COUNTEPOINT
CHAPTER 1: THE SOLDIER
PART 4
By Mya Thevendra
Ian slowly rose to his feet, and, shaking his head, turned to Sgt. Sheppard.
"I saw those marines on patrol when were flying in. I noticed they were only in fatigues…thought they were just keeping lightweight."
Sgt. Sheppard stood still, awaiting her commander's orders.
"Alright. Let's see," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "Let's get back to the upper ring. We're going to have to modify those C-19's. I want you to find someone in the armoury, or else in engineering, who can sort something out," Ian glanced down at his watch, "I'm going to see if I can have that meeting with Administrator Rigg a little early."
"Understood." As Sgt. Sheppard made her way out, Ian turned round to find Lance Corporal O'Hanlan stationed next to one of the handrails at the rear of the room. Now that Ian had noticed him, he marched forward purposefully, and stood to attention.
"Why wasn't I told about the supply shortage?" asked Ian firmly.
"I was told that you were aware of the current shortage, sir."
"By whom."
"Chief Administrator Rigg, sir."
Ian was resolved to get to the bottom of this, and looking O'Hanlan up and down, concluded that he wasn't terribly keen on the thought of being followed around all day.
"Stand your post, Lance Corporal."
O'Hanlan saluted a second time, and then returned to his station at the back of the T.C.U., presumably for whenever Ian next required him. Giving him no further thought, Ian left TacCon, passing through the security lobby, and round the corner to join Sgt. Sheppard boarding the elevator. As the doors closed and the two of them rode up, Sgt. Sheppard turned towards Ian.
"Sir, permission to speak freely?" she asked.
"Granted."
"Sir, I've never heard of such a serious error happening while cataloguing a base's foundation supplies, especially weapons and ammunition; and with the number of checks they're supposed to do, to forget almost all of the CMC's, I just think..."
"It has happened in the past." Said Ian, "Not often, and someone usually gets shot when it does, but you're right. Something is going on."
Upon reaching the upper ring, the two of them walked back to the junction lobby, at which point Sgt. Sheppard continued back towards the shuttle terminal. Ian walked over to one end of the lobby, where there was a black panel set into the wall, with the words "Please touch to activate" illumined across it. Pressing the panel once brought up a menu, while the digital voice of the base's mainframe asked "Which service do you require?"
"Map. Command Centre. C.A.U." stated Ian.
Immediately, schematics of the command centre's middle and upper rings spun into view, with a route mapped out from the terminal at which Ian was stood to the C.A.U. Following the directions, he used one of the adjacent corridors to travel eastwards for about a hundred metres, and then a steep set of escalators brought him down into the middle ring section. The middle ring, being the area of the command centre most used by non-military personnel, was conceived more with comfort in mind, and although the general structure and layout was similar to other sectors of the command centre, the rooms and corridors tended to be more spacious and with stronger lighting, creating a much less claustrophobic environment.
There was a fair amount of activity in this section, as administrative staff and technicians went about their duties. An assistance desk lay ahead on the right hand side, formed as a large elevated enclosure against the wall, behind which sat a small faced, middle-aged woman who was typing intently into her computer terminal. Ian walked up to the desk and waited, noticing a small row of potted plants occupying one of the shelves on the wall behind. The woman finished her line of typing, and turned to face Ian with a lively expression.
"Yes, how can I help you?"
"Main access to the C.A.U. Please."
The woman pointed with a pencil in her right hand to a large corridor behind Ian.
"Carry on to the end, then turn right. Do you have clearance?" she asked.
Ian nodded briefly, and then started down into the corridor. Turning right at the passage's end brought him to another security lobby, similar to the one preceding the T.C.U., but in this instance, with only one armed guard, stationed in plain view. The same three identification tests were present, and Ian proceeded quickly through them. Barely waiting for the doors to have properly opened, Ian entered into the administrative heart of Fort Sunderland.
The C.A.U. was divided into two main sections, the primary control centre, a separate secured chamber, which functioned in a similar way to the TacCon, providing a means of communicating with work crews, coordinating construction and repairs and managing the two hundred-odd non-military personnel that worked at the base, and the executive offices, where the high ranking administrators resided.
The administrators themselves had private offices, but their subordinates occupied a communal bureau which, having been linked up to the communications network, functioned as a secondary control unit, managing less vital aspects of the base's management, as well as relaying messages between the control centre and the ranking administrators. The bureau was clearly visible, as the wall between it and the main entrance hall of the C.A.U. consisted mainly of several transparent fibreglass panels, through which the interior could be seen. Inside was a good indication of the base's current status, as assistant administration staff worked busily at desks and terminals in a relentless flurry of paperwork and intercom calls.
Walking past, Ian came to another desk, occupied, according to the small plaque fastened onto the desk's surface, by the "Principal Managerial Assistant - Gregory Mckinney". Ian briefly pondered in how many other ways the word "secretary" could be phrased. The man sitting behind the desk watched Ian as he approached, and inspected him over the top of his reading glasses.
"Yes, may I help you?"
"Chief Administrator Rigg's office." said Ian, examining the hallway behind.
"And you are?"
Ian looked back at the secretary.
"Commander Latimer."
"Right," he said, checking his monitor, "She's not expecting you for another three quarters of an hour or so, would you like to wait?"
"No. I'd like to see her now," said Ian, tersely. The secretary took his glasses off and began to wipe them over with a small handkerchief. "I'm sorry," he began, "but you'll have to come back later. I'm afraid she's quite busy at the moment."
Perhaps he wasn't aware, thought Ian, that he was speaking to the base's tactical commander. Or perhaps he did but had been given instructions not to let anyone into Rigg's office outside of schedule. Whatever the case, he didn't have time for it.
Ian stepped forward slowly. Whilst perhaps not being particularly adept at dealing with people on a social level, years of training and commanding the Confederacy's finest, as well as a natural ability had made him very skilled at putting people under pressure. Most people are confident that they can give someone a menacing stare, or speak with a threatening tone, and they probably could. Ian, however, took it several steps beyond the realm of simple intimidation. This time, all he had to do was look at him. It took the secretary only a second to look upwards, and then another to realize that arguing further with the man standing in front of him might possibly be the worst choice of his entire career, if not his entire life.
After a short pause, the secretary tentatively reached out to his terminal, activating the intercom to Chief Administrator Rigg's office.
