COUNTERPOINT
CHAPTER 1: THE SOLDIER
PART 3
By Mya Thevendra
The amber sun of Widow XII penetrated the shuttle tube, leaving pools of bright orange light gleaming along its surface as it passed through. The howling of the wind could be heard even through the composite transplastic sheets that formed the structure of the tube tunnels, and at the Fort Sunderland command centre terminal, the sound of the approaching shuttle was overpowered and muffled.
The automated transport decelerated, and then drew to a stop beside the main platform, where amidst the scattering of commuters, two marines and an officer stood waiting. The officer, a young man with a clean, honest look about him, stood still in front of the marines, slowly examining the shuttle for any sign of activity. For a few seconds he waited, until finally the shuttle doors, whispering open, revealed the interior.
He recognised the man standing in the doorway if the middle compartment immediately, not from ever having met him face to face, but from the service photograph which had been reproduced onto a small hand-held datapad in his right hand. After hoisting his pack onto one shoulder, Commander Ian Latimer stepped down onto the slick, grey surface of the personnel platform, and as the dozen or so commuters entered the shuttle behind him, he walked up to his reception. His face was still somewhat dusty, apart from the region around his eyes where his goggles had been, and he smartly brushed away the sand and grit before turning his attention to the men in front of him.
All of them were dressed the same light camouflage fatigues that he and his unit had been issued. He observed that the two marines had goggle shaped patches of paler skin around their eyes, a fair indicator of how much time had passed since they had been stationed here. Turning to the officer, he noticed a certain tiredness in his eyes, as if he had gone for too long without proper sleep, hidden behind a mask of enthusiasm. He tried to empathise. He tried to think how difficult it must have been for the population of Fort Sunderland to function in such a harsh unknown environment with almost no outside contact for three months, all the while working at an excessive rate to construct and develop the base. And then he suddenly found it odd to be giving so much thought to such a trivial element of his assignment. He was here neither to feel sorry for the bases populace nor to be a morale booster. He was here to do a job.
The young officer executed a trim salute, the two marines behind following example, and presented his datapad.
"Corporal James O'Hanlan reporting, sir!"
Ian gestured a brief salute in reply and studied the boy closely. The accent was American, like most of the personnel here. Ian, in general, tended to hold a rather poor view of his "Yankee" cousins. Being brought up on a world colonised by Anglians had subjected him to many of the same prejudices and grudges held by his forbears, and as a consequence, he harshly viewed his American counterparts in the Confederate military as a rather boisterous, undisciplined bunch. He was not so blinded by narrow-mindedness, however, so as to forget that they were all on the same side.
"You're my dogsbody, I take it?" he said dryly.
Corporal O'Hanlan paused for a moment, somewhat taken aback.
"Sir! I have been assigned as your aide and liaison to the Tactical Control Unit for the duration of your posting here, sir!"
Ian gave a discreet sigh and then began towards the main access doors into the command centre.
"Well, come on then."
Corporal O'Hanlan was still holding the datapad in his outstretched hand when Ian walked around him, he then quickly withdrew it and followed closely behind, a slightly perplexed expression on his face, the two marines trailing at the back.
"Do you wish to review the personnel roster and duty reports, sir?"
Behind them, the tube shuttle elevated onto its magnetic cushion, before slowly accelerating onwards and out of the terminal. In front, two large reinforced Perspex doors sucked open, revealing a crimson-lit lobby terminating in a set of ceiling-height blast doors, with a small illuminated keypad set into the wall on one side.
"Just give me the gist of it."
As Corporal O'Hanlan began to read off the datapad, Ian tested the clearance code he had been given for base access, typing in the nine-digit figure. A steady beeping was accompanied by the room's crimson glow being exchanged for one of green. Locking mechanisms shifted audibly, and the three-foot thick barricade split down the middle, the drone of high-pressure vacuum pumps vibrating from the walls around them as each half was dragged slowly into the bulkheads to the side. Ian made his way through, with Corporal O'Hanlan and the two marines keeping pace behind.
O'Hanlan continued reading as they traversed through the corridor connecting the shuttle terminal and the command centre's upper ring. To either side, passageways led off to various peripheral regions of the command centre, and above and around them system conduits and relay pipes ran parallel to the corridor, while a dim, diffuse white light filtered through the walkways' interior from long thin lamps set into the ceiling, walls and floor. After fifty metres or so, the corridor widened out into a small lobby, which acted as a junction for several other passages, and was connected to two elevator shafts.
Here, there were people visible, walking briskly and moving with purpose, and even though no enemy had yet been engaged or even sighted, there was a feel of readiness and alacrity. It was a familiar feeling, and Ian took heart from it, many times in the past had he seen the effects of chaos and mayhem on the human psyche, and he felt that as long as there was discipline, there was a stronger chance for survival.
The corridor that ran on directly ahead ended after a few yards, where there was a shielded elevator access, with a marine on constant guard. Another keypad was present on the wall adjacent to the access way, into which Ian entered his clearance code. By this time O'Hanlan had reached the duty report for the previous week, and was detailing the events by which a marine had been admitted to the medical bay after his respirator malfunctioned during a severe sandstorm. As the fibreglass security shield in front of the elevator hatch retracted into the wall, Ian turned to the two marines.
"Dismissed. Get back onto the duty rotor."
