Matt hadn't realised quite how far away the lake had been from the rented storefront the Daggers had been using as a cover to mask their status as mercenaries. The drive back took just over an hour, leaving the young captain plenty of time to ponder how it was that he could work himself out of this latest fix with Gail. While publicly he called her "Commander," his mind always referred to her by her given name.
And he wasn't entirely sure why.
True to his initial intent, he'd kept a close eye on her, and had, as he had told Jared, retained her as his personal adjutant. His reasoning aligned with the old philosophy that it was good to keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.
She had proven quite useful despite the regular doses of condescension she had fed him. Her knowledge of the guts of running a mercenary unit was superb, and he couldn't deny her professionalism certainly served to keep everything above the table. He was beginning to think that even if he had wanted something to happen between them, the odds were non-existent Just as well. If this mission ends up with us in a scrap, we ain't gonna have any time for love.
Unexpectedly, the thought that his chances for romancing the attractive assistant officer were nil, bothered him. He shook the thought clear, but moments later started flirting with the notion yet again.
Get a hold of yourself. This is exactly what she wants me to think. Make herself look completely innocent, uninterested, and unavailable, and then, bam!
The interim between now and the embarrassment that had started out as his induction had been a series of more of the same. The crew had reined in any reactions they might otherwise have shown. People will be people, however, and instead of breaching propriety during the ceremony, whispered rumours, rampaging tall tales and a handful of jokes ripped through the ranks, wildfire to a field dried of romantic drama.
Where once Matt might have been able to meet with her in his ward room, too many "what ifs" had crossed his ears, leaving him no choice but to bring a chaperone to meetings. He simply could not afford to let the crew believe that an affair of any kind existed between the two of them.
The mottled green blur of trees faded back into view as he brought himself back to the present. Happily chaotic patterns of light played across his faced as the rays of the morning sun timidly filtered through the wooden screen of the forest as he sped by. Matt looked back at himself in the window, and wondered what it was that he had really gotten himself into. True it was that he had been able to live some of his wildest dreams. From the stunning beginning on the observation deck, those far flung stars had suddenly been within reach.
His formal tour of the ship had left him almost equally as stunned. "Starships Today" had been so watered down that Matt wondered why he'd even still bothered to read the thing. Dozens of layers of hundreds of systems were played throughout the vessel, bringing it closer to being a living organism than Matt had thought possible. Semi-organic microchips even serviced the ship's mainframe.
The artificial intelligence software was superb. Matt even found it somewhat amiable, capable of conversation, and it had proved a capable opponent for as wide a variety of games as the computer held. But no AI could be a true substitute for a living companion. And no fantasy could fill the emptiness of the woman he never quite had.
The rental vehicle rounded the corner into the small parking area attached to the Dagger's current base of operation, a dreamer's thoughts were tossed aside for those of a warrior.
Striding into the white- walled conference room, Matt took a quick look around to ensure everyone that needed to be there was there. Gail, Commander Panocha, Vralla, Magistrate Ohyanda and two of his staff. Looks like the whole lot.
As per pervious arrangement, the mercenaries remained seated when their Captain entered, so as to maintain their non-military appearance. While everyone in the room knew who the Obsidian Daggers were, the Planetary Council had decided that a deep-façade would be best.
"Mister Ohyanda, nice to see you again. Sorry it took me so long to get here. Mr. Ylaran and I were..."
Ohyanda lashed out with his verbal sword, catching Matt with a wicked draw cut. "Look kid, spare me the tales. Miss Silvestri has told me all about your little 'recon' mission. I'm not paying you to enjoy our world; I'm paying you to defend it. Is that clear?"
Busted. And the looks on most of the faces of the assembled pretty much said the same.
Matt grit his teeth and did his best to swallow his embarrassment, but it was all in vain; the rising heat in his face told him he had completely failed to mask the shame he felt. Caught off guard, he could hardly parry effectively. But he tried, nonetheless.
"Look, Magistrate, about that, I...I'm sorry. It's just that these past few months, you know... It's been so quiet and all..."
His bald adversary knocked the parry aside effortlessly, and jabbed hard, pressing the surprise attack. "Mister Sarray, let's cut the drek, okay? We've got a bit of a crisis, here, and we're hoping that we haven't just thrown twenty-five-million down the toilet. Now tell me, Matthew, have we?"
Ohyanda scored deeply; Sarray couldn't miss the patronizing use of his first name. Nor could he miss the sting that came with having his first employer reduce their relationship from that of professionals to that of parent reprimanding a wayward child who had just been caught stealing candy.
