Chapter 5- "Inherit the Stars"
Jared Panocha actually found it difficult to keep a poker face on the journey to the spaceport. Solrennen, the planetary capitol and home of Soliven's largest spaceport, also happened to be closer to Tanner's Barn than any other city with a spaceport. By Matthew's own admission, the lad had never been to Solrennen in his memory, and Jared could almost taste the excitement his future captain's words were packed with. Matthew had tried to "play it cool," pretending he was simply "interested," as opposed to downright thrilled, but Jared's ear knew tonal inflections better than most people knew his or her own face—this knowledge had proven a great boon in calling business bluffs—and the forty-five year old man found himself sharing in the excitement of discovery. Like watching your own child look at the stars or the first time. Only I can't watch.
Tracker I was still in Tanner's Barn when Jared, Sheriff Borgerund and Matthew had arrived, along with one of the Dagger's marine corporals, who had been detailed to chauffer Jared and—with luck—the new commanding officer of the Obsidian Daggers. Introductions had gone smoothly, if a little heavy on the military formality, and Jared was pleased that at least one of the enlisted men was okay with this transition in leadership. Pleasantries out of the way, the rancher had bid his farewell to the sheriff, and stepped into the vehicle. He had surprised Jared, however, when he had tapped the driver on the shoulder, and asked him to "make a little detour." Something about an "old friend."
The detour had been made, and Matthew stepped out for about ten minutes, give or take. Jared had no idea what his boss-to-be had done, in those few minutes, but further conversation with the boy showed him to be in a much happier mood. The political officer had merely shrugged, and was glad to hear Matthew sounding so pleased. It certainly made for a more talkative ride to the Capitol, though there were still long stretches of silence.
Two hours later, the military hovercar had reached the outskirts of the city; Jared knew things were definitely going the way he had willed them to go.
Where are they? Gail glanced at her watch, yet again. The mapping software had put the drive time at just over two hours, and she knew that Tracker I didn't exactly crawl, either. It had been twelve hours since Lancer 3rd Class Ylaran and Lieutenant commander Panocha had made for whatever rodeo this Matt Sarray kid was supposed to live at. Funny—his name almost sounds like Matt "Sorry." I sure hope he's got something redeeming about him.
The sun had long since passed its apex, and had taken an unusually quick slide down the other side of the sky (Soliven, she had learned, only had a 21-hour day) before fading into twilight behind the horizon, lighting up the sky with a brilliant palette of evening colours. Gail, for one, was glad she could even see the star Celus, when the evening had come, since most of day had been shrouded in dense, intermittent rain. She had initially sequestered herself in the main terminal of the spaceport, though the drag of time had led her to begin wander about the place. It bothered her that she would feel any need to wander. Patience was part of being an effective soldier, and twelve hours wasn't really all that long. She wasn't exactly curious about the world Soliven, either. But wander she did, and wonder she did at her wanderlust.
Her meanderings had taken her all over the spaceport, and even out to the launching platform that had been assigned to the dropship that had brought her planetside. She acted as if she were performing a routine pre-launch inspection (though a thorough one would have been conducted just prior to launch, anyway), and then made her way back to the terminal. Aimlessly walking its halls, she had come across a cute little café, which was just quaint enough to appeal to her hidden "girly" side.
There were many things she'd never, openly admit about herself, and one of them was that she still appreciated her femininity, including finding things "cute" or "adorable." While she doubted anyone would have questioned such things, she was certain she'd lose respect among the crew if she were to ever really let her natural woman loose, and she wasn't sure she wanted to endure the snickers and jokes about "too many pair of shoes," or about "whether or not her new blouse matched her eyes." This was not to say she had no fashion sense, merely that being in charge of a military unit left no time for prancing and giggling. Even her hair had been bobbed to just above her collar, though she had managed to work it into something that, while still functional, was attractive. Makeup, however, was completely out of the question. Looks had no bearing on command ability, and the time spent in "putting on one's face" could easily serve much better purposes on a warship. Nonetheless, a small, dark piece of her mind stored all the information that mentally differentiated females from males.
When she had first entered the café, she had purveyed the menu, seen nothing of interest, and left to roam the tarmac again for another hour or two. The earlier rain, while it had been somewhat annoying, had lent a tremendous freshness to the air. The spring evening was surprisingly warm. Gail found herself wishing she had at least worn another shirt under her "civilian camouflage," which consisted of a loose, gray sweatshirt with the Daggers' logo on the back, and a pair of baggy khaki pants that covered her beat up running shoes. Wish I could just lose the sweatshirt and feel a bit more of the breeze. At least his planet has something good about it. Where is this kid, anyway? I hope Jared's not joyriding with him, or something. I told him to come straight to the spaceport. They'd have contacted me if anything serious had happened.
Gail sighed, and turned her thoughts back to the wonderful ambience of the spaceport. She had noticed that, while Solrennen was a city of notable size, and while the spaceport was definitely large enough to count as an "interstellar" port, there was remarkably little traffic this evening. The midday had seen plenty of ships coming and going, but with the darkening sky came fewer vessels of any kind. She mentally discarded the trivia, and decided it was time to grab a bite to eat. Maybe I should just buzz Jared, first. She whipped out the small, handheld communicator, as she walked back toward the little eatery, and punched in the code to put her in touch with the Wildcard.
"Denniman here. What can I do for you, Captain?"
"Mister Denniman, I was wondering if you could patch me through to Commander Panocha?"
"Connecting now, sir. Connection established and secure. He's all yours."
"Thank you Mister Denniman," and with that, he signaled his connections termination.
"Commander? Mind giving me a little sitrep," she asked, using the old, military abbreviation for "situation report."
There was no answer. She repeated her question twice more before the voice of her political officer came across the channel.
"Apologies for the slow response, Sub-Captain. My comm unit Was tucked in a bag, and I had to fish it out."
Did he just call me "sub"-captain, she asked herself. "Fine, fine, Mister Panocha. Now, how about filling me in on why it is you're taking so long in getting here?"
