McShane started awake so abruptly that she slammed her forehead against the ceiling of her coffin.
Her vision whited out for a second – so split that it was gone almost before it had arrived – but at least the sudden pain banished the last fragments of nightmare into oblivion. Apart from that last image, flash frozen into her retina, as Jontru hurled himself into the path of the Dalek's beam. But that wasn't how it had happened! He hadn't died like that – he certainly hadn't been killed by a Dalek, whilst saving her… That happened later. That had been… Someone else.
Blinking to re-establish control over her eyesight, Trooper McShane concentrated on slowing her rapid breathing to a more normal level, and slowly took stock of her surroundings.
She knew where she was, of course, but this daily ritual helped the soldier to ground herself before confronting the world outside her head. The coffin – a Sleep Pod in naval parlance – was only slightly longer than her own reclining form, and not that much wider. The ceiling of the pod was just high enough to allow her to raise herself up on her elbows – hence the daily bang on the head – but strangely, McShane found the limited space comforting rather than claustrophobic. (After all, she had slept in smaller hotel rooms in her time.) The internal lighting had been activated as she woke – or maybe the sudden harsh intrusion of pink light through her eyelids was what had woken her… She was never able to tell. Still taking deep, calming breaths, McShane took careful inventory of her body. Glistening with nightmare-induced fear sweat, her athlete's physique offered up way posts and warning signs marking the landscape of her life.
Breasts. High and tight. Now rising and falling in a totally calm and controlled breathing pattern. The sheen of perspiration coated them evenly, except where a small rivulet of sweat followed the path of a scar over her heart. This was a souvenir from an encounter with a drunken Earth Reptile that had… taken objection to her for some reason. Fortunately, in his inebriated state he had chosen to slash rather than stab, so the wound ran diagonally across her left breast. She hadn't given him time to realise his mistake. Grabbing hold of his knife arm in her left hand, McShane had driven the rigid fingers of her right into his main eyes. As he bellowed in pain – or possibly outrage – his automatic reaction was to raise his hands towards that pain, so McShane had assisted him. Forcing the hand still gripping the knife upwards rapidly, she added the strength of her right arm to back up that of her left, and drove the blade into his third eye up to the hilt.
His scream had abruptly cut off, and in the ensuing silence, the wet thud of a sack of dead meat hitting the floor had seemed… inordinately loud.
McShane had gazed down numbly at the corpse for a few moments, trying to make sense out of what had just happened. Iktak had been, if not a friend, then at least a comrade-in-arms – a fellow Dee-Kay.
Then she had just turned and walked away, taking no notice of the other Dee-Kay's present. In turn, they were assiduously ignoring her. She knew that this meant that Iktak's body would be quietly 'disappeared', and the first that anyone higher up would hear about it would be seeing his name on the latest casualty list. Nobody tried to follow her, to talk or offer comfort, and for that she was enormously grateful. She had left Iktak's knife where it was, even though the unwritten law said it was now hers. She had never shared her fellow trooper's love of trophies.
But she had kept the scar.
Every wound was a lesson, a reminder. This one told her that death can come from the most unexpected directions, that even allies can be the enemy.
And that Dalek Killer's look after their own.
Raising herself higher on her elbows, until her bald pate was pressing against the ceiling, McShane followed the path of the rivulet as it trickled nervously between her breasts. It began to trace the contours of her taut abs, until it was ambushed by an ugly patch of burn tissue. Another scar, another story.
Another lesson.
By now McShane was fully in tune with herself and her environment. As she gazed in satisfaction at her muscular thighs, (her favourite bits of the machine called McShane,) she began to register the chill as the night sweat leached her body heat. She felt the dull throb of the ship through her skin, so constant and omnipresent that one had to concentrate to hear the sound it made. Lying back against the nanoweave foam support pad, McShane keyed in the code to release the hatch to her coffin. As it hummed down into exit position behind her head, McShane placed the palms of her hands against the ceiling. While she performed her press downs, locking the muscles of her arms into full flex against the pressure from her shoulders, she began to inhale deeply. Now that she could smell something other than herself, she suddenly became aware that she could smell herself. It wasn't a bad smell, she decided – not yet.
