Land of the Blind (Chapter 3)

Recap: In Chapter 2, General Kober Chiang, the new commanding officer of the reconstituted Praetorians, activated his special plan to bring his beloved Federation back to the top of world affairs, while also destroying Devereaux Marshall Fox, once and for all. 

                                                                        * * * * * *
“Muchos gracias, Senorita,” Fox said as the comely brunette placed a tray of hot rolls before him.

“De nada, Senor,” the woman replied, her face blushing deeply

As she walked away to serve other customers in the small, but crowded restaurant, Fox closed his eyes and tried to absorb his surroundings. Immediately, the aroma of the crisp buttery rolls assaulted his olfactory senses. He could hear the clinking of forks and knives on porcelain plates. It seemed a thousand conversations filtered into his ears – wedding news, gossip, opinions, he took it all in. This was real life to him, much better than listening out for intruders and possible ambushes.

He opened his eyes again, glanced around the eatery and watched an ethnic montage of men and women chatting while they ate their organic food. He had eaten here many times before. He liked that there were still some places in the world where he could eat real food instead of RDA shakes, and not pay an arm and a leg to do it. He needed organic food, if only so the delicious smells could arouse memories of better times, of home-cooked meals or of easygoing dinners with convivial friends.

He knew Cali, Colombia wasn’t as exotic as Rio de Janeiro, Brazil or Montevideo, Uruguay, but it was quiet. Not as busy or as corrupt as the country’s capital, Bogota, it was now a center of technology and information. Despite this, the city had still maintained its character, its mellow tree-lined avenues and the ambience of a citizenry freed of the hectic life that dominated larger population centers.

It had been decades since the drug trade had died down here and around the world, thanks to a miracle drug that killed addiction and adverse reaction almost instantaneously. The criminal warlords and violent street gangs that had infected society and had once turned Cali into the cocaine cartel capital of the world died out along with the crippling addictions and associated brutality of illegal drug use. To this day, no one knew who had discovered and developed the wonder drug made from natural plants found in most of the world’s mountains. At the memory, Fox laughed to himself and took a big bite out of one of his buttery rolls.

None of this mattered now, though. Fox wasn’t here to interfere in anyone’s business or upset the status quo, if he could help it. He was just assessing the world situation, gathering information to make an accurate report for himself before he made his final departure. The rest of his time was meant to take in the sights, sounds and ultimate beauty of the planet and its people.

His waitress, Consuela, returned with a large tray. She carefully set a large plate of Brazilian steak and steamed broccoli before him. He inhaled deeply, letting the aroma of the broiled meat assail his senses. He liked nothing better than a well-cooked steak, no matter what the animal rights organizations felt about it.

“Excuse me, but I heard some congratulations for the couple in the corner by the front window,” Fox mentioned.

“Si, Senor, they are getting married,” Consuela answered, cocking her head in confusion that he could have discerned a conversation in the front of the restaurant from his table in the rear. “I did not think they were being so loud, Senor. I will ask them to be a little quieter.”

“People were speaking of it and it kind of came back to me,” Fox said, trying to cover the fact that his aural sensors had picked up the news. “Wish them every happiness, por favor.”

“Si, Senor, I will,” the comely waitress replied, happily. “She used to be my supervisor and he was her best customer. Oh, don’t they make a beautiful couple? If only they had the money for her dream wedding. She’s always wanted large bouquets of roses, a large church and a reception hall with food for all of her family. Maybe one day.”

He watched Consuela go over to the couple to relay his wish. He waved quickly at them and then resumed eating. Somehow, the food tasted even better than usual and he wondered if his increased euphoria at the couple’s happiness was to blame. He could certainly afford to extend a little good will. They weren’t responsible for his never marrying. He felt they deserved every happiness possible.

Consuela returned shortly with a small folder that held his charge. She walked off to check another table and Fox quickly opened the folder. He looked at the bill, but stopped for a moment. He glanced around at each table briefly, returned his gaze to the folder and made a quick calculation. He kept his head low so that no one would see his right eye flicker.

“Gracias, Senor,” Consuela said as she saw Fox leaving the restaurant.

She saw the red light flickering on the folder, signaling that full payment had been made and she picked it up. Upon opening it, she immediately felt faint and had to take a seat before she fell. Her manager walked over to her quickly.

“Are you okay, Consuela?” he asked, concerned.

She handed him the folder and he looked. He, too, nearly fainted. Somehow, Fox had figured out the costs of all the meals being consumed in the restaurant and had paid for every one of them. He had left Consuela a tip so large she would be able to pay her college tuition and keep a roof over her head for a year. Best of all, he had included a special bill item – full payment for a wedding in a large church, with lots of rose bouquets and enough money for a reception, a honeymoon and a gift to start a new life together.

The news left both waitress and manager reeling. They rushed outside, but Fox was gone. Consuela went back inside to break the news. Manuel lingered outside for a moment, his eyes focused in on the gray asphalt sidewalks and cobblestone streets. He had realized that such a monumental gift meant that, most likely, he would never see his best customer again and that made him very sad. He sighed heavily and then, putting on his best face, returned inside to join the cheering customers.


Fox was two blocks away when Manuel and Consuela had rushed outside. He hadn’t looked back. He knew it wasn’t good to look back. The engaged couple had only stirred up memories he’d buried. Memories of another time and place, of a happy couple talking merrily at an outdoor eatery in San Diego, California, by the old 32nd Street naval base. Before the Battle of Phuket changed everything, he thought ruefully.

Fox brought himself back to reality and he chided himself for bringing up memories again. He’d been doing it more and more lately. Maybe I’m just getting old, he told himself.

To get his mind off the past, he accessed his microcomputer and called up the information he’d amassed since he’d left his house. He had learned of Chiang’s promotion to head of the Praetorian Guard, but that hadn’t been unexpected; he was just surprised that the Federation Joint Chiefs had kept Mavromichalis on as his executive officer. He made a special note of a meeting of the Chiagas Board in Montevideo, Uruguay. He’d long suspected Dainmon Chiagas of trying to bring all of South America’s criminal gangs under his control, though his moves had been constantly thwarted by a lack of firepower to cow his opponents.

Fox moved on to the scene in Africa, Europe, Oceana, the always volatile Middle East and the rest of Asia. Nothing was amiss from the ordinary behind-the-scenes power grabs, though he made another special note of the increased pirate activity in the waters off Somalia. The government in Mogadishu had fallen again and the pirates’ main enemy in the Seychelles Coast Guard was preoccupied with reinforcing the island nation’s sea walls to stave off the rising ocean level.