Jared sounded unusually nervous as he answered, "Captain? May I contact you in a short while? I have some…things… I need to take care of, right at the moment, and they are rather pressing."
"What 'things'?"
"I will brief you later. Apologies. Panocha out." And with that, the line was cut.
"What in this galaxy is he doing? He didn't even tell me where he was," she muttered to herself. "I bet that kid's gone and done something stupid, like steal Tracker I, or something. Joy."
She shook her head, and looked up, just as she finished passing through the small, tree-adorned outdoor eating area attached to the café. She stepped through the door, and glanced around for a seat. Finding plenty, she opted to grab a stool at the bar, and get herself a bite to eat.
She had barely sat placed her order when she felt a pair of eyes focused on her. Sensing no malice, she kept her gaze intent on the counter in front of her, while she waited for her cup of givney to arrive. The host brought out the steaming cup of green liquid, and she huddled over it as a homeless man would huddle over a fire in the winter.
The eyes were still there.
I don't need this.
She continued to ignore the stare, and thanked the host when he placed her sandwich in front of her. She bit into it, and was just admiring its taste when someone sat down next to her. Here goes.
"Er, hey, um, miss? I couldn't help but notice you, and I was just wondering if maybe you and I could chat a bit, seeing as we're already eatin' together, and all. I mean, pretty ladies like you don't pop up every day. 'Specially around these parts."
For the love of a tree sonda. She rolled her eyes, but didn't so much as look at him. While she was certain she was putting out very strong "I'm not interested please leave me alone" vibes, he took her lack of a "no" to mean a "please continue kind sir," apparently. Gail put down the sandwich, and reached for the givney instead. She might need the rush to get her through this one.
"You know," he continued, sidling to the edge of his barstool, "I've never actually been to Solrennen before. But I've gotten to look around the place, see the sights, you know. I, um, noticed some really great looking restaurants over in the Parshall District, and I was wondering if, you know, we could, um… get something a little classier to eat? My treat?"
She sighed heavily and turned to look at him. He was nothing special, though she had to admit that he wasn't all that terrible to look at, either. Thick, coffee-coloured hair was literally flopped on top of a sunburned—but well-defined—face, and mud-brown eyes peered out at her from under moderately bushy eyebrows. The set of his jaw left no doubt he was probably a local, but at the same time, it wasn't slack, surprisingly enough. He was clad in a simple, pin-stripped plaid shirt, some work jeans, and some military-issue boots, and looked to be in his late teens, at best.
As he sat there, hunched over in her direction, she could also make out an innocent nervousness on his face, and she guessed he was a newby when it came to "hitting on chicks."
"I saw some, uh, really cool things, today, as I ran around this town—things loads cooler than anything 'round my place—and some of them really wowed me. But, um," and with that he edged rather dangerously into her personal space, "You're the best thing I've seen in as long as I can remember."
She gently set down the small mug of hot givney, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She grinned like a wolf in sheep's clothing and asked, "And just how many women do you take to dinner in an evening?"
The stranger flushed, and said, "Um, gee, gotta say you're the first one I've ever even asked, really."
Her smile tightened. "That's about what I thought," she said in a satisfied tone. "Look, junior, how about starting with the local girls first, huh? I bet they're nice and easy to su.cker."
The kid was taken aback, and worked his jaw for a few moments before he managed to get any words out. "Well, um, gee, miss, but you're really a looker, and I, uh, don't mean any harm. I mean… I just wanted, you know, to, um, eat and, uh, er…"
With veiled mockery in her eyes, and a dose of patronizing in her voice, she cut him off. "Go back to school, kid. Your mommy might be wondering where you are. It's not time for you to play with the big girls right now, okay?" With that, she patted him on the head the way one would pat a five-year old who was looking for reassurance, and then called over to the host for a "to-go" box and mug.
A minute later, with the hard-luck lover-boy still trying to stammer out some clever comeback, she thanked the host, dropped a credit on the counter, and walked back out to the dropship to await the much anticipated call from Jared, which was most likely one of the most important calls in her career; if this Sarray bum had screwed things up, her whole life, as she knew it, was about to take a dive down the toilet.
I can't believe I was such a moron! Matt slammed his head down on the plastic countertop. And I even got a kiss off Gerila! I couldn't even get dinner with this girl. What was I thinking, thinking I knew how to handle women. Gerila was probably just being nice because she knew she'd never have to see me again. I am such an idiot!
When he realized he had become lost in the spaceport, Matt had figured it was best to just stake out one spot, and stick there until Jared and Lancer Whatever His Name found him. Since he'd had no way of telling just how long he'd be lost, and since no information booths were recognizable, he decided that the best place to stay would be one with food. And so he had randomly followed a corridor until he noticed a sign, above one of the spaceport's many in-house shops, that read, "Chuck's Café and Grille." Feeling as if he could buy the whole place (after all, he had 500 million), he marched on in, trying not to act like the king he suddenly felt himself to be. Money aside, he was still feeling his oats from his brief—but memorable—visit to the home of the Crow's Nest evening barmaid. He'd looked her up in the local directory (she was one of those who actually had a telephone), asked her if he could drop by, and then had the merc take him to her place. While he was in and out in about ten minutes, he had laid his whole soul on the line, including the feelings he had for her, built up over the past several years of watching her at the bar.
She had seemed incredibly flattered, and then (much to his delight), very crestfallen when he said he had to leave immediately. Gerila (as he had finally learned her name to be), stood there, trembling slightly, and he had simply taken her in an embrace and kissed her deeply (if tonguelessly). And, wonder of wonders, she had returned the kiss.
Matt hated to leave his "new found love," but destiny urged him onward, and with a hasty promise that he'd be back to visit, and that he'd "keep in touch," he made his exit, and then bounded down the hall of her small apartment building, whooping for joy.