The two marines stood to attention and saluted sharply, before starting back down the passage towards the shuttle terminal. A quick beeping tone signified the arrival of the Tactical Control elevator. Ian flashed a glance at O'Hanlan.
"You're with me."
The elevator doors whined open, and the two of them stepped inside. This particular elevator had only two stops, their current location on the upper ring, and the T.C.U., or "TacCon", which lay thirty metres directly below them. Two buttons and an emergency panel were the only controls inside. Ian tapped the lower of the two keys, and as it flashed amber, the elevator started its descent with a jolt.
"Continue, Corporal."
As O'Hanlan began reading out the reports for the current week, Ian shifted his backpack and waited. Above the elevator doors, lay a small black display panel, which was currently flashing a pair of downward pointing red arrows. Seconds passed, before the elevator slowed to a stop, and bobbed upward slightly, before settling into place. The letters T.C.U. now flashed in bright blue across the display panel. The doors unlocked and retracted, and the space ahead was shrouded in almost total darkness, the light from inside the elevator shining only a few feet into the walkway. O'Hanlan reached the end of his report, and stood still, his datapad clasped behind his back.
"Thank you, Corporal"
Ian walked forward into the darkness, O'Hanlan tailing behind. A dozen feet or so into the corridor, a pale blue glow became visible from around a corner ahead, on the left. Following the passage round brought Ian to a dimly lit atrium enclosed at the far end by a final set of security doors.
The doors were watched by two armed guards stationed directly in front, and standing behind fortified transplastic shields, each of which was attached to the wall at one end and curved round so as to form a small cubicle, with a narrow aperture at around chest height through which they had placed their firearms. This was a fairly standard defence procedure for safeguarding the TacCon unit, as anyone wishing to enter had to pass a retinal scan, fingerprint identification, and enter an authorization code, and anyone, or anything, who attempted to force access would most likely be shot to pieces.
Under the watchful eye of the two sentries, Ian leant over the retinal scanning console, placing his right eye in the path of the imaging lens. A bright green strobe light sent a series of pulses directly into his retina, relaying the information back in a matter of nanoseconds, and verifying with a green signal light the identity of one Commander Ian Patrick Latimer. As Corporal O'Hanlan stepped up for his retinal scan, Ian moved over to the fingerprint console, which was essentially a clear rectangle of glass set into the wall. Ian pressed his right thumb onto the glass plate, automatically triggering the scanner. A thin band of yellow light travelled from top to bottom along the underside of the glass, reading and almost instantly matching Ian's thumbprint from out of a database of more than four million registry entries. A conformation beep and a second green light from above the plate, and Ian moved over to the keypad, the two guards poised to flick off the safety catches on their weapons at the first sign of a threat. A separate authorization code was required to gain entry to the T.C.U., one consisting of eleven figures, and which had been delivered to Ian shortly after he had been assigned to Fort Sunderland, a mere two days previously, but he keyed in the chain of digits as if he had done it a thousand times before. A third green light, a slow beeping tone and the words "CODE CONFIMED" scrolling across the keypad's L.E.D. display signified that he had completed the criteria for gaining access, and as O'Hanlan moved over to the keypad from the fingerprint scanner, Ian idly contemplated the number of times he was going to have to repeat this exact ritual during his assignment here.
The tone beeping slowly for a second time indicated that O'Hanlan had entered his access code, and the two of them stepped forward, stopping just short of the sentries. Ian looked over the security doors. Designed to withstand a tremendous amount of punishment before buckling, they were a formidable sight. A sequence of mechanical locks was undone from within the doors, cracking and whining, before the air was disturbed by a thick electric hum as the doors gave way into the walls. With O'Hanlan following on behind, Ian walked inside.
The Fort Sunderland T.C.U. was a large room roughly circularly shaped, and with a high ceiling. The entire room was gently sloped downwards towards the north side, which was on the left as Ian entered, and was tiered from the back to the front, with curved rows of consoles and terminals running along each tier. Along the front of the T.C.U. on the north side was positioned the TacCon's large, primary view screen, which was encompassed by five smaller auxiliary screens, and a number of datastream monitors suspended close to the ceiling. The room itself was essentially black and dark, the primary light sources being the view screens at the front and sides, which sent out a hazy blush of electric cyan and jade as tactical displays, terrain maps, and video relays were cast across them.
Thin illuminated panels were set into the walls, floor and handrails at certain points in the T.C.U., acting as an indicator of the base's combat status depending on their colour, as well as directing personnel safely around the room. Countless diode lights flickered and pulsed from the terminals that interfaced with the bases A.I. mainframe.
More workstations were arranged along the sides of the room, and two separate second level bays at the southeast and southwest of the T.C.U., which had been constructed as large alcoves in the rear wall accessible via stairwells, contained the Communication Satellite and Strategic Weapons sections respectively. As yet, neither of these sections was fully functional, with only a few operators and technicians working in the ComSat section. The rest of the T.C.U. however was a hive of activity, as tactical staff processed information from sensor nets around and outside of the base, as well as coordinating marine patrols.
