After the Ashes
By Renae
Chapter One: Two Percent
The delay caused by the Federation of Allied Worlds
cowardly attack on the Confederation’s Medical Cruiser Hermes; meant that I was
stuck killing simulated Fed ships. Not to mention spending many hours in
the gym under the watchful guidance and goading of one Marine Sergeant Bethany
‘Beth’ Millsap. I was working on my final set of pyramid training with the free
weights and my arms were not quite dead, as the ship vibrated oddly, nearly
causing me to falter on the lift.
The Hermes was currently in the ‘arms’ of a pair of
Fleet Repair Tenders. They were hard docked to the Hermes by six sets of
magnetically charged clamps each; making it appear as if The Hermes was slowly
being devoured by two ravenous insects. The vibration was caused when one of
the Tenders lifted away a whole section of damaged armor plating. Admittedly it
was impressive to watch but damned annoying if you were trying to not drop a
barbell that was loaded with forty kilos.
When the Ship lurched once again, Beth quickly stepped
in and helped me to cradle the weights. “Damn, this is getting to be fucking
old,” I sighed and slowly sat up.
“No kidding, I can understand the Skipper wanting a
solid hull between us and the Deep. But by Deity they could fucking warn us
before pulling that sort of crap.” She motioned to the weights, “We better
secure them before the morons decide to take the AG offline, yet again.”
I nodded, then moved to the opposite side of the bar
and undid the stop. “I hear you. Joan had to have her arm set and fused after
the AG flip-flopped while she was in the shower.”
“Is she going to be ok?”
“Yes, though I hear the tech that fucked that up
will be cleaning the heads for the next week.” I shook my head; “Joan was ready
to clip his balls for that.”
I watched Beth wince in sympathy, “And they say I have
anger issues,” she said, “though I can’t say I’d blame her, but sheesh.”
I nodded at her and worked at securing my side.
Privately I had to agree; Joan was the feminist from
hell. Sometimes I felt my ‘hackles’ rise when she was on a role and ripping
into men. Oh she worked well with a few men, most of which seemed to take her
with a large grain of salt. Though from what I could tell she largely
avoided men in general. Sure I looked and sounded like a woman, but mentally I
was still trying to process the changes. More than once, some of her barbs at
men stung a bit too deeply.
I had managed to get Joan a bit drunk, and talkative.
Afterwards I could understand why she was so bitter. Joan for the most part was
born and raised on Dolmar, one of the fringe worlds of the Federation. Her own
father had sold her to one of the Fed’s brothels when she was sixteen. Which by
the Federation’s law was legal, as females were largely considered ‘property’
within the Federation.
Somehow, she didn’t go into heavy details there, she
managed to break out, and then steal her way onto a ship registered with The
Alliance of Free States. The Alliance has a very matriarchal society,
which while it grates on the Fed’s nerves; they also have the firepower to back
up their sovereignty. So the Feds, for the most part, largely leave them
alone.
When Joan was ‘discovered’ on that ship and had related
her story, she was given a berth until that Skipper set her loose on one of the
League’s refugee worlds. Needless to say there is a large underground movement
that exports ‘freed’ women out of the Fed’s Territories. Joan pretty much took
to the Alliance’s doctrine and mindset, like an Alsatian Flex-cat to
synthetic-alcohol.
Joan ‘wandered’ over from the Alliance to volunteer
when the Fed’s started their religious war of ‘Rightful Expansion’ with
the Confederation of Unified Systems. Part of me suspects if she had her way
the Fed’s capital planet would be a dimly glowing orb of radioactive slag. Many
folks agree with her in that regard, though the Accords were largely designed
to keep such things from occurring again.
“What’s got you in a daze?” asked Beth.
“Oh just thinking through the Accord’s and wondering if
the Signatories are actually going to do anything.”
“About?”
“The Fed’s mistreatment of us, the attack on the
Hermes, you know. Stuff.” I motioned to the track and headed that way.
“Well if it’s like what happened with the Fed’s and the
Riga Sevex Colony Worlds, they won’t do jack shit,” she started jogging and I
moved to keep up with her.
“Yeah, but they ‘technically’ were a
secessionist group that the Fed’s helped to found.” I frowned, “Even if
by our standards they were a separate nation at the time. The Accord
Signatories decided a handful of systems were not worth an all out war.”
“Like their sanctions did anything,” she snorted
in disgust.
I agreed with her there, the sanctions did nothing to
slow the Fed’s down, much less hurt them economically. “If it were not for the
Federation sharing borders with us and several of the other Signatory Powers
they would not have even signed the Accords.”
“As if that helped us any,” she added bitterly.
“True, but considering that they border us and the Alliance,
they might have stepped on their own dicks this time around. Personally I would
have rather jumped in and kicked the Fed’s out then, even more so now.
Politicians, well you know how that goes…”
“We can only hope, from what little has filtered down
to me they are going to present our case on Bellius Prime. Evidently
they want it deep in the heart of Alliance territory, when they present the
case to the Signatories.”
“That’s a nice bit of political maneuvering, all the
newsies there will hype up the Fed’s abuse and with no small amount of luck The
Alliance will want in on the action.”
A tone rang through the ship, “Null Gravity Warning, AG
shut down will commence in ten minutes.” The message and tone repeated twice as
we slowed to a stop.
“Well at least they warned us this time,” I pointed out
to Beth as we collected our towels and water jugs.
“Yeah, care to bet the chef’s are going to delay
lunch?”
“No, but can you blame them, considering some poor
middy nearly played G-Ball with a twenty liter carafe of boiling coffee?” I
asked.
“Ouch no.”
----------------
“So Joan, how is the arm?” asked Terrance with a
chuckle.
Joan raised it, and then raised the index finger of
that hand, “Seems to work fine Terry, how does it work for you?”
“You two I swear are as bad as some of my sister’s
children,” commented Marge as she shook her head. “All six of them.”