The trip to Soliven's seat of government passed as if in a dream. Somehow, even with Gerila on his mind, he'd manage to hold a conversation with Mister Panocha, and though he couldn't recall much of anything that was said, he remembered two things: first, that Jared definitely had a way with words, and secondly, that there was a slight, uncomfortable familiarity in the way Panocha had spoken with him—almost as if the merc had known Matt his entire life. It hadn't fazed the love-struck Matt at the time, but it managed to lodge in his mind just enough that some part of his brain marked it as important.
Somewhere in the mists of his mind, he had also caught the assurances that the Obsidian Daggers would take care of packing his personal effects and transferring them to the Wildcard, as well as some mention of someone handling the selling of his farm. But it all paled in comparison to the sudden freedom and power he found himself basking in. He had money, he had a ship, and he had (sort of) a girl of his own.
Matt was still riding high when the soaring skyline of Solrennen popped up out of the plain, as the hovercar crested the largest hill in the area. He'd never been more than an hour from Tanner's Barn, in memory, and while Solrennen was only twice that distance from the town, Matt felt as though he were entering a whole different world. Skyscrapers did just what their name said they should. Streets were wide, paved and busy, and traffic signals were everywhere.
Shops of a wider variety than Matt had ever thought possible lined street after street, and while Matt still felt a sense of urgency to get to his new life aboard his own starship, he allowed himself a bit of indulgence, and asked if he could tour the Capitol before heading off-world for what might be a very long time. Jared agreed readily, and their driver pulled over and called up a map of the city.
Roughly seven hours later, Matt, who was "all toured-out", announced it was time to "get down to business." The trio had made its way to the spaceport. As the flat desert of black pavement came into view, Matt's jaw hung agape as he stared in awe at the sheer size of the Amassa Memorial Interstellar Spaceport —the first spaceport he'd ever seen, aside from what the vids showed. Clueless as to which ships were which, he was dumbfounded at the gargantuan size of the two-score ships parked either in cavernous hangars or on launching pads the size of his ranch.
He marveled at the plethora of paint schemes that gleamed dully in the fading sunlight, and was stunned to see as many different company markings as there were ships.
Many of the ships had weapon mounts, which really got the young mans' heart thumping, as he considered that he, "Captain" Matthew Sarray, might just one day find himself living a drama, locked in mortal combat in the vast depths of space.
When a ship actually did a low fly right over the hovercar, Matt cranked down the window as fast as the mechanism would go, and gazed up with undivided attention, stupefied as how such a behemoth could manage so graceful flight as this ship was conducting.
His pleasant shock was enough to banish even the most pleasant of thoughts about Gerila. And it had been enough to cause him to lose track of his chaperones, once inside the terminal. And so he had found himself passing an hour in "Chuck's," munching absently on the house special, mind ablur with too many thoughts of too grand a scale for him to even begin to process, when…she appeared.
Matt wasn't sure exactly what had made him look up at when he had, but he immediately knew he'd never regret it. Lost in a vision, he ignored the few, annoyed glances he got when he dropped his food on his plate, with a clatter. She…was…perfect. Even before he could make out any facial features, he could just feel a presence—almost an aura—about her. In fact, silhouetted as she was by the dying sunset, she looked to have more of a halo than the Taenarians were fabled to have.
As she stepped into the soft light of the café, her face was finally unmasked. Birds sang, trumpets blared, choirs sang, and crowds cheered.
By…the…Taenarians… was all he could think. His eyes caressed her short, strawberry-blonde hair. His heart leapt at the sparkle in her emerald eyes, set like jewels just above her perfect cheekbones. The woman's face was so strikingly beautiful that he wondered how anything could be that lovely. Her figure, unfortunately, was too well covered for his immediate fantasy, and Matt had to mentally chide himself for unthinkingly undressing her with his eyes. But he knew that she must be a slender slip of a female, and was certain that the rest of her body matched the face.
And then she sat down just four stools away. Life…was…perfect.
It had taken a few moments to recover from the initial wave of emotion, but Matt, having found himself recently very victorious in the arena of getting females, stepped into this new ring, and metaphorically "put on his gloves." Sorry Gerila. Hope you don't take this personally. Besides, it wasn't as though we were actually together, or anything.
Putting on as smooth an air as he could muster, he made his move.
It hadn't taken her four minutes to take his perfect, unbreakable world of bliss and power, and blast it into more pieces than there were stars in the sky. And just as quickly as she had walked in, she was gone, leaving him stammering like a drunken idiot amidst stifled chuckles and pained looks of sympathy from some of the other males, host included.
"Mister Sarray, Sir! So glad we found you!" The voice wasn't all that familiar, but his called name grabbed his attention and began, slowly, to haul him out of his new well of misery. Matt looked around to see who had spoken, and noticed Lieutenant Commander Panocha standing just outside the café, while the Kitaran marine that had driven them around town, was coming toward him, looking somewhat stricken.
"Mister Sarray, sir? How long have you been here? We've searched the better part of this facility, trying to find you. I must say that the Commander is not amused; in fact, I don't think I've ever seen him this worried before."
"Huh? What?" Matt sat back on his stool and blinked at the felinoid mercenary. His brain was still tangle in the shattered mess that was a five-minutes Utopia, but the Kitaran appeared to be someone he felt should probably recognize. "Um, I know you, don't I?"
The other man nodded quickly. "Lancer third class Ylaran, sir, at your command."
Matt returned the nod automatically, and then stepped off the stool. "I, um, you're one of, um, them, right?"
"The Daggers, sir? Yessir."
"So," Matt added, slowly, casting a longing look at the back door at the restaurant, "You, um, want me to come with you, right?"
"Yessir. Sir, might I speak freely," the Lancer asked, face revealing nothing in the way of emotion.
Matt waved a "yes," and the shorter being continued. "Are you…alright, Mister Sarray?"
Matt looked back at the Kitaran as if at a blank wall, and blinked twice more. "Um, yeah. Sorry. I'm just…distracted." He thought he heard the Kitaran mutter something that vaguely sounded like "obviously," but let it go without a thought. "So, then, um, let's go."
"Right this way, sir." Matt allowed himself to be led by his charge back to Commander Panocha, who was already speaking into a palm-sized communicator.
