Chapter 6- "Destiny's Doorsteps"
The polished fabric felt rough across her skin as Gail slipped the shirt on and began buttoning it up. The formal meeting of the new Captain and the crew was set to take place in just over half an hour; and Gail still hadn't actually met the man. She had ridden with him all the way from Soliven to the Wildcard, heard his voice, once or twice, and even raised her hand to announce her presence to him. Yet something had always kept her from actually viewing the person that held her future in his untested hands, in more ways than she knew. She had to admit that sometimes, though, it had been herself that had held back on meeting him. While her professional side knew that she, as second-in-command, and as his personal adjutant, should be one of the first to actually make contact with a new Captain, the less-professional part of her was allowed to win out, and she managed to squeak by with this excuse or that.
But now, there was no getting around it. Time to bite this bullet. Since the entire crew had been required to attend (save a select few), she was entirely stripped of any good excuse that might have. No more "running diagnostics," "checking with Quartermaster Fanthiyr," or "making sure the galley is prepared for tonight's banquet." No, it was showtime, and in a big way.
I mean, I guess it might not be so bad. Maybe he was tired when he was buckling in. Maybe he just wasn't expecting lift-off that soon. Maybe he actually knows something about commanding a starship? Maybe?
Drig you, Sterling, for just up and leaving us. One note is all we got out of this. A piece of paper with nothing but letters to tell us how you felt. I spent four years on this ship, trying my very best not to fall in love with you, and then you just had to make me your right hand person. So close. So close to you, and now so far.
Did those last two years mean nothing? All that quiet time, just you and me? Those nights we spent, watching the stars, not saying a word, but saying more than any words could ever say.
A tear stung her eye, and she realised, to her chagrin, that she was crying. Now look what you've done! Bad enough I have to let some punk kid fill your chair—your quarters— but now your very memory has made a mess of me. Didn't I tell you I didn't want closeness? Didn't I? That's why I left home in the first place, Sterling. They were too close to me, and they lost track of what was really good for me. It took me almost three years of being away before I could even have a civil conversation with mom again.
Now what? My family is halfway across the galaxy, and it's not like I get to really see them every other day. And now even you are gone; only you're farther away than anyone can ever be.
The tears were flowing in small streams down her face, and she could feel them vividly, cool rivers on the hot deserts of her cheeks. Her temples throbbed like the footfalls of a galloping horse, and her breathing was the rise and fall of ocean waves, long, low and deep. It was almost too much.
What is wrong with me? I'm acting like a love-sick teenager here, not the captain of a mercenary unit. Gail turned to the mirror, only to see him standing behind her. Sterling?! She whirled to grab him— to hold him— only to find her lost love as fleeting as a stray hydrogen particle drifting through space. She slammed an angry fist against a bulkhead, and choked back a fresh wave of tears.
Driggit! Driggit! Either come back completely or just leave me forever. Don't torment me like this! I tried so hard. So hard. So hard to just be a good little girl and help the crew out. Curse you and everything that made you so wonderful! You gave me a family, you gave me yourself, and then you take it all away and...and...
Four months had passed since that fateful day when Sterling Lanza had given the greatest sacrifice he could, in an effort to save his pride and joy. And his love. The time in between had been filled to brimming with business, business, business, leaving her zero time to even pretend to grieve. Jared had been right with his reminder that troop morale would suffer if they saw her even starting to buckle. And so, Gail Silvestri—with only 21 years to call her life— was left behind in favour of Captain Silvestri, the highly respected first officer of the Obsidian Daggers.
Sterling had been over thrice her age, had more than seven times her experience, and had more charisma than most politicians. Gail had wondered why it was that Chief Ward Vralla had not been chosen to head up the Daggers, at Sterling's death, but even she had to admit that Sudhallas' skills—which were impressive— were too specialized toward the ground-pounder's task to really command everything else.
Jared had a way with words, and was well respected, but he was totally out of his element when it came to waging war. Much the same could be said for the rest of the command staff. Each was proficient in his or her field, but really, it came down to Gail when the slot was opened for command. She alone had the appropriate experience, having served side-by-side with one of the more skilled merc leaders in BMAB's registry. No one questioned her appointment to Captaincy, and no one even expected that anyone else would be named for the job; at least in the interim. In fact, many had pushed to have her installed for the long term. But the will was legally binding, and the options precious few, and none appealing.