"Uh, Administrator Rigg, Commander Latimer is here to see you."
"Alright, send him in." came the reply.
Without waiting, Ian walked past the secretary's desk, into the wide passageway behind, which accommodated the five ranking administrators' private offices. Carrying on to the end, Ian came to a large plasteel door, with several plaques affixed to its front, detailing Bethany Rigg's full name and station, as well as a long list of abbreviated qualifications. A rasping buzzer sounded from above the door, and the door unlocked with a loud clack, opening inward slightly. Chief Administrator Rigg's voice beckoned from inside.
"Ian, come on in!"
Pushing the door open and walking in onto a carpeted floor, Ian found himself in a somewhat informal office. A good deal more informal than the offices of some of the other Chief Administrators that he had been in, which had been furnished either with old fashioned wooden fittings, ornamental candelabras and authentic works of art, or else had mimicked the austere interior of the tactical division, containing added mainframe terminals and orthopaedic chairs, placed against the naked, sterile surroundings of the bare walls and floor of the command centre's frame.
Chief Administrator Rigg, however, had chosen to fit out her office as if it were in a conventional office block in some terrestrial city. A fairly large desk, a couple of overgrown ferns, and shelves carrying a plethora of technical and procedural encyclopaedia presented an image of both comfort and functionality. As Ian walked in, he found Aministrator Rigg perched on a chair, having kicked off her shoes, attempting to retrieve a hefty almanac from one of the higher shelves on her sidewall.
"Ian, hang on. I'll be with you in just a sec."
Ian paused, looking up. Just entering middle age, Bethany Rigg was still in healthy shape. Long auburn hair tied in a bun, and a rosy complexion gave her the impression of some children's tale fairy godmother, but her generally warm demeanour could be cast off in an instant, and her stringent attitudes towards problem solving and management were both well known and respected.
"Do you need help?" asked Ian. Bethany slid the tome out from under a stack of paperwork, and dropped it onto a chair below.
"Nope, I got it."
Stepping down onto the ground, she walked up to Ian and shook his hand.
"Ian," she said, smiling "It's good to see you again. You're a little earlier than I expected though, is anything wrong?"
"We need to talk." said Ian solemnly.
"Alright." Bethany walked back around her desk, settled into her seat, and began to tidy some loose papers on her desk.
"How was the TacCon, everything okay?" she asked.
"Fine." Replied Ian. "I relieved Kirkland, and took some details from him."
Bethany nodded. "Uh-huh, Gil's a good man. He's been working pretty far afield these past few weeks - a big step from admin to tactical command, but I hear he's done okay. I don't know if he told you, but your command staff is currently being reorganised, they'll be here in about a fortnight."
"He told me."
Bethany looked up.
"Please Ian, sit down."
Ian took a step forward but remained standing. Bethany mocked a frown, tilting her head slightly.
"Ian, you don't have to be such an old goat, you know. It's not actually one of the job requirements, I'm sure it's not."
Ian began to speak, a strait-laced expression on his face.
"Administrator Rigg,"
"Beth, please, Ian, for God's sake, we do know each other. just call me Beth."
After a short pause, Ian abruptly reached over to the interface console on the Administrator's desktop. Swivelling it round, he keyed in a series of commands, bringing up the barracks' inventory menu, before rotating the console back around towards Bethany. Slightly taken aback, she flicked open a pair of reading glasses and put them on, before examining the screen, and then looking back up to meet Ian's expectant gaze. She shook her head, as if still unaware of what was troubling him. Looking into his impassive eyes, her puzzled expression suddenly changed to one of astonishment.
"You...didn't know, did you?" she asked, apparently genuinely surprised. Ian leaned further over onto Bethany's desk and peered through her glasses.
"Didn't know what?" he began, "Didn't know that this base hasn't enough supplies to properly equip even one tenth of the already meagre number of marines stationed here? No, I didn't bloody know."
Bethany leant back in her chair, and took off her glasses, shaking her head in disbelief.
"I thought that they would have told you. I thought that you'd be bringing the rest of it along with you, whatever equipment it was that you needed."
"What made you think that?"
"Common sense. I was aware of the shortage in the armoury, when I was told you were coming with the rest of your brigade, I just assumed. What was your dropship's cargo?"
"An S.C.V." said Ian coldly.
"Dammit. I'm sorry, I should have checked your cargo in the starport's logbooks when you arrived but things have been so hectic around here."
He turned slowly to look behind him, and then sat down in one of the office's chairs, leaning forward with his hand over his mouth.
" How did it happen?" he asked though his fingers.
"Cataloguing error, I was told, although I never believed it. " Said Bethany. "They make mistakes all the time, and just cover it up. It's just the way it is."
"What about the next supply drop?" asked Ian, "There's another dropship run in ten days isn't there?"
Bethany shook her head.
"Food, water, medical supplies, a little tech, but that's all; nothing military."
Ian ran the back of his thumb over his bottom lip, staring vacantly at the fastening bolts on the desk in front of him.
"You do realise that if we were to be attacked in force at this very moment, we'd be wiped out to the last man?" he stated grimly.
"Ian, I am not a military expert, God knows that's true, but even if the soldiers you have now were all fully equipped, we still couldn't expect to hold up against a massed attack, and you know it, but that's not the point. The whole point of doing this the way we have is so they don't know that we're here."
"Yes, I'm aware of that." Said Ian sullenly, before getting up from his chair and walking towards the back of the office.
Against the rear wall stood a tall display cabinet, inside of which were several framed photographs of Bethany and presumably her family and friends. Ian glanced casually from one photo to the next, before catching his dim reflection in the glass pane of the cabinet door.
Bethany let out a deep breath, and set her glasses down on her desk.
"Ian, talk to me. What is it?"
Ian stared at Bethany's reflection in the glass. There was more going on than just the slip-up with the equipment. He had a bad feeling in his gut, and although he was not the sort of person to be ruled by his instincts, he had learnt to be mindful of them. Despite his intuitions, however, he decided discretion to be the wiser course, at least for the moment.
"It's nothing."
"Look, you've seen the same intelligence reports I have, right?" asked Bethany, "Zero enemy activity, external ComSat confirms that we're clear all the way to the border."
Ian nodded resignedly.
"Apparently so."
Bethany ran a thin forefinger through a wayward curl of hair and paused thoughtfully.
