.
“Don’t you even fucking ask!”
Noah’s hand shot down.
“At least we’ve got a dick shooter to back up the threat,” Mason said. “Couple guys in Delta Company were asking about that.”
“It wasn’t intentional,” Felix whined.
“Hell, the ship’s crew were asking about who shot someone in the dick.” Boyle nodded.
“You know what, we’re going to lean into the dick shooting.” Corre scrunched his lips and shook his head. “Sounded better in my head. I will have a talk with her and explain the standards to her. Anyone violates those standards and we are honor-bound to beat them within an inch of their life. Just like she’s from a convent. As such, she will have a battle buddy with her at all times. We’ll take shifts,” Corre said.
No one objected.
“Boyle. Go find us some white paint and stencils,” Corre said.
“Moving.” Boyle hopped to his feet and sauntered off.
Felix waited until he was out of earshot.
“But we can ask about Boyle’s sister, right? Not the same rules as Tessa.”
“Oh, her.” Corre’s brows shot up. “Best pain de campagne for miles . . . if Boyle kicks your ass, it’ll be because you deserve it. Now let’s get our barracks secured before those assholes in Charlie Company take all the good spots near the only showers with hot water.”