“Your six sisters or their kids?” asked Joan.
“Yes,” smirked Marge as she slipped into a chair and
fastened her restraining belt into place.
“At least they warned us this time,” said Joan as she
took a belt from a cupboard and clipped it around herself. Then she took the
free end and clipped it to a ring set in the corridor wall.
“You should count yourself lucky you didn’t drown,”
commented Terry as he did the same. “If the showers had not kicked off
automatically…”
“Hey I can swim, unlike a certain male I could
mention,” she retorted.
“On Trecas, water is used for drinking, and bathing.
One does not ‘frolic’ much less cavort in it’s oceans or streams. Unless one
wishes to feed the denizens of those previously foresaid watery places, with
their own body.”
“He has you there Joan, and if you’d ever take time to
read the xeno-biology reports on some of the Confed member world’s, you could
plan your vacations better.” Joan wagged a finger to her own monitor, “I almost
envy our changelings, Bova’s a nice planet, aside from the polar extremes.”
“Some how I doubt Angela is going to be happy to be
stuck dirt side for any stretch of time,” Joan paused as a triple chime
announced the loss of gravity, ”Even if they do give her a promotion out
of the deal.”
“I did look up her hobbies, if it can go fast
and induce a heightened state of adrenalin, he did it. I mean she did it.”
Marge shook her head, “Talk about having serious thrill issues.”
“I resemble that remark,” said Joan as she flipped her
feet ‘up’ to ease into a slow tumble at the end of her tether.
“Yes, but even you use an AG harness if you are going
to do something radically insane.” She pointed to the berth where Angela was resting,
“She is listed as being qualified in Old Tech aerial decent techniques,
without an AG back up.”
“OK, I’ve seen some of the Old Tech Recreationists do
some wild stuff, but if she uses a synth-cloth parasail and no AG… Are you sure
she was sane before joining up?” asked Terry as he sat in a lotus several feet
off the deck.
“As sane as any fighter pilot recruit ever is…” Marge
replied with a smile, “even our own dear Joan was considered sane for that…”
“Just because I told the Chief Pilot’s Instructor where
he could plant his evaluation…” Joan killed her slow spin with a sigh, “I mean
really, just because men supposedly can focus better in a crunch in a Manta,
it doesn’t mean they can fly better than me.”
“This is coming from the woman who used to own
the top ranks in the recreational simulators,” jibbed Terry as his eyes
half closed as he clasped his hands in his lap.
“Well considering Angela is almost living in them…” She
shook her head slowly, “Though she did manage to get me to tie one on one
night, other than that. It is sims, sims and more sims for her.”
“Ten to one says that instead of napping or reading
something trivial, she’s reading tech manuals or studying flight data on every
bird in the Fleet.” Offered Marge as she wiggled two fingers as if suggesting
that easy money was in the offing.
“I don’t take sucker bets,” Joan unclipped and pushed
off the wall to clip back in at the desk. She used her fingertips for traction
and bent over to look at he terminal Marge was viewing, “Good gods she’s
reading ‘Flight Controls and Checklists of the Marine Assault Tactical Support
Fighter: Cat Shark.’” She pushed back and crossed her arms, “Care to bet it’s
in the simulators?”
“No.” Marge shook her head, “There is already talk about
shutting her out of the simulators all together.”
“Ok, I’ll bite; why would any asshole be that stupid?”
asked Terry as he opened his eyes fully.
“Morale or something, every time a fighter Jock on any
of the other ships inches past her scores, she goes in and raises the bar
another ten kilometers.” Marge snickered, “Evidently there is a pool going on
in the Hood as to who can keep her off top of the points chart by three
positions for at least three days.”
“So how many credits are you raking in?” asked Terry
suspiciously.
“Well, I will not have to spend a single credit of my own
money on leave, when I can go. The Manta Pilot’s are going ballistic, as
she’s creaming them in kills alone.”
“So is it just the Manta jocks or?” asked Joan.
“All of the various fighter jocks and wanna-be’s.
Of course the Marines are egging her on, but even there, there is some
serious betting and sim time going down.” Marge smirked, “Rumor has it that the
Admiral is placing bets ahead of time for the upcoming gunnery trials, based on
all the increased kill scores.”
“Oh I have no doubt he’s having a ball. If the
Commandant wasn’t ‘The Boss’ of all things Marine, he’d be doing the same
thing,” commented Terrance as he rolled his eyes.
“So any word on when we loose the Tenders and can get
back on the way to Ova-Loa?” asked Joan as the warning tone signaling the
return to gravity sounded.
“Not soon enough for me,” Marge sighed. “But it is
going to get worse, ship’s crew, baring those EVA trained are getting fitted
for P-Suits and drills.”
“Oh wonderful, and we are doing this because?” Terrance
asked while stowing the safety harness.
“New Fleet Regs, we were not the only Hospital Ship
that got jumped in the past week. The Curie and The DeForest Kelly had better
coverage than we did, but that didn’t help them much. The Curie is heading for
the breakers and the Kelly is looking at more time in the Repair Yards than we
are.”
“Looks like The Accords are so much wasted paper now.”
Joan cursed for a moment, “They are not going to pull ships crew are they?”
“Not from us, but we are going to get a portion of the
Curie’s crew as is the Kelly.” Marge pointed to her terminal, “The sad news is
that the Fed’s either killed or captured The Imhotep.”
“Shit, no wonder we are stuck in a battle group,” said
Terry with a look of disgust.
“And have the Tenders’ working nonstop,” Joan frowned,
“um have the Fed’s started going after the MEDEVAC shuttles as well?”
Marge nodded slowly, “Yes.”
“Ah, well unless you have any pressing duties for me,”
Joan was frowning thoughtfully, “I think I need to spend some time in a
simulator myself.”
“Combat sims?” asked Terry.
“Sort of,” Joan grimaced, “combat level evasive
maneuvers.”
