Chapter 7- "Into the Fire"
"I can't believe she blames me for that."
"Who is she supposed to blame?"
Matt reeled in the line that dangled from his rented fishing pole. Three hours, and still nothing so much as a nibble. The sun had topped the treeline, and a light gust of wind scattered ripples along the otherwise placid lake. He had been told that this was the best spot in the region for fishing, but was left with no evidence beyond the word of a local fisherman, and a few brochures. It had been enough, at the time, to get him out on this pond— recently promoted Lancer 1st Class Ylaran in tow— and into a sporting mood.
Some part of his brain was clearing its throat, adjusting half-rimmed glasses, and quoting from a rulebook, telling him that lounging like this probably wasn't the most appropriate thing that he, as captain of the Obsidian Daggers, could be doing. The rest of him gagged and tied the first part, and tossed it neatly into a far corner of his mind.
He couldn't help but fall in love with this world. So much of Soliven was here, in that it was everywhere green. But this world, this world abounded in forests and jungles of every description, over every square kilometer of the planet's surface that was more than 30-degrees' latitudinal departure from the polar regions. And it just so happened that his first mission had landed him smack in the middle of a pine majesty, the likes of which he had only ever hoped for.
He could not look around, but what he would see a wall of trees. Stately arboreal kings stood shoulder to shoulder, wards of their home, and beautiful reminders of the terrific power of life. Lime coloured moss, spider-web vines, and the odd animal lodging was to be found clinging to most of these forest giants, and even the ground was as verdant as a Solivenese chumpi grass field when the spring rains ripened the earth for the seasons' earliest of harvests.
The local village— in fact, almost every settlement, road, and building— had been cut right from the forest. Clearings in the dense woods were decidedly uncommon, and while Matt hated to think of the destruction that had assuredly accompanied the construction, the local architects had taken pains to ensure that every building was given as rustic and natural an exterior as was practical, most often using native timber from the very spot in the woods that the construct had been sited on. Roofs were usually green and vine covered, and even structures made from reinforced concrete had been given real, wooden veneers to hide the ugly, pitiful gray from the emerald beauties that surrounded the building.
And here he was, essentially getting paid to flop down in the heart of it all, and enjoy what most people would themselves have to pay to enjoy. The reality of the fishing area had exceeded the vividness of the brochure, most especially since the flat, dead silence of the printed images couldn't hold a candle to the vibrant, melodic hush that was sporadically broken by the song of a bird or the chattering of some small, woodland creature.
All of nature seemed to drift in one long, continuous sigh. But a former farmer found he could not fully partake of it, try as he might.
He grabbed the line just at the top of the hook, and pulled the small barb close to his face. He peered measuringly at the bait that enveloped the hook, and snorted with some derision.
"You sure this is the stuff we're supposed to be using, Ylaran?"
"You were the one who talked to the Warden. You were the one who purchased it, sir."
"You don't have to call me that. I already told you."
"Actually, yes, I do. But I've tried to tone it down when the others are elsewhere."
The Derivian captain wrangled open his small, plastic tackle box and dug around until he found the transparent canister he was looking for. Inside was what appeared to be nothing more than a chartreuse gel, riddle with small, ash-like flecks. The top was then unscrewed, and a finger thrust into the substance.
"This smells terrible."
"Perhaps the fish know that too. Could be why they aren't biting."
Matt scowled at the glob that jiggled on his finger, flicked away the bait that was already on the hook, and then carefully smeared the new dose on. "I was told that this is what the pros used. On this lake. Rip off, I tell you."
Matt couldn't deny that the dismal return on his fishing skills wasn't the root of his discontent. For the past seven months, he had been working (more or less) to find his feet in not only a new job, but a new group of people, a new planet (or twelve), and indeed, an entirely new life. For his part, he felt he was doing a reasonably decent job. Life as a rancher had taught him nothing, if not self discipline. He reported to his watch on time, and always worked the whole shift, though he would take the appropriate breaks required by Dagger regulations. He occasionally attended the exercise sessions that were frequently offered. On top of that, he read many of the reports that crossed his desk, although it was painfully obvious that his inbox was a mountain compared to the molehill of his outbox. There was just so much that he was simply clueless about, all good intentions aside.
Even above the frustrations of getting into a rather large saddle that had, until just under a year ago, belonged to his late Uncle Sterling, there was the frustration that came from having to deal with some of the people. The idea that he was a "weenie" was still circulating amongst the crew members, and though he had worked to dispel it, he couldn't deny that he'd never hear the end of it if the rest of them found out that he was out fishing on the job. But this is part of the job.
Even the crew hang-ups were slowly running their various courses, and the Daggers had more or less come to accept him, if grudgingly in some instances. But that still wasn't the core of it all.
Why does it always seem to come back to her? From the moment of their first "official" introduction, in which they had both made fools of themselves in front of the remainder of the mercenaries on the WildCard, Matt and Gail had been at odds with one another. Sometimes quite openly. One thing had led to another, and relegating her from her status as 1st officer had only served to widen the rift.
It hadn't been enough that she had been breathtakingly beautiful, only to be snatched away by the demands of professional propriety, but on top of that, she had an odd tendency to treat him as if he were her son, or nephew or little brother. While she never approached insubordination, the feeling of condescension was there, if elusive.
All at once, he wanted to kiss her passionately while strangling her with glee. He supposed she were the very incarnation of the old, Tamaran myth about the twin balances of the universe—Trahl and Vrotta— which were perfect, omnipotent opposites held in check only by one another.