" Ian, the Confederacy has so far spent a hundred and thirty billion credits on this installation. Believe me, you don't make investments like that without considering protection. They may get it wrong every now and then, we both know that, but they always come through in the end. The equipment's on it's way, I'm sure it is, but until then, I guess you're just going to have to make do. Like the rest of us."
Ian turned around to face her.
"Well, in any case, I've got a job to do. And in light of the current supply situation, I see no alternative but to move ahead of schedule. We're going to start scouting the caverns tomorrow."
"Looks like we've both got a busy day ahead of us, then. Take a little friendly advice?" asked Bethany.
"Of course."
"I know it's still early in the day, but you're going to learn pretty quickly around here that sleep is a commodity. I imagine you're used to that by now, but this is probably the last day you'll have for a while when you don't have a lot to do, so…take my advice. Go to sleep, and tell your XO to do the same. You're going to need it."
Ian acknowledged with a nod, and made his way out.
Walking back to the T.C.U., Ian attempted to make sense of his situation. His meeting with Bethany had provided few answers, as well as raising additional questions. The fact that he was still awaiting his command staff was not unusual, the severity of enemy attacks further along the border had put a strain on available manpower, and delays in transit while assignments were shifted and personnel were re-routed to fill the gaps were not uncommon, even though a fortnight was pushing it a little.
The matter of the supply shortage, on the other hand, was rather more serious, and unusual. Considering the relatively high priority of the Fort Sunderland installation, as well as its attached objective, to explain away the military equipment shortage to a procedural error became nothing short of ridiculous, and yet it was an excuse which could be easily backed up with evidence, doctored or otherwise, if the need arose. And so assuming that it wasn't a mistake but rather done deliberately, and with forethought, what would be the purpose, wondered Ian. What would be the purpose of covertly building a base within arm's length of the enemy border, with such speed as to challenge the current standing Confederacy construction records, and then fail to properly equip it's military with barely more than the most fundamental requirements?
Up to a certain point, supply shortages throughout the border regions due to the enemy's harrying attacks, could explain the lack of equipment, but only up to a point. No CMC gear, the almost archaic selection of weaponry in the base's armoury, and the continuing lack of any stellar craft whatsoever to provide orbital cover, these things were all past that point. For one reason or another, supplies and military resources were being kept away from Fort Sunderland. And with a communications blackout in effect, Ian had no way of contacting his commanding officers to find out why.
Whatever the reason was, he still had only one choice open to him. The same choice he had always had, and taken. To follow orders. Blind faith in your superiors may have been enough for Bethany, thought Ian, but as a soldier, he wasn't allowed such an indulgence. He had orders, and faith didn't come into it. He was a confederate marine, and his loyalty could not be questioned, but the moment he started to believe in the Confederacy as some benevolent force, which was safeguarding all of it's citizens, would be the moment when he would have to ignore all of the past acts of horror and despotism that the Confederacy had committed, and he wasn't willing to do that. They weren't perfect, not by a long shot, but in Ian's mind they were still the best chance that they had, the best chance for peace, the best chance for unity amongst the colonies, and perhaps the only chance against the great enemy that threatened to consume the Terran civilisation, and forever stamp it out of existence. There were no such things as faith, or hope, not for Ian. For him, there were only orders.
Entering the T.C.U., Ian gave a quick glance over the display screens, and then walked around to the command chair. O'Hanlan stood in the same spot where Ian had left him, stood with feet shoulder length apart, his hands behind his back. Upon seeing Ian, he stepped forward, awaiting orders. Ian activated his command console, and sent a batch of classified ComSat survey and personnel files to the memory bank of the terminal in his room. He had decided to take Bethany's advice, although he felt that it would be prudent to keep any relevant tactical data for the next day fresh in his memory, before he retired for the night. After deactivating his chair console, he turned to his aide.
"I'm going to my quarters, I won't be needing you further today. Dismissed."
O'Hanlan saluted, and then exited the T.C.U. to return to his secondary duties. Ian had been quietly impressed with O'Hanlan's sense of discipline and formality. Whether it was his true manner, or whether he had been warned that a fussy, toffee-nosed Brit was taking over command, and had been coached to act according, Ian hadn't bothered to fathom, but regardless, he found himself thinking well of the boy, and wondered if that apparent discipline would hold up under duress. Ian himself had never been assigned as an aide to a superior officer, and while he wasn't entirely convinced of the usefulness of a tactical commander's aide, who possessed little command authority, and was essentially there to run errands, he was aware that many younger officers saw it as a valuable opportunity to glean command experience, no matter how insubstantial. He wondered briefly to himself what O'Hanlan would learn before this assignment was over.
Stepping down off the command platform, Ian walked through into the dim corridor at the rear of the T.C.U. Passing by the doors to the other officers' rooms, he came to the end of the passage. Another security keypad beside the door to his quarters accepted his access code, and as he walked in, he noticed that there was no nameplate on the front of his door. Perhaps for Kirkland's benefit, Ian thought to himself.
The room itself was clean, and small but with enough space to move comfortably. A separate bathroom led off the west side of the quarters, and the bedroom off the east. A round glass table sat in the centre of the room with a computer terminal, and an intercom view-screen was set into the northern wall. His pack lay perched on one of the chairs around the table.
After unpacking his gear and clothing, Ian sat at the table, and activated his terminal, opening the files that he had transferred from the TacCon. It was now late in the afternoon, perhaps another four hours until nightfall. Having put aside any thoughts regarding his current predicament, over the next hour Ian read through the tactical data surrounding the resource objective. Like most brigade commanders, he had been trained to prepare for any eventuality, and adapting his approach to accommodate the substandard equipment that his brigade would be using was chief amongst these preparations.
After finishing, he made up a rough itinerary for the next day. Meeting with the Commanders of the other two brigades was going to have to be first. Ideally, he would have gotten it out of the way today, but Ian felt that the day had already exacted a heavy toll, and that it was best left until tomorrow. Even though the day had seen no rounds of ammunition spent, and no soldiers lose their lives, Ian felt a strange weariness, which he had never felt on the battlefield, although he had experienced it before. A feeling of emptiness sucked at him from deep inside, and his mind drew back to the yawning gulf, which lay within him, of which no one knew but himself. It was not disillusionment, or if it was, then it wasn't the whole of it. Nor was it simply loneliness, or apathy. Whatever it was, it was greater than the sum of its parts, and it gnawed at him relentlessly. He had felt it many times in the recent past, coming seemingly from nowhere. Where before there was certainty and rigid discipline, now doubt crept through him, yet he pushed it firmly down, as had done in the past, until he was himself once more. The feeling was still there, albeit hidden, however, and most likely could not be resolved by simply suppressing it. Though now that it was suppressed, Ian felt somewhat more settled about the day ahead.