And now it had come to this. A mere shadow was to replace the bright future that had been hers only months ago. The Daggers had been slowly growing, considering purchasing a second ship and the accompanying crew. Their reputation, while not quite "A1" class, was definitely on its way. On the home front, her relationship with her mom and sisters was on the up and up, and even her father was willing to speak to her. And she knew that Sterling had done a little shopping for a...certain piece of jewelry.
It had all been erased in the blink of an eye.
A swift knock at the door was all it took to instantly discard the self-pitying little girl who has lost her lover, and replace it with the no-nonsense professional that the Obsidian Daggers had come to know as Commander/Captain Silvestri. Gail wiped her eyes, even as she was asking who it was at the door.
"Itsssa me, Commandah. Da crew bein' all ready, an we be waitin' fa ya."
"Noted, Chief. You go on down; I'll catch up soon."
"Riiiiight, Commandah. Dat bein good plan. I'z be seein' ya, den."
"Yeah. Right." And with that, she shot through the remainder of her preparations.
The lift ride to "J" deck— the "lowest" crew deck of the ship—only took a minute or two, but coupled with the walk to the center of the deck, where the rec-room/assembly room was situated, it gave Gail plenty of time to think.
"So, this kid wants to lead us, does he? Something tells me he's only here for the cash," she mumbled to herself. Gail wasn't a mumbler. Neither was she given to talking to herself; but there was just something sufficiently...unnerving... about the entire situation, that even if anyone had been in the hallways, she probably would have gone on muttering, anyway.
"Okay, so what do I know about this Sarray guy? First, he's a rancher with an apparently dying herd. Okay, he's already failed in the corporate sense. Second, he was a million and a half in the hole—as a private citizen. Failed financially. Third, he's a paranoid little bounder who lives alone, doesn't seem to have real friends or female, and had some locals beat up a blind guy. Social failure. What else?" She shook her head sharply, trying to clear her thoughts.
"Don't do this, Gail. Gotta think positive. Circumstantial evidence; that's all you've got. Maybe he's really a nice guy. I mean, after all, he is Sterling's nephew, so maybe it runs in the family. Maybe Jared's report was wrong— I mean, he admitted the information was sketchy, and he hasn't gotten the chance to fill me in since he met the kid.
"Though he has no 'female friend', I still doubt he's likely to hit on me, regardless of what Panocha seems to think. At least, not like that sap in the cafe. Geez that guy was a loser. I've been more inclined to date Zallun than that guy. That guy couldn't even pick up a handle, let alone a woman. Well, he's gone, and I'll never have to put him out of his misery again. Or even see him."
Before she knew it, she was at the main door to the assembly hall. Through them, she could hear a military march being played, and raised her eyebrows at how "all-out formal" Jared was going for this. While she had been briefed on the proceedings, she had expected something a bit more simplistic, or at least, not as much fanfare. Then, Jared always was good at putting on a good show, and she recognized, at least for the sake of the crew, that this probably was the best way to go about the whole thing.
She ceased her one-sided conversation, tossed aside the unpleasant memory of the loser in the cafe, and listened for her cue. Though she had to strain to hear it, Panocha's muffled voice announced her, and she tapped the button for the big double-doors, let them whoosh away to either side, and strode into the room. Walking up the centre aisle in perfect marching form, head high, back ramrod straight, she could feel the gaze of almost everyone in the room weighing on her, and she had to fight down the rising notion that they might not just be looking at her out of respect. Gotta make Sterling proud. With that thought, her chin came up slightly, and her eyes iced over. Gotta make Sterling proud.
The music came to a crashing, majestic close, just as she reached the appropriate position—just to the right of the podium—and halted. She knew the metaphorical spotlight was squarely on her. Snapping a crisp about-face, she whipped off a salute to the troops, who all leapt to their feet and responded in the same precise manner. She took pride in knowing that while all of them were hired guns, many were ex-military, and even those who weren't had submitted to Sterling's military training programs, he having once been a part of the Derivian National Navy.
"At ease. Be seated." They all sat, save for Gail, who settled into a parade rest stance, head still raised, face stripped of emotion. What remained was to be done was Gail's announcement of their new captain, followed by his entry. And then it was sink or swim. So glad I'm not still sitting in that café. Here, at least, I know when the waiting will end, not to mention not having to endure lame company.