Marge blinked then nodded, “Go, you might drag
Caruthers with you. I am sure she knows tricks that haven’t filtered down to
Fleet yet.”
“Now there is a thought,” Joan grinned, “besides she owes
me for wiping me completely off of the tally boards, and getting me drunk.”
-----------------
“So Lieutenant back to massacre the current standings?”
asked Ensign Flanders. Flanders was smirking as he punched a few keys bringing
up the current Battle Group standings at his console.
I laughed, “Has anyone pushed me down yet?”
“Well you still have a few ships that you don’t own
the boards on, yet.” He cracked his knuckles and then scratched at his red
hair, “So what shall we load up for you today, Stingrays Manta’s, Tiger Sharks,
Hammer Heads?”
“No of the above, do you have… Ah hell, Joan; what is
the classification for the MEDEVAC Birds?”
“It’s the Fleet Medical Rescue Shuttle, also known as
the Dolphin.” Joan said with a chuckle, “They were going to call them Nurse
Sharks, but someone realized that they didn’t have teeth.”
I rolled my eyes at that, “Well in any case, Ensign
Flanders if you will warm up one of them for us, ‘Ducky’ here wants a refresher
course in evasion.”
“And the other bird?” he asked.
“The Marines’ Cat Shark, I have not flown one yet
so Joan here should have a fair chance of actually escaping me.” I laughed as
she flipped me off, “Hey you wanted a real refresher.”
“Ok, so you want a typical planet to jump out, scenario?”
he asked as he started entering commands.
“Yes, when she dies, reset us randomly so she has no
idea where I am coming from.”
“When I die,” Joan scoffed, “more like if I
die.”
I rolled my eyes at her, “Hey I am going to be giving
you my best, and when I find all your weak spots we are going to switch to both
of us in Dolphins. Then the real work will begin.”
“Alright ladies, simulator six is the shuttle, and
seven is the fighter. Do you want this recorded?” he asked.
“Not for the first sessions, though when we switch to
shuttles only, yes. Though I think if anyone has priority on using it
for training or otherwise, it’s the MEDEVAC pilots.” I motioned to Joan, “From
what she’s told me they need it more than the combat pilots.”
“Aye Ma’am, open coded for MEDEVAC Pilots only.” He
chuckled, “I expect folks will be screaming for it, what if the Skipper or
higher wants it opened up?”
I shrugged, “This is a part of my own personal training
file, as is Joan’s. Who we say they are open to, is up to us, apart from our
commanders, and legitimate personnel from Training Doctrine and
Operation Command. TRADOC is god after all.”
“Too true. Well those two simulators are yours for the
next two hours, then I have a rash of others cued up.” He smiled, “Shall I book
you for the same slots tomorrow?”
“Well if MEDEVAC pilots need the time, and only MEDEVAC
Pilots, they can have my slot.” I shook my head, Joan had shown me recent Fleet
losses in that department, “We’re loosing too many of them to the Fed’s.”
He nodded slowly, “I had heard something about that.”
“The Fed’s evidently said screw the Accords, so we’ll
have to do our damnedest to make sure they regret it.” I motioned Joan to the
simulators, “Come on ‘Ducky’ let’s see if we can rewrite the book on evasion
protocols.”
----------------
Our training session nearly wasn’t, as some jack-off
had locked me out of the simulator system somehow. Fortunately Joan got on the
horn to one of her fellow EVAC Jockeys, and I was using his codes to fly
‘under.’ Of course I had to extract his oath and swap the same ‘personal’
training time with him that I was giving Joan. He didn’t like the odds either.
I managed to lock down my anger, and get on with training Joan; but I think I
must have killed a few hundred other fighters in the process.
Joan had wondered what was up, as I wasted her ‘escort’
first and then turned on her ship. She didn’t like being told it was common Fed
strategy; I wasn’t quite lying to her. The Feds, the smarter Feds
anyways, worry about fighters and their escorts before picking off unarmed
ships. Besides I was mad enough to chew depleted uranium and spit gun rounds,
and by taking that out on the escorts, I could then stay focused enough
to evaluate Joan’s flight performance.
------------
“So Joan, how in the Deep did you end up with the call
sign ‘Ducky’?” I asked as I started the seventh set of her new evasion
patterns. I was giving her the sets by the simple expedience of having her play
follow the leader, every thing I did she had to copy. Since the computer was
recording ‘my’ moves, she could return to the program time and time again.
“Well, I had this attitude problem with some of
the male instructors,” she said as she did her best to keep up with me. “One of
the cocky bastards decided to rig my simulator with just about every failure he
could, and still leave me with a ‘flying craft’.”
I nodded in my own simulator and dropped downwards
relative to where she was than then used my attitude thrusters to pinwheel up and
kicked my thrusters hard to change my vector so I was flying away ninety
degrees off of her port side, and then I popped chaff and a flare. “Sounds
familiar,” Alcady had done the same thing to me, on a regular basis.
“So anyway,” I heard her grunt as she did something in
her simulator, “I managed to run the mission, but every time they asked if
something was ‘wrong’, I kept saying: ‘Nope everything is ‘just’ Ducky.’”
She paused, “How much chaff should I be popping in a real attack?”
I chuckled and thought for a second, “Every time I get
a hard lock warning, when I was with the Hope, I’d kick two out and a flare.
But Manta’s have better ECM and ECCM, so that made a difference too.” I checked
my ‘gauges’ and they said I had used seven out of twenty chaff packs, “I’d say
at least three maybe four and a flare.”
“All at once?” she asked as if taking an inventory in
her head.
“No, you want to hit one just as you start, the next
one a quarter or a third into the evasion. Hit the flare in the middle, then
use the other ‘pops’ depending on when you roll or burn out.”
“I can see my chief tech going ape shit if I have to
replace chaff at every recovery,” she commented.