Once again, an odd feeling, an instinct of dread was there, left behind when his other feelings had been pressed down. Deciding that nothing further could be done today, instincts or no, Ian got up and walked over to his room's viewscreen. Activating it, he opened a link to the adjutant, whose face promptly flickered into view.
"Locate Sergeant Lorraine Sheppard"
The Adjutant's eyes closed, while around its head, dull flashes of blue light illuminated the computer-generated background, a dark network of cables and gears.
"Working. The internal surveillance network has located Sergeant Sheppard in the engineering bay. Do you wish her to be contacted?"
"Yes."
"Working."
Communication terminals were placed in almost every section of every building in Fort Sunderland, and together with the arrangement of internal security cameras, which could be accessed at any time by the Adjutant, gave it the ability to find and communicate with a given person in almost any part of the base. Ian waited while the Adjutant contacted Sheppard by means of a localised announcement.
"Sergeant Sheppard has been contacted and directed to the nearest communications terminal. Please hold if you require further assistance."
Ian deactivated the adjutant at his terminal, and after waiting for a few seconds, an incoming message was indicated. Accepting the call, Sgt. Sheppard appeared, while in the background, one of the engineering workshops was in its usual state of commotion.
"Report."
"Sir, I've found someone in engineering who's got a few ideas, but he's tied up with another assignment. They're having some sort of trouble with the shuttle tubes around one of the supply depots. He…"
"Put him on" interrupted Ian.
Sgt. Sheppard glanced around, before disappearing off to the left. A few seconds later, a rather mousy looking engineer with short, greasy hair, and oil streaked across his forehead stepped into view, wiping his hands with a strip of cloth. He stared inquisitively back at Ian.
"Yes, sir?"
"Name and rank."
"Engineer 2nd class Kith Sajan sir."
"I want you to transfer your effort to the assignment that Sergeant Sheppard has just outlined to you."
"Sir, I can get it done for you, but I've got a job order to work through. I can get onto it in two days when everything else is out of the wa-"
"I want it done by 0800 tomorrow." Said Ian unyieldingly.
A stunned expression flashed across Sajan's face.
"Sir, a job like that'll take at least a couple of days. We'd have to bring the armed marines off duty in groups to come in and get their weapons adjusted, we couldn't do them all at once. And there's, well, I don't know how many C-19's we're talking about here, but I'm telling you, we're not gonna be able to get it done by tomorrow."
Ian had no desire to debate the logistics of how it would be possible to accomplish this task; all he knew was that he needed it done.
"Consider this a direct order from the Tactical Commander. I want those weapons properly outfitted for use by 0800 hours tomorrow morning. Lives could well be at stake. Yours included. Do whatever you have to do to make it happen, but get it done. Understand?"
Sajan stood paused for a moment, squinting through the communications terminal, before nodding grudgingly. Wiping his brow, he then walked off, while Sgt. Sheppard stepped back into view.
"Sir, 0800 tomorrow?"
"I've changed the schedule, I think it's best to move as soon as possible."
Sheppard nodded in agreement.
"Yes sir."
"Have the men ready by 0700 hours. If all goes well, we should be able to move by 0900."
"Understood, sir."
"All right, that's it for today. Mrs. Rigg advises both of us taking an early night."
"Sounds like good advice, sir."
"Yes well, feel free to disregard it, if you wish, but I think I'm going to take it." Said Ian, feeling like an old relic.
"Yes sir. Sir?"
"What is it?"
"What if Sajan can't finish by tomorrow?
Ian sighed.
"Well, he should have done at least some of them by then; that'll be better than nothing. But he will finish, I believe I made the importance of the assignment clear to him. If those weapons start to lock up because of the sand, and we run into trouble…It'll be messy, to say the least."
"Yes sir." Agreed Sergeant Sheppard, grimly.
"In any case," Ian attempted to find an encouraging word or two.
"We'll see what happens."
"Yes, sir. Sir, if it's alright, I thought I might pass by the barracks and check in on the men, see how they're getting on."
Although Ian had spent more time in command of the Spider Monkeys than of any other brigade, even more time than he himself had spent serving in any brigade, he knew them only sparsely. He had rarely spent the quality of time with them as Sergeant Sheppard had done; to him they were merely thirty-four men and women whose sole function was to follow orders. In his mind, any interaction beyond that was redundant. At the same time, however, he appreciated the value of Sheppard's interaction with them, keeping them alert and confident, and making sure that any problems within the unit were discovered and dealt with quickly. In many ways, she was his link to the Spider Monkeys, acting as counsellor and confidant to them where he could not.
"Yes, yes of course. Good night, Sergeant."
"Good night, sir."
Lorraine Sheppard's face blinked out, and was replaced by the revolving logo of the Confederacy Communication Service, glowing dimly against the black lustre of the viewscreen. After undressing into his bedclothes, just a thin vest and a loose pair of tracksuit bottoms, he walked through into the bathroom. Splashing cold water onto his face and neck, Ian stared into the mirror in front of him. It was a worn face, and lean, his dark chestnut hair, always kept short, formed wet spikes as he ran his hands through it. He rested his elbows on the basin and leant forward, touching foreheads with his reflection. For a few seconds he stood there, hunched over, and as he stood, he tried to tie his thoughts together.
Too much feeling, he thought to himself.
There was a time, perhaps not so long ago, when he was a glorious soldier, not in the sense of being a hero, but that he was content. Simply content with the role he had to play. Although life had never been easy, it had at least been straightforward, and he had lived through it logically, and dispassionately, as if he were some wondrous robot in a man's body, showing no weakness, no remorse, and no regret. But now, today, there was too much feeling. Of what kind, he wasn't sure, and what it meant, he didn't know, but it was too much.
Ian got up and wiped his face, and then after turning off the lights in his room, he lay down onto his bed, the covers underneath him, and closed his eyes.