"Obsidian Daggers," she said, and she felt the pride swelling within her, despite the situation. "We are the blade that cuts without fail, the power that sunders when unsheathed. For fifteen years we have been the proud but silent blade, that was unswerving from its course to be the best of the best, and for fifteen years, our razor edge was honed and directed by our founder, Sterling Lanza." She paused, and did her best to give the appearance that it had been for dramatic effect, instead of her almost choking on his name.
"But the strongest steel does not reach that strength without tempering. Time and time again, we have been through the flame, purging us of our weaknesses, burning out the impurities which would steal our might from within. We, seated here today, are the polished products of those flames. But as you know, our trials by fire have not ended. The loss of our head has wounded us deeply," Some of us more than others, "but it has not killed us. And what does not kill us only serves to strengthen us. We have felt the striking hammer of death; we have felt the blazing fire of lost comrades. We have been beaten, but not broken. And today, we stand ready to move forward, sharper and stronger than ever before. And we will do so under one whom Sterling Lanza, himself, has chosen."
She squared her shoulders more than she thought possible, and drew in a deep breath. The price of my position, I guess. I only wish it had been Jared doing this. I feel like such a traitor. She swept a slow, even gaze across the crowd, breathed in again, and in her best announcing voice said, "It is my pleasure to present to you our new Commanding Officer. He is the nephew of our own late captain, and comes to us with a wealth of knowledge of self-dependence. He, like us," Nothing like us, " has persevered through serious setbacks, and is no stranger to death either. While he is young, do not forget that so am I, and I am honoured by the great confidence you seem to place in me. I am told that our new captain is most eager to assume command of this unit, and that he intends to carry on his uncle's vision for the Daggers.
"Without further ado, please rise to greet your new leader, Captain Matthew Sarray."
The crowd rose into a polite applause, and the military march resumed. Gail hesitated for a several moments, deciding that this was her last chance to put off meeting the grain of sand meant to fill the canyon left in her heart by Sterling Lanza.
Not long after the visit to the observation deck, Matt found himself standing before a door that simultaneously filled him with wonder and dread. Jared had foregone the tour of the ship, telling Matt that it would be better to that after the crew had had the chance to meet him. Matt chaffed at the idea, his sense of curiosity eating at him mightily, but he decided it was best to obey; at least while Jared was there.
"We'll get you all set up with your quarters, first, Matthew," Jared had told him as he led the young man away from the mind-boggling beauty of the starscape. From there, it had taken a full five minutes to reach the point they were presently at. Along the way, the rancher had been introduced to what parts of the ship as they happened by, and it was explained to him that, while the 'Card did have artificial gravity, the ship had been originally built for zero-g, and the crew usually switched off the gravity before entering combat, to spare the risk of having it unexpectedly shot out when they were still depending on it. The maze of orthogonal corridors—some "horizontal" some "vertical"—was testimony to that notion.
They had passed the main barracks, the crew's mess area, a number of miscellaneous offices, and even a communal washroom/showering area. Jared had commented that, out in the depths of space, that water—of any kind—was at a premium, and that he should get used to taking short, efficient showers. He had mentioned that despite that the liquid was recycled as many times as possible, that water was still the most often replaced of an of the consumables on board, and for good reason.
And now he found himself here, standing at the threshold of his destiny. In a moment, the door would open, and he would step into the Captain's ward room, which would then become his wardroom. And he would be Captain.
Yes, there was still all the "official junk" that remained to be done, and yes, he still needed to meet with the crew, but Jared had told him it would require time to get everything in order, and had set the event to occur roughly four hours from the time they had docked. Matt hated to admit that he needed the rest, but Jared had insisted, and Matt decided it wasn't a good idea to get into an argument with his new second-in-command before he'd even changed into his uniform (which, he had learned, would be left over from his uncle, who was about his height). All the rest could wait, Matt had thought, because here, now, was history, as far as he was concerned. He knew there would be other such moments, in the next few days, such as when he was to meet the crew, the first time he stepped onto the bridge, the first time he sat in the captain's chair, etc. But this room, right here, was to be his home, his retreat, his fortress of solitude.