His ears suddenly picked up sounds of feet scuffling on asphalt and he thought he heard a muffled voice. He turned into a narrow alley and stopped cold. Three burly men in old camouflage green army jackets and new retro black parachute pants were manhandling a girl who didn’t look to be close to eighteen. The largest had a hand over the girl’s mouth and a second man had grabbed her legs to pull her into the shadows.

“Look at what we got here,” the tallest thug said. “I get to be the first to pop that…”

He never completed his vulgar assertion, for his head pitched forward sharply, followed by his body. He dropped the girl and actually sailed over her to land face first on the pavement. The man to his left spun around just in time for Fox to slap him hard on his chest. He left his feet, sailed across the alley and smashed so hard into a brick wall that his head left a deep indentation. The girl would later tell police that it was like the man had been hit by a million-volt cattle prod.

The last thug took a huge roundhouse at Fox’s head, but had it blocked easily. He got a closed fist punch to his throat in reply. He gaggled and gurgled, desperately fighting for air as his body slid to the ground. He was lucky, though, his breathing only interrupted by the purplish bruise beneath his Adam’s Apple.

The ringleader of the rabble had recovered and he already found the space in his mouth where four of his newly cloned teeth had been. He ignored the girl scrambling out of his way, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out the laser-edged knife he’d stolen just that morning. He thrust it forward and charged at Fox, who just stood there, unmoving and totally oblivious to his immediate danger.

Fox dodged the knife easily, parrying the thrust and spinning the thug around. He wrapped his right arm around the man’s shoulder and moved his left hand to the right side of his chin. Using the man’s momentum against him, he pulled violently. He didn't need to hear the sickening crack to know the thug was dead from a broken neck, but the girl heard it and she puked even as the man's body toppled to the pavement.

After a moment, the girl jumped to her feet, wiping her mouth with her shirt and then staring, in shock, the dead body before her. She looked at the two badly injured thugs, breathing hard as she realized just how close she’d come to being violated. She wished she’d never listened to Marcos, the bouncer from the club she should never have been in. She was glad he’d have trouble breathing for the foreseeable future.

She smiled at his plight and then went to thank her savior. Something stopped her, however – his glowing blue right eye, in fact. She felt a chill run down her spine as she recalled the stories of the blue-eyed bogeyman that her mother had told her as a babe. This was no bedtime story, however. She was looking directly at The Adventurer and, far from being a monster, he’d actually saved her life.

“You know you’re not supposed to be here,” Fox said, matter-of-factly and with little emotion. “Go home. Now!”

She nodded readily, turned and ran down the other end of the alley as fast as her little legs could carry her. Behind her, Fox surveyed the damage he’d wrought. Just as quickly, though, his eye returned to its normal blue hue and Fox blinked rapidly as if coming out of a trance. His ears picked up the sounds of passing fusion cars and of a T-180 supersonic transport craft flying high overhead. He became aware of the warmth of the sun and of the coolness of the shadows cast by it into the alley.
 
“I guess some things never change,” he muttered with a heavy sigh.

And some things never will, right, Devereaux?  Maybe we should take your own advice and go home?

"When I'm ready, okay," Fox snarled at his microcomputer's suggestion. "Now, where was I? Oh, yes, Africa.”

To be continued...

For more exciting tales, check out the latest issues of Digital Digest at Amazon.

Gregory Marshall Smith

Science Fiction, Fantasy and Horror author

Hunters       They Call the Wind Muryah        DarkTidings

Crawl

Copyright © 2011 Gregory Marshall Smith

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. No portion of this work may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

Land of the Blind (Chapter 1)

Recap: In Land of Blind (Prologue), Anna Velasquez and her elite Praetorian Guard killed Devereaux Marshall Fox, the world's most wanted man and also the one who single-handedly massacred Anna's entire family when she was a child. Now, Anna and her people return to their main base for a well-deserved rest.

Content advisory: Contains violence.

 

A few hours later, the emotionally spent but triumphant Praetorians walked into the underground parking garage of their headquarters at the Fort Worth Naval Air Station. General Amicus Dyre, acting commander for the Praetorian Guard, waited on the fourth sublevel, at the bottom of a long well-lit staircase, to meet them.

The success of the mission meant he could go back into the retirement he so desperately wanted. His recently graying hair now belied his 112 years. He’d already served the North American Federation for six decades.

"The world owes your people a big thanks," he said to Anna as he guided her people down a long gray hallway.

 

Dyre arrived at another set of stairs where two guards snapped to attention. He used his eyes and left hand on the electronic reader. The thick steel security door opened and the general stepped onto a motion sensor-activated escalator. At the bottom of the escalator, he walked down a brightly lit hallway and identified himself to the electronic biometric scanner at the end. Stepping aside, he let a very tentative Anna step through to the main operations room first.

Unlike the well-preserved mansion on the surface camouflaging the Praetorians’ operations center, the lower levels were the most modern and high-tech money could buy. Computers or work stations took up almost every inch of wall space and most of the floor. Military and civilian workers occupied about two-thirds of the stations. Upon Anna’s entrance, the workers stood, clapping and cheering in an almost deafening din. Anna turned beet red in embarrassment.

The Praetorians took one look at the remaining unoccupied work stations and were taken aback at all the natural foods and beverages laid out for them. But, they quickly realized they shouldn’t have been. Amicus Dyre rewarded good work. He got the best out of them and gave the best in return. They would dine on real food and not the nutrient rich DNA-enriched RDA shakes that provided sustenance to most of the civilized world.

"I know this may seem like overkill, but you deserve it," Dyre said as he entered the room and joined in the wild applause. "Our resident security expert, Major Paulius, and Staff Sergeant Red Horse put it all together, so don't forget to thank them. Tomorrow, it's back to RDA shakes."

Leonard Paulius, a short, squat man who obviously worked out, stood near the largest food table and beamed. Next to him, Maria Red Horse also blushed with pride.

“Attention ladies and gentlemen!” Dyre called out. “I don’t mean to interrupt the festivities, but since all is peaceful and tranquil above, I don’t want all this celebration to make the guards on duty jealous.”

He smiled broadly, a glass of champagne in one hand and his eyes scanning the 200 or so Praetorian elite Special Operations and support personnel on the floor or up on the mezzanine level on the far side of the room. Though small in number, they represented the best the Federation and its allies had. To Dyre, they were like family.

“I want to toast our success,” Dyre said once he had everyone’s attention. “This was, perhaps, our finest moment today. The man we’ve hunted for so long is finally dead. For many of us, he’s been a demon haunting our every action for a decade. For some, it’s been even longer.”

Anna barely managed to keep her emotions in check at the mention.