Wafting in languidly from the hatchway... The smell and taste of hot metal. The ubiquitous mélange of chemical scents that made McShane feel that she was where she belonged. The smell of warship.
Actually, the Tiburon was little more than a glorified corpse factory – a Troop Carrier, in navy speak – but McShane loved the smell of heavy duty ordnance and high explosives in the morning. It smelled of… Home.
Warmup isometrics completed, she took another sniff of herself, and concluded that she could put up with it until after her run. (It seemed counterproductive to take a mister and then go on a run, anyway.) Raising her knees just enough to place her feet flat against the foam support, McShane pushed herself partway out onto the waiting hatch cover. Once her upper torso was out far enough, she reached up to the hand grips above the opening, hauling herself out into a kneeling position on the hatch. Totally unconcerned about her nudity outside of her coffin, she reached back in to lift up the support foam and retrieved her utilities. McShane hated the paper thin, one-size-fits-nobody ship issue jumpsuits, but had to concede that they were more practical onboard the Tiburon than her full combat gear. After retrieving her deck shoes also, McShane dropped the lot over the edge of her hatch, then took her entire weight on her hands as she swung her legs out behind her. With the ease of long practice, she then swung her knees back underneath the hatch to nudge it back into place, before using the hand grips of the coffins below hers as a ladder to descend.
Dropping catlike to the deck, she absently picked up her jumpsuit and slipped into it without any thought required, glancing around curiously to see if there were any other live bait around in this section. As usual, it appeared that all the corpsicles were still oblivious in their coffins. It wouldn't have mattered to her if she had an audience anyway. The few Dee-Kay's who had objected, (okay, objected vociferously enough,) to spending the journey dead for the convenience of the crewers… Well, they had seen fellow Dalek Killer's naked so often that it didn't even register. On occasion they had even seen fellow Dee-Kay's insides, so being offended by a stray tit or cock – or whatever strange bodily appendages that the non-human troopers utilized – seemed… Well…
A bit silly, really.
Leaning one hand against the nearest coffin hatch for balance, McShane slipped on her deck shoes, ignoring the chill that seemed to emanate from its surface. (It was purely psychosomatic, she knew, but she just couldn't shake it.) Fully kitted up, she did a quick bit of dancing like a butterfly, stinging like a bee – followed up by a few 'Rocky' style punches into the bulkhead – just to remind herself that she was alive. Then she started to run.
Xiphonax – one of the Draconian Dee-Kay's – had actually created an exercise treadmill for himself: by the simple expedient of 'borrowing' one of the mid-weight cargo shunts and adapting it to his own requirements. All that had involved was to turn the thing upside down. (After removing the control handle, of course.) Once he had reattached the controls to the machine in its new orientation, the platform's motivator tread provided a perfectly adequate running mill. Although McShane appreciated the Draconian's cunning and ingenuity, she found running on one spot far too boring, and so had initiated her own 'cross-deck' training program.
Running through the corridors and decks of the Tiburon itself would probably have been pretty boring also, if this wasn't such an unusual mission. On her previous jollies aboard corpse factories, the ships had been spacious and immaculate – clear passageways and rigidly defined go-no-go areas. The Tiburon looked like the pack-rat home of an obsessive collector of 'things that go bang'. Every possible space was bristling with lovely explodey stuff – the ship was totally bombed up – and McShane was in McShane heaven.
In actual fact, she admitted to herself, calling it a run was a bit like calling a sabretooth tiger 'a rather large pussy cat'. She had only just built up enough speed to feel like she was actually going somewhere, before she faced her first major obstacle. Lashed down to the deck before her squatted a smug looking stack of armour piercing ammo crates. McShane could almost hear them sniggering to themselves as she approached at speed, and had to admit that the reaction was not unjustified. On her first attempt at this route she had decided that the best approach was to simply hurdle the stack…
This had not ended well.
However, she had since perfected her technique, and was grinning ferociously as she used her momentum to run up the bulkhead adjoining the stack. Okay, so that only took her hallway past the obstacle, and she had to fall the rest of the way to the deck beyond. But she fell with style, and landed running! "Up yours, Snot Boxes!" She yelled over her shoulder, giving them the finger.
This was what living was about! This was the only way to really wake up! Feeling the strength building up inside her, McShane threw in a few (completely unnecessary) sorties up the bulkheads on either side of the corridor. She felt like she was flying!