"Well, Matthew, any time you're ready. Let's key you in, first, and then you can go on in and take a break before this evening." Matt followed Jared's instructions as the older man helped code his identity into the ship's computer, and identify him as the new occupant of these quarters. Voice, retina and palm prints were recorded, and a password added, just in case. The whole process was repeated, and finally, the soft, female voice of the computer assured him that verification was complete, welcoming him to his new home.
"Well, then," Matt said, his heart pounding in his throat. "This is it."
"Yes, Matthew, this is it. Have a pleasant nap. Shall I wake you an hour before the meeting?"
"Yes, please. That'd save me trying to figure out any sleep alarms. Thanks again, Jared, for showing me all this. It's not even official, but you're already the biggest help I've had through this whole thing—you and Ylaran— and I think that'll continue with you as my first officer. Oh, and sorry about running out on you, last night."
Panocha smiled humbly, and said, "I am at your service, Captain." There was something in the way the bulky man said that that didn't bring Matt any real comfort. It wasn't so much a discomfort, but he wasn't left with the feeling that he could exactly rest easy. Worse than that, he had no idea why he felt that way. He dismissed the thought as fatigue-induced, and moved on.
"So you know, Matthew, I've prepared a bit of a speech for you, during the initial journey to contact you. It's nothing much, really, in fact, it's not even a 'speech' per se. It's more a set of notes for you. Just points you might want to cover when you address the crew." From his breast pocket, Panocha produced a small datapad, and handed the palm-top unit over to his commander. Matt accepted it with a confused look, and glanced curiously at the screen as he powered it up.
"You…wrote a speech for me?"
"As I mentioned, Matthew, it's more a list of things you might want to discuss. The crew is, understandably, concerned about getting a new commander—and employer, I might add—and I've heard some of the concerns floating around. If you hit those points in your talking to them, they're more likely to feel that you've done your homework, and that you care about them, even if you don't know them all that well."
Matt eyed the datapad suspiciously. "You did this before I even accepted? How' you know I was going to say 'yes', anyway? I mean, you gotta admit that I ran away from you, the first time we met."
"You really want to know how I knew you'd accept my offer?"
"That's what I'm saying."
Jared grinned a little. "I knew I had what you wanted most. I knew I had that part of you that you were missing, but didn't know you were missing. Our initial encounter was, as I've said, unplanned and poorly executed, but I figured that if I could just get you to hear me out, you'd jump at what I had to offer."
"And here I am."
"Here you are. I'm sure your mother would be proud of you. She was first in her graduating class at the Federation Naval Academy, back in '23. She left the Navy when she met your father, during shore leave, and they married the very next time she came on leave. From there…wait. I'll stop. You need some rest, and you've only got a few more hours before you're due to address what's left of the Obsidian Daggers."
"No!" Matt's eyes were wide, and he looked as if he were being told the greatest secret in the entire universe. "No, Jared, don't stop. I want to hear the rest of this."
"Look, son, you're tired. I know you want to hear all this—and I'll finish it later—but right now, you need to rest and freshen up. Honestly, we might have a hard lot of beings, here, and they don't want some 'pretty boy' leading them, but they do have a right to know that the person they've been forced to give their lives to isn't some street bum. Get some sleep. You've had a long day."
"Jared, just finish…"
The tall Derivian clapped a meaty hand on Matt's left shoulder, infusing it with a mix of sympathy, "strong suggestion," and pride in the boy. "Later. Rest, now. Please."
"But…"
"Not now." Jared gave Matt's shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and he flashed a sympathetic smile, and then backed away from the door. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a ceremony to put together. I trust your quarters will be acceptable. If there's anything you need, just give a yeoman a buzz, and you can put in a requisition with the Quartermaster. In fact, I suspect that you'll be seeing a lot of him, in the next little while, as you get yourself on your feet."
The young captain wanted to give his 1st officer "puppy-dog eyes," but realized that the tactic would be entirely lost on the sightless man, and whimpering was out of the question. Instead, he responded with a "Yes, sir," and triggered the door to the captain's wardroom.
It was not what he had expected at all. The room was a third the size of his bedroom at the ranch house, and had only two, small windows. The view was spectacular, but the size of the viewing ports left Matt feeling more as if he were in prison than in the place reserved for a captain of a heavy cruiser.