The T.C.U., along with the Central Administration Unit, which was also located in the Command Centre, and the Starport's Flight Traffic Control Unit, formed Fort Sunderland's three primary management centres. Whereas the other two units dealt with base resources, base maintenance and repair, and personnel management in the case of the C.A.U., and the coordination of stellar traffic by the F.T.C.U., the TacCon was solely responsible for directing all military aspects of the base, be it personnel, craft or facility. Perhaps a dozen conversations were being conducted at once, between operators and marine patrols, technical crews, or even directly to the A.I. mainframe, however, a strong chain of command and rigid protocol meant that the TacCon could efficiently coordinate any military activity under the greatest of pressure.
Ian turned to the right and made his way round to the rear of the T.C.U. Passing another armed guard next to the wall; he glanced over the TacCon, spotting another one stationed on the opposite side. He then followed a walkway which ran up to the rearward section, and then curved round towards the middle. Close to the back, behind the tiered rows of terminal in the centre of the room was a small platform, on top of which was a raised seat, with a specialized terminal attached to it. This was the chair of the Tactical Commander, from which he could direct the entire armed forces of the base. Because of the sloped nature of the room, the seat afforded a view of every section of the TacCon in front, with the ComSat and Strategic Weapons sections behind and above him. Currently, there was someone sitting in it. A middle-aged man of stocky build and with a somewhat unkempt beard turned his attention away from his console and looked up at Ian.
"Commander Latimer?" he said after a short pause.
Ian nodded soberly.
"Yes."
The man hoisted himself out of his seat and brought himself up to his full height, at which he was still only at eye-level with Ian's throat.
"Deputy Administrator Gil Kirkland.", He announced, stretching out his hand.
Ian looked down and reluctantly put his hand forward, at which point Kirkland clasped hold of it and began to shake it vigorously.
"It's good to finally meet you." He looked at the commander's chair, and then back towards Ian.
"Uh, I guess this is yours now.", he said with a grin. Kirkland's attempts to break the ice apparently lost on him, Ian simply took a step forward and examined the chair.
"Very well. I hereby formally relieve you."
Kirkland nodded and sustained a weak smile, apparently determined to be affable.
"So, how was your trip?" he asked.
" Please fill me in on what's been happening."
Startled by Ian's frankness, Kirkland smile receded.
"Well, It's all in the logs if - "
"I'd rather not have to go through it all."
Ian stared expressionlessly at Kirkland, who stood frozen for a second, and then nodded feebly.
"Uh, okay. Well, I've been here since the start. I guess, two months ago. The first couple of weeks went about as well as could be expected, I guess, considering we were building from scratch, instead of having towed the primaries in. Real pain in the ass..."
"It was necessary.", Ian interrupted.
"Yeah, I know." said Kirkland with a wry smile on his face, "Too many ships required to do it, and we're too close to the border to chance that they wouldn't be spotted. Plus no long range transmissions to call for assistance in case they're intercepted, yeah I get it." Ian noticed a hint of bitterness in Kirkland's voice, but left it alone.
"Anyway, once the skeleton was built, I was assigned as temporary Tac Commander until someone could be sent to replace me."
Kirkland brought his hand up and ran his fingers through the tangles in his beard.
"And that was about five weeks ago, since then I've just been following the manual, so to speak. The Adjutant had the standard tactical procedures outlined, and the objectives from Confederate Command had already been factored in, so I didn't really have to do all that much. I kept track of the marine companies that were sent here, and then they got their orders from the Adjutant. You know, patrol routes, guard and escort, just regular stuff. I was told not to consider the base's objectives in any way. So, I guess that's your job."
"What about the rest of the Tactical Command Staff?" asked Ian.
"For the moment, I think it's just you," Kirkland nodded to the side. "and O'Hanlan over there, of course. Your tactical XO and the other officers are supposed to be coming in about a fortnight, don't ask me why. But anyway, you should be okay without them for now; there are no hostiles to speak of. Intel Reports confirm that much."
Ian remained staring.
"Guess that's about it." Said Kirkland
He seemed visibly drained by the entire conversation, and shifted his feet uneasily. Ian pulled his pack off, and turning round, held it out to O'Hanlan.
"Take this to my quarters."
O'Hanlan took hold of the pack in both hands and walked round the rear of the T.C.U. to a small steel doorway, which Ian assumed led to the Tactical Command officers' quarters. Ian stepped forward and turned the commander's chair round towards him, before looking back up towards Kirkland, who seemed as though he was expecting something.
"Thank you." said Ian.
Kirkland nodded, a faint smile on his face once again, but this time a little more sincere.
"Have fun…" he said, and walked down towards the main access on the west side.
Ian eased himself into the Commander's chair. This was only the second time in his long career that he had been given a full tactical command, but the instincts which had served him when in command of a brigade translated well when commanding an entire force.
He activated the console interface on the chair's right arm, and checked the personnel roster. All thirty-four marines of the 141st "Spider Monkey" brigade had now arrived and had been registered, and when added to those from the other two companies that had already been stationed here, the 267th "Jackknifes" and the 172nd "Tommy's Curse", totalled a hundred and twenty-one marines that were available for duty. Although the vehicle plant had been made operational, the absence of mineral and metallic ore had meant that the facility's construction templates hadn't yet been brought on-line. However, examining the outpost's supply records, Ian found that a complement of six vulture attack bikes had been ferried in along with the starting materials and resources, their riders having been brought in with the "Jackknifes". It wasn't much, but for the time being, it was going to have to do. Suddenly the display on his console monitor was shrunk down to one corner, and filling the remainder of the screen was the unmistakable digital representation of the Confederate A.I. Mainframe, the Adjutant. The face of a human female android stared up at Ian with emotionless, ruby coloured eyes.