CHAPTER 1: THE SOLDIER
PART 4
By Mya Thevendra
Ian slowly rose to his feet, and, shaking his head, turned to Sgt. Sheppard.
"I saw those marines on patrol when were flying in. I noticed they were only in fatigues…thought they were just keeping lightweight."
Sgt. Sheppard stood still, awaiting her commander's orders.
"Alright. Let's see," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "Let's get back to the upper ring. We're going to have to modify those C-19's. I want you to find someone in the armoury, or else in engineering, who can sort something out," Ian glanced down at his watch, "I'm going to see if I can have that meeting with Administrator Rigg a little early."
"Understood." As Sgt. Sheppard made her way out, Ian turned round to find Lance Corporal O'Hanlan stationed next to one of the handrails at the rear of the room. Now that Ian had noticed him, he marched forward purposefully, and stood to attention.
"Why wasn't I told about the supply shortage?" asked Ian firmly.
"I was told that you were aware of the current shortage, sir."
"By whom."
"Chief Administrator Rigg, sir."
Ian was resolved to get to the bottom of this, and looking O'Hanlan up and down, concluded that he wasn't terribly keen on the thought of being followed around all day.
"Stand your post, Lance Corporal."
O'Hanlan saluted a second time, and then returned to his station at the back of the T.C.U., presumably for whenever Ian next required him. Giving him no further thought, Ian left TacCon, passing through the security lobby, and round the corner to join Sgt. Sheppard boarding the elevator. As the doors closed and the two of them rode up, Sgt. Sheppard turned towards Ian.
"Sir, permission to speak freely?" she asked.
"Granted."
"Sir, I've never heard of such a serious error happening while cataloguing a base's foundation supplies, especially weapons and ammunition; and with the number of checks they're supposed to do, to forget almost all of the CMC's, I just think..."
"It has happened in the past." Said Ian, "Not often, and someone usually gets shot when it does, but you're right. Something is going on."
Upon reaching the upper ring, the two of them walked back to the junction lobby, at which point Sgt. Sheppard continued back towards the shuttle terminal. Ian walked over to one end of the lobby, where there was a black panel set into the wall, with the words "Please touch to activate" illumined across it. Pressing the panel once brought up a menu, while the digital voice of the base's mainframe asked "Which service do you require?"
"Map. Command Centre. C.A.U." stated Ian.
Immediately, schematics of the command centre's middle and upper rings spun into view, with a route mapped out from the terminal at which Ian was stood to the C.A.U. Following the directions, he used one of the adjacent corridors to travel eastwards for about a hundred metres, and then a steep set of escalators brought him down into the middle ring section. The middle ring, being the area of the command centre most used by non-military personnel, was conceived more with comfort in mind, and although the general structure and layout was similar to other sectors of the command centre, the rooms and corridors tended to be more spacious and with stronger lighting, creating a much less claustrophobic environment.
There was a fair amount of activity in this section, as administrative staff and technicians went about their duties. An assistance desk lay ahead on the right hand side, formed as a large elevated enclosure against the wall, behind which sat a small faced, middle-aged woman who was typing intently into her computer terminal. Ian walked up to the desk and waited, noticing a small row of potted plants occupying one of the shelves on the wall behind. The woman finished her line of typing, and turned to face Ian with a lively expression.
"Yes, how can I help you?"
"Main access to the C.A.U. Please."
The woman pointed with a pencil in her right hand to a large corridor behind Ian.
"Carry on to the end, then turn right. Do you have clearance?" she asked.
Ian nodded briefly, and then started down into the corridor. Turning right at the passage's end brought him to another security lobby, similar to the one preceding the T.C.U., but in this instance, with only one armed guard, stationed in plain view. The same three identification tests were present, and Ian proceeded quickly through them. Barely waiting for the doors to have properly opened, Ian entered into the administrative heart of Fort Sunderland.
The C.A.U. was divided into two main sections, the primary control centre, a separate secured chamber, which functioned in a similar way to the TacCon, providing a means of communicating with work crews, coordinating construction and repairs and managing the two hundred-odd non-military personnel that worked at the base, and the executive offices, where the high ranking administrators resided.
The administrators themselves had private offices, but their subordinates occupied a communal bureau which, having been linked up to the communications network, functioned as a secondary control unit, managing less vital aspects of the base's management, as well as relaying messages between the control centre and the ranking administrators. The bureau was clearly visible, as the wall between it and the main entrance hall of the C.A.U. consisted mainly of several transparent fibreglass panels, through which the interior could be seen. Inside was a good indication of the base's current status, as assistant administration staff worked busily at desks and terminals in a relentless flurry of paperwork and intercom calls.
Walking past, Ian came to another desk, occupied, according to the small plaque fastened onto the desk's surface, by the "Principal Managerial Assistant - Gregory Mckinney". Ian briefly pondered in how many other ways the word "secretary" could be phrased. The man sitting behind the desk watched Ian as he approached, and inspected him over the top of his reading glasses.
"Yes, may I help you?"
"Chief Administrator Rigg's office." said Ian, examining the hallway behind.
"And you are?"
Ian looked back at the secretary.
"Commander Latimer."
"Right," he said, checking his monitor, "She's not expecting you for another three quarters of an hour or so, would you like to wait?"
"No. I'd like to see her now," said Ian, tersely. The secretary took his glasses off and began to wipe them over with a small handkerchief. "I'm sorry," he began, "but you'll have to come back later. I'm afraid she's quite busy at the moment."
Perhaps he wasn't aware, thought Ian, that he was speaking to the base's tactical commander. Or perhaps he did but had been given instructions not to let anyone into Rigg's office outside of schedule. Whatever the case, he didn't have time for it.
Ian stepped forward slowly. Whilst perhaps not being particularly adept at dealing with people on a social level, years of training and commanding the Confederacy's finest, as well as a natural ability had made him very skilled at putting people under pressure. Most people are confident that they can give someone a menacing stare, or speak with a threatening tone, and they probably could. Ian, however, took it several steps beyond the realm of simple intimidation. This time, all he had to do was look at him. It took the secretary only a second to look upwards, and then another to realize that arguing further with the man standing in front of him might possibly be the worst choice of his entire career, if not his entire life.
After a short pause, the secretary tentatively reached out to his terminal, activating the intercom to Chief Administrator Rigg's office.