“I’ve never been one for flowery speeches,” Dyre continued. “So, let’s cut to the chase. Here’s to the Praetorian Guard and its fine collection of men and women. May we live forever.”

“May we live forever,” the crowd repeated in unison with champagne glasses raised high.

As Anna held her glass high, joining the toast, the elevator door on the mini-mezzanine level opened. Anna looked up but the elevator was empty. Must be a malfunction within the elevator system, she thought. She started to turn back around but stopped when she caught sight of her general staring up at the mezzanine. Looking back, she gasped. Upon the upper level now stood a tall, slender black man wearing a form-fitting black pullover, black boots and old-fashioned battle dress uniform trousers. Anna gawked; how had the man appeared seemingly out of thin air?

Anna recognized neither his face nor his uniform. He turned to face her. His right eye glowed bright blue and suddenly Anna knew.

Something had gone horribly wrong. The Praetorian Guard’s moment of shining glory had become a tragedy of mistaken identity. She had killed the wrong man, for the man with the glowing blue eye up on the mini-mezzanine was the same man she’d cowered before in her village 25 years earlier. He’d only been a shadow to her then, but there was no mistaking that eye.

Devereaux Marshall Fox!

Her mind refused to believe what her eyes saw, even as the man drew something from behind his back. Now, her feet declined to cooperate and all moisture sapped from her throat as her brain recognized, with abject horror, that the something was an old-fashioned M-134 mini-gun, one of the deadliest personal weapons ever created. How Fox had gotten the weapon – or himself for that matter – past the building’s intense security apparatus was a moot point.

 "Gun!" Anna cried out. "Get down!"

Fox opened fire like a lawn mower scything down blades of grass. Bodies fell left and right, collapsing to the floor or on top of computer consoles and food-stocked tables. Screams filled the air as fear and emotion replaced skilled training. The targets had no way to fight back, cut down before they could even contemplate activating cybernetic defenses.

Paulius revealed his true colors by using Red Horse as a human shield. Fox shot her down and then, after she slumped to the floor, made sure DNA would be the only way to identify Paulius.

Anna threw her body in front of Dyre’s. The attempt was futile. Bullets punched right through her and struck Dyre in the heart.

Fox flipped the now empty gun over the railing and stormed out of the room.

“…and the horse you rode in on!” he screamed as he walked away.

The gun clattered to the floor, its barrel warping from overheating. A small stream of blood hit the weapon and sizzled, throwing up an acrid wisp of smoke and an awful stench to anyone still alive to smell it.

Down below, a small moan rose up from the pile of bodies. With grim determination, Anna Velasquez moved her hand. Driven by some urgent, invisible need to survive, she grimaced as unimaginable pain seared through her body. She managed to pull herself along the floor, using control consoles slick with blood to help her ravaged limbs. Finally, with one last burst of energy, she reached up and hit a red button. As she collapsed, alarms began sounding. She curled up into the fetal position and whimpered, much like that awful day back in Mexico.

To be continued Nov. 14, 2011. For more exciting tales, check out the latest issues of Digital Digest at Amazon.

Gregory Marshall Smith

Science Fiction, Fantasy and Horror author

Hunters       They Call the Wind Muryah        DarkTidings

Crawl

Copyright © 2011 Gregory Marshall Smith

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. No portion of this work may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

 

Land of the Blind (Prologue)

Note: Due to unforeseen circumstances, the serialized piece Slow Boat to China is temporarily suspended. In its place is the first chapter of my newest book, due out in winter 2012.

Content advisory: Contains violence.

April 25, 2142

It took eight of the most grueling months of detective and intelligence work, but they ran him to ground. Trailed him from the heart of the Congo in central Africa all the way to Dallas/Fort Worth International Air & Space Port. Tracked him by satellite and wireless surveillance to the port’s rental terminal. Followed his old-fashioned hydrogen-powered rental car all the way to Fort Worth.

They took him as he passed through an intersection.

Fusion-powered vans sped up and cut the target off, forcing the driver to skid to a stop, brakes squealing, filling the air with the unfamiliar smell of burnt rubber. More black vans sealed off the street behind the car.

Doors opened and dozens of men and women dressed in the latest flexible black armor suits poured out of the vehicles. If they looked strange to the bystanders, it was by design. These were not any ordinary federal agents.

They wore form-fitting uniforms, composed of the latest generation of Kevlar body armor. When coupled with flak vests and plating, the uniform could stop any projectile up to twenty-five millimeters. Computer interfaces allowed the wearers to connect with the XM-17, the newest laser-guided submachine gun, which fired the deadly new slantium-depleted bullets.

“This is a Praetorian Guard operation!” a message blared out from one of the vans towards the gaggle of onlookers gathered at the intersections. “Please stay behind the city police cordons!  Anyone straying beyond those cordons will be subject to arrest!”

Captain Anna Velasquez crouched behind one of the fusion cars, close enough to feel the dull heat from the fusion core beneath the hood. In most cases, she would only have been second-in-command. But, she was no ordinary member of the Praetorian Guard, the premier security apparatus of the North American Federation. As head of the Praetorians’ elite forces, she was their best officer, consumed with a drive born a quarter of a century earlier in a night of blood and fear.

Anna knew she was the best, but then again, considering her quarry, she needed to be. Inside that rental car sat Devereaux Marshall Fox, dubbed by the media as “The Adventurer” for his worldwide exploits. To Anna, however, he was just a vicious murdering psychopath who, twenty-five years earlier, had massacred her entire village. From that day forward, she’d made it her mission to bring him to heel for his crimes.

Frowning at the lack of movement inside her suspect’s vehicle, she activated the subcutaneous implant behind her right ear and connected to her battle suit’s radio.

“This is the Praetorian Guard!” she called out. “Driver, put your hands up where we can see them, slowly open the driver's side door and exit the vehicle!  Do it now!”

“Sensors reveal no weapons in the vehicle,” the command van reported back.

Anna cocked an eyebrow in surprise. Had she really caught Fox unprepared, with none of his weapons?  Still, as she looked at his frightened face through the rental car windshield, she could not feel any sympathy for him. He was a cold-blooded murderer who she was about to bring to bay, for good.

“This is your last warning!" she stated with more authority. “Put your hands where we can see them, slowly open the door and exit the vehicle!"

There was still no movement from inside the vehicle. Anna frowned, flipping the selector switch on her gun from "single" to "automatic." She knew she had to follow procedure, but she was so sure that, at last, she was going to get her revenge that she could barely contain her giddiness. Alas, she forced himself to be more professional; giddiness was not standard protocol for a Praetorian.