"Good afternoon commander Latimer. I trust that your journey was comfortable?"
Ian had never been overly fond of the confederate A.I., computers were one thing, but a computer that talked back spelled out nothing but trouble in Ian's mind.
"What is it?" asked Ian, determined to make this "interface" as brief as possible.
"This is a formal welcome from the Fort Sunderland Adjutant. Do you wish to be given a tutorial in any of the mainframe's systems, terminal controls or safety protoco- "
"No."
"Do you wish to be given a computerized guided tour of the command centre and its adjoining faciliti-"
"No."
"Have you any questions at this time?"
"No."
"Thank you. Please activate the nearest mainframe terminal at any time if you require assistance."
Ian slowly shook his head and leant forward, and upon glancing upwards, realized that apart from the odd operator who was still engaged in communication, almost every member of the Tactical staff was standing still, and looking at Ian expectantly. He hadn't been looking forward to this. Generally speaking, he had found it was customary when assuming command of an important post, to say a few words, inspirational or otherwise, to the officers and soldiers present who would be following your orders. Ian was not a convincing public orator, to say the least.
"Hm. Ummm, just…" He sighed wearily. "Just get on with it."
The two dozen-odd operators and technicians who had perhaps been hoping for some uplifting speech about the strength and tenacity of the human spirit, or who more likely were expecting some disjointed, hazy account of their new commander's academy days, along with some corny sound bite intended to lift the mood, didn't get even that. Slowly, and slightly hesitantly, they resumed their work, while Ian cradled his head in one hand, massaging his temple.
Over on the west side of the T.C.U. the access doors began to open. A series of quick beeps brought his attention back to his chair console. Pressing the acknowledge button brought up the pallid visage of the Adjutant once again.
"Commander, you have an incoming call from Chief Administrator Rigg. Shall I put her through?"
Ian acknowledged and the stern yet gracious face of Bethany Rigg blinked onto the monitor. As Chief Administrator of the Fort Sunderland Confederate outpost, she was effectively responsible for governing the base, and apart from anything to do with the resident military forces or their current objectives, had the final word on any matter. The two of them had met previously, they were not old friends by any means, but they were acquainted.
"Ian! How are you? How was your trip?"
Ian rolled his eyes to the side, by now quite determined to avoid answering that question. The Chief Administrator tilted her head back until she was almost looking down her nose at Ian.
"We could do with a meeting. Come and find my office, I can fit you in, in about one hour. We'll get you up to speed."
"Fine." replied Ian.
Chief Administrator Rigg gave a sharp nod and a faint smile, before her face vanished from the monitor. As he resumed his examination of the base's supply status, he became aware of someone standing behind him. Swivelling his chair round, he found Sgt. Sheppard standing to attention.
"Go on." Said Ian.
"The rest of the brigade have been registered, and they've all been divided up into the regular squads for duty, sir. Squads one, two and three have been moved onto patrol, squad four will be on in about an hour, as soon as the next group comes in." she reported.
"Good."
Ian began to turn around to study the main viewscreen, before catching sight of a slightly disturbed expression on Sgt. Sheppard's face.
"Something else?"
"Yes sir. I took the liberty of browsing through the inventory section of the barracks' mainframe terminal, and, well…I'm afraid that we're rather under-stocked, sir."
"Under-stocked?"
Ian turned quickly back to his console, bringing up the equipment menu, and then the barracks inventory sub-menu. He came very close to actually looking surprised.
"Bloody hell."
Sgt. Sheppard leant forward to examine the console and confirm the information she had found.
"Sir, this base only has enough CMC-300's to outfit six marines, and the number of Impaler rifles we've got..."
"Yes, so I see. What are the rest of them using?" asked Ian
"C-19g's, sir."
Ian frowned. He had come to know the C-19g "Ripper" exceedingly well during his third tour of duty as a confederate marine. It seemed a lifetime ago, but the memories were still fresh, the memory of the "Ripper" especially so. A long, thick barrel and a tendency to jam with alarming frequency characterized the C-19g, as well as earning it the additional nickname of the "Lead Pipe", from the number of times that marines had to resort to using it like one. This, and the fact that it held less than half the measured stopping power of the C-14 "Impaler", had led many a confederate soldier to wonder how such an inadequate weapon could have been approved for use in the field. Ian was also very much aware that, not being the most reliable weapon in the confederate armoury, the few Rippers that were currently available weren't going to last much longer in this environment without modification. He stared coldly at the screen in front of him.
"Alright. How did it happen?"
"From what the supply officer told me, sir," she explained, "there was an error of some sort when the foundation supplies were catalogued, it seems unbelievable, I know, sir, but that's what he said. For the past two months they've been using a rotary system to distribute those few firearms that they do have, with only those marines on patrol, or guard duty being issued with them. From what he said, sand erosion has rendered about a dozen of them more or less useless, and that there are currently only sixty-two properly functioning firearms in the inventory. As for protective wear, they've been making do with goggles and respirators, which is fine for basic survival, but if we engage the enemy," Sergeant Sheppard shook her head, "Sir, they haven't even got any protective body armour, just combat fatigues."
"Oh bloody hell." Ian repeated. "Well, it looks like Mrs. Rigg and I have something to discuss after all."