“Better that than say, hosing out the crew compartment
because you were taking hits or worse.” I shook my head, “I doubt we can get
you a phalanx anti-missile tail pod, but we should try. It’d be legal in the
Accords as its defensive only, like the chaff and flares.” The tail pod was a
very small gatling gun, not a threat to an armored fighter. However, light
missiles didn’t carry heavy enough plating protect against them.
“How do you use them?” asked Joan as I started a new
set of maneuvers.
“You just power them up, they’re tied into your threat
detection unit. Mostly they sit idle until that goes off. But if you are
being jammed they go active; and start looking for any laser or radar being
directed at your bird. Once they track that, they open up for a few
hundred rounds, they have a beehive round that they use. A hundred round burst
puts a cloud of ten thousand, six millimeter ball bearings between you and any
missile.”
“Sounds nasty, can you use it on the ground?” asked Flanders
over the com as Joan finished up her pattern.
“It only locks on laser and radar emitters,” I
shrugged unseen in the simulator. “There is a Tactical Version used by the
Confederation Ground Forces, but that is mounted on a floater. They use a
heavier round and it’s very effective against Infantry and the like,
from what I hear.”
“I’ll bet, Ok ladies your time is up. I have the flight
data from the Cat Shark, should I just dump it?” he asked.
“Yeah, may as well, do me a favor and dig out who the
hell put a block on my sim-access.” I started the shutdown cycle, and
continued, “Who ever it is better have a good explanation for it, because if
it’s some bullshit, I’m taking it up the chain.”
“Hoo boy, are you sure you want to do that Angela?”
asked Joan as she leaned in to my cockpit.
“Hell damned yes, I schedule my time, just like
everyone else.” I pointed a finger at the cockpit controls, “Just because I may
be a woman now, doesn’t mean I can’t fly or fight. I didn’t take any crap in
basic flight and I sure the fuck will not take it now.”
“I hear you sister, though you may want to cool off and
plan your attack, just in case.” Joan smirked, “We definitely need to get you a
new call sign soon.”
“Just nothing cutesy or else,” I pointed a finger at
her, “I know where you sleep.”
“I hear you, now let’s get out of the way before the
mob arrives,” she said and jerked a thumb to the control room
I wasn’t too sure what to make out of the odd gleam in
her eyes, but it didn’t make me very comfortable.
-------------------
Ensign Flanders had left a message on my terminal
saying that something was very wrong with my ID code or something. I wasn’t too
thrilled to hear that; as it basically said someone in personnel had screwed
up. Or someone with rank was fucking with me. In either case I was doing my
best to think of vicious and cruel methods of retributions, to use when I found
the bastard responsible.
One of my instructor’s at flight
school was fond of quoting and Old Earth author by
the name of George Bernard Shaw. One of his favorite quotes was: “Two percent of the people think; three percent of the
people think they think; and ninety-five percent of the people would rather die
than think.” He would then ask; “What the hell was I thinking?” After I
did something totally assed up.
Needless to say I heard that
quote often enough, and only rarely do I get to use it myself; so I savor the
times when it fits the occasion. Unfortunately, those times were far and few
between. I glared down at ‘new’ flight jacket. My old, familiar, jacket was
covered by patches for the different birds I had qualified on. The crowning marks
of that jacket were the patches for the Manta and the one for the Darwin’s Hope, not to
mention all my kill tags. This one was naked and that pissed me off royally.
Oh it had my nametag, and of
all things a Tiger Shark patch with a Gold combat stud in its eye. So it wasn’t
quite naked, but it felt that way to me. Every single patch, tag and
marker on my old jacket; had been paid for. Paid for in pain, tears and the
blood of both my friends and myself. I walked over to my berth’s desk and
punched up my records on the terminal; specifically my flight and training
records. I was going to make a print out of all my kills and such and take it
down to supply later.
Rather I tried to call up my
files, and failed. I sat down and punched in my Fleet ID, and my new name. When
that failed I just entered my ID, it seemed to think about it for a moment then
pulled up the Fleet’s KIA roster. I stared at the flashing line of text for a
time. Lieutenant Caruthers, Mark A. 2297583, Deceased 05NOV3066.
I closed my eyes, and then opened them, yes I was still
listed as dead, “Funny, but I don’t feel dead,” I commented to the air. I then
called typed in my new name and looked for myself in the Hermes’ database, I
was there but listed under a different ID number. I punched in the request for
those records and hit a wall, figuratively and literally.
As I sucked at the scraped knuckle I had acquired when
I punched the bulkhead, I glared at the records. It listed me, my blood type,
and set my age a few years younger than what I was and my new statistics. I
pulled up my awards and then dug out my cheat card from the awards ceremony,
they were correct, apart from the line of text in each that read: Restricted
Access, redirect enquiries to Confederation Security, followed by a slew of
routing numbers.
Frowning I printed that screen, and then pulled up my
flight data records. Every bird I had ever flown was listed, and in the
certifications block was the same restricted access routing number. The block
that should have been overflowing with kills, and other such information was
not quite empty. It said, all data prior 17DEC3066 is Restricted, and then it
listed my kills and such from the attack on the Hermes. At least it gave me
credit for those kills and listed me as the flight leader.
I sat silently for a moment then punched up the routing
code that the records gave me. I sat there glaring at the terminal for a long
time, just when I was about to reenter the data again the screen blanked and it
said to report to the Poseidon, section TA-31, then it listed a time stamp,
which I supposed was when I was supposed to be there. A clock in the corner of
the screen said I had about an hour to make it over there.
I frowned as the door chimed, “Enter at your own risk!”
I yelled back at it. When it chimed again I fairly flew out of my chair and
went to the door, “What?” I asked loudly as the door opened, startling a
pair of Marines in dress blacks with side arms; they blinked and then slowly
saluted me. I returned the salute and repeated the question in the same tone as
before.
“Ma’am, we are here to escort you to the Poseidon,”
said an uncomfortable looking corporal whose nametag read Gutherson, C., he
then swallowed visibly.