Her deck shoes were flimsy and lightweight, granted, but the nanoweave composite soles had more than enough heft and traction to allow her to cope with almost any surface. As the comforting heat and presence of the Tiburon more fully announced its existence, McShane rejoiced in the sweat – the healthy sweat – that began to coat her flexing muscles. A quick leap to the left – here! – and she bounced off an array of concussion missiles strapped to the bulkhead. With just the right amount of rebound, this provided the momentum she needed to reach the fourth tier of grab handles on the opposite side, and monkey-swing herself past a punji-pit array of badly stacked auto-flechette launchers. Successfully traversing the obstacle, she landed with a Kirk roll on the other side and immediately propelled herself at the opposite bulkhead, using the added height this tactic provided to launch herself onto the back of a rather confused looking mobile assault cannon – which shouldn't have been stored there in the first place.
McShane didn't care about that. She was in the zone, she was paddling posteriors, and she hurled herself recklessly from the top of the canon to snatch ahold of a top tier hand grab. As her speed slammed her into the ceiling of the corridor, she used her free hand to slap the release catch on the tween decks access hatch she had been aiming for, laughing to herself joyfully as her muscles did everything that she wanted them to.
After about half an hour of her improvised parkour, McShane's utilities were little more than papier mache fragments sticking to her frame like silly string. Even when she raced through the improvised mess hall on her way to the misters, she hardly noticed the other live bait that were beginning to congregate. Other people than Dalek Killer's might jeer at someone who had exhausted themselves after running for only half an hour.
A Dee-Kay would reply. "Oh yeah? Try running straight up."
+++++++++++++++++ Insert line-break. ++++++++++++++++++
Although the room itself wasn't particularly large, no more than six metres by four, McShane estimated: the total absence of clutter gave her a feeling of wide open spaces. On a more normal mission the cleansing room would have been crowded with bodies, either applying the sanitiser lotion, or simply waiting their turn in one of the mister cubicles. It was a place of equality and camaraderie, because one never knew when the assistance of a fellow trooper might be required to hit those hard to reach places.
With the majority of the task force hibernating for the duration, it was actually quite unusual for the few live bait currently on board to run into each other here. (Unless by specific arrangement.) So McShane was quite surprised when someone that she hadn't seen before exited a cubicle, just as she was making her way to her own. They only exchanged brief glances, and nods of acknowledgment, before Trooper McShane slipped into her mister, but he made an immediate impression. He was a tall, thin, black human. Not coffee, not cream, not mahogany… Black. So black that he almost looked blue as the overhead lighting glistened and sparkled off the moisture coating his body and bald crown.
Putting aside the mystery of his identity, (she would have noticed this man if he had ever been in any of the areas she and her squad mates used,) McShane dialed up for the maximum five second misting. Before punching the activation stud, she also keyed in the code for the solution that would disassemble her shredded utilities, and slipped on the eye protectors provided in response. Even so, as she activated the spray, she closed her eyes anyway. Force of habit.
She felt herself being blasted from all sides by the initial waves of mist – even the cubicles door contained emitters – and allowed her body to relax into their ministrations. Even as she felt the ticklish tingle of her jumpsuit dissolving into its component molecules, McShane luxuriated in the pummeling the mist delivered – simultaneously massaging her muscles and cleansing her pores, As always, it was over far too soon, but she couldn't do anything about that. Still coated with a thin sheen of moisture, McShane removed her eye protectors and dropped them into the waiting receptacle, then retrieved the squeeze bulb that was dispensed. Feeling deliciously relaxed and glowing, she stepped out of the cubicle.
The mysterious soldier was still there, only halfway through applying his own cleansing lotion, but McShane didn't pay any attention to him. She just broke the seal on her own bulb, and began working the lotion into a lather all over herself. This was another bit of Space Fleet 'miracle technology' that had rapidly been accepted by all who had had the opportunity to use it. The solution not only contained cleansing and moisturising elements, but was also an extremely efficient depilatory. This was deeply appreciated by anyone who had to wear dual layer Space Fleet issue combats on a regular basis. (Skintight wasn't the word – sometimes McShane was convinced that the under suit was trying to get under her skin!)