"Uh, Administrator Rigg, Commander Latimer is here to see you."
"Alright, send him in." came the reply.
Without waiting, Ian walked past the secretary's desk, into the wide passageway behind, which accommodated the five ranking administrators' private offices. Carrying on to the end, Ian came to a large plasteel door, with several plaques affixed to its front, detailing Bethany Rigg's full name and station, as well as a long list of abbreviated qualifications. A rasping buzzer sounded from above the door, and the door unlocked with a loud clack, opening inward slightly. Chief Administrator Rigg's voice beckoned from inside.
"Ian, come on in!"
Pushing the door open and walking in onto a carpeted floor, Ian found himself in a somewhat informal office. A good deal more informal than the offices of some of the other Chief Administrators that he had been in, which had been furnished either with old fashioned wooden fittings, ornamental candelabras and authentic works of art, or else had mimicked the austere interior of the tactical division, containing added mainframe terminals and orthopaedic chairs, placed against the naked, sterile surroundings of the bare walls and floor of the command centre's frame.
Chief Administrator Rigg, however, had chosen to fit out her office as if it were in a conventional office block in some terrestrial city. A fairly large desk, a couple of overgrown ferns, and shelves carrying a plethora of technical and procedural encyclopaedia presented an image of both comfort and functionality. As Ian walked in, he found Aministrator Rigg perched on a chair, having kicked off her shoes, attempting to retrieve a hefty almanac from one of the higher shelves on her sidewall.
"Ian, hang on. I'll be with you in just a sec."
Ian paused, looking up. Just entering middle age, Bethany Rigg was still in healthy shape. Long auburn hair tied in a bun, and a rosy complexion gave her the impression of some children's tale fairy godmother, but her generally warm demeanour could be cast off in an instant, and her stringent attitudes towards problem solving and management were both well known and respected.
"Do you need help?" asked Ian. Bethany slid the tome out from under a stack of paperwork, and dropped it onto a chair below.
"Nope, I got it."
Stepping down onto the ground, she walked up to Ian and shook his hand.
"Ian," she said, smiling "It's good to see you again. You're a little earlier than I expected though, is anything wrong?"
"We need to talk." said Ian solemnly.
"Alright." Bethany walked back around her desk, settled into her seat, and began to tidy some loose papers on her desk.
"How was the TacCon, everything okay?" she asked.
"Fine." Replied Ian. "I relieved Kirkland, and took some details from him."
Bethany nodded. "Uh-huh, Gil's a good man. He's been working pretty far afield these past few weeks - a big step from admin to tactical command, but I hear he's done okay. I don't know if he told you, but your command staff is currently being reorganised, they'll be here in about a fortnight."
"He told me."
Bethany looked up.
"Please Ian, sit down."
Ian took a step forward but remained standing. Bethany mocked a frown, tilting her head slightly.
"Ian, you don't have to be such an old goat, you know. It's not actually one of the job requirements, I'm sure it's not."
Ian began to speak, a strait-laced expression on his face.
"Administrator Rigg,"
"Beth, please, Ian, for God's sake, we do know each other. just call me Beth."
After a short pause, Ian abruptly reached over to the interface console on the Administrator's desktop. Swivelling it round, he keyed in a series of commands, bringing up the barracks' inventory menu, before rotating the console back around towards Bethany. Slightly taken aback, she flicked open a pair of reading glasses and put them on, before examining the screen, and then looking back up to meet Ian's expectant gaze. She shook her head, as if still unaware of what was troubling him. Looking into his impassive eyes, her puzzled expression suddenly changed to one of astonishment.
"You...didn't know, did you?" she asked, apparently genuinely surprised. Ian leaned further over onto Bethany's desk and peered through her glasses.
"Didn't know what?" he began, "Didn't know that this base hasn't enough supplies to properly equip even one tenth of the already meagre number of marines stationed here? No, I didn't bloody know."
Bethany leant back in her chair, and took off her glasses, shaking her head in disbelief.
"I thought that they would have told you. I thought that you'd be bringing the rest of it along with you, whatever equipment it was that you needed."
"What made you think that?"
"Common sense. I was aware of the shortage in the armoury, when I was told you were coming with the rest of your brigade, I just assumed. What was your dropship's cargo?"
"An S.C.V." said Ian coldly.
"Dammit. I'm sorry, I should have checked your cargo in the starport's logbooks when you arrived but things have been so hectic around here."
He turned slowly to look behind him, and then sat down in one of the office's chairs, leaning forward with his hand over his mouth.
" How did it happen?" he asked though his fingers.
"Cataloguing error, I was told, although I never believed it. " Said Bethany. "They make mistakes all the time, and just cover it up. It's just the way it is."
"What about the next supply drop?" asked Ian, "There's another dropship run in ten days isn't there?"
Bethany shook her head.
"Food, water, medical supplies, a little tech, but that's all; nothing military."
Ian ran the back of his thumb over his bottom lip, staring vacantly at the fastening bolts on the desk in front of him.
"You do realise that if we were to be attacked in force at this very moment, we'd be wiped out to the last man?" he stated grimly.
"Ian, I am not a military expert, God knows that's true, but even if the soldiers you have now were all fully equipped, we still couldn't expect to hold up against a massed attack, and you know it, but that's not the point. The whole point of doing this the way we have is so they don't know that we're here."
"Yes, I'm aware of that." Said Ian sullenly, before getting up from his chair and walking towards the back of the office.
Against the rear wall stood a tall display cabinet, inside of which were several framed photographs of Bethany and presumably her family and friends. Ian glanced casually from one photo to the next, before catching his dim reflection in the glass pane of the cabinet door.
Bethany let out a deep breath, and set her glasses down on her desk.
"Ian, talk to me. What is it?"
Ian stared at Bethany's reflection in the glass. There was more going on than just the slip-up with the equipment. He had a bad feeling in his gut, and although he was not the sort of person to be ruled by his instincts, he had learnt to be mindful of them. Despite his intuitions, however, he decided discretion to be the wiser course, at least for the moment.
"It's nothing."
"Look, you've seen the same intelligence reports I have, right?" asked Bethany, "Zero enemy activity, external ComSat confirms that we're clear all the way to the border."
Ian nodded resignedly.
"Apparently so."
Bethany ran a thin forefinger through a wayward curl of hair and paused thoughtfully.