Ohyanda lowered his glasses; condescension was such an appropriate garnish for a coup-de-grâce. "You know, we haven't had too many pirates send us a nice, flower-bordered letter asking if they could just drop by for a visit and sack our world while they were at it. We sort of figured, Captain, that you and your colleagues would have the means to catch these guys before they 'stopped by'.
"And we thought that we'd hired someone who knew enough to sleep with at least one eye open."
Gail rose to his defense just a little too late. "Magistrate, your confidence in us is not wasted, we..."
Her feeble efforts were repulsed without thought. "Thank you, Miss Silvestri, but I'd like to talk to the person who's really supposed to be in charge."
Matt hadn't ever been one for "death-bed repentance'; at this point, though, he felt that anything redeeming was worth an attempt. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? Nice day, my best people on watch. I'm here, now, and whoever's looking to hit us is still out there, we know he's coming and he might not know that we know. I didn't take any of your fish, and we're all here and happy, alright?"
Realizing his opponent to be a bit too stubborn to die nicely, the magistrate plunged the blade of words into the mercenary's mind, yet again. "You just don't get it, do you, kid? We're not talking about some kind of schoolbook problem that you only got partial credit for. This is the real deal, and we've paid you real money here. People die because of things like this, and quite frankly, I'm not going to have your lame little excuse that 'your best people are on watch'.
"Now can we please get down to business?"
Matt had been the obvious loser since the moment he had entered the room; it had just taken him a while to understand that point. But now, as his ego lay bleeding and half dead, the facts were clear. It was over. Far too late for mercy or salvation, Matt put up his metaphorical hands.
"So, uh, what have you done about this, Commander Silvestri," he asked, his eyes pleading with her for any manner of rescue.
"We have been waiting for you to give us orders."
Et tu, Gail? Even with the blur of a peripheral view, Matt could not miss the smug look that settled on his employers face as his own subordinate put him in his place. It was obvious this hole could only get deeper by his staying here, so he went with the old saying, "When all else fails, run faster than anyone running away with you."
He could do nothing more than sigh and collect his thoughts. He stared at the floor for a few moments, and his hands fidgeted with obvious nervousness. Presently, he found his tongue, and used the final, flickering ember of his pride to attempt escape. "Let's go, folks. We've…got a job to do."
Silent as death, the Obsidian Daggers crept out of the room, some bowing their heads in respect to the Magistrate, others casting looks at Matt; he tried hard to miss the disgust pasted on Gail's beautiful face. When the rest of his crew had exited, Matt made his way out. Ohyanda wasn't about to let him off easy—it was too in his nature to gloat.
"Don't expect further contracts from Vedrellion, Mister Sarray. You finish out your contract, and then you leave. In the meantime, remember that every single death these pirates cause will be placed on your head." The blade had been twisted in his dead heart, but Matt still felt the pain. Even as the door was shutting behind him, he heard something murmured about "having told them about that mercenary scum."
The cheerful glory of the morning sun was enough to make the young Captain want to scream, tear it from the sky, and shove its cheeriness somewhere up a part of Ohyanda where that it didn't normally shine. To make matters worse, he couldn't even vent to Ylaran—everyone else was already in the vehicle, and Jared's ponderous size all but demanded he take the front passenger's seat. To be injured is life's way; to be denied even minor reprieve can be torture. The Kitaran flashed a knowing look at him, as he climbed into the rear, passenger side seat, and buckled in just next to Gail. She shifted enough that he could fasten his restraints without invading her personal space [I]too[/I] much, but otherwise ignored him. As soon as he finished, she slid back into her former space—which wasn't much, given the compact size of the cherry-red rental vehicle—and he could feel her arm pressing into the side of his.
Electricity shot the length and breadth of his body as he made contact with her. What the?
Her arm was warm and soft, but there was nothing to distinguish that feeling from having sat by any other Derivian like, say, Jared, but it captured his senses all the same. His brow furrowed in thought, and she did her best to shimmy away from him, but Chief Ward Vralla was a large Sniv, and his broad shoulders permitted her little extra space, and she remained sandwiched between them.
A jack-in-the-box realization popped into his mind; he enjoyed being in physical contact with her. Arm-to-arm it might be, but with a rush of emotion, he felt that he could kiss her, and drown himself in the lush happiness of her lips. WHOA! What is going on here? His heart was palpitating noticeably; his forehead was already beading into a sweat; his palms were quivering, and his stomach knotted. His breathing was quicker and shallower, and his vision began to get fuzzy. A grasping—and yet amazingly liberating—tension took hold of his entire being,
"Captain? Hello?" The snap of Jared's thick fingers, just centimetres from his face broke the trance, and with a shudder and shake of the head, Matt was back in reality. He could feel Gail's annoyed, inquisitive sidelong glance, and Vralla was openly staring. Even Ylaran was making now-and-again glances in the rear-view mirror, inasmuch as his driving would allow. The fading stupor of instant rapture saved him from immediate embarrassment, but as confusion wore off and clarity of thought set in, his face quickly examined several shades of red.