There were a whole bunch of other beneficial gubbins thrown into the mix, ranging from skin cell gobblers to nutrient enhancers, but what McShane liked most about it was the way that her muscles never felt sore afterwards, no matter how strenuous her workout had been. Still, even though she enjoyed the more normal (on this trip,) solitude that she usually experienced in the cleansing room, she could never quite manage to apply the solution effectively to the middle of her back. On this occasion, however, that should be easy enough to sort out.
Turning round to face the unknown Dee-Kay, McShane's request died on her lips when she saw that he was staring at her with a very intent, yet indecipherable, expression. She felt an eyebrow quirk. She knew she looked good, (particularly from behind,) and was used to attracting interest from males of any species that was even remotely humanoid – but the look on this man's face unnerved her slightly. "See something you like?" She asked, in a tone that managed to combine provocative invitation with challenging disdain. It had taken her a long time to master, and it usually confused the Wossname's out of any male that she directed it at.
Deliberately, almost insultingly, McShane allowed her eyes to drift lower, and was unable to prevent a snort of amusement. (Whether at the fact that he was not saluting her, or her own assumptions – she wasn't quite sure.)
"Obviously not!' She hurried on as she looked him in the face once more. "Should I be insulted?"
It was difficult to tell if he had even heard her. He was studying her face closely, almost with an air of desperation, but that only showed in his deep brown eyes. His face was an obsidian sculpture, and all he said was, "Turn around." as he took the squeeze bulb from her unresisting hand.
McShane tried another eyebrow raise, not sure that she would be able to speak past the sudden lump in her throat, and his face softened as it relaxed into an apologetic smile. "You missed a bit." He explained.
As she nodded her thanks and began to turn her back on him, McShane couldn't help but notice the fact that, although his jawline was liberally slathered, he had no lotion on his head. This was in exact opposition her own application of the depilatory, so she assumed that he must be one of those men that were naturally bald. The touch of his hand against her back made her tense those muscles momentarily, which both surprised and embarrassed her, but she immediately shook off the unexpected response. As he began rubbing the lotion into her with a professional – almost clinical – touch: he asked hesitantly. "You were at Haven's Ridge?"
Despite herself, McShane stiffened at that name, and stepped away from him to whirl around and demand. "What do you know about Haven's Ridge?"
If he was surprised by her reaction, he didn't show it. He simply indicated for her to turn around again, as he replied. "I was looking at your back earlier. I've only ever seen a scar pattern like that on survivors of that battle…"
"You were there?" McShane interrupted, intrigued despite herself.
"I was… In the vicinity, yes. But I only actually saw that particular scarring pattern when soldiers were having them removed. Why didn't you have the surgery yourself, if you don't mind my asking?"
McShane wasn't sure that she wanted to explain any of this to a total stranger, but the firm yet gentle hands on her back were very soothing. (She also noted that he restricted himself to areas of her body that she hadn't managed to apply lotion to herself. Either he wasn't into girls, or he was extremely well disciplined.) She decided to meet him halfway. "I keep my scars to remind myself that I'm one of the lucky ones."
"Lucky?" he asked, sounding perplexed.
"I'm still here."
He was silent for a moment, concentrating on kneading a knuckle into a knot he had found (which was bliss!) and then he patted her on the shoulder. "All done and dusted." He announced briskly.
When McShane turned to thank him, she discovered him holding out what was left of the squeeze bulb, eyebrow raised hopefully. She found herself smiling ironically as she took it from him, saying. "Oh, go on then. But just this once mind!"
He smiled as he gave her a brief nod, then presented his back to her.
As McShane emptied the remaining contents of the bulb into her hands, she took the opportunity to re-evaluate her initial impression of his physique. He was tall, yes, undeniably: but now she had got a better look at him she decided that 'thin' wasn't an accurate description. Instead he was lean, with the whipcord musculature of a greyhound. An image from her childhood in Perivale flashed through her mind. Little Dotty, sitting enthralled in front of the goggle-box, as a lean black man chases an Antelope forever. And when it finally collapses from exhaustion – the lean man gives it his thanks for its sacrifice before dispatching it. Then he slings it over his shoulders… and carries it a bazillion miles back to his village…
Shaking away the momentary distraction, McShane reached up to start hitting those hard to reach spots, and asked him. "So how come I haven't seen you around before? I thought I knew all the live bait on this ship."