" Ian, the Confederacy has so far spent a hundred and thirty billion credits on this installation. Believe me, you don't make investments like that without considering protection. They may get it wrong every now and then, we both know that, but they always come through in the end. The equipment's on it's way, I'm sure it is, but until then, I guess you're just going to have to make do. Like the rest of us."
Ian turned around to face her.
"Well, in any case, I've got a job to do. And in light of the current supply situation, I see no alternative but to move ahead of schedule. We're going to start scouting the caverns tomorrow."
"Looks like we've both got a busy day ahead of us, then. Take a little friendly advice?" asked Bethany.
"Of course."
"I know it's still early in the day, but you're going to learn pretty quickly around here that sleep is a commodity. I imagine you're used to that by now, but this is probably the last day you'll have for a while when you don't have a lot to do, so…take my advice. Go to sleep, and tell your XO to do the same. You're going to need it."
Ian acknowledged with a nod, and made his way out.
Walking back to the T.C.U., Ian attempted to make sense of his situation. His meeting with Bethany had provided few answers, as well as raising additional questions. The fact that he was still awaiting his command staff was not unusual, the severity of enemy attacks further along the border had put a strain on available manpower, and delays in transit while assignments were shifted and personnel were re-routed to fill the gaps were not uncommon, even though a fortnight was pushing it a little.
The matter of the supply shortage, on the other hand, was rather more serious, and unusual. Considering the relatively high priority of the Fort Sunderland installation, as well as its attached objective, to explain away the military equipment shortage to a procedural error became nothing short of ridiculous, and yet it was an excuse which could be easily backed up with evidence, doctored or otherwise, if the need arose. And so assuming that it wasn't a mistake but rather done deliberately, and with forethought, what would be the purpose, wondered Ian. What would be the purpose of covertly building a base within arm's length of the enemy border, with such speed as to challenge the current standing Confederacy construction records, and then fail to properly equip it's military with barely more than the most fundamental requirements?
Up to a certain point, supply shortages throughout the border regions due to the enemy's harrying attacks, could explain the lack of equipment, but only up to a point. No CMC gear, the almost archaic selection of weaponry in the base's armoury, and the continuing lack of any stellar craft whatsoever to provide orbital cover, these things were all past that point. For one reason or another, supplies and military resources were being kept away from Fort Sunderland. And with a communications blackout in effect, Ian had no way of contacting his commanding officers to find out why.
Whatever the reason was, he still had only one choice open to him. The same choice he had always had, and taken. To follow orders. Blind faith in your superiors may have been enough for Bethany, thought Ian, but as a soldier, he wasn't allowed such an indulgence. He had orders, and faith didn't come into it. He was a confederate marine, and his loyalty could not be questioned, but the moment he started to believe in the Confederacy as some benevolent force, which was safeguarding all of it's citizens, would be the moment when he would have to ignore all of the past acts of horror and despotism that the Confederacy had committed, and he wasn't willing to do that. They weren't perfect, not by a long shot, but in Ian's mind they were still the best chance that they had, the best chance for peace, the best chance for unity amongst the colonies, and perhaps the only chance against the great enemy that threatened to consume the Terran civilisation, and forever stamp it out of existence. There were no such things as faith, or hope, not for Ian. For him, there were only orders.
Entering the T.C.U., Ian gave a quick glance over the display screens, and then walked around to the command chair. O'Hanlan stood in the same spot where Ian had left him, stood with feet shoulder length apart, his hands behind his back. Upon seeing Ian, he stepped forward, awaiting orders. Ian activated his command console, and sent a batch of classified ComSat survey and personnel files to the memory bank of the terminal in his room. He had decided to take Bethany's advice, although he felt that it would be prudent to keep any relevant tactical data for the next day fresh in his memory, before he retired for the night. After deactivating his chair console, he turned to his aide.
"I'm going to my quarters, I won't be needing you further today. Dismissed."
O'Hanlan saluted, and then exited the T.C.U. to return to his secondary duties. Ian had been quietly impressed with O'Hanlan's sense of discipline and formality. Whether it was his true manner, or whether he had been warned that a fussy, toffee-nosed Brit was taking over command, and had been coached to act according, Ian hadn't bothered to fathom, but regardless, he found himself thinking well of the boy, and wondered if that apparent discipline would hold up under duress. Ian himself had never been assigned as an aide to a superior officer, and while he wasn't entirely convinced of the usefulness of a tactical commander's aide, who possessed little command authority, and was essentially there to run errands, he was aware that many younger officers saw it as a valuable opportunity to glean command experience, no matter how insubstantial. He wondered briefly to himself what O'Hanlan would learn before this assignment was over.
Stepping down off the command platform, Ian walked through into the dim corridor at the rear of the T.C.U. Passing by the doors to the other officers' rooms, he came to the end of the passage. Another security keypad beside the door to his quarters accepted his access code, and as he walked in, he noticed that there was no nameplate on the front of his door. Perhaps for Kirkland's benefit, Ian thought to himself.
The room itself was clean, and small but with enough space to move comfortably. A separate bathroom led off the west side of the quarters, and the bedroom off the east. A round glass table sat in the centre of the room with a computer terminal, and an intercom view-screen was set into the northern wall. His pack lay perched on one of the chairs around the table.
After unpacking his gear and clothing, Ian sat at the table, and activated his terminal, opening the files that he had transferred from the TacCon. It was now late in the afternoon, perhaps another four hours until nightfall. Having put aside any thoughts regarding his current predicament, over the next hour Ian read through the tactical data surrounding the resource objective. Like most brigade commanders, he had been trained to prepare for any eventuality, and adapting his approach to accommodate the substandard equipment that his brigade would be using was chief amongst these preparations.
After finishing, he made up a rough itinerary for the next day. Meeting with the Commanders of the other two brigades was going to have to be first. Ideally, he would have gotten it out of the way today, but Ian felt that the day had already exacted a heavy toll, and that it was best left until tomorrow. Even though the day had seen no rounds of ammunition spent, and no soldiers lose their lives, Ian felt a strange weariness, which he had never felt on the battlefield, although he had experienced it before. A feeling of emptiness sucked at him from deep inside, and his mind drew back to the yawning gulf, which lay within him, of which no one knew but himself. It was not disillusionment, or if it was, then it wasn't the whole of it. Nor was it simply loneliness, or apathy. Whatever it was, it was greater than the sum of its parts, and it gnawed at him relentlessly. He had felt it many times in the recent past, coming seemingly from nowhere. Where before there was certainty and rigid discipline, now doubt crept through him, yet he pushed it firmly down, as had done in the past, until he was himself once more. The feeling was still there, albeit hidden, however, and most likely could not be resolved by simply suppressing it. Though now that it was suppressed, Ian felt somewhat more settled about the day ahead.