“Am I under arrest?” I asked feeling a slow burn start
to rise in my chest.
“No Ma’am,” said the private whose tag read Parks, T.
“Can you tell me what the hell this is about?”
“No Ma’am, our orders just said to
fetch you to the Poseidon, then to TA-31.”
“Fine.” I walked back in and grabbled my flight jacket,
the red beret with the bogus unit flash on it and my Female Tactical Pouch, in
other words my fucking purse. Back at the door I stepped out and placed the
beret on my head, “Ok let’s go and get this bullshit over with.” No, I was not
in a good mood.
---------------
The flight over to the Poseidon was via the Captain’s
Gig; it wasn’t as fancy as the Admiral’s but I suppose I should have been happy
about having a comfortable ride. Unfortunately I was not in the mood to even
look out at the Deep, my Marine escorts were looking a bit skittish every time
my eyes locked with theirs. They had spent most of the time trying not
to look at me, nor were they communicative beyond ‘Yes man, no Ma’am, and I
can’t say Ma’am.’ Which did nothing to help my already soured mood.
Once docked in the Poseidon, we picked up another pair
of Marines, who then lead us deeper into the bowels of the ship. Section TA-31,
was mostly unremarkable aside from the fact that there were more Marines
stationed in and about it. Those were in battle dress uniforms complete with
assault rifles, they all had the same placid expression of alertness mixed with
boredom. It was amusing in someways as they seemed to be instantly more alert
as I walked past them. Though it pissed me off even more, first they ‘killed
me’, and now I get to be eye candy.
My escort led me to a mostly empty room that while
carpeted, and furnished with an assortment of equipment, was empty. The plaque
beside the door, read ‘Processing’ and was designated TA-1, I scowled as
evidently any answers were going to be delayed further. A female ensign came in
and handed me a set of forms, “Please read and sign Ma’am.”
I looked at them; they were basically the same forms I
had filled out ages ago, when I applied to flight school and other security
clearances I had filled out over my time in the Fleet. “Why am I filling out
forms I have already filled out once before?”
“Those are um, out dated Ma’am,” she said after a
moment’s hesitation. Then she handed me a pen, “Its regulations Ma’am,” she
offered as if that was the answer for everything.
I glanced though all the forms, all of them had been
filled out and the only thing they needed was my signature. I paused at one
block where it read next of kin, that block was marked ‘none’.
“There is an error here,” I pointed that block out to
the ensign, “I definitely have next of kin.”
“Ah, Ma’am, I think you should sign the form anyways,
it’s normal in these sort of updates,” she said with a blank face.
I was really starting to wonder what the fuck
was going on, but I signed it and kept working my way through the stack. The
final form was a newer one; evidently my security rating was getting bumped way
the hell up. That gave me a moment’s pause, and then I signed that paper
and pressed my thumbs on the specially treated boxes that would hold their
prints.
That done she collected all the forms and quickly left
the room, a minute or so later I was escorted to a briefing room that held the
Confederation, Fleet and Marine flags. I gazed at the long table and empty
chairs and tried not to let the anger, confusion and frustration that was
piling up, keep me from thinking.
‘Only two percent of the people think,’
kept rolling around in my head as I paced the room looking at the various
pictures and stills on the walls of the conference room, trying to lock down
those emotions. I noted the pictures of the Confederation’s ruling Triad, and
the assembled Council that filled one frame. Then I walked my way down the
Mandatory ‘Chain of Command’ pictures; I picked out a few faces that were new
to me, and the ones I recently had met. By the time I had reached the flags
again I was somewhat calmer.
I almost didn’t hear the door open,
though I was mildly surprised to see the Commandant walk in followed by the
Admiral, the Major from the other night, they were followed by a handful of
other people, one of which was carrying in a camera. I braced to attention
where I was and saluted, “Sir, Lieutenant Caruthers reporting as directed,
sir.”
The Admiral’s brow rose slightly as
he returned my salute, “Stand easy Lieutenant, you are not in trouble.”
I relaxed to something not quite
parade rest and stood there waiting for the other bomb to drop. “I suppose you
are curious as too your status?” the Admiral asked.
“You could say that sir, I just
recently found out I was dead.” I wasn’t able to keep a hint of anger
out of my voice.
The Admiral nodded, “We didn’t
expect that either, Lieutenant. However we all must bow to a higher
authority from time to time.” He glanced around, “If everyone is ready?” He
paused for a moment, and then nodded to his adjutant.
“Attention to Orders,” he started and everyone in
the room came to attention. “The Ruling Triad of the Confederation of Unified
Systems, the Council and Confederation Fleet reposes special confidence and
trust in the fidelity of Lieutenant Caruthers, Angela Lin. In accordance with
Fleet Regulation Seventeen Seven dash Six Bravo, by such we do promote her to
the Rank of Commander. With all the attendant responsibilities and duties of
such rank as conferred upon her this, the Fifteenth day of December, Three
Thousand and Sixty-four.”
I stood there in mute shock as
both the Admiral and the Commandant took turns swapping my old rank insignias
out for the new ones. Then after exchanging salutes and handshakes, the
obligatory photo was taken with me holding the orders and standing with the
witnesses. Once we were allowed to relax I finally worked up the gumption to
ask the first obvious question that popped into my head, “Why?”
That produced a few chuckles though
the Admirals face was slightly grim, “The Fed’s produced a body stating that
you were dead, just a few days after you saved the Hope.” He shook his head,
“We know you are not, but the politicians are drafting you into a double headed
axe. Two heroes for the price of one.”
“Begging the Admiral’s pardon, but
that sounds pretty messed up to me, what of my family?”
“They have been carefully briefed
and are ‘willing to put up with it,’ as long as you can come home sometime.”
That bit of phrasing had sounded a lot like my father. “Your parents understand
the need to have the Signatories firmly in our pocket, considering the
Federation has blatantly violated the Accords.”