The walls were lacking in any manner of décor, save two clocks, one which read "Ship/Gal-standard time, the other, "Local time". The desk little more than a chunk of steel with a hole carved in one of the sides, allowing a chair to be slid under it, and covered with a false wood top. The drawers worked, more or less, but were empty. A built in lamp was fixed to the rear of the desk, and its flexible neck had been craned up and over, so the actual light was suspended about 50 centimetres above the desktop. Lastly, a powerful looking personal computer had also come as an in-built part of the table, and Matt couldn't wait to fire it up and see what it could do.
The bed was a double, and Matt made a mental note to ask about the odd straps that hung down from the side of the bed that was away from the wall. The mattress still looked to be in decent condition—no holes, stains or tears—and the pillow seemed surprisingly supple, which observation was borne out when Matt decided to lower himself onto the contraption. Best not to jump on this thing before I know how securely anchored it is.
From the bed, he could make out a small closet, set into the wall across from where he lie, a kitchenette with a good range of amenities, an intercom, a holovid projector with a disk player and what looked suspiciously like a gaming console.
All in all, it wasn't bad, but then again, it wasn't paradise. The room seemed dim, and while there was no odour he could distinctly detect, it just seemed as if the place should reek, and so his olfactory nerves went to work inventing something to smell. The ceiling was actually a reasonable height, but then, Matt was just under two metres tall, leaving only a few decimetres or so, between his scalp and the ceiling.
No use in complaining. Today has been worlds away better than I ever could have wished for, and I'm willing to bet I'm allowed to decorate. Let's see what there is to see, about this place.
Matt noticed that someone has already brought his rucksack to his quarters, as the black, moderate sized bag was resting just next to his bed. He walked over and flopped himself on the bunk, noticing that there was little in the way of bounce, but that it wasn't exactly like sleeping on a board, either. In fact, he noticed that the mattress actually seemed to be contouring itself to his body, and within a few moments, he had determined that this new bed was well more comfortable than the old one he'd slept on, back at the ranch. Satisfied that he could sleep here without serious adjustments, he reached into his bag and pulled out a stack of old-fashioned hardcopy magazines. Shuffling through the pile, he selected one, and dropped the rest onto the floor. Flipping through pages, he finally found the feature article, which featured a detailed, fold-out image, which he extended to full length. Ah, yes. A Pechanga. So, where do I go first?
Dressed in the regular fatigues of the Daggers, Matt Sarray walked, unchallenged, into the communal shower. He heard a couple of crewmen talking, and the dripping of a shower. Must'a just finished.
Matt undressed, and walked into the semi-enclosed showering area. A long, metal towel rack was hung against the partitioning wall, and four showerheads protruded from the far wall. Each showerhead was serviced by a small soap dish— set at about chest height— which was somewhat unusual to him. But what Matt found surprising was that the place was tiled, just as one would expect from something planet-bound.
Matt looked around for a towel, and found two bins, just outside the showers. One was marked "clean," the other, "dirty." The new captain fished out an unused towel, and tossed it over the rack, and turned the shower to "hot." The water managed to stay hot for about two minutes, after which, the flow quickly turned to a cold, slow trickle. What the? Oh, wait. Yeah. The remembrance about the lack of water washed over him along with the thin, chilly stream from the shower, and he decided to just turn it off, and try again later, when he had formulated a battle plan for showering more efficiently.
He turned off the water, and reached for the towel. Just then, a hoot of laughter caught his ears—and his curiosity—and he went silent, deciding that eavesdropping on the crew was no sin for the captain of a starship.
"So anyway, it turns out that Panocha spooked him," said a voice, from just beyond the partition wall. "The dude was in one of them hick-town bars, and Panocha pretty much just looked at him, and the weenie ran for it."
"No way," exclaimed a second voice.
"Get this, bro, it gets better. The guy was so scared, he had to get a buncha drunk guys to beat up the Commander! Can you believe it?"
"You kidding, Jantzen? You can't tell me you buy everything that comes outta the rumour mill."
"Ain't no rumour. I was in sickbay when they brought him in. I heard it straight from his lips, when he sat there telling it all to Doctor Hall. This is 'grade A' stuff, mate."
The voice identified as "Jantzen" laughed, and replied, "And they still got him to be Captain, huh? How'd the Commander swing that?"