Matt had no idea of how much time it had actually taken to reach the berth that cradled the dropship he was told would be their ride to the orbiting port. But then, he really didn't care, either. By now, night had fully settled in, and only the dim lights around the launch pad lent any illumination to the moderately-sized aerodyne craft. Smashed ego and low light aside, Matt found another wave of emotion building inside him as the realization that he was actually going into space dawned on him. The day had certainly been a day of red-letter "firsts." Not only had he gotten to see the Capitol, but now, he was getting to see his whole planet in a way only space travel would allow.
A brief concern about lack of training raised its head, but Matt quelled it (and his disappointment at having failed to snag a vision of a woman) with renewed thoughts of excitement. Now that he was at liberty to roam the stars, he was positive he'd be able to find other women that equaled—or even surpassed—the beauty he had seen in "Chuck's." If nothing else, he had statistics on his side.
The black hovercar of the Obsidian Daggers came to a gentle stop, just behind the drop shuttle, and through his open window, Matt could already feel the heat emanating from the main thruster ports on the tail end of the shuttle. Is this… it is! It's a Gerard and Lund Mark VI all-purpose landing craft! These things are top-of-the-line! I get to ride one of these?! Sweet! He chuckled as he realized that all his "peeping" at the various space-going vessels contained in his "Starships Today" magazine had actually paid off. The recognition of the Mark VI was almost automatic, and his mind reeled off sundry specifications, including details about probable powerplants, thrust ratings, maneuverability, armament, etc.
Matt turned to face the area the magazine had shown as the location of the retractable landing ramp, and, as if commanded by that very act, a large, square portion of the ship split from the main body of the shuttle with a hiss, and the edge nearest the aft swiveled down to greet the concrete pad.
Blue light flooded from the interior of the ship, but its pallor was easy to adjust to, and Matt knew that blue lighting was preferred at night and during combat, for just that reason. Weak lighting aside, Matt could still make out many of the features of the ship with ease. He took stock of the small arms latched to the walls behind the simple dropseats lining the bulkhead. He noticed several storage lockers just beyond the seats on his left, and a bin marked "vehicle spare parts" a short shift past the seats on the right side of the ship.
He went on cataloguing the sights as the hovercar glided languidly up the ramp, thrill after thrill greeting his eyes. He recalled that the military had been known to use dropships such as this one for hauling entire platoons of troops, along with some supporting vehicles, and was amazed to actually see that the Mark VI was, indeed, large enough to fit several small hovercars, or perhaps even a full-sized battle tank.
"Well, Matthew, we're here. This is the dropship ODS Plunging Brick, and she's fast enough to get us to the station in just over an hour." Even as Panocha was speaking, Matt could see him undoing the expanded restraints that held him secure inside the dark vehicle. The Kitaran was doing the same, and Matt hurriedly followed suit.
Once outside the hovercar, Panocha called across to Matt, "We don't have much time for formal introductions, here on the planet, but we'll try to arrange something on the Wildcard, if that's alright with you." Matt noticed the floor begin to rise underneath him, and had to catch his balance before replying.
"Sure thing. Whatever works. I'm still new at this, so I'll just let you take care of it." He found himself having to raise his voice considerably, as the deck of the ship rumbled with the thunder of thrusters roaring to life. The cargo/troop ramp had been almost entirely secured, and automated clamps had locked the hovercar to the deck.
"We best get to the command center and get strapped in. Doesn't look like Watchman Kardon wants to wait for us." Matt nodded at the blind man, and started for the lift shaft, keeping step behind Lancer Ylaran.
The ship was airborne by the time the doors of the lift whooshed open at the rear of the dropship's small "bridge". Matt was pointed to a relatively comfortable looking seat, and almost bodily threw himself into it, hands grasping for the safety harness. The dropship hit flight altitude within moments of lift-off, and Matt listened intently to the radio chatter between the pilot and spaceport ground control. It occurred to him, just then, that not only was this his first time in space, it was his first time flying, even, and his stomach pounded that idea home as the shuttle reached the end of the "limited speed zone," at which point it suddenly lurched up and ahead, racing for the stars, it's "take-off" drives kicking into violent life.
While Matt was glad he was facing forward, and while he enjoyed the view out of the c0ckpit viewport, he had to shut his eyes to keep them from feeling as though they were going to be squished like grapes. Five-gees of acceleration had sandwiched him back into his seat, and his face felt as though the skin would be torn clean off, any moment.
Blood pooled in his rearmost areas, and he struggled to breathe, fighting what felt like a two-ton weight that was set squarely on his torso. Any thoughts of love, adventure, or excitement were blasted by the notion that his first trip into space might just be the death of him. For 15 agonizing minutes, the dropship burned hard away from the planet Matt had called "home" since before he could rightly recall (he knew from his grandfather, that he had come to Soliven at age 3), and Matt found himself invoking whatever powers may be, for his life.
Just as Matt was ready to surrender to the titanic forces of lift-off, the ship's speed curve leveled off, and the giant hand that had been crushing him let off noticeably. That didn't stop the shaking, though, and now that his stomach and esophagus could expand, once more, he involuntarily shared "Chuck's special-of-the-day" with the wall next to him. But he was both too relieved and too pre-occupied to care about the mess.
Eventually, the ship easily poked its way through Soliven's atmosphere, and, after a series of course-correcting vector thrusts, Matt found not only the weight of lift-off gone, but also any and all pretenses of gravity. Lieutenant Commander Panocha, who had obviously experienced these kinds of events (as he seemed to have handled his greater bulk with even greater control), unfastened the straps that held him to his flight couch. Two or three others were also free-floating, now, including Ylaran, who was floating toward the space-virgin rancher. His life no longer appearing to be on the brink of death, Matt's sense of propriety kicked in, and he blushed at the vomit that was now starting to clump and drift around the cabin in odd, undulating spheres.