“You would have been promoted to
Lieutenant Commander, about six months ago, had Darwin’s Hope not been running
operations where it was. Technically you would not have been eligible for
promotion to full Commander for another year or so, but the recent
circumstances did merit it.” Added the Commandant, “And you did earn it
Angela, it’s not a bribe to keep your mouth shut.”
“However, you will only be able to
say you were related to your other self, that, is an order.
Unfortunately almost all of your records are now classified and damned few
people have full access to them. Most people will make the assumption that you
worked for a time in Confederation Intelligence and your new security clearance
will help in that aspect.” He shrugged slightly, “It’s real enough, just try
not to use it without a damned good reason. Understood?”
“Yes sir, but what of my flight
status?” I tapped the Tiger Shark and the stud in its eye, “This is only a
fraction of what I am entitled to wear, what of the rest?”
He chuckled for a moment, “Don’t
worry, you’ll get plenty of flight time in your next assignment.” He sighed and
shook his head; “You are technically authorized to wear them, including
the Manta, with the combat studs and tags. However in keeping with your new
life and by order of The Grand Admiral, you are ordered not
to.”
I stood there fuming for a few
minutes trying to think of something polite to say in rebuttal, and I could
feel my nails biting deeply into my palms.
“I can see you are upset about
something Commander,” noted the Commandant.
I took a breath and slowly let it
out, “I am trying to find a way to express my displeasure with the Grand
Admiral’s Orders, and not end up in the brig or demoted. Sir.”
Among the tense laughter, the Admiral
nodded, “In that case it is often best to say nothing.” He sighed, “If it were
up to me Caruthers, considering you saved The Hermes, and all the things you
and your fellow pilots on Darwin’s Hope did, I would have let you wear them.
But for the good of the Confederation, we both have our orders.”
“However, I do have something that
might lesson that sting, some what,” offered the Commandant and he held out his
hand to the Major. “While it is not as ‘flashy’ as the Manta patch, very damned
few people are authorized to wear this, in the Navy that is.” He opened a box
and carefully removed two items from it, “This patch is worn by only the best
in the Marines, and it can only be awarded for extreme heroism under fire, and
then only by the Commandant Himself. That would be me.” He said with a chuckle
as he passed the large patch to me.
It was fairly stunning in its own
right, a large blue giant, with a white beard and with a vivid Gold crown. In
one hand was a silvery trident and in the other he held the reins to some sort
of aquatic beast that breathed red fire. Bordering the circle were the words,
‘For Honor, Duty, and Commitment’ on the top half and on the bottom was ‘Semper
Fidelis!’
“When you climbed into that Tiger
Shark and led my two ruffians into combat, you technically fell under my
command. As such you are entitled and instructed to wear this patch as well. Though
you will have to wear it on the left shoulder, which by Marine tradition
declares that you served in combat with that unit.” He chuckled, “Those
patches and the ribbons they come with, will give you no end of grief from your
fellow Navy pilots, but they cannot deny you your right to wear them.”
I took that patch, noting it was the same Hammer and
Trident that had been painted on the tail fin of the Tiger Sharks. Though it
was done in Gold and red and along with the words ‘Semper Fidelis,’ and
‘The Commandant’s Own,’ worked in black around the border. “Thank you sir, it
does help.”
“Being the Commandant, does have some perks,” he grinned
at me, “those are officially yours to wear until you die, and not even the
Fleet can say otherwise. Though you may have a hell of a time figuring out who
to cheer for in the Marines versus the Fleet Games.”
The Admiral laughed but he nodded, “Those patches
are ‘legal’ for use on all your uniforms, one of the odder Fleet
regulations. But considering what you can’t wear…”
“Yes sir, I understand, though this new life is more
than slightly galling.”
He nodded, “And unfair, but the ‘goal’ of it is the
important, your supposed death. The data recovered of your torture at
the Fed’s hands, and the other evidence we recovered, will hurt them.”
“I just hope it is enough sir, I am not sure what
else I can give up and keep my sanity,” I said with a sigh.
“You’ll endure Commander, you’ll endure,” he
motioned to the door where a clerk was waiting and waved her in.
An Ensign came in with a small stack of papers and a
chip, “Your copies of the awards and the additions from the Marines have been
annotated into the public portion of your records Ma’am.” She handed me
the papers and then handed me an ID card with my name, rank and new
Confederation ID number. “I took the liberty of correcting the error in the
Standings Board, Ma’am and the simulator access as well, your new ID is now
linked to them.” She smiled, “Give them hell Ma’am.”
“I think there is a party we are late for, and since
it’s the New Commander’s responsibility for the first round.” I glanced
over to see Clarice smiling as she added, “We should go and see what the bar
will bear.”
---------------
“So how was your night
Joan?” asked Terrence as he parked an empty floating stretcher in its slot
before locking it in place for charging.
“Well I got more than a
bit drunk, again.” She sighed and smiled wickedly, “At Commander
Caruthers’ expense this time.”
Marge looked over from
where she was running an inventory on instruments and meds, “I did hear
something about that, but I was stuck in meetings. Evidently the Charge Nurse
had to steer her into her berth, and then slapped her with a pair of Scrubbers
while she was passed out.”
“Ouch, well I hope
she’s in a better mood than earlier yesterday.” Joan shook her head, “Talk
about a relentless bitch, my ego was pretty flat by the time she got done evaluating
my performance.”
“Was she deliberately mean?”
asked Terrance with a frown.
“Not really, though she
was angry at something the powers that be did. My programmed escorts
were so much vapor before I could even start an evasion. Eventually Flanders
had to set the escorts at god level, just to give me a chance at
starting an escape. And she still fried my ass ninety-nine percent of
the times.”
Marge chuckled, “Well
she is one of the best, if not the best pilot in the current Battle
Group. Did you learn anything from it?”