"Captain Sarray, sir? Are you well, Captain?" Jared's voice bore a note of real concern.
"Peachy," was all Matt could squeak out; most of his attention was on brining at least the outward signs of his emotions back under control.
"Pleased to hear it. I was beginning to wonder if all was well, after asking you a second time."
"Asking me what?"
"What you intend to do about our present situation. I'll assume standard combat protocol will be in effect, but you do have the option to modify that, according to your best judgment and the scenario at hand. Perhaps Commander Silvestri has some input?"
"Perhaps," she said flatly, face stoic, eyes forward. Matt wondered if she had sensed anything from him. "There will be a time and a place to offer the proper input."
"Captain?"
"Um…how much experience do we have with fighting, again? Remind me please?"
"We have been through approximately sixty engagements of various types, and our rate of success has never been below twenty-five percent…"
"[I]Twenty-five percent[/I]," Matt exclaimed. "You're telling me we've got a one-in-four chance of winning this thing?"
Jared cleared his throat in a respectful—yet slightly annoyed—fashion. "As I was about to say," he added, as if it would eradicate any questions Matt would ever again have, "We succeeded in our first engagement, after which we failed in six of the following seven. That was in the first year of the Dagger's existence, which was before I came.
"Those losses nearly took the company under, but your uncle overhauled it—including the command structure—and since then, we've lost only eight other engagements; but we've never lost the ship, if I might boast a little.
"In other words, Captain, we've roughly a three in four chance of 'winning,' as you are pleased to call it, and there's an even better chance that, at the very least, we will all survive; we do our best to minimize casualties."
Matt blew out a breath of relief. "Well, that's good to know. So… what do we know about these guys, anyway?"
"The early warning net—Magistrate Ohyanda was much too harsh on you, on that count, if I might add—picked up what read as a Klyrva–class corvette, accompanied by a Desert's Light–class ranger. Scans indicate the ranger is most probably configured as a fighting transport, so we can expect ground combat.
"I'm… not expected to just sit this one out, am I?" Jared shook his head. "That's about what I thought. Hey, uh, Sudhallas, I mean, Ward Vralla? You got a spare power suit for me?"
Sudhallas shook his head. "Eh, I'm notta thinkin' da Captain needin' ta be puttin' on one'a dem tings. We be good-ta-go all by our lonesomes, sssir."
"Come on, Vralla! If I'm going to lead this unit, I need to prove that I'm not above doing the dirty work. Gimme a suit. I need to do this."
"With respect, sir," Ylaran chipped in, from the driver's seat, "I've seen your scores on the single time you tested yourself in one of those, and I can't say that you're what we marines would consider 'combat rated'."
"Oh, c'mon, Ylaran! Not you too? I was having an off day, that day. I hadn't figured out the zero-gee yet. You can't hold me back based on one bad test."
Jared piped up, beating Sudhallas to the words. "Captain, it's not a matter of judgment or disrespect. It's a matter of prudence and common sense. Let me put it this way—would you, right now, pilot a Trammel-VII speeder through the average canyon?"
Matt shook his head. "You're not baiting me with that one, Jared. I know where you're going, and no, I'm not rated to fly a Trammel-VII; but those things are so fast you need years of training to successfully do what you're talking about. Ground combat isn't anywhere near that tricky."
Matt couldn't tell who it was that choked down a laugh, but it elicited a frown from him. "Seriously, it's what? Running? Shooting? Ducking and dodging? I used to do that all the time on the ranch, when I would hunt neernits; and lemme tell ya', them bounders are faster and meaner than any other being I've ever seen."
"Ima not wantin' ta be rainin' on yah parade, sssir, but Ima thinkin' we marines would ssstill think ya be spiffy and neato if'n ya jus' stay upstairs, ja? Wha'joo think, Ylarry?" The driver's head bounced in agreement.
"See, Matthew, we're not going to think any less of you if you don't throw yourself into the heat of the battle; you don't have to get yourself killed to win our respect."
Gail's hot words cut through the men's conversation with blazing fury. "This discussion ends now! Captain, you're staying starside with the rest of us. The marines can and will handle any fighting on the planet. That's it. PERIOD. Any questions?"