She motioned to her aide, Lt. Freda Von Sturm, to pass the word. Sturm, on loan from the German DSG-9 Special Forces, flipped her gun to automatic. Anna noticed that Sturm's visage remained rather stony, belying little about whatever emotions might have flowing through her mind.

“He's trying to make some kind of communication,” Von Sturm called out.

Anna thanked God for the opening Fox had given her.

“Let him have it!" she shouted.

In an instant, dozens of machine guns, rifles and pistols opened up. The slantium-depleted bullets punctured the metal of the entire vehicle. The car had been made of reinforced new grade steel, but against the Praetorian bullets, it was like stopping a knife with a piece of paper.

Flames began to sprout out from under the hood as the slantium reacted with the vehicle's energy core. A few moments later, the engine blew up. The hydrogen started an intense, but brief fire. The rental car was ball of flame for about thirty seconds after which it petered out for lack of flammable material.

“Cease fire! Cease fire!” Anna ordered. “Do a sensor sweep.”

“No life!” came the report that Anna had desperately sought.

“Good job, everyone,” Anna said into her radio. “Lt. Von Sturm, please radio for a wrecker and a morgue vehicle.”

As curious onlookers and media vultures quickly descended onto the scene of Devereaux Marshall Fox’s demise, Anna retreated to the comfort of her command van. Alone in the back of the van, away from prying eyes, she collapsed onto the floor and let loose the torrent of tears she’d been holding back.

To be continued Oct. 13, 2011. For more exciting tales, check out the latest issues of Digital Digest at Amazon.

Gregory Marshall Smith

Science Fiction, Fantasy and Horror author

Hunters       They Call the Wind Muryah        DarkTidings

Crawl

Copyright © 2011 Gregory Marshall Smith

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. No portion of this work may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

Slow Boat to China (Chapter 2, Part 1)

Warning: Violent situations.

Recap: In Chapter 1, Part 2, Petty Officer Kimble’s impromptu liaison with a transiter is interrupted by alarm bells from an impending pirate attack.

Slow Boat to China

By Gregory Marshall Smith

Chapter 2: Tedesco

Part I

“Okay, ladies and gentlemen, we will be braking from near light-speed to normal cruising in ten minutes,” Lt. Mannix reported over the engineering public address system. “Then, we will slow to orbital speed when we get to Tedesco, which will actually be the first stop, even though it’s the last planet in the system.”

Mannix watched the monitoring board as lights blinked from yellow to green. The speed figures fell rapidly and the ship shuddered a little, then a lot more as it slowed from traveling speed to cruising speed. Technology still hadn’t figured out how to make the transition smoother, but the engineers were so used to it, they never noticed the vibrations reverberating through the hull.

“Shut down traveling engines one and two,” Mannix ordered and the engineman at the operating helm acknowledged the order.

“Traveling engines one and two shutting down, sir,” the helm operator reported. “Energy output decreasing, inertial stabilizers correcting, safety margins well within limits, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr. Owens,” Mannix acknowledged.

The monitoring board showed green lights changing to red near entries for traveling engines one and two. Below them, entries marked “cruising engines” one and two turned green. That meant they were working normally, having come online upon sensing a huge drawdown of power in the traveling engines used for near light-speed travel.

The traveling engines had done their work and then some. A few days earlier, when unidentified raiders had come toward the ship in an attack profile, the engines had shown the pirates that the targets were not unarmed civilian freighters. Only Navy ships used traveling engines and no raider wanted to tangle with a combatant, especially a heavily-armed dreadnought.

“Sensors all in the green, Mr. Mannix,” the voice of Commander Nels von Cholitz, the chief engineer, said over the P.A. system. “Good job. When we get to Tedesco, what say we let the new junior grades handle getting into orbit?”

“Sounds good to me, sir,” Mannix replied, before keying the switch to address the other engineering spaces. “Cheng compliments us on a job well done, people. I’ll need to see all junior grades in the EOD thirty minutes before we hit Tedesco. That is all. Resume normal watch activities.”

In the landing bays, Kimble directed the more junior storekeepers in loading two of the pinnaces. He looked to his right and saw Farrier handling two other pinnaces on the other side of the loading bay. SK1 Johann Mitscher supervised the entire detail from his post near the landing bay control room because Master Chief Branaugh and the department’s three division officers were in the larger bays aft.

Air transport technicians worked on three rather large pinnaces and Kimble hoped they would be very thorough. These ships would take himself and the other transiters down to the processing centers in Mica, the main city on Tedesco. He didn’t want to make a long, boring trip only to die in a pinnace crash at the end.

“Now, that’s dedication.”

He turned around at the sound of the voice and snapped to attention. Master Chief Branaugh laughed and put him at ease. He hadn’t even heard her approach.

“You’re supposed to be waiting in the pinnace area with the transiters,” the master chief noted. “Yet, I find you helping us load our stuff. I like that in a sailor, especially one who’s been around a few years. You know how old hands tend to slack off a bit when they get comfortable.”

He nodded. He looked at her and was forced to admit that Farrier had been right. She might have been a master chief but she had kept herself in shape. Amorous thoughts raced through his mind, but he pushed them aside. She had to be 25 years his senior. Then again, he thought with some embarrassment, that’s almost as many years as he had on Elizabeth.

“I guess you can put your stuff on one of the pinnaces heading directly to the base,” Branaugh commented. “Those ships are in the auxiliary bay. The base on Tedesco is so desperate for personnel, they won’t care if you skip the processing fiasco in Mica. By the way, I want to thank you for all you’ve done for us during this transit run. I’m sorry I couldn’t convince you to stay on with us, but I am glad to say that I’ve recommended you for a commendation for your work with us.”

“Thank you, Master Chief,” Kimble remarked. “I have to admit it was tempting to ask for a transfer, but I didn’t think it would look good on my record to ask for one before I’ve even reported to my assigned station. No offense.”

“None taken,” Branaugh answered. “Actually, that was the answer I expected from you. I hope you enjoy your time on Tedesco. I’d like to chat further but I’ve got to check on the other bays. Good luck.”

Kimble watched the master chief walk away. He then turned and saw Farrier looking at him. He smiled and Farrar flashed a thumbs-up signal.

“Attention all hands,” the P.A. system boomed. “Planet orbit in fifteen minutes. All transiters to their disembarkation points for boarding. All personnel transporting supplies should make their way to the loading bays immediately for checklist warm-ups and final manifests. That is all.”

Farrier walked across the bay and took the clip board from Kimble.

“Looks like this is it, newbie,” Farrier said. “Good luck and don’t forget to write. And lots of cold showers.”