He had wanted to patch things up with her, really, but the image of her as a self-flaunting vixen had never quite left his mind, all her strict uprightness notwithstanding. Since his serendipitous discovery of the less-than-professional appellation given her by the enlisted men, he'd learned nothing more of the crew's opinions on the woman. His shield of initial anonymity blown clean away, he noticed that many conversations ended suddenly when people saw him in the corridors. Such actions gave his imagination plenty of room to run.
And even through it all, there was a still, small something that hooked itself into his heart— the way he hoped this hook would snag a fish— and sat there, not tugging much, or really even making itself known. But every now and again, it would tug just enough to get his attention, and during those times, he found he was less inclined to think ill of her.
He heaved a heavy sigh, and shook his head as thoughts of his latest misstep replayed themselves under his skull.
"You think she hates me for it?
"Excuse me?"
"I mean, it was an accident, for crying out loud. If she hadn't been standing right there, this whole thing never would have happened!"
"With all due respect, sir, you were the one holding the welder. Just be glad she kept all her parts."
Matt lowered at his Kitaran subordinate, who had, over the past several months, become his closest of friends. "I was told to use 'wide-sweeping strokes,' okay? How was I to know I was going too wide? I mean, I barely touched her. I don't see why she is so mad."
"Begging the captain's pardon, but you lit her entire arm on fire."
"Well, there was that..."
"Pardon me, sir, but I believe I just got a bite."
"The... heck?" The disgruntled angler looked closely at the label on his see-through tub of bait, hoping to find some instructions that would at least make the fish look at his hook. "What are you using anyway, Ylaran?"
The Kitaran didn't answer, his attention fixed on pulling in his prize. It was a battle in an almost literal sense, but in the end, the feline marine hauled a half-metre lovely onto the shore, and put it to rest with a claw. Unsheathing yet another claw, he went to work gutting the fish, starting by popping off the head, and then drawing a wicked talon down its ventral centreline. With skill Matt had only seen in vids, the Lancer gutted the fish as naturally as he breathed, and then tossed the valuable meat into the insulated ice chest between the two men.
This was his tenth catch.
"Excuse me, Captain, but I missed your question. Will you repeat it?"
"I asked what the heck you've been using for bait."
"A few sandworms I dug out of the beach, over there, just before the tide started rising."
"And?"
"And I placed them on the hook, sir." A pause. An unfulfilled expression of inquiry.
"That's it?" Ylaran nodded. "Fifty frelling credits for coloured glue. I am an idiot." Matt shook his head. "Got any more?"
Ylaran's reply was lost in a sudden burst of static, and both men whipped around to look at the long-range radio transceiver they had packed with them. Ylaran was on his feet and twiddling knobs before Matt was even out of his dock chair. Matt had left specific orders that he and the Lancer not be disturbed unless an emergency had arisen. Panocha was no prankster, and the fact that he would be trying to contact Matt, now, only meant unpleasant things.
The kneeling Kitaran had snatched the earphones up and was listening intently as he fine-tuned the device, and boosted the gain a little. He finished in moments, and held up the headset for Matt. "Commander Panocha on the horn for you, Captain."
"Thanks," Matt said, as he settled the earphones and boom mic into place. "Sarray, here. What's happening?"
"Captain Sarray, my apologies for disturbing your...reconnaissance...Captain, but the Council is banging on our door, telling us they need us right now."
Matt's lips puckered at the news. The Planetary Council of Vedrellion had contracted with the Daggers for short-term garrison duty, pending the re-building of their regular home militia. As the planet was located in the Cameron system— just on the Federation side of the Outer Rim— it was prone to the sporadic pirate raids. Roughly six months had passed since the most recent hit, and it had proven quite a bit more vicious and well organized than what the planet's defenders were accustomed to. They had managed to beat back the invaders, and keep the collateral damage to a minimum. But the price had been severe. Matt thought back to Ylaran's gutting of the fish, and shuddered at the analogy.
Vedrellion's economy was passable, but the lumber business was a fickle one, especially in an interstellar arena. Were it not for a good few varieties of native woods that fetched a high market price, the entire world may have faced abandonment decades prior to the Dagger's arrival. Because of the modest treasury and stringent budget, the Planetary Council found that they hadn't the wherewithal to bring their defenses up to snuff in anything less than five months. After some heated deliberation, the decision was made to extend the rebuilding of the home guards, and use some emergency funds to hire a small mercenary unit to supplement the regulars, while the rebuilding of forces was underway.
The Daggers had gotten wind of it some time after the Bureau had tossed it out onto MercNet, but it seemed that no one else had wanted to touch it, for reasons unknown. Though still in dry dock, they had landed the contract, and made for Cameron as soon as the 'Card had slipped her moorings, the repairs complete. Following a month and a half of travel, the Daggers made planetfall, and went to work. For the tidy sum of fifty million credits, half pay in advance.
Not wanting to upset the populace with the notion that "filthy mercenaries" were guarding their world, the Council had— as a provision of employment— insisted that the Daggers blend themselves into the culture as much as practical, whilst still maintaining sufficient capabilities to adequately perform their duties; which was how a Derivian captain and his Kitaran friend came to find themselves fishing on one of the most beautiful lakes outside Taenaria.
The contract was set to expire in about a month, and the duration of the unit's stay had yet to see them so much as fire a shot outside a practice range. Matt had taken to the "blending in" with vigour, and had encouraged the rest of the crew to do likewise. But the adaptation proved more difficult for his clannish subordinates. Even though they finally brought themselves to wear local fashions, they always traveled in groups of three or more, and their military bearing was unmistakable.
Fortunately, the locals either failed to notice or simply didn't care, and they found themselves bored to tears on more than one occasion. Seeing as Matt had no cases of assault to deal with, he was perfectly fine to let the crew be bored; after all, if they couldn't see the forest for the trees, he wasn't going to make them.
That was all about to change, now.