Ylaran produced a small device from a storage locker next to Matt, and activated it, sucking in a nearby wad of lost lunch. Matt watched the Kitaran gracefully chase down and clean up all his mess, after which he wordlessly returned to his side, and nodded in the direction of the rear of the bridge. Matt correctly assumed he was being directed to the toilets.
Rather than waiting for the young man to find his space legs and figure out how to maneuver in zero-g, the marine simply wrapped his arms around Matt's torso, and slowly, but steadily, kicked off from a wall. Matt nearly lost it a second time, but managed to make it to the washroom, and endure the hasty but informative instructions on how to use the facilities, before emptying the remainder of his stomach's contents.
As he hung in space, feeling ready to pass out and die (or at least, something similar, if not as dramatic), Ylaran shared a sympathetic smile. "Happens to all of us, sir, our first time up. That kind of acceleration takes some real getting used to. I hope you're alright, sir."
Matt nodded weakly. "Thanks, Ylaran. Um, what should I call you, anyway?"
"Lancer third Class Ylaran, sir, will work just fine. Or, sir, simply 'Ylaran.' I'm just one of the marines, if you'll recall, sir."
"No given name, like, 'Mike,' or 'Bob,' or 'Wantango,' or something?"
"No sir. We marines go by clan names—surnames, sir. It's just the way it is."
"So… can you tell me your given name, or is that not allowed?"
"My parents gave me the name 'Fyrana,' sir. If you would prefer to call me by that name, it is your right."
Matt was too weak to argue, and waved away the notion of using a different name. "Nah. I know you as 'Ylaran,' and that's just fine. Thank you for you help. By the way, I've never met a Kitaran before today. You do your race proud, Ylaran'."
Matt caught the hidden note of pride as the Lancer smartly saluted, and said, "Sir, I do my best, sir."
Matt saluted back, and realized that it felt good to pay dues to this military man in a military manner.
"Enjoying your trip, son," broke in the basso voice of Jared Panocha, who was now hovering just to the side of the washroom.
"It is too late to ask to go home," Matt asked, grinning sheepishly. Jared and Matt shared a chuckle.
"Come with me, Matthew. Lancer Ylaran and I will show you around the ship. It won't be quite the 'grand tour' you'll get when we reach the 'Card, but it's a start, and I have a feeling you'll appreciate it."
Matt nodded vigourously. "You have no idea! Where do we start?"
"How about right here," Jared asked, sweeping an arm behind him.
"Sure. Can I check out the controls?"
"'Fraid not, sir," the pilot said, answering for Jared. "With all due respect, Commander Silvestri and I are a bit busy, though I'll be glad to show you later."
"Thanks. I'll take you up on that," Matt replied. He turned back to Jared, and in a hushed voice asked, "Commander Silvestri? Who's that?" A hand quickly appeared over the top of one of the high-backed pilot's chairs, disappearing just as abruptly. Matt's eyes caught the motion, and he noted that whoever had waved, had no problems with their hearing.
"Commander Gail Silvestri, a.k.a. Sub-captain Silvestri, a.k.a. Captain Silvestri, until now, is the second in command of this whole company. She was your uncle's personal adjutant before his death, and she'll be your right hand too, now that you're assuming command. Unless, of course, you'd rather appoint someone you're more familiar with. It is your right."
"You mean I can choose you as my second-in-command?" Jared's head signaled an affirmative, and Matt hastily added, "Then I chose you as…"
"Not so fast, please, Matthew," Jared said, cutting the younger man off. "First, you're not even officially in command. At least, not as far as the bureau is concerned. We need to register you with them, by the way."
"'Bureau'," Matt asked, arching an eyebrow.
"The Bureau of Mercenary Affairs and Business, more commonly called 'BMAB,' since it's short. Anyway, as I was saying—and as I guess I should also say—things around here are a team effort. You will be assuming command, but don't fool yourself into thinking that you are the supreme ruler of the unit, or you'll find yourself without a unit in no time flat." Matt licked his lips and nodded in agreement.
"How about you and I step into the corridor for a moment. Lancer? Meet us in the main bay. We'll be down briefly." The Marine saluted crisply, and made his way back to the lift.
Matt clumsily pushed, pulled, and bumped his way into the corridor, following the bulkier man's exit. His stomach was feeling better, and once he was out in the cramped corridor that ran alongside the bridge, he began experimenting with his fledgling abilities to "fly."
"See, Matthew," Jared resumed, "Gail is a skilled officer. She has been with the Daggers for four years now, and has more seniority than many of the enlisted men combined. I've been with the unit since 20147, about three years after it got going under your uncle. Anyway, that's a story for later.
"As I was saying, Commander—and she'll be resuming that title once you are registered and properly recognized as Captain—Silvestri knows her business, and she gets respect. I've seen—well, heard, anyway—how she handles herself in all manner of situations, and I'll tell you, I've seen monster dams that are more likely to crack under pressure than that woman. She's smart, she's tough and she's…" Jared's voice trailed off.
"She's…" Matt prodded.
"She's… nevermind. I shouldn't be saying those kind of things about a superior."
"If this I something I need to know, I want to hear it. Can I order you to tell me?"
"Technically, no. Not as of right now, anyway."
"How about just asking nicely? For the sake of my new job?"
Jared sighed and rubbed hand across his thick lips. "Do you promise not to let this information affect how you treat her?"
"Sure thing. I mean, I try not to be prejudiced. I'm sure she's nice and all, but honestly, if there's something that might mess with her being second-in-command, I'd like to know."
Jared's head went up and down, and he sucked in a small breath. "Although I've no eyes to see it, I've heard from plenty of the crew that Gail isn't terribly unattractive. Your uncle was a lonely man, Matthew, and he never managed to marry. His need for…female companionship was still there, though and…"
"He slept with her?" Matt couldn't believe what he was hearing. Skill aside, he was not about to have an officer under him that was willing to sell themselves like that, just for sake of gaining rank or power. Then and there, Captain Matthew Sarray set his mind that he would not allow himself any interest in this wench that used her body to rise to the top of the Obsidian Dagger's command structure.