Kimble shook the man’s hand and then left the loading bay. He went to his berth, opening the door gingerly, half expecting Elizabeth to be there. She wasn’t. The room had been cleaned and his belongings neatly left on the table. He hefted his duty bag onto his shoulder and carried the tote bag in his free hand.

The corridors were empty. The transiters had gone through another access way to get to the landing bays. He whistled softly to himself, trying to psyche himself up for the big move to his permanent station. It was always exciting going to a new station, although he did feel some sadness at having to leave the dreadnought. He’d gotten to meet some nice people.

He recognized none of the personnel in the auxiliary landing bay. Still, a second-class technician walked up to him and took his seabag. The man helped Kimble get settled in the bay’s only shuttle.

“Good luck,” the technician said, proffering a hand. “I did a tour on Tedesco and it’s everything they warned you about.”

Before Kimble could shake the man’s hand, a shrill alarm brayed across the landing bay, causing everyone in the bay to stop and look up. The technician became apprehensive. It wasn’t a general quarters klaxon, but Kimble knew something was wrong.

“Attention all officers and bluejackets,” the voice of Evelyn Krakov, the ship’s senior watch officer, boomed out across the P.A. system. “Situation planetside is one-A. Repeart one-A. All military personnel will maintain class A security for the entire operation. Department heads and division officers will prepare accordingly. That is all.”

Kimble didn’t like the sound of that announcement. Krakov had specifically mentioned “bluejackets.”  “Bluejacket” was a term applied to enlisted sailors in the days of the old sailing ships. More specifically, it denoted sailors who took part in armed boarding parties or supported Marines in shore combat. In present times, it meant sailors designated for shipboard security.

“What the hell is one-A?” Kimble asked, confused. “Sounds like trouble.”

“Something’s happening down on the planet,” Mitscher explained. “Maybe a smuggler or pirate raid. They’d love to get their hands on all these supplies. Make a killing on the black market. Come on, let’s get ready.”

“I thought bluejackets referred to shipboard security,” Kimble mentioned.

“Man, you really haven’t been out in the fleet,” the technician laughed. “Any sailor going planetside in condition one-A goes in packing.”

“Same old, same old,” Kimble muttered as he followed the man out of the landing bay.

The alarm certainly had the ship abuzz. Personnel rushed to and fro in a sort of controlled chaos. The sailors manning the ship’s armory had all they could handle to get the shuttle crews, Marines and bluejackets properly set with weapons and battle armor. Technicians also had to requisition additional ammunition for the shuttles and pinnaces, because condition one-A required they have a one-hundred percent capacity load-out.

Kimble couldn’t believe pirates could put a dreadnought on full alert. From what he’d heard, the pirates had lots of ships but not the firepower to do more than prick at the shields of large military vessels. Pinnaces and shuttles were another matter, however, and Kimble could only think that the gunners would have to provide cover fire to get the shuttles to and from the surface safely.

“Ever do one of these armed escort details, Kimble?” Farrier asked when Kimble and the technician arrived at the nearest armory.

“Once, sort of,” Kimble replied.

Farrier took a battle vest from the armory keeper and handed it to Kimble. The technician helped him put it on. It was bulkier than he thought it would be.

“What do you mean sort of?” the technician queried, curiously, while checking the vest for proper fit.

“Ashfield twelve,” Kimble explained, sheepishly. “Pirates took over a large farm planet in the Guarino quadrant. Guarded it with a derelict freighter converted to handle light guns. They said we’d get our heads handed to us if we dared interfere.”

“Sounds dicey,” Farrier remarked. “What happened?”

“The dreadnought Halifax blasted the ship out of the sky with one shot,” Kimble answered while he zipped his vest closed. “The pirates practically crapped their pants. The only injuries were from them tripping over each other to surrender. I didn’t have to do a damned thing other than pick up weapons.”

“I wish the pirates and raiders out here were that compliant,” the technician commented.

Farrier handed a heavy machine gun to Kimble, who looked at it like it was something completely foreign to him. Farrier switched it out for a light machine gun. Kimble found it a better fit, slung it over his shoulder and began stuffing his ammo slots with the magazines the technician handed to him.

Pirates had definitely been a major problem in the outer reaches of the Federation’s jurisdiction. Ever since the Navy had routed the last vestiges of the rogue planets that had attempted to forcefully control lucrative shipping routes, the areas had been plagued with piracy. Everyone figured the corsairs were the survivors from the losing side.

Lately, however, they’d become more organized, more numerous and better equipped, leading the Navy’s intelligence apparatus to suspect secret support from the planetary systems bordering Federation space. Maintaining “peaceful” relations while backing covert action had been a long-used tactic in the history of mankind. It was to be expected, though. After all, even the Federation had utilized the tactic to keep those border systems off-balance.

What hurt the most was the presence of former Federation sailors in the ranks of the raiders. They may only have been in it for the money, but they brought battle-hardened combat experience to an enemy whose best people had either been killed or crippled. That had forced the Federation to try new tactics to combat the scourge. For Pegram Kimble, it was disconcerting but hardly unexpected. Sailors and Marines had expected such hardships going back to the day Man first learned to sail.

“Don’t let it get in your head, Kimble,” Farrier warned. “It’s probably just precautionary. There are pirates about but I don’t think they’d be stupid enough to attack the main areas. Probably out in the sticks.”

“I thought Tedesco was the sticks,” Kimble commented.

“Even in the sticks, there are sticks,” Farren explained while loading his combat shotgun. “Lots of muddy swamps and mires, fed by meandering streams and Earth-like bayous, where a few hardy souls mine for valuable but rare platinum and titanium in the really, really thick mud. Then, you got the old forests completely denuded of leaves. Looks like a warzone that never recovered. Get injured in there, though, and you’re screwed because the trees are strong enough to resist even a shuttle landing.

“Add in the fjords, inlets cut into the land near the Ice Belt in the north. Beautiful snow-capped peaks in the distance, but the fjords just go on for miles and miles, with nothing but sheer cliffs on either side, save for an occasional cave cut into the rock for shelter during storms. The end of the fjords ain’t accessible by air because of the way the winds swirl through ‘em. A lot of water predators, like ankh-sharks go into the fjords to escape the storms. Getting rescued from these places can be a real bear.”

“Stop, stop, please.”

Copyright © 2011 Gregory Marshall Smith

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. No portion of this work may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

To be continued August 20, 2011.

To see more of this and other works, be sure to purchase the latest edition of Digital Digest.

Gregory Marshall Smith

They Call the Wind Muryah      Dark Tidings Vol. I & II     Crawl

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The Farm

Jack Wilson bought the farm today.

That’s what he said right before he died.  The strange thing was that he was really happy to die.