"Live bait?" He asked in return, tilting his head fractionally towards her.
"You know,' she replied, rubbing with more enthusiasm than skill, 'us. The ones that refused to be put to sleep for the entire flight. Been toffing it up with the crewers have you?"
His back muscles clench, which is quite an intriguing sensation, but he doesn't refuse to reply. "I have been confined to the Medical Ward, until today."
"You what?' McShane blurted out, unable to contain her surprise. 'I didn't think that corpse factories had Medical Wards!" He flinches when he hears the word 'corpse'.
"Not in the usual course of events, no.' He paused. 'You may have noticed that this is not a usual mission?"
McShane was forced to concede the point, but wasn't really sure how to take the conversation any further. If a med bay had been retro fitted into the Tiburon just for this man, he must be pretty clued in on the mission specs – which nobody else is entirely clear on yet. Casting a critical eye over the results of her handiwork, she judged him to be fully cooked and – deciding that reaching up to tap on his shoulder would entail getting a bit too close – she declared. "Okay, Troop! You're done!"
Then she swatted his right buttock enthusiastically – and yelped in pain. (Apparently he was using it to store rocks.) However, the stinging in her hand became the least of her worries when he slowly turned around to face her. His lips were quirking, as if he was finding it very difficult not to laugh, and his eyes were glittering with amusement. However, his deep voice was calm, and almost insufferably 'proper'. "You are too kind, I'm sure. However, I feel that I have been remiss in not asking after your name. Allow me make my own introductions first.
'My name is Lucius.
'Lucius Fry.
'Captain Lucius Fry."
McShane was totally gob smacked for a moment, and just gaped at him stupidly for several seconds as her mind turned over her options. Then she decided that she couldn't really dig herself a deeper hole, so she might as well see what kind of officer this Lucius bloke was going to be. Drawing herself up into rigid attention she saluted, then barked. "Sorry, Sir! Couldn't see your rank bars, Sir! Trooper McShane reporting for duty, Sir!
'And may I say how much I am looking forward to serving under you, Sir!"
In response to her salute, Captain Fry had stiffened to attention (in the military sense,) but on hearing the end of her 'report' he totally cracked up, having to lean against a cubicle as he convulsed with laughter. Refusing to look at her, he opened the door and choked out, "At ease, Trooper McShane! Finish you ablutions. And that's an orders!" He was still laughing as he pulled the door closed behind him.
Greatly relieved, McShane did as she was told. Selecting another decadently luxurious five second burst from the mister, she danced about inside the cubical, rubbing the solution from her head with her eyes closed. She let the mister deal with the rest of her. Altering the settings on the control dial, she then allowed herself a glorious thirty seconds of hot air massage, wriggling and squirming in delight as she was dried and pampered. She was feeling pretty good about Captain Fry when she finally accepted delivery of another wafer thin Jumpsuit pack. In her experience, officers with a sense of humour were few and far between.
So it was ever so slightly disappointing to discover that he had made a rapid escape whilst she had been indulging herself. His mister cubicle was clearly empty, and there was no sign of him in the cleansing room. Probably had to be somewhere, do some important officer-type stuff, she told herself disconsolately, as she shook out the utilities prior to donning them. Somehow, even after a glorious run, McShane felt a little let down – but she couldn't figure out why. Retrieving her deck shoes from the blast basin she had dumped them in on her arrival, she slipped them on and started to head towards the 'mess hall'. Maybe the company of a few more Dee-Kay's would sort her out.
She had only gone a few paces when she heard a deep voice call out. "Trooper McShane!" She span about to see Captain Fry, dressed in his own – rank-bar free – jumpsuit, peering back at her from around a turn in the corridor.
"Yes, Sir!" McShane responded with alacrity, springing to attention, just in case she had read the situation wrong.
He grinned at her wickedly, stepping out into full few so that he could stand before her with his arms folded across his chest. He was nodding very slowly, and McShane had absolutely no idea which way he was going to jump. And then his demeanor became more serious, or perhaps just more honest, as he said. "In answer to your earlier question, McShane.
'Yes.
'Very much so."
And then he tapped a casual finger to an eyebrow and was gone.