Once again, an odd feeling, an instinct of dread was there, left behind when his other feelings had been pressed down. Deciding that nothing further could be done today, instincts or no, Ian got up and walked over to his room's viewscreen. Activating it, he opened a link to the adjutant, whose face promptly flickered into view.
"Locate Sergeant Lorraine Sheppard"
The Adjutant's eyes closed, while around its head, dull flashes of blue light illuminated the computer-generated background, a dark network of cables and gears.
"Working. The internal surveillance network has located Sergeant Sheppard in the engineering bay. Do you wish her to be contacted?"
"Yes."
"Working."
Communication terminals were placed in almost every section of every building in Fort Sunderland, and together with the arrangement of internal security cameras, which could be accessed at any time by the Adjutant, gave it the ability to find and communicate with a given person in almost any part of the base. Ian waited while the Adjutant contacted Sheppard by means of a localised announcement.
"Sergeant Sheppard has been contacted and directed to the nearest communications terminal. Please hold if you require further assistance."
Ian deactivated the adjutant at his terminal, and after waiting for a few seconds, an incoming message was indicated. Accepting the call, Sgt. Sheppard appeared, while in the background, one of the engineering workshops was in its usual state of commotion.
"Report."
"Sir, I've found someone in engineering who's got a few ideas, but he's tied up with another assignment. They're having some sort of trouble with the shuttle tubes around one of the supply depots. He…"
"Put him on" interrupted Ian.
Sgt. Sheppard glanced around, before disappearing off to the left. A few seconds later, a rather mousy looking engineer with short, greasy hair, and oil streaked across his forehead stepped into view, wiping his hands with a strip of cloth. He stared inquisitively back at Ian.
"Yes, sir?"
"Name and rank."
"Engineer 2nd class Kith Sajan sir."
"I want you to transfer your effort to the assignment that Sergeant Sheppard has just outlined to you."
"Sir, I can get it done for you, but I've got a job order to work through. I can get onto it in two days when everything else is out of the wa-"
"I want it done by 0800 tomorrow." Said Ian unyieldingly.
A stunned expression flashed across Sajan's face.
"Sir, a job like that'll take at least a couple of days. We'd have to bring the armed marines off duty in groups to come in and get their weapons adjusted, we couldn't do them all at once. And there's, well, I don't know how many C-19's we're talking about here, but I'm telling you, we're not gonna be able to get it done by tomorrow."
Ian had no desire to debate the logistics of how it would be possible to accomplish this task; all he knew was that he needed it done.
"Consider this a direct order from the Tactical Commander. I want those weapons properly outfitted for use by 0800 hours tomorrow morning. Lives could well be at stake. Yours included. Do whatever you have to do to make it happen, but get it done. Understand?"
Sajan stood paused for a moment, squinting through the communications terminal, before nodding grudgingly. Wiping his brow, he then walked off, while Sgt. Sheppard stepped back into view.
"Sir, 0800 tomorrow?"
"I've changed the schedule, I think it's best to move as soon as possible."
Sheppard nodded in agreement.
"Yes sir."
"Have the men ready by 0700 hours. If all goes well, we should be able to move by 0900."
"Understood, sir."
"All right, that's it for today. Mrs. Rigg advises both of us taking an early night."
"Sounds like good advice, sir."
"Yes well, feel free to disregard it, if you wish, but I think I'm going to take it." Said Ian, feeling like an old relic.
"Yes sir. Sir?"
"What is it?"
"What if Sajan can't finish by tomorrow?
Ian sighed.
"Well, he should have done at least some of them by then; that'll be better than nothing. But he will finish, I believe I made the importance of the assignment clear to him. If those weapons start to lock up because of the sand, and we run into trouble…It'll be messy, to say the least."
"Yes sir." Agreed Sergeant Sheppard, grimly.
"In any case," Ian attempted to find an encouraging word or two.
"We'll see what happens."
"Yes, sir. Sir, if it's alright, I thought I might pass by the barracks and check in on the men, see how they're getting on."
Although Ian had spent more time in command of the Spider Monkeys than of any other brigade, even more time than he himself had spent serving in any brigade, he knew them only sparsely. He had rarely spent the quality of time with them as Sergeant Sheppard had done; to him they were merely thirty-four men and women whose sole function was to follow orders. In his mind, any interaction beyond that was redundant. At the same time, however, he appreciated the value of Sheppard's interaction with them, keeping them alert and confident, and making sure that any problems within the unit were discovered and dealt with quickly. In many ways, she was his link to the Spider Monkeys, acting as counsellor and confidant to them where he could not.
"Yes, yes of course. Good night, Sergeant."
"Good night, sir."
Lorraine Sheppard's face blinked out, and was replaced by the revolving logo of the Confederacy Communication Service, glowing dimly against the black lustre of the viewscreen. After undressing into his bedclothes, just a thin vest and a loose pair of tracksuit bottoms, he walked through into the bathroom. Splashing cold water onto his face and neck, Ian stared into the mirror in front of him. It was a worn face, and lean, his dark chestnut hair, always kept short, formed wet spikes as he ran his hands through it. He rested his elbows on the basin and leant forward, touching foreheads with his reflection. For a few seconds he stood there, hunched over, and as he stood, he tried to tie his thoughts together.
Too much feeling, he thought to himself.
There was a time, perhaps not so long ago, when he was a glorious soldier, not in the sense of being a hero, but that he was content. Simply content with the role he had to play. Although life had never been easy, it had at least been straightforward, and he had lived through it logically, and dispassionately, as if he were some wondrous robot in a man's body, showing no weakness, no remorse, and no regret. But now, today, there was too much feeling. Of what kind, he wasn't sure, and what it meant, he didn't know, but it was too much.
Ian got up and wiped his face, and then after turning off the lights in his room, he lay down onto his bed, the covers underneath him, and closed his eyes.