No, he wasn’t suicidal.  In fact, he was anything but.  He really cared about the men under his command as the company’s senior NCO.  He genuinely wanted to make sure as many of them as possible got back home safely.  He just didn’t care what happened to him.

Jack and I had been friends since elementary school back in Medford, Massachusetts.  We hung out together right up until college.  I became an officer through Navy ROTC.  Jack enlisted and we both ended up in Korea, as part of a joint command when the war started.

We were part of a recon unit that operated remotely piloted vehicles or RPV’s that took off from ships along the coast and could fly over the head of the enemy silently, without the noise of a helicopter rotor or a jet engine.  We sometimes fired Hellfire III missiles from the drones to take out high-value targets or heavy concentrations of insurgents.  Jack’s job had been to go into the field to retrieve downed drones before the North Koreans could get their hands on the technology. 

Jack’s parents had died a few years ago, he had been an only child and had no immediate family.  Add in that, thanks to his mother and the after-effects of her horrific divorce, he had been an agnostic since grade school and no one could really blame him if he’d lost all hope.  He didn’t, though and I knew the reason. 

The day after Jack died in the ambush set near the wreckage of one of the drones, I sat in the command building that had once been a police station.  As the company commander, I had the unenviable task of getting the company past his death.  He’d been a tough NCO but also one who genuinely cared about those under his tutelage

As I sat there behind that desk and thought of Jack’s last words – “I bought the farm” -- I thought of the one reason why he’d say such a thing -- Suzette Lincoln. 

I hadn’t thought of Suzette in more than 10 years, but it appeared Jack had thought of her a lot.

She had been a school mate of ours back in Medford and Jack had this crush on her. But, Jack was a jock who was supposed to stay away from a plain Jane like Suzette, with her mousy black hair and her average figure that blossomed much later than the other girls. 

She hung out with us – me and Jack and my girl at the time Alicia – only because we all lived on the same block.

I knew she desperately wanted friends.  That was because her dad was an inventor and so eccentric that most of the neighborhood laughed at him.  The kids rarely went to Suzette’s house because we didn’t know if her dad was going to accidentally blow it up like he’d doe to his garage.

So, we maintained the status quo until our senior year.  Suzette pined for attention and Jack hid his affection.  When we were all together, he pretended not to pay any attention to her.

That was, until she began missing school.

I was shocked when I found out that Suzette had a mutant cancer strain.  Medical science had done wonders in the previous 20 years to wipe out cancer.  I thought God really had it in for some people.  Being an avowed agnostic, Jack disagreed with me and chalked it up to fate.

Jack really changed after that hard news.  We all did in a way.  Suzette was an outsider to us, someone hanging on our coattails, but she was a classmate.  We all thought we’d live forever.  We weren’t supposed to die.  There were things we still had to do – graduation, class reunions, weddings, college.  And why did it always seem to happen to the nice ones? 

It was like he’d changed overnight in his sleep.  I missed him on the bus home from school one day in the fall of our senior year.  Lo and behold, when I reached our street, I saw him laughing with Suzette on her porch.  She blushed a little when she saw me looking at the two of them.  Down deep inside, though, part of me was both glad and sad to see her like this.  Glad that she was finally opening up and sad that it had to happen when she was so sick.

Thanks to modern science, she was able to keep her hair and not get nauseous from the new chemotherapy.  That allowed Jack to spend more time with her.  He helped her with her small garden, a precursor to the farm she’d always dreamed of.  He volunteered his free time with her at the hospital helping other patients whose cancers had not yet been conquered by medical technology.  He grew into a man those seven months.

I still remembered their drives.  He’d take his grandfather’s rebuilt Pontiac muscle car and cruise around town with Suzette, showing her off to everyone.  They’d both wear their parents’ old leather jackets and would be laughing like no one else in the world mattered.  They’d look so odd together -- her with a full head of jet black hair despite being sick and him with some fuzz on top of his dome because he’d promised to shave his head if we won the state football championship.

I don’t know how Jack got through graduation.  He should have broken down, but he kept it together.  We all sat in that auditorium watching Suzette make her Valedictorian speech.  It was on three-dimensional video because she’d suddenly taken a turn for the worse right after final exams (she’d been having so much fun with Jack that she’d kept news of her relapse secret from all of us).  I was never one to cry, but I felt myself close to losing it that day.

The funeral for Suzette that June was the largest I’d seen in Medford in a long time.  The entire graduating class, plus most of the school staff and half of our neighborhood crowded the street of her church.  Jack had the honor of making the eulogy.  I wrote it for him, based on his words.  He delivered it flawlessly, which surprised me since he was an agnostic who hadn’t been to any kind of church since his parents’ messy divorce.

I didn’t see him much after that.  He spent a lot of time at the hospital, continuing to volunteer like he’d done with Suzette.  Then, he became withdrawn and was always at Suzette’s house, talking to her dad.

One day as I came back from an errand, Jack called me over to Suzette’s house.  He wouldn’t explain; he just motioned for me to follow him, so I did.  We went to Mr. Lincoln’s basement where even my furtive imagination was stunned by all the advanced computers and technological equipment.  Jack led me over to a machine that looked like an old DVD/CD-ROM player connected to an advanced EEG monitor.  He handed me a pair of what looked like ear buds attached to oversized sunglasses, while he took another pair for himself.

“Come on, let’s talk to Suzette,” he said.

I knew people reacted differently to death, but I’d never expected Jack to go off the deep end.  He was insistent, so I followed his lead and put the contraption on.  He started talking about how Suzette and something her dad had built.  For my part, I thought of some vague Peter Cushing and I seemed to recall that Cushing’s character was Frankenstein.

Jack pushed some buttons and it was like my whole world changed.  One minute, I was in a laboratory; the next, I was on a farm.  The sun was shining brightly and we were in a field of tall green grass that swayed with a cool, gentle breeze.  I heard some cows moo and when I looked ahead, I saw a large red barn in the distance.  I thought I might have been hallucinating until Jack tapped me on the shoulder and pointed.  I looked and I saw someone leading one of the cows.

It was Suzette!

She turned to us and waved.  I was stunned.  I started to wave but then my vision blurred, I became nauseous and had to rip the glasses off.  When the world stopped turning, I opened my eyes and saw that I was in the basement again.

I noticed that Jack didn’t appear to be in any discomfort.  He had obviously been using this device for a while, enough to be trusted with it.  He’d walked right into the lab without Mr. Lincoln being home and hadn’t set off any alarms.

“It was Suzette,” Jack said, his face giddy and flushed.  “You saw her yourself, so you can be a witness.  Mr. Lincoln hooked her up to this machine just before she died.  She’s in a better place.  She’s in Heaven.”