CHAPTER 1: THE SOLDIER
PART 3
By Mya Thevendra
The amber sun of Widow XII penetrated the shuttle tube, leaving pools of bright orange light gleaming along its surface as it passed through. The howling of the wind could be heard even through the composite transplastic sheets that formed the structure of the tube tunnels, and at the Fort Sunderland command centre terminal, the sound of the approaching shuttle was overpowered and muffled.
The automated transport decelerated, and then drew to a stop beside the main platform, where amidst the scattering of commuters, two marines and an officer stood waiting. The officer, a young man with a clean, honest look about him, stood still in front of the marines, slowly examining the shuttle for any sign of activity. For a few seconds he waited, until finally the shuttle doors, whispering open, revealed the interior.
He recognised the man standing in the doorway if the middle compartment immediately, not from ever having met him face to face, but from the service photograph which had been reproduced onto a small hand-held datapad in his right hand. After hoisting his pack onto one shoulder, Commander Ian Latimer stepped down onto the slick, grey surface of the personnel platform, and as the dozen or so commuters entered the shuttle behind him, he walked up to his reception. His face was still somewhat dusty, apart from the region around his eyes where his goggles had been, and he smartly brushed away the sand and grit before turning his attention to the men in front of him.
All of them were dressed the same light camouflage fatigues that he and his unit had been issued. He observed that the two marines had goggle shaped patches of paler skin around their eyes, a fair indicator of how much time had passed since they had been stationed here. Turning to the officer, he noticed a certain tiredness in his eyes, as if he had gone for too long without proper sleep, hidden behind a mask of enthusiasm. He tried to empathise. He tried to think how difficult it must have been for the population of Fort Sunderland to function in such a harsh unknown environment with almost no outside contact for three months, all the while working at an excessive rate to construct and develop the base. And then he suddenly found it odd to be giving so much thought to such a trivial element of his assignment. He was here neither to feel sorry for the bases populace nor to be a morale booster. He was here to do a job.
The young officer executed a trim salute, the two marines behind following example, and presented his datapad.
"Corporal James O'Hanlan reporting, sir!"
Ian gestured a brief salute in reply and studied the boy closely. The accent was American, like most of the personnel here. Ian, in general, tended to hold a rather poor view of his "Yankee" cousins. Being brought up on a world colonised by Anglians had subjected him to many of the same prejudices and grudges held by his forbears, and as a consequence, he harshly viewed his American counterparts in the Confederate military as a rather boisterous, undisciplined bunch. He was not so blinded by narrow-mindedness, however, so as to forget that they were all on the same side.
"You're my dogsbody, I take it?" he said dryly.
Corporal O'Hanlan paused for a moment, somewhat taken aback.
"Sir! I have been assigned as your aide and liaison to the Tactical Control Unit for the duration of your posting here, sir!"
Ian gave a discreet sigh and then began towards the main access doors into the command centre.
"Well, come on then."
Corporal O'Hanlan was still holding the datapad in his outstretched hand when Ian walked around him, he then quickly withdrew it and followed closely behind, a slightly perplexed expression on his face, the two marines trailing at the back.
"Do you wish to review the personnel roster and duty reports, sir?"
Behind them, the tube shuttle elevated onto its magnetic cushion, before slowly accelerating onwards and out of the terminal. In front, two large reinforced Perspex doors sucked open, revealing a crimson-lit lobby terminating in a set of ceiling-height blast doors, with a small illuminated keypad set into the wall on one side.
"Just give me the gist of it."
As Corporal O'Hanlan began to read off the datapad, Ian tested the clearance code he had been given for base access, typing in the nine-digit figure. A steady beeping was accompanied by the room's crimson glow being exchanged for one of green. Locking mechanisms shifted audibly, and the three-foot thick barricade split down the middle, the drone of high-pressure vacuum pumps vibrating from the walls around them as each half was dragged slowly into the bulkheads to the side. Ian made his way through, with Corporal O'Hanlan and the two marines keeping pace behind.
O'Hanlan continued reading as they traversed through the corridor connecting the shuttle terminal and the command centre's upper ring. To either side, passageways led off to various peripheral regions of the command centre, and above and around them system conduits and relay pipes ran parallel to the corridor, while a dim, diffuse white light filtered through the walkways' interior from long thin lamps set into the ceiling, walls and floor. After fifty metres or so, the corridor widened out into a small lobby, which acted as a junction for several other passages, and was connected to two elevator shafts.
Here, there were people visible, walking briskly and moving with purpose, and even though no enemy had yet been engaged or even sighted, there was a feel of readiness and alacrity. It was a familiar feeling, and Ian took heart from it, many times in the past had he seen the effects of chaos and mayhem on the human psyche, and he felt that as long as there was discipline, there was a stronger chance for survival.
The corridor that ran on directly ahead ended after a few yards, where there was a shielded elevator access, with a marine on constant guard. Another keypad was present on the wall adjacent to the access way, into which Ian entered his clearance code. By this time O'Hanlan had reached the duty report for the previous week, and was detailing the events by which a marine had been admitted to the medical bay after his respirator malfunctioned during a severe sandstorm. As the fibreglass security shield in front of the elevator hatch retracted into the wall, Ian turned to the two marines.
"Dismissed. Get back onto the duty rotor."