“Oh yeah, she set me up
with about sixteen different evasions that are not even in the books yet, and
some other advice.” Joan flexed her wrists and groaned, “My crew chief wasn’t
happy with her suggestions, but he changed his tune when I showed him the
current MEDEVAC losses Fleet wide.”
“Terry, please do a
quick scan on Joan’s arm, just in case she came unglued.” Marge smiled,
“Physically that is.”
Joan made a rude noise
then walked over to a berth and Terry moved a scanner down her arm, “She’s got
some inflammation, but the bones are still set.” He then motioned to her head
with the scanner, “I don’t get any readings from her head.”
Joan batted at the
scanner with a mock growl, “I’ll get you later.”
Terrance laughed and
moved out of reach, “Promises, promises.”
“Easy you two, scanners
cost credits you know,” Marge chided as she laughed at them.
“Ok Boss, any word on
when we jump?” asked Terry as he stowed the scanner.
“Well it should be
about nine hundred hours, if all goes well. The scan team is walking the hull
now, so once they give the green light on the armor…” She paused, “However long
that takes, then we’ll be a few short hops to Ova-Loa. Have you checked the
discharge papers on our patients?”
“Well the ambulatory
ones are mostly completed, I think the only one left is Angela’s and that’s
mostly due to her new rank and ID numbers.” Joan sighed, “Too bad we can’t keep
her longer.”
“I will miss our
guardian hellcat, but she’d be wasted if she was stuck with us,” Marge walked
over to point to a monitor that displayed the Deep as seen from the bow of the
Cruiser, “We need her out there, not stuck on some planet.”
“Her orders came in?”
asked Terrance as he looked over from a bin that held fresh linens.
“Yes she’s off to the
Fleet Officers Command Course on Bova.” Marge chuckled, “If I read her orders
correctly she’s going to be putting a world of hurt on new pilots for a time as
a Pilot Instructor.”
“Damn, I’d kill to be
in that class, if she can tighten down my evasions, just think what she could
do for my attacks.”
“Joan, as much as you
hate the Feds, do you really want to face the same odds she does every time she
goes out to fight?”
Joan was silent for a
long moment, “Some days, yes.”
“And the other days?”
asked Terry with a look to the monitor that showed the Deep and a clock that
was counting down to Jump.
“The other days I thank
god I’m the best fucking EVAC pilot in the Fleet, and not the hand of Death.”
She looked at the other two, “Most nights I can sleep without nightmares,
Angela can’t or doesn’t.”
“Yeah, she’s definitely
paying for it, especially after…” Terry shook his head and walked over to tap a
key changing the monitor so it showed Angela asleep. “Who guards the dreams of
the warriors?”
“I don’t know, but I wish they would do a better job
of guarding hers,” said Marge with a sigh, “I offered her some meds, but she
turned them down, she said she had to be ready, if the call came down to
fight.”
“I think the only reason she will allow herself to
relax and get drunk is because of the Scrubbers.” Joan shook her head, “Ever so
fucking vigilant, if she wasn’t so sane I’d swear she has been running the
knife’s edge of PTSD.”
“Who say’s she isn’t?” asked Marge. “The Psyche’s
have only seen her for the briefest of times and then I think she had them
fooled.”
“Unlike some of the other’s, Angela is ‘together’,
most of the times,” Terrence paused, “when it counts the most, she’s at her
strongest.”
“It’s afterwards, when
she’s all alone, she lets it out.” Marge shook her head sadly, “The duty nurses
at night, keep finding her awake, doing exercises or trying to broil herself in
the showers.”
“It’s one way to hide
the tears, and to temporarily forget the pain,” said Joan softly, “I know it all
too well.”
--------------
I was looking at my orders with a bit of confusion, the
chipped version was tucked away in my jacket pocket, but the orders invariably
came in both the chip and hard copy, you have got to love tradition. Once I
stripped out the usual cross codes and extraneous routers I was left with the
following assignment information and a weight allowance and transport data.
CDR. Caruthers, Angela Lin,
Confederation ID 58324296,
Assigned –Classified- 11-05-3064 : 07:30
Reassigned CMHC 2099 Hermes 12-17-3066 : 17:25
Transferred to FMCS Bova 912, FOCC
AFO.
Effective : 12-27-3066 : 00:00
Though I think I wasn’t the only confused person in the
room, as they had pretty much handed the orders out in the galley as a prelude
to some sort of briefing. Sergeant Bethany Millsap, my personal trainer and
motivational ass kicker was looking as bewildered as I felt. “Where in the
Deep, is Bova Nine Twelve?” she asked with a hint of unease.
“Actually Beth, it may be more of a what, than a
where. It vaguely sounds like a station or a rock if you ask me.” I shrugged
and pointed to the personnel roster that was appended to my orders, “Where ever
it is, we all seem to be headed there. Now if I knew what the hell FOCC
was I might be happier.”
“Fleet Officer Command Course,” offered a voice from
behind me and I looked back, to see that Colonel Hitachi was looking grumpy
too. Well grumpier than usual, she wasn’t handling the transition well. From
what little she alluded to, her life before the Fed’s was pretty much a
security black hole. Confederation Intelligence and Recon Specialist, one of
those ever so fun peoples you drop onto a planet and expect bad things to happen
to the enemy in short order.
“Joy, I suppose AFO means either Assistant Flight
Officer or in cruder terms Another Fucked Officer. Why do I get the
feeling I am going to going to teaching Jig’s and Middy’s how to fly?” I asked
feeling more than a bit angry.
She chuckled, “I feel your pain, evidently I am going
to be teaching Basic Recon or something, what a fucked up deal.”
I looked over to Beth, “What did you get for an
assignment?”
“Officers Candidate School,” she said with a frown, “I really
didn’t want to be an officer.”
“Why not?”
She shook her head, “Don’t take this wrong, but I work
for a living. Officers don’t.”