Maybe Jack had found God again.  If Suzette had imparted that to him, I was more than glad.  But, I was worried more about his mental condition.  Suzette was gone, yes, but he still had a full life ahead of him.

“Jeez, Jack, it’s one of those new encephalographic recordings the Catholic Church is up in arms about,” I told him.  “They use them for terminally ill patients so that their loved ones will see them in better days.  But, the government hasn’t approved them yet because they make you wanna' puke.  Probably never will.  You could get into big trouble for using this, man.  So could Mr. Lincoln for creating it.”

“So what?” Jack snapped.  “Why can’t they understand?  She’s in a much better place.  I just had to know.  She’s on the farm we both wanted to own.  She’s there now and I’ll be there, too.”

I gasped audibly and looked at Jack.  I’m sure my expression was one of horror.  Jack suddenly grinned and slapped me on the back hard enough to make me cough.  He led me out of the basement.

“Don’t worry, Jeff,” he said, wearily, along the way.  “Suicide’s a sin, remember?  I just see this as something to keep me going.”

I didn’t tell anyone about the experience.  I didn’t need Jack cracking up on me if I brought down any condemnation on him.  What he saw wasn’t really Heaven, but if it kept him sane then it could be whatever he wanted. 

“Heaven’s what you want it to be, Jack,” I said to cheer him up.

Jack and I talked a few more times after that but I never mentioned Suzette or the machine again.  We eventually went off to college and then graduate school, occasionally trading phone calls, e-mails and a few letters in which he sounded sullen.  We didn’t see each other again until the war found him as my senior noncommissioned officer.  He looked good, as if the war had somehow propped up his flagging spirits.

I brought myself back to the present and looked around.  I was still alone with my memories.  I thought of Jack’s encephalograph.  They were commonplace now, especially because of the war.  Was his the same as Suzette’s?

I didn’t know if Heaven would be like Suzette’s thought patterns.  Then again, I wasn’t God and maybe Heaven really was what a person made it.  Maybe that thought had kept Jack going all these years. 

I had to admit I really didn’t know much, but there was one thing I did know.  All puns aside, I knew Jack.  And I knew where he’d be now.  On a farm with eternal sunshine, tall wavy grass, a giant red barn, some cows and, most importantly, the only girl he’d ever loved.

Gregory Marshall Smith

They Call the Wind Muryah      Dark Tidings Vol. I & II     Crawl

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Copyright © 2010 Gregory Marshall Smith

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. No portion of this work may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

Slow Boat to China (Chapter 1 -- Part I)

Slow Boat to China

Slow Boat To China is a stand-alone novel unrelated to my Hunters or Land of the Blind series. It concerns hundreds of wary civilians heading to the distant galaxy of Vasco de Gama to begin new lives or pay off old debts. Mixed in is Pegram Kimble, a storekeeper second class in the Federation Navy, off to an assignment on Tedesco, Vasco de Gama's most treacherous planet. A dumping ground for many of the Navy's and Marines' malcontents, nevertheless, it is the front line of a war against ruthless and murderous smugglers, raiders and space pirates determined to exterminate the Navy and Marines and claim the system for their own.

Chapter 1: Voyager (Part I)

Pegram Kimble looked out the porthole and smiled. He’d been sitting at this porthole for more than three hours, staring out at the passing stars and he didn’t seem tired of it yet. He liked looking at the stars for they reminded him of his boyhood back on Earth.

“Hey, Kimble, those stars aren’t going anywhere.”

Kimble looked over his shoulder at the slender man in the engineer’s uniform leaning halfway through the hatch. The man was Lieutenant Marshall Mannix, main propulsion assistant aboard the Federation Naval Ship Medford. The Medford would be Kimble’s home for the next two months until she and her sister ship, Fort Worth, arrived in the Vasco de Gama system.

“Then again,” the lieutenant reversed himself, “considering where you’re heading, you might as well get in all the stargazing you can. Banefield doesn’t allow much time to breathe, much less look at the stars. Anyway, there’s a meeting for all the storekeepers in 30 minutes, section 18, bulkhead 412.”

“Yes, sir,” Kimble replied.

Second-class petty officer sighed. Even in transit, nothing changed with the Navy. Technically, he was in transit and should have been with the civilians heading to Vasco de Gama. Alas, the deep-space Navy was always short of qualified sailors and no ship commander would pass up a chance to add an extra storekeeper for 75 days. 

Kimble turned away from the porthole and left the observation space. It wasn’t much of an observation area, having portholes instead of a large window. But, he understood. Large windows did not work well on military vessels. They couldn’t be covered with heavy metal hatches in case of combat. Still, a porthole was better than having no view at all, which is what most of the civilians had down in the transit spaces.

At 45, Kimble was young for a sailor. With life expectancy now reaching past 240, most people took on at least two other careers before joining the military.  Kimble had carried his spindly, 6-foot, 5-inch frame around most of the continents on Earth and then to the Moon and Mars as a logistician before deciding to serve his planet.

He’d always been good with numbers and with organizing things. But, the space freighter agency for whom he had worked just wasn’t exciting enough. Most of the time, he found himself on deep-space cargo runs where he was the only living thing among the robots that controlled operations. So, he joined the Navy. He was still on deep-space runs but at least he had human company.

He easily passed boot camp and advanced storekeepers school with flying colors. Because he’d been the highest-ranking recruit to come out of basic training, he gotten his choice of assignments. Fat lot of good it did him, though. The Erlacher Naval Observatory & Exploration Station just past Pluto had no openings. So, the Navy had given him his wish of seeing stars by sending him to the Vasco de Gama system, at the farthest reaches of Man’s explored areas.

He was destined for Tedesco, the furthermost world in that distant galaxy. Tedesco was the main base for the escort ships that patrolled the system. It was also the armpit of the universe, being a repository for all of the misfits from other populated galaxies. Criminals, ne’er-do-wells, loners, paranoiacs, adventurers, pioneers all went to Tedesco. So did smugglers and raiders.

The only people with no choice in being assigned to Tedesco were sailors and Marines. They were just unlucky that there weren’t enough screw-ups among their brethren to take care of all the needed billets.

Truth be known, Kimble could have requested – and gotten  -- a permanent berth aboard the dreadnought. It happened all the time, which only exacerbated Tedesco’s personnel problem. However, Kimble hadn’t made the request yet.

His reason was obvious – too many people. A dreadnought like Medford carried a crew of close to 3,000 men and women. It was easy to be lost in that kind of crowd. Making rank would be much more difficult as well. And, if he played his cards right and came out of his Tedesco assignment with an excellent evaluation, he could easily grab a chief petty officer slot aboard a ship and avoid all the competition.