The two marines stood to attention and saluted sharply, before starting back down the passage towards the shuttle terminal. A quick beeping tone signified the arrival of the Tactical Control elevator. Ian flashed a glance at O'Hanlan.
"You're with me."
The elevator doors whined open, and the two of them stepped inside. This particular elevator had only two stops, their current location on the upper ring, and the T.C.U., or "TacCon", which lay thirty metres directly below them. Two buttons and an emergency panel were the only controls inside. Ian tapped the lower of the two keys, and as it flashed amber, the elevator started its descent with a jolt.
"Continue, Corporal."
As O'Hanlan began reading out the reports for the current week, Ian shifted his backpack and waited. Above the elevator doors, lay a small black display panel, which was currently flashing a pair of downward pointing red arrows. Seconds passed, before the elevator slowed to a stop, and bobbed upward slightly, before settling into place. The letters T.C.U. now flashed in bright blue across the display panel. The doors unlocked and retracted, and the space ahead was shrouded in almost total darkness, the light from inside the elevator shining only a few feet into the walkway. O'Hanlan reached the end of his report, and stood still, his datapad clasped behind his back.
"Thank you, Corporal"
Ian walked forward into the darkness, O'Hanlan tailing behind. A dozen feet or so into the corridor, a pale blue glow became visible from around a corner ahead, on the left. Following the passage round brought Ian to a dimly lit atrium enclosed at the far end by a final set of security doors.
The doors were watched by two armed guards stationed directly in front, and standing behind fortified transplastic shields, each of which was attached to the wall at one end and curved round so as to form a small cubicle, with a narrow aperture at around chest height through which they had placed their firearms. This was a fairly standard defence procedure for safeguarding the TacCon unit, as anyone wishing to enter had to pass a retinal scan, fingerprint identification, and enter an authorization code, and anyone, or anything, who attempted to force access would most likely be shot to pieces.
Under the watchful eye of the two sentries, Ian leant over the retinal scanning console, placing his right eye in the path of the imaging lens. A bright green strobe light sent a series of pulses directly into his retina, relaying the information back in a matter of nanoseconds, and verifying with a green signal light the identity of one Commander Ian Patrick Latimer. As Corporal O'Hanlan stepped up for his retinal scan, Ian moved over to the fingerprint console, which was essentially a clear rectangle of glass set into the wall. Ian pressed his right thumb onto the glass plate, automatically triggering the scanner. A thin band of yellow light travelled from top to bottom along the underside of the glass, reading and almost instantly matching Ian's thumbprint from out of a database of more than four million registry entries. A conformation beep and a second green light from above the plate, and Ian moved over to the keypad, the two guards poised to flick off the safety catches on their weapons at the first sign of a threat. A separate authorization code was required to gain entry to the T.C.U., one consisting of eleven figures, and which had been delivered to Ian shortly after he had been assigned to Fort Sunderland, a mere two days previously, but he keyed in the chain of digits as if he had done it a thousand times before. A third green light, a slow beeping tone and the words "CODE CONFIMED" scrolling across the keypad's L.E.D. display signified that he had completed the criteria for gaining access, and as O'Hanlan moved over to the keypad from the fingerprint scanner, Ian idly contemplated the number of times he was going to have to repeat this exact ritual during his assignment here.
The tone beeping slowly for a second time indicated that O'Hanlan had entered his access code, and the two of them stepped forward, stopping just short of the sentries. Ian looked over the security doors. Designed to withstand a tremendous amount of punishment before buckling, they were a formidable sight. A sequence of mechanical locks was undone from within the doors, cracking and whining, before the air was disturbed by a thick electric hum as the doors gave way into the walls. With O'Hanlan following on behind, Ian walked inside.
The Fort Sunderland T.C.U. was a large room roughly circularly shaped, and with a high ceiling. The entire room was gently sloped downwards towards the north side, which was on the left as Ian entered, and was tiered from the back to the front, with curved rows of consoles and terminals running along each tier. Along the front of the T.C.U. on the north side was positioned the TacCon's large, primary view screen, which was encompassed by five smaller auxiliary screens, and a number of datastream monitors suspended close to the ceiling. The room itself was essentially black and dark, the primary light sources being the view screens at the front and sides, which sent out a hazy blush of electric cyan and jade as tactical displays, terrain maps, and video relays were cast across them.
Thin illuminated panels were set into the walls, floor and handrails at certain points in the T.C.U., acting as an indicator of the base's combat status depending on their colour, as well as directing personnel safely around the room. Countless diode lights flickered and pulsed from the terminals that interfaced with the bases A.I. mainframe.
More workstations were arranged along the sides of the room, and two separate second level bays at the southeast and southwest of the T.C.U., which had been constructed as large alcoves in the rear wall accessible via stairwells, contained the Communication Satellite and Strategic Weapons sections respectively. As yet, neither of these sections was fully functional, with only a few operators and technicians working in the ComSat section. The rest of the T.C.U. however was a hive of activity, as tactical staff processed information from sensor nets around and outside of the base, as well as coordinating marine patrols.