It was Panocha's turn to lick his lips. "I'm not saying that, Matthew. What I am saying is that your uncle Sterling's judgment may have been…coloured… by her. She has done a satisfactory job, but—and please don't take this the wrong way, either—she failed in her last attempt to negotiate a contract for us, leaving us jobless for a time. I think there's a reason your uncle chose me to be the political officer; without boasting, I've landed the Dagger's most of the jobs we've had, since coming on board.
"Gail's good, but there were times I wondered how much of your uncle's desire to have a woman close at his side had factored in to her appointment as his 'personal' adjutant."
"That's it, then. I'm choosing you as my…"
Jared held up his hand, cutting Matt off yet again. "Matthew, consider that there are just the two of us in this hall. Who's to say I can't just walk onto that bridge and tell everyone I now outrank them, and that I wouldn't simply be lying to them?"
"I'll tell them. Right now, even," and he started back for the door.
"Matthew, no! Put this in writing. If you really do want me as your first officer, let's make this official; do it over your signature, and in a way that even BMAB can't deny."
Matt found himself agreeing. "You're right, you're right. Let's make this something official. And as soon as we're on the Wildcard, I'll make the announcement about the change, and you will get the spot I'm guessing you should have had all along."
"Shall I keep this 'hush-hush,' Captain?"
"I like surprises, sure. I won't say anything before then, if you don't." Jared bowed his large head in agreement. "Now, where do we find those papers?"
"Right this way, Captain," Panocha said, pointing beyond himself.
And with that, they made their way to the small wardroom that graced the dropship.
"Commander Panocha? Could you please report to the bridge with Mister Sarray? We're on final approach to Port Soliven."
"On my way, sub-captain. Mr. Ylaran and I have just completed the tour of the ship. We'll be there shortly."
"Thank you Mister Panocha. Silvestri out."
Gail let out a breath, and turned to Watchman Kardon. "So, you think this kid will kill us? Feel free to speak freely, Watchman."
"Just because he ralphed on take-off? No, why?"
"I mean, the fact that he, apparently, hasn't even flown before, from his reaction to just getting in the air? I could be shooting in the dark, but I could hear someone racing to get buckled in. And I'm sure that wasn't Ylaran or Panocha."
"Do you always worry this much about your future commanders, Captain?"
"I've only ever had two, and Sterling Lanza was no newby at this."
"Point taken, Captain. Honestly, sir, I think we'll survive, even if our new commanding officer isn't all that settled into the saddle."
Gail chewed on her lower lip as she thought. "We really don't have any comprehensive data on this Sarray kid, do we, Watchman?"
The pilot hazarded a glance at his commanding officer. "Sir, I believe you would know more about what intelligence we have than I would, if you'll pardon me saying as much."
Gail just nodded. "Sorry, Watchman. I was thinking aloud, in the form of a question. You'll have to forgive me for being a bit…"
"Concerned, sir? Distracted?"
"Yes. That's it exactly." She turned to face the junior officer. He kept his face forward, alternating between looking at his instruments and looking at the stars. "How did you know?"
Watchman Kardon just smiled. "Sir, you are an excellent commander. I would expect nothing less that for you to be concerned about the people you're in charge of."
Gail had to unexpectedly fight a blush. "Um, thank you, Mister Kardon. It's nice to know that the crew has such a high opinion of me."
"Only the highest, sir."
"Meaning what?" She hadn't meant to sound snappish, but from the way Kardon flinched, she could tell that her desire to ferret out the truth behind the rumours that the crew thought she was attractive had bled through into her voice a bit much.
Kardon maintained a forward gaze, but it was clear that he had been taken aback. "I only mean to say, Captain, that you've proven your skill in combat and command, and that we've no reason to doubt you. I meant no offense, sir. We all respect and admire you, sir."
"So," Gail probed, "Are there any…other…reasons I seem to get this 'admiration', Mister?"
Now it was his face that flushed. He tugged just slightly on his collar and scratched at the back of his neck as he began to answer, "I'm sorry, Captain, but if you're trying to get me to make a certain point, then I'll have to admit I have entirely lost as to what it is. If there's something seriously bothering you, I'm willing to entertain a more direct question, sir."
Gail ran her tongue across her upper teeth, as she debated whether or not to just ask flat out. So lost in thought was she, that she missed the hissing sound that marked the opening of the lift door.
"Tell me, then, Watchman," she asked slowly, "Do you find me… attractive?"
Kardon's knuckles were white, as he gripped the control yoke, a drowning man clutching for a life preserver of any kind. His face oscillated between being bone white and crimson. She heard him swallow hard, and he stammered as he spoke. Gail felt a pang of guilt and an instant sympathy for the young Derivian.
"Um, er, I, well, sir…" he started. "With, um, all due respect, um, Captain, I, um…"
Gail jumped in and saved him from his misery. "Thank you, Watchman, that will be all. I was just… never mind. Perhaps we'll discuss this later."
"Um, yessir, Captain, sir. Later. No, um, rush, Captain."
Just then, the lift opened again, and Lieutenant Commander Panocha drifted in, along with Lancer Ylaran. Gail didn't bother to turn to watch them come in. She assumed the new captain was with them. Though part of her burned to find out just who it was she was trusting both her future and her life with, the shuttle was only minutes out of dock. And while Watchman Kardon was good enough to have brought them in without a problem, Gail had requested the position of co-pilot, for this "mission," since she had always enjoyed piloting, and since this trip was not "combat critical," as it were. Nonetheless, she was intent on a flawless performance, even with something as seemingly mundane as just docking a dropship.
Might as well have fun, this trip. Feh, the only reason I even came along was in case Panocha ran the kid off again. I hate having to be a last resort.
An unexpected call pulled her out of her musings. "Captain Sarray? Ah, good. You managed to find your way back to the bridge." It was the voice of Lancer Ylaran. "I'm sorry to have detained the lieutenant commander like that, but I needed to discuss some requests for the quartermaster."