Silence.
"Good." She crossed her arms with enough force to make a point, and the remainder of the drive to the spaceport didn't get another word out of any of them.
It was as if shards of ice were repeatedly being driven into her heart. Even now that she had killed the debate over whether or not Captain Sarray was going to get to display bravado in his first engagement, the wounds still burned; Jared's unintentional words of reminder were acid to her soul. While she had none of the same feelings for her new captain as she had had for his uncle, that history would repeat itself so exactly—and so soon—was a déjà vu of the most terrifying kind.
A chill ran through her core. Gail's future had long been one, great question mark, to the point where certainty almost made her edgy, but the thought of having to have her future suddenly suspended from such a thin and fraying string, again, this soon definitely gave her pause. I can't let this kid just blow this company out of the water because he's trying to prove a point. Sterling wouldn't have had it that way, and neither will I. If he renounces control of the Daggers, it will be because I bring it about, and it will be done in my time.
The silence of the drive allowed her mind to wander, taxing her mental discipline as she fought to re-bury the recollection of her late lover's death. She had not seen any of the gun-camera footage—she had made a point of that—despite her normal penchant for engaging in thorough, post-battle analysis; she always felt it was best to learn from every fight, and gun-cams offered some excellent, down-n-dirty perspective.
It startled her to realize that, with a near-carbon copy of the final act of Sterling's stage-play being set up on a slightly different stage, perhaps she would have done well to have not passed that other footage by. It was far too late for that now, however. She was probably looking at a brawl, and while pirates weren't usually the most intelligent of beings, they were known for their cunning and ruthlessness. While Gail held no illusions about her own mortality, her confidence in her ability to take them into, and bring them safely back out of this battle was firm.
But she still could not explain the feeling of… something… she had experienced when Matt had sat down that close to her.
Summoning years of martial focus, she shoved the whole load of irrelevancies from her mind, and set her face like a flint. A cold, rational calm filled up her mind and quickly infiltrated through the whole length of her body; her battle-trance was already falling into place.
"Captain on the bridge!" The command center's current crew snapped to attention, saluting their Captain as he tepidly stepped into the ship's nervous center. What in Shioll am I supposed to do now? Everyone was resting expectant gazes on him, and he hesitated for a few heartbeats. Wait a second. They all expect that I know what I'm doing, so…
"Standard combat protocol. Take us to yellow alert. Shields up, guns and marines on standby. Let's show these sons of zcheks we're ready for 'em." The response was instant, and—from all appearances—what he expected. Sweet! It worked! Just hope they haven't seen that episode of "Steelshard Bladeheart". Matt had grown up being told that vids were a waste of time, nothing more than mind-numbing entertainment for those who were too lazy to stimulate their intellects. Well, score one for the vids, and hope there were no copyright lawyers on this cruise, because he'd just been able to directly swipe a standard line from the pan-galactic sci-fi series.
The bridge lights dimmed to an unusually calming shade of blue, though some of the white, secondary lights remained functioning around the perimeter of the circular command area. The chittering of the yellow alert signal rang in his ears, and an almost tangible tension filled the air. Gail stepped up next to him and started filling in other orders, while Jared just stood silently by, observing, and offering his presence on the bridge, as befitting the second-in-command.
Tensions aside, it was clear to the combat-virgin captain that his crew did not suffer from the same lack of experience he did. Fingers flew across instrument panels, veteran eyes checked out readings and displays, the staccato hum of confirmations met his ears, and he could almost literally feel the ship coming alive, a great sleeping giant being roused to anger, just before unleashing its wrath.
"All stations reporting manned and ready, Captain," Jared simultaneously said along with Gail. She looked at him, and he at her, in what was assuredly a habitual gesture left over from his days when sight filled his eyes. Matt didn't stop to pay attention to any exchange between the current and former Second, so enthralled was he with actually standing on a warship that was readying itself to do what it did best.
"Commander Panocha? Do you think you and Commander Silvestri can handle this from here?" He drew several inquisitive glances from the deck crew.
"Begging the captain's pardon," Jared asked, looking askance at Matt.
"Mister Silvestri, might I speak with you in private, for a moment?" Gail's head whipped around in surprise, half-lidded eyes reservoirs of suspicion. "Just for a moment, Mister Silvestri. In my ward room, there," he said, motioning at the door that was a short ways behind her.
"Yessir." She executed an about-face, and marched to the small chamber annexed to the bridge. The door hissed open at her approach, and she walked in, stopping just a few steps beyond the opening. She stiffened to attention, and awaited her captain.