The T.C.U., along with the Central Administration Unit, which was also located in the Command Centre, and the Starport's Flight Traffic Control Unit, formed Fort Sunderland's three primary management centres. Whereas the other two units dealt with base resources, base maintenance and repair, and personnel management in the case of the C.A.U., and the coordination of stellar traffic by the F.T.C.U., the TacCon was solely responsible for directing all military aspects of the base, be it personnel, craft or facility. Perhaps a dozen conversations were being conducted at once, between operators and marine patrols, technical crews, or even directly to the A.I. mainframe, however, a strong chain of command and rigid protocol meant that the TacCon could efficiently coordinate any military activity under the greatest of pressure.
Ian turned to the right and made his way round to the rear of the T.C.U. Passing another armed guard next to the wall; he glanced over the TacCon, spotting another one stationed on the opposite side. He then followed a walkway which ran up to the rearward section, and then curved round towards the middle. Close to the back, behind the tiered rows of terminal in the centre of the room was a small platform, on top of which was a raised seat, with a specialized terminal attached to it. This was the chair of the Tactical Commander, from which he could direct the entire armed forces of the base. Because of the sloped nature of the room, the seat afforded a view of every section of the TacCon in front, with the ComSat and Strategic Weapons sections behind and above him. Currently, there was someone sitting in it. A middle-aged man of stocky build and with a somewhat unkempt beard turned his attention away from his console and looked up at Ian.
"Commander Latimer?" he said after a short pause.
Ian nodded soberly.
"Yes."
The man hoisted himself out of his seat and brought himself up to his full height, at which he was still only at eye-level with Ian's throat.
"Deputy Administrator Gil Kirkland.", He announced, stretching out his hand.
Ian looked down and reluctantly put his hand forward, at which point Kirkland clasped hold of it and began to shake it vigorously.
"It's good to finally meet you." He looked at the commander's chair, and then back towards Ian.
"Uh, I guess this is yours now.", he said with a grin. Kirkland's attempts to break the ice apparently lost on him, Ian simply took a step forward and examined the chair.
"Very well. I hereby formally relieve you."
Kirkland nodded and sustained a weak smile, apparently determined to be affable.
"So, how was your trip?" he asked.
" Please fill me in on what's been happening."
Startled by Ian's frankness, Kirkland smile receded.
"Well, It's all in the logs if - "
"I'd rather not have to go through it all."
Ian stared expressionlessly at Kirkland, who stood frozen for a second, and then nodded feebly.
"Uh, okay. Well, I've been here since the start. I guess, two months ago. The first couple of weeks went about as well as could be expected, I guess, considering we were building from scratch, instead of having towed the primaries in. Real pain in the ass..."
"It was necessary.", Ian interrupted.
"Yeah, I know." said Kirkland with a wry smile on his face, "Too many ships required to do it, and we're too close to the border to chance that they wouldn't be spotted. Plus no long range transmissions to call for assistance in case they're intercepted, yeah I get it." Ian noticed a hint of bitterness in Kirkland's voice, but left it alone.
"Anyway, once the skeleton was built, I was assigned as temporary Tac Commander until someone could be sent to replace me."
Kirkland brought his hand up and ran his fingers through the tangles in his beard.
"And that was about five weeks ago, since then I've just been following the manual, so to speak. The Adjutant had the standard tactical procedures outlined, and the objectives from Confederate Command had already been factored in, so I didn't really have to do all that much. I kept track of the marine companies that were sent here, and then they got their orders from the Adjutant. You know, patrol routes, guard and escort, just regular stuff. I was told not to consider the base's objectives in any way. So, I guess that's your job."
"What about the rest of the Tactical Command Staff?" asked Ian.
"For the moment, I think it's just you," Kirkland nodded to the side. "and O'Hanlan over there, of course. Your tactical XO and the other officers are supposed to be coming in about a fortnight, don't ask me why. But anyway, you should be okay without them for now; there are no hostiles to speak of. Intel Reports confirm that much."
Ian remained staring.
"Guess that's about it." Said Kirkland
He seemed visibly drained by the entire conversation, and shifted his feet uneasily. Ian pulled his pack off, and turning round, held it out to O'Hanlan.
"Take this to my quarters."
O'Hanlan took hold of the pack in both hands and walked round the rear of the T.C.U. to a small steel doorway, which Ian assumed led to the Tactical Command officers' quarters. Ian stepped forward and turned the commander's chair round towards him, before looking back up towards Kirkland, who seemed as though he was expecting something.
"Thank you." said Ian.
Kirkland nodded, a faint smile on his face once again, but this time a little more sincere.
"Have fun…" he said, and walked down towards the main access on the west side.
Ian eased himself into the Commander's chair. This was only the second time in his long career that he had been given a full tactical command, but the instincts which had served him when in command of a brigade translated well when commanding an entire force.
He activated the console interface on the chair's right arm, and checked the personnel roster. All thirty-four marines of the 141st "Spider Monkey" brigade had now arrived and had been registered, and when added to those from the other two companies that had already been stationed here, the 267th "Jackknifes" and the 172nd "Tommy's Curse", totalled a hundred and twenty-one marines that were available for duty. Although the vehicle plant had been made operational, the absence of mineral and metallic ore had meant that the facility's construction templates hadn't yet been brought on-line. However, examining the outpost's supply records, Ian found that a complement of six vulture attack bikes had been ferried in along with the starting materials and resources, their riders having been brought in with the "Jackknifes". It wasn't much, but for the time being, it was going to have to do. Suddenly the display on his console monitor was shrunk down to one corner, and filling the remainder of the screen was the unmistakable digital representation of the Confederate A.I. Mainframe, the Adjutant. The face of a human female android stared up at Ian with emotionless, ruby coloured eyes.