The other man lowered his voice, and while Matt couldn't see it, he could only imagine him leaning over to Jantzen, beckoning him to close the distance, and share in this juiciest of secret pieces of gossip. "Well, two things, apparently. First, Cap'n Lanza was supposedly this guy's uncle, and I picked up on the fact that some cash was involved. But I guess they were worried that the money might not be enough, which is why…which is why Sexy Silvestri went down there, too. See, I'm guessing…" A silent pause, followed by "Whhhhoooooaaaa baby," and some heinous laughter. Matt hadn't seen anything, but he was a man, and he knew how men's minds worked.
"Sexy" Silvestri? That's her nickname with the crew? Gotta get a tally on how many of these guys have "visited" with her in the last little while. I'm so glad Jared clued me in on this ahead of time. Can't afford to have my First Officer seducing me on the bridge. I've just gotta do this right, and I can't afford a succubus on my crew. Maybe I can get her transferred? Then again, I really wouldn't mind having that gorgeous vision from Chuck's Grille on board. If she were a bit nicer.
His thoughts mulled like cider as he considered the story he'd just heard. While he knew how gossip tended to get warped as it went down the pipeline, he was disturbed by whatever truths had spawned the tale. That he was coming to command a crew that thought of him as a "weenie," and had been led by a brazen hussy, offered no comfort. Quite the contrary, painful thoughts of severe disappointment had already begun banging away at the periphery of his consciousness, and it was slowly dawning on him that this whole deal might not be quite as sweet as it had sounded when Jared pitched it to him. No. Stop it Matt. Think positive. Think positive. He scratched the tip of his nose, and set to drying off.
Following the experience in the shower, Matt felt it might be best to just stick to his cabin, letting his fantasies run free; he needed the stimulating reminder. Flights of fancy took him all across the universe, giving life to the stories Jared had dished him, just earlier that day. Very much earlier, he suddenly realised. A glance at the clock told him that he had just over a half an hour before it was his turn to meet the crew. Hmm… wonder what happened to Jared. He said he'd get me. Eh, whatever.
Dress. Practice acting like he knew what he was doing. Think about Gerila. Think about the goddess of Chuck's grille. Think more about her. And a bit more. And so Matt whiled away most of the rest of his free time.
Summons came with only ten minutes remaining. Ylaran had triggered door chime, catching Matt right in the middle of some calisthenics. He wasn't sure why he was doing them, but it made him feel more productive, and more like he was actually trying to fill his role, rather than just be some freeloader who got the nicest cabin be default.
Minutes later, Matt was facing yet another door; only this one seemed more a barrier than a gateway, as the door to his cabin had. He did his best not to fidget, as he stood there in the cold, spartan corridor that serviced the rec-room, but he couldn't help the constant itchiness of his nose, and he tried desperately to pass it off as something other than nerves.
Standing there in the dress uniform, he felt naked as a newborn. It had been quite an impressive piece of apparel, when he had first taken a look at it and had slipped in on. Far from what the holovids showed, this dress uniform gave lie to the idea that all mercenaries were drunken barbarians completely lacking in any measure of social refinement. Rather, this three-piece garment gracefully blended form with function, and even a bit of class.
The entire uniform was jet black, with silver trim in the hems and cuffs and silver piping along the sleeves and trouser legs. Silver shoulderboards capped the double-breasted jacket. The cap was the visual oddity. Essentially a helmet with a tapered neck guard and an arching brim, the headpiece reminded Matt that while there were times for formality, disasters (and snipers) were known to have little regard for ceremony, and the need to be ready for anything was simply the life and death of a mercenary.
Dark, mirror-polished shoes were set on his feet, themselves hosting black, knee-length stockings. The appropriate rank badges and pins were already in place.
Rounding off the uniform was a pair of weapons. Holstered just under his left armpit, the Kon'homnen auto-pistol, a favourite of the Zallun infantry for which it had been developed, and a popular sidearm in many paramilitary groups, after having been adapted for smaller hands. Sheathed at his left flank was a long ceremonial dagger that bordered on being classed as a short-sword. "Sterling" silver, too. Wonder if that was a pun. Matt squirmed a bit as he adjusted the body-slung holster. The thought of carrying not just one, but two weapons for no apparent reason beyond exhibition unnerved him. He'd handled guns before—and gotten a laudable amount of practice with them during his ranching days—but back then, there was always a very distinct purpose for bearing a firearm. One more thing to adjust to, I guess.