Wait a minute, Gail thought, Sarray was on the bridge this whole time? This is good. I can't believe I didn't hear him come in. Gail made to turn around and explain things to the kid, but Watchman Kardon demanded her attention right then.
"Captain Silvestri, ma'am, I mean, er, sir? I'm showing a bit of skew in the ship's attitude indicators that doesn't match with the visuals. Can you, um, confirm that, sir?"
Gotta nip this one in the bud, but I guess it'll have to be after we dock. Gail checked and double checked her instruments, determined that there was a minor glitch, and put a note into the computer to have the techs take a look at it. By now, the port was looming large in the viewport, and the dry dock that held the Wildcard wasn't too far beyond it. Gail would need all her attention for docking since she had asked the Watchman to allow her a manual landing, "to keep the old skills honed."
"Strap yourselves in, people. We're about to make dock. ETA four minutes. "
Jared was right about her! Matthew's tour had been the cherry on top of a fabulous day (major downturn notwithstanding). Just as Jared was filling Matt in on the troop-carrying capacity of a Gerard and Lund Mark VI shuttle, a call had come from the bridge, instructing them to take up positions for docking. Lancer Ylaran had requested a moment of Panocha's time, and had given Matt the relatively simple directions back to the bridge. While it had taken him time (and given a few bruises in the process), Matt wrangled his way through "null-o" as it was often termed, and into the single, small lift.
He stepped onto the bridge just in time to hear Commander Silvestri attempting to seduce the pilot. When she terminated the discussion immediately thereafter, Matt assumed she had heard him come in, catching her red-handed. He opted to say nothing, and even beat back the urge to float over and confront her, face-to-face. Best not to argue in front of the lower ranked guys. Gotta let 'em see unity at the top of the chain. He grumbled to himself, but turned and silently floated for his seat.
Moments later, Jared and Ylaran joined him on the bridge, and after a quick banter, they were strapping in.
"Wildcard is on the dark side of the planet, Sir," Kardon said, out of nowhere. "Right now, she's not in the port's main dock, since she's slated for some repairs that ports just don't handle. In fact, sir, I might mention that we can essentially assume that ports don't repair ships—especially heavy cruisers like the 'Card—just in case you were wondering. Generally, they just don't have the facilities for it. We're lucky, though, since there's an independent "dry" dock that services vessels of almost all sizes, just past Port Soliven."
"Um, thanks," was all Matt could think to say. The entire day had been the largest, wildest roller-coaster he'd ever ridden. Things had started out sour, when Mark had come knocking at an annoyingly early hour (sleeping in was a rare luxury on all the farms and ranches Matt knew of), only to find that a blind guy that looked like a hired killer was on his doorstep, and that after a harrowing night that ended in a car chase. Gonna need to buy Zren a new truck.
From there, he'd suddenly been given everything he could ever have hoped for and more. He was rich, he had a military-grade starship, he had his own mercenary unit at his beck and call. And he'd even gotten some "lip action" from the apple of his eye.
And if all of that hadn't been enough, he'd gotten a V.I.P.-quality tour of his planet's capitol city, a visit to the amazing spaceport, and, lastly, a ride on a G&L Mark VI drop shuttle. Yet there was more. In les time that he normally spent making breakfast, he would actually get to see and tour his new ship! A capital ship that was second in size to only the largest of warships out there. If only I hadn't screwed up that conversation with that… angel. By Shralla, she was gorgeous. Guess I still need some practice, then.
The dropship passed over the port, obscuring the young man's view of it. I guess I'll get to see it close up, some other time. In the distance, he could barely make out a large, skeletal shape, hovering in space. Looking for all the world like the rib cage of a fallen giant, its presence was betrayed only by a few, blinking red and green lights, with a few pinpricks of white light scattered around.
"Dry dock five-five-seven-zulu, this is ODS Plunging Brick. We are inbound on your position, and request permission to dock with ODS Wildcard."
Matt turned his ears back to the front of the craft. Here goes. I can't believe this is it! He strained against the chair's straps doing his best to lean forward for a better look. While the ominous black dock was growing quickly in size, Matt still could not discern his ship. His ship! Elation flooded him at the mere thought.
"This is the Dockmaster. We read you Plunging Brick. Hold your course and speed, and stand by for instructions."
"Plunging Brick copies, Dockmaster." Kardon switched the comm channel to standby, and addressed his new employer again. "Right now, sir, the dockmaster is going through standard docking security protocols. See, we could be anyone, so to guard against unauthorized docking, he's getting the 'Card's current commanding officer—that'd be Lieutenant Denniman at the moment—and making sure he's expecting us. Next the dockmaster will run some checks and scans, to make sure we are who we say we are. We'll be asked to transmit a password to him, which he'll also check, before sending it to the 'Card.
"When everything checks out, they'll give us a docking vector, and we'll be as good as home."
"Seems a bit too complicated, this 'protocol' stuff. Why can't we just fly in and dock with the Wildcard? I mean it's our ship, right?"?
"Yessir, she is. But when you first get a terrorist group sneaking aboard your ship in an attempt to steal her or blow her to pieces before she even leaves port, you'll start appreciating the protocol quite a bit more."
Matt made to ask if such a thing had ever happened to the Wildcard, but was interrupted by the crackling voice of the dockmaster. "Plunging Brick, we have confirmation of your expectation. Requesting password now."
The password was sent, the checks completed, and the clearance to dock given. Gail inputted the vectors in the computer, and Matt could see the fringes of a holographic HUD that was now floating in front of the pilots.
"Mister Kardon," sang Gail Silvestri's voice. "I have the wheel."
"Aye, sir. Captain has the wheel."
That voice… I've heard that voice somewhere before. Before he could puzzle out the origin of the rich, alto tones of his soon-to-be aide (Jared had convinced Matt to retain her as at least an adjutant, out of respect for her previous position, even if Jared was assuming the title "first officer"), she spoke again.
"Wildcard, this is Plunging Brick. We've nabbed some booty, and we're coming home."
Matt blinked at her slang, but had no time to wonder. "Plunging Brick, this is the 'Card. Nice to see you again. Shuttle bay three awaits to receive you."