"Good afternoon commander Latimer. I trust that your journey was comfortable?"
Ian had never been overly fond of the confederate A.I., computers were one thing, but a computer that talked back spelled out nothing but trouble in Ian's mind.
"What is it?" asked Ian, determined to make this "interface" as brief as possible.
"This is a formal welcome from the Fort Sunderland Adjutant. Do you wish to be given a tutorial in any of the mainframe's systems, terminal controls or safety protoco- "
"No."
"Do you wish to be given a computerized guided tour of the command centre and its adjoining faciliti-"
"No."
"Have you any questions at this time?"
"No."
"Thank you. Please activate the nearest mainframe terminal at any time if you require assistance."
Ian slowly shook his head and leant forward, and upon glancing upwards, realized that apart from the odd operator who was still engaged in communication, almost every member of the Tactical staff was standing still, and looking at Ian expectantly. He hadn't been looking forward to this. Generally speaking, he had found it was customary when assuming command of an important post, to say a few words, inspirational or otherwise, to the officers and soldiers present who would be following your orders. Ian was not a convincing public orator, to say the least.
"Hm. Ummm, just…" He sighed wearily. "Just get on with it."
The two dozen-odd operators and technicians who had perhaps been hoping for some uplifting speech about the strength and tenacity of the human spirit, or who more likely were expecting some disjointed, hazy account of their new commander's academy days, along with some corny sound bite intended to lift the mood, didn't get even that. Slowly, and slightly hesitantly, they resumed their work, while Ian cradled his head in one hand, massaging his temple.
Over on the west side of the T.C.U. the access doors began to open. A series of quick beeps brought his attention back to his chair console. Pressing the acknowledge button brought up the pallid visage of the Adjutant once again.
"Commander, you have an incoming call from Chief Administrator Rigg. Shall I put her through?"
Ian acknowledged and the stern yet gracious face of Bethany Rigg blinked onto the monitor. As Chief Administrator of the Fort Sunderland Confederate outpost, she was effectively responsible for governing the base, and apart from anything to do with the resident military forces or their current objectives, had the final word on any matter. The two of them had met previously, they were not old friends by any means, but they were acquainted.
"Ian! How are you? How was your trip?"
Ian rolled his eyes to the side, by now quite determined to avoid answering that question. The Chief Administrator tilted her head back until she was almost looking down her nose at Ian.
"We could do with a meeting. Come and find my office, I can fit you in, in about one hour. We'll get you up to speed."
"Fine." replied Ian.
Chief Administrator Rigg gave a sharp nod and a faint smile, before her face vanished from the monitor. As he resumed his examination of the base's supply status, he became aware of someone standing behind him. Swivelling his chair round, he found Sgt. Sheppard standing to attention.
"Go on." Said Ian.
"The rest of the brigade have been registered, and they've all been divided up into the regular squads for duty, sir. Squads one, two and three have been moved onto patrol, squad four will be on in about an hour, as soon as the next group comes in." she reported.
"Good."
Ian began to turn around to study the main viewscreen, before catching sight of a slightly disturbed expression on Sgt. Sheppard's face.
"Something else?"
"Yes sir. I took the liberty of browsing through the inventory section of the barracks' mainframe terminal, and, well…I'm afraid that we're rather under-stocked, sir."
"Under-stocked?"
Ian turned quickly back to his console, bringing up the equipment menu, and then the barracks inventory sub-menu. He came very close to actually looking surprised.
"Bloody hell."
Sgt. Sheppard leant forward to examine the console and confirm the information she had found.
"Sir, this base only has enough CMC-300's to outfit six marines, and the number of Impaler rifles we've got..."
"Yes, so I see. What are the rest of them using?" asked Ian
"C-19g's, sir."
Ian frowned. He had come to know the C-19g "Ripper" exceedingly well during his third tour of duty as a confederate marine. It seemed a lifetime ago, but the memories were still fresh, the memory of the "Ripper" especially so. A long, thick barrel and a tendency to jam with alarming frequency characterized the C-19g, as well as earning it the additional nickname of the "Lead Pipe", from the number of times that marines had to resort to using it like one. This, and the fact that it held less than half the measured stopping power of the C-14 "Impaler", had led many a confederate soldier to wonder how such an inadequate weapon could have been approved for use in the field. Ian was also very much aware that, not being the most reliable weapon in the confederate armoury, the few Rippers that were currently available weren't going to last much longer in this environment without modification. He stared coldly at the screen in front of him.
"Alright. How did it happen?"
"From what the supply officer told me, sir," she explained, "there was an error of some sort when the foundation supplies were catalogued, it seems unbelievable, I know, sir, but that's what he said. For the past two months they've been using a rotary system to distribute those few firearms that they do have, with only those marines on patrol, or guard duty being issued with them. From what he said, sand erosion has rendered about a dozen of them more or less useless, and that there are currently only sixty-two properly functioning firearms in the inventory. As for protective wear, they've been making do with goggles and respirators, which is fine for basic survival, but if we engage the enemy," Sergeant Sheppard shook her head, "Sir, they haven't even got any protective body armour, just combat fatigues."
"Oh bloody hell." Ian repeated. "Well, it looks like Mrs. Rigg and I have something to discuss after all."