Matt casually walked after her, and let the door shut just behind him. He knew they were being watched, but he knew this would only take a few moments.
"Mister Silvestri—I need to know something. How do you feel about…"
"Sir, my feelings for the Captain are not in the least personal, and I sincerely apologize if I have in any way mislead you into believing that I…"
He waved off her statement with one hand, responding, "No, no, Gail… Commander. I…need to ask if you feel ready to handle this fight. I've… been thinking," he continued hesitantly, "That Jared was right. I'm not exactly good at this, and I don't want this ship getting' blown out of the stars just because I screw up.
"So, if it's all the same with you, I'm turning command—at least for this fight—to you, okay?"
Gail swelled with pride, and Matt tried not to notice. Get a hold of yourself, man! "Sir, I would be honoured to conduct this battle in your stead." If he could have read her thoughts, he would have also caught the unspoken addendum, "it's about driggin' time you learned."
"Great. Then…go, um, do what you need to. I'll just hang out on the bridge, and you can pretend I'm not even there. You got free rein here, Commander. I, um, figure you're probably not going to get us killed anyway, so, uh… yeah."
Gail saluted smartly, turned crisply about, and stalked back onto the bridge. Matt followed a moment later, and informed the crew of the change. No one so much as batted an eye, though Jared laid a thick hand on his right shoulder. Drawing him close, he leaned over to whisper to him.
"Matthew, what are you doing? You are the captain, here. If you wish to talk about gaining crew respect, might I respectfully suggest that this is a marvelous opportunity to do it? And much safer than your original idea, I might add."
The young man placed a hand atop his 1st officer's, and, in hushed tones, replied, "I came to the conclusion that you were right—I'm not yet all the way ready for commanding a starship. I wanna learn, mind you, but… I think that I need to give more consideration to the crewmembers who are relying on this mission coming off successfully. Gail knows what she's doing; maybe I can take a lesson from her?"
Jared straightened and allowed a broad grin to come over him. "Well, then, perhaps you have just proven some of us wrong, right there. A wise choice, Captain. A wise choice indeed. You may yet surpass your uncle in this business. If your mother were here, I'm sure she'd be proud of you, too."
Matt returned the smile. "Thanks, Commander Panocha. That means a lot to me. Really." Jared nodded, and Matt waited while the approaching ships were identified, hailed and determined to be hostiles, as suspected. Red alert was sounded, and in the new flurry of activity, an ex-rancher with a good aim, quietly slipped off the bridge.
The shielded, sensor-filled faceplate had been the perfect mask. Sneaking into the suit-up area had been tricky, since he was easily recognized, but the recent hiring of a dozen, new marines meant that, as long as he stayed with them (most of whom he had yet to even actually meet), he might just get in unnoticed. And he had been right.
As it had turned out, Lancer Ylaran's Platoon had had several openings filled by the new guys, and now, Matt found him strapped into a drop-couch just a metre from where his "commanding officer" sat manning the co-pilot's seat. Wonder what he'll think when he sees me in action. Dude, won't that be a blast? Bet'cha he stops making fun of my singing.
"Hey boss, whatcha doin'?" Matt's head snapped up, and his mind instinctively kicked into a reflexive "what's the best excuse" mode, before he realized that the other marine was not addressing him, but Ylaran instead.
"Do you have any family members, soldier?"
"Sir, Yessir. A mother, a father, and a couple little sisters. Why?"
"You married, soldier?"
"Sir, no sir."
"When you're married, you'll understand what I'm doing." And with that the junior marine went silent.
Matt craned his neck as much as possible, though the power-armour made the motion moot. Remembering the suits capabilities, Matt concentrated, instead, on the holographic viewscreen, and switched to low-light vision. With some effort, he managed to center the view on the marine commander—his friend—and punch up a 4x magnification. A few moments of study revealed that Ylaran, palm-top in hand, and stylus clutched between thick, metal fingers, was writing a letter to his wife.
He ceased his prying, and leaned back against the bulkhead to consider what he had just seen. Having never known love, Matt could only begin to imagine what must have been going through his friend's mind as the bulk of the Dagger's ground forces dropped toward the planet, ready to bring the pre-fabbed—and well hidden— defenses online, which would greatly assist them in defending the capitol city.
How's that gotta be. For all he knows, he might never see her, or his four kids, ever again. I never knew he wrote to her right before fighting. Guess it makes sense, though; not like we're doing much else up here. With that thought, he settled into a contemplative silence, lost in thought, even as the drop shuttle belly-flopped into the Vedrellion atmosphere.