I heard the Colonel snicker then she said, “Oh you’ll
work alright, though you may have to pretend that you don’t.”
I smiled, “I suppose it’s the Commandant’s way of
showing his faith in you. Now if I knew what the blazes I did wrong…” I sighed,
“I should be heading back to the front or at least a carrier. I’m a fighter
pilot not a gods be damned nursemaid.”
“What I don’t get is why we didn’t get any down time,
my orders didn’t include any leave time, did yours?” asked Beth.
“No,” I shrugged, “I am not sure my family is ready for
this,” I paused, “can you picture the look on their faces when I say, ‘Hi Mom,
and Dad I’m your son.’”
“Put yourself in my shoes,” I looked back to see the
Colonel studying the deck with a dark look, “my fiancée, no let me rephrase
that; the Federation pretty much wrecked our lives.”
That bit of information pretty much explained why she
was so down all the time. I’d made a discrete inquiry or two into the odd
chances of whether we’d be able to get surgically changed back to male.
Unfortunately the Fed’s did something with our genome that even if we could
tolerate the implants, the shift in hormones would likely blind us, if not
outright kill us slowly in time.
“Ah Deity,” I wanted to say something comforting, but
the year the Hope was deep in the Fed territories I had been ‘Dear Johned’
myself. That news had nearly ended me on one flight, though Boojum had
saved my ass, kicked it completely and then got me blind drunk
afterwards.
“Yeah, so much for that happy ending,” she sniffed and
I dug in my purse to hand her a tissue, “Thanks, damned hormones.”
We both nodded, it was more polite to blame it on the
hormones rather than our emotions, at least in public. It likely didn’t help in
that that the Colonel and I could have been twins, aside from the eye color; as
hers were more hazel to my emerald green.
“Admiral on the deck!” called a Marine Corporal who was
stationed at a hatch at the fore of the galley, bringing us to attention and
stilled the various mutterings.
“At-ease and take seats please, I’ll try to keep this
short.” He walked to a lectern and then took a moment to look at us. “As most
of you have already gathered, you are all heading to roughly the same duty
station for a time.” He nodded slightly, “And from the expressions on some of
your faces most if not all, of you are not happy with those orders.”
He took off his jacket and set it on a chair, “Normally
I’d let some other poor bastard be the one to explain the Fleets’ actions.”
That produced a mild stir and I was wondering just how bad, the bad news was.
“However, we do owe you more than that.”
“I suppose I should start off by apologizing for your
lack of leave time, regrettably it is necessary.” He held up a hand, “Not so
much because we are at war, but because the doctors feel that you need more
time to become more adjusted to your new life.”
I stood up, “Begging the Admiral’s pardon, but why?”
“Ah Commander, that is a good question and a fair one,”
he motioned that I should sit, so I did. “You are not the first batch of
changed prisoners that we recovered from the Federation.” He let that sink in
for a moment, “Normally, we would have given you some therapy and leave time
before sending you back to duty. Unfortunately when we did just that, it had
rather disastrous results.”
He sighed, and then waved a hand to indicate us all,
“While many of you have done well thus far, of the first fifty we had freed,
only fifteen have survived reentry into our society. And of those fifteen, a
handful are less than sane.” He shook his head and held up both hands to ease
the sudden murmurs, “Needless to say it was a definite failure on our part to
look after our own. One of which we have no intention of repeating. Further
information is available from the ships terminals or will be available to you
at your duty stations.”
From the expressions around me, everyone pretty much
looked like they had their first Wormhole Transit. Though no one was puking his
or her guts out, so I suppose that was a plus. Personally I was not quite sure
what to make of it all, fifteen out of fifty was a pretty screwy survival
ratio; so I could see some of the need for the precautions. Though I had a
distinct feeling my next duty station was going to suck.
“Now I understand some of you are less than enthused by
your duty assignments.” There were more than a few not quite suppressed murmurs
of agreement there, mine included. Which earned me a not so subtle nudge in the
ribs from Beth.
“Fleet and other commands feel it would be
better if you were all in the same place, seeing familiar faces and dealing
with familiar issues. On a daily basis.” He looked around then continued, “Bova
Nine Twelve is one of the Combined Forces major training planets. Its various
schools encompass all aspects of the Confederation Military from Fleet,
Confederation Ground Forces, Special Ops and last but not least the Marines.”
“Some of you may be asked to travel to Bellius Prime in
The Alliance Territories, to give testimony to the Signatories of the Accords.”
He held up a hand as the angry undertone picked up again, “Though that will be
voluntary.”
“In the mean time, while on Bova, you will be either
teaching, learning new skills or with luck, relaxing.” He smiled, “In either
case we are not just dumping you there and forgetting you. It is our hope that
in that environment you will eventually be able to return to your old duties or
take on new ones. There are three hundred more of you who have yet to be
awoken, and they will need as much support as you got or more. They will be
joining you there and once released from medical they will likely be placed
amongst you.”
“I am not volunteering for punching bag duty again,” I
hissed softly to Beth who tried not to laugh.
------------
Packing down my gear didn’t take much time, of which
was depressing in its own right. Ship’s Supply had seen to adding my new rank
and patches to all my uniforms other then the Dress Whites, but even that one
sported the ‘Commandant’s Own’ patch. My combat flight gear had been stowed in
its protective crate, once again by the Ship’s Crew. Admittedly I didn’t own
much, on Darwin’s Hope, but some of that stuff was of a sentimental nature.
With luck I could get some of it back from my parents later on.
The last bit to be stowed away was a plaque from the
Skipper of The Hermes, a touch of the button and it would light up showing The
Hermes in space from all angles, after which a list of ships crew and patients
would scroll up. He apologized for not having me up to dinner at the Captain’s
Table. From what I gathered he had spent most of his time keeping the ship
going, and doing the necessary paperwork and so forth after the attack.
Considering how well the Ship’s Crew had been taking care of me I could not
complain.