It had better work, Kimble told himself many times since he’d come aboard. He had heard nothing but nasty things about Vasco de Game and about Tedesco, in particular.  The entire system suffered from smugglers and pirates. Some planets tried to ambush their neighbors’ cargo fleets. The people were very rough and tumble, as he could imagine only the strongest surviving in a system about a generation behind in modern technology.

Kimble nodded at passing sailors as he walked down the starboard passageway. He recognized none of them, just tried to seem friendly. He had to admit this ship was far bigger than it had seemed on holographic television. Even the 3-D computer displays didn’t do it justice. It seemed to take forever to get anywhere. He doubted he’d get lost on Tedesco.

Kimble arrived at his destination about the same time as a rather stocky female with no sense of humor. She took one look at him and then brushed by, as if he was nobody. He frowned. Yet another reason to avoid taking a permanent berth aboard the ship. The other storekeepers only saw him as competition for promotion.

“Hey, Kimble, glad you could make it,” a bulky man with flaming red hair commented as Kimble stepped inside the large auxiliary storeroom. “Did you see Kulack? He said he was going to leave you a message about the meeting.”

Kimble had taken a liking to SK2 Willis Farrier. Prior to Kimble’s arrival, Farrier had been the junior storekeeper aboard. No one liked being the junior guy but Farrier had a laid back attitude that had helped him cope with the endless jokes made at his expense.

“Haven’t seen Kulack since two days ago,” Kimble replied.

“Figures,” Farrier answered, with a smirk. “Can’t trust that guy worth crap. He spends too much time trying to eyeball the goodies.”

Kimble grinned. The “goodies” were the women down in the transit spaces. There was no hard fast rule aboard ship about dating those in transit, except that any resulting pregnancies would severely affect a sailor’s pay status.

“Who let you in on this little affair then?”

“Lieutenant Mannix, the main propulsion assistant,” Kimble replied. “I was up in the observation lounge or what passes for an observation lounge.”

“Mannix, eh?” Farrier asked. “Jeez, Commander Nguyen’s gonna’ hear it from the Cheng, eh, I mean, chief engineer, but you probably already knew that.”

Kimble nodded. He was up on his lingo. He started to say something else when someone up front called “attention on deck.”  Everyone stood up at attention until the same voice – Kimble thought it belonged to Senior Chief Ellen Branaugh – told everyone to stand at ease.

Commander Amos Nguyen was short for a Navy officer, but he more than made up for it with command presence. Not even a more senior officer would make a short joke anywhere near him. The senior supply officer aboard the dreadnought had been prior enlisted, evidenced by his salt-and-pepper hair and the deep bags under his eyes, belying his many years of service.

“Listen up, people,” Nguyen said in a voice that carried all the way to the back of the space. “I’m sure you’ve been wondering why I’ve called a special meeting after normal hours so far out of dock. Well, I’ve just finished a meeting of the ship’s officer corps, with the captain.”

Farrier whistled low. Kimble looked at the man and saw the concern on the man’s face. The captain only called an after-hours officers call when things were extremely unfavorable.

“In case you haven’t guessed, ship’s officer corps is so large it’s rare for all of them to meet at the same time,” Farrier explained when he saw Kimble looking at him. “Usually, the senior officers and department heads will meet and then pass on the news to the junior officers. If all of the officers meet, something big’s going on and it’s going to roll downhill right at us.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard about the increased pirate activity near the Vasco de Gama area,” Nguyen continued. “Well, we and the Fort Worth have been tasked with giving the escort patrols in that area some help.”

While everyone else moaned, Kimble brightened. That was going to be his area. He certainly didn’t want to have to face pirates on his first day, but having two dreadnoughts to guard his back didn’t seem so bad.

“Looks like you get the royal treatment, Kimble,” Farrier commented. “Not too many newbies get escorted in by dreadnoughts.”

“Listen up,” Nguyen called out. “We will be landing small detachments of Marines on several of the planets to bolster the inspection forces aboard the patrol ships. That will mean a vast increase in logistics. We will also have to use our own pinnaces to take supplies and transiters down to their respective debarkation points. Now, I don’t want any moaning and boo-hooing. This is what you signed up for. You can’t expect large, populated systems every time, so this is what we’re gonna’ do.”

Kimble listened attentively, straining to hear if his name would be called out as Nguyen – and, a few minutes later, Branaugh – made assignments. He heard nothing. At the end of the assignments, someone mentioned Farrier and the “new guy.”  Kimble sighed and guessed being the “new guy” was better than not being mentioned at all.

“Hey, looks like I get to show you the ropes,” Farrier said, slapping Kimble’s shoulder. “Let me show you where the supply pinnaces are.”

Pegram Kimble learned the ropes from Farrier well. Before long, he was one of the most proficient storekeepers aboard and he even heard Branaugh mention him by name to her department head. No doubt, she’d want him to be pulled off the list to Tedesco and, instead, assigned aboard the dreadnought. Kimble had gotten along with the other storekeepers reasonably well (once they learned he wanted to go to Tedesco rather than stay aboard). He doubted those good relations would last if he did stay aboard.

By the time the dreadnoughts were three days out from Vasco de Gama, everything was ready. Kimble and Farrier joined Branaugh in making a full rundown. Afterwards, Farrier took Kimble to Section Nth, the ship’s off-duty lounge for a drink. Kimble felt embarrassed going there because usually only personnel directly assigned to the ship could go in.

“I gotta’ be honest with you, Pegram,” Farrier said as he settled into his chair at the bar and waited for a virgin martini that tasted like the real thing, but didn’t contain gin, vodka or dry vermouth. “Master Chief Branaugh’s pressing me to convince you to stay aboard.”

“I figured that,” Kimble replied, as he sipped some cola. “But, this place is too big. Besides, I only get along with the rest of the division because they think I’ll eventually leave when we get planetside.”

“Well, I had to ask,” Farrier commented.

“Nice lounge you have here,” Kimble noted. “Too bad you get the soft stuff.”

“Hey, hey, don’t knock it, newbie,” Farrier remarked. “This is like heaven compared to Tedesco. I’ve been there twice on transit and supply runs. Oh, you’ll get to look at the stars, if they don’t work you to death. You just won’t have anything close to a virgin martini to relax with. Then again, you won’t have any virgins to relax with period.”

Copyright © 2011 Gregory Marshall Smith

All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. No portion of this work may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.

To be continued July 16, 2011.

Gregory Marshall Smith

They Call the Wind Muryah      Dark Tidings Vol. I & II     Crawl

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