"Roger, Wildcard." Matt heard a key stroke as Gail switched channels. "Dockmaster, this is Plunging Brick. Requesting lighting on ODS Wildcard."
"Request received Plunging Brick. We'll light her up for you."
And then it happened. Row after row of floodlights the size of the Brick's bridge flared to life in a sequential procession. Matt gaped as the parade of light tracked a long, bright course down the length of his new ship. All 637 jet-black metres of it.
"By Shralla," he whispered. "That's a frellin' Pechanga class heavy cruiser. No… way. No. Way." Gun turrets the size of heavy freight trucks jutted out along the length of the monster. A half-dozen holes that looked large enough to swallow the dropship were also arranged on three, separate turrets, and Matt knew immediately that the ship had been upgraded. A stock Pechanga only has four missile ports. This one has six. That's a flat fifty-percent more firepower, right there! That'd put it on par with a stock battleship, numbers-wise.
The superstructure reminded the ex-rancher of some of the large corporate buildings he had seen on his trip through Solrennen. A handful of thin, white strips and points on the massive protrusion marked what he could only assume to be windows, and even his more conservative guesses left him in awe of the sheer magnitude of the ship.
Matt noted that even though the Wildcard was only a few hundred metres away, and bathed by light, it was somewhat difficult to see. At first blush, Matt felt more as if he were simply looking at a dark "hole" that was floating in space. Only scattered running lights gave any, immediate delineation to the ship's outline. But the Pechanga class of warships was easy to recognize by its "split-hull" shape, and Matt knew he had just been handed more power than even 500 million credits could buy.
In seconds, the dropship was swinging under the lower decks of the cruiser's prow. Matt gaped as its ponderous, muscular bulk soared over him, a great, black bird of prey ignoring the gnat that the shuttle was. As the shuttle cleared the underside of the ship, it swung up and into a rolling turn, as it headed toward the aft quarters of the ship. Surprisingly informed eyes guessed the shuttle's speed to be somewhere around half a klick a minute. Even at that moderate speed, it took just under a minute before the stream of light that marked the open shuttle bay was adjacent to them.
Plunging Brick passed the bay, and made a wide, "one-eighty" to port. Right before the turn, however, the mammoth interstellar drives could be seen blocking the stars past the reinforced c0ckpit glass. They were nearly the size of the ships Matt had gawked at when he first saw Amassa Memorial.
The dropship made a sudden left turn, swinging it 90 degrees in under two seconds, and bringing it in line with the shuttle bay. Matt could see the twin strips of guide lights marching away from the mouth of the bay, as if beckoning the shuttle to come to them. The Brick's speed dropped to only a metre or two per second, and as the shuttle slid into the bay, Matt suddenly had an idea of what it was like to be swallowed whole. An unusual sense of claustrophobia sifted through his mind, but passed quickly.
At last, as if it had been a production 21 years in the making, the dropship's landing gear touched down on the deck. Only a moment later, as clamps reached out to grab the shuttle, the bright white lights of the bay cut out, replaced by deep red ones. "Please stay put for just a moment, Matthew," Jared said. "The bay needs to pressurize. Right now, you should see some red lights. When they go white again—that should take about fifteen seconds—we'll go on out and let you get to know the ODS Wildcard"
Matt's head bounced to indicate his understanding, and he caught himself wondering why he was nodding at a blind man. "Right. Gotcha. Thanks. Red means stop, white means go. I can handle that."
"Panocha? Kardon and I need to stay here until at least one of the tech's arrive. Do you mind getting this kid…I mean…Mister Sarray situated," Gail asked, a note in her voice that Matt couldn't quite figure out. Matt wondered why she hadn't even peeked out from behind the seat to make the request. I am sure I've heard that voice before. I just…blast. Can't think straight.
"Understood. Come, Matthew. I know you're probably burning to meet Commander Silvestri, but business is business, and we'll try to arrange something more formal, as I promised.
"Uh, formal. Right." The red lights went white once more, and Matt pulled off his harness. He followed his two escorts out of the dropship and then managed to drift over to the airlock they had aimed at.
Once inside the ship, Jared was led down a womb-like side corridor. Piping, wiring, and control panels crowded into what little personal space there was, and Matt was amazed that Jared could even begin to manage squeezing through it all. Squeeze through he did, and at an impressive pace, too, his cane whirlwinding in front of him, rebounding off this panel, or that bulkhead, allowing him to dodge with much more grace than he looked capable of. Not even a welcome mat? This wasn't exactly what I was hoping for. But then, Jared did say that I shouldn't expect much, right off the bat. At least this thing has artificial gravity.
Just as his thoughts were being soured by a measure of disappointment, a door slipped out of their way, and into the wall. "In here, Captain," Ylaran Said. Matt followed the Kitaran though the door, Jared having made his way past it first. Stepping into a massive, poorly lit room, Matt wondered if some sort of surprise party had been planned for him, and if the little run through the corridor had been a diversion to give Gail time to get here ahead of him. Instead, Ylaran tripped a switch that turned the lights blue, and then simply said, "Look," as he pointed to the far wall, twenty metres away.
Matt raised an eyebrow at the Kit, but turned his head anyway. And watched as the whole, 30-metre length of wall begin to drop out of sight beyond and below his feet. His first reaction was blind panic, as he noticed what appeared to be starlight, but he immediately dispelled the idea, reasoning that, if Panocha and Ylaran were trying to kill him, this was probably not the easiest way, especially given that they were in the room with him.
The farmboy brought his breathing under control, only to have it snatched away by the view before him. The Wildcard had seemed to define the word "gargantuan," but what he saw now was infinity incarnate. Tens of millions of stars filled the void. Nebulae hovered like misty angels, and galaxies spun like distant dancers. To his left, a small, blue, green and white ball hung silently in the cosmos. Soliven. By Shralla.
"Welcome to life in space, Matthew," Jared said. With a sweeping gesture of his arm, he added, "This is your inheritance."