As his future lay trapped behind symmetric slabs of steel, the Derivian boy-turned-suddenly-man bore out the hammer fall of his heart. He wasn't good at making speeches. He wasn't exactly renowned for his ability to make a stunning first impression either. In an instant, all the exultation derived from the swooning of a backwoods barmaid vapourised, dew before the consuming sunlight of the reality of here and now. Right now, there was but a single door between him and the rest of his life. If he failed to gain the admiration of the crew now, he was certain he'd spend the rest of his time with the Daggers, running to make up for it. An incredible leap of maturity had slapped into him the understanding that the men and women who waited inside the rec-room—waited for him—were to be not only his "underlings," but his support, his helpers, and even the caretakers of his very life.
More than that, though, they were to be his friends, and the family he had never really known. Shralla give me strength.
From beyond the doors, his ears could pick up what he could only determine to be the sound of a female's voice. With effort he managed to make out a few words, but not quite enough to catch anything that would clue him in as to exactly when he would be going in. Without warning, a floodlight came on behind him, throwing his shadow onto the entryway, a giant that stood as his final challenge to embracing his rightful heritage as a great spacer.
"It's time, Captain," Lancer Ylaran whispered, and Matt was grateful for this Kitaran that he could not but help feel a kinship with, racial differences aside. What remained was to be done was his entry, and then recital of the address Jared had given him. And then it was sink or swim.
Bars of song he was entirely unfamiliar with played, and the assembly room was then open to his view. Just metres past the threshold sat a podium, flanked to the right by a woman who also wore the formal uniform of the Obsidian Daggers, though her back was still turned to him. That's her. Not even the respect to look at me when I make an entrance. I wonder how she'll feel when I make the announcement of her…change of status. Seduce my uncle and his crew will you, "Sexy"? Let's take some of the wind out of your sails.
Jared stood on the left side of the podium, facing Matt and applauding. His face wore the kind of pride one would expect to see from a jubilant father, and Matt returned the smile, forgetting that Jared would never see it.
A few arms' reaches beyond the podium held the assembled body of the entire unit save a few personnel who were tending to vital systems, or high-priority security. Mostly Derivian, they, too, were also offering a standing ovation, and he flushed, feeling suddenly disrespectful. He returned the applause with a smile and some waving, and tried to make out the names embroidered on the breast pockets of the crew, but to no avail. A cute redhead caught his eye, and he had a special smile for her, though he didn't pause to notice her reaction.
Only paces from the speaking stand, his soon-to-be ex-sub captain finally decided to turn around.
As she turned into the harsh spotlight illuminating the assembly hall, Gail Silvestri's face was finally unmasked. Brakes screeched, glass shattered, babies screamed, and crowds gasped.
By…the…Taenarians… was all he could think. His eyes automatically caressed her short, strawberry-blonde hair. His heart sank at the sparkle in her emerald eyes, set like jewels just above her perfect cheekbones. Gail's face was so strikingly beautiful that he wondered how anything could be that lovely. Her figure was now tightly wrapped in the female version of the dress uniform, and Matt had to mentally chide himself for unthinkingly undressing her with his eyes. It… was…her[/b]!
And then she stood just four steps away. Life…was…evil.
She swallowed deep, and pivoted toward the door behind her. This is it.. And there he was. Gail looked upon Matthew Sarray for the first time. He was nothing special, though she had to admit that he wasn't all that terrible to look at, either. Thick, coffee-coloured hair peeked out around the brim of his helmet. Below that was 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 from the farming world below, but at the same time it wasn't slack. He was clad in the same uniform the rest of the male officers wore, and looked to be in his late teens, at best.
As he stood there, staring agape in her direction, she read on his face blatant shock and crushing disappointment, all mixed with the look of a man just swindled out of billions by a cruel twist of fate. She guessed he was a newby when it came to introducing himself.
And there was something else. Why does that face not look…unfamiliar?
Her mind raced through possible explanations of where she might have previously seen the man child, but before she could place it, he yanked off his helmet, and stammered out something that sounded like, "Y…y…you…gah…wha?"
A bomb detonated in her head, and dislodged the forgetfulness. Eyes like saucers, she stared back at him as though he were a Taenarian with horns and a tail. You…have…got…to be kidding!
As one, the two officers began to speak. Their collective voice held tones of terror and betrayal on the one hand, disbelief and annoyance on the other. "Wait. You? How? Back there? No. You? What the? When?"
"What are you doing here?!"