Mercurial: Ace Evans Book 5 (Ace Evans Series), page 26
“What do you think of your predecessor’s work?” she asked.
It was a loaded question. I had no idea who the previous master-at-arms had been. For all I knew, it could have been Lieutenant Holly’s best friend, and something about her made me want to avoid any offense to her if I could help it.
“Well, there’s some work to be done,” I admitted. “But I’m glad. I need to keep busy—I’m no good sitting around all day.”
“I think the former MA was just waiting out the last few months of his enlistment. A lot of Marines see this type of post as a dead-end job.”
“I nearly ended up dead, period,” I said. “I’m grateful for anything I’m able to do at this point.”
“Well, don’t work too hard,” she said, “or you’ll run out of things to do.”
She flashed a smile that was hard for me to interpret. The problem, I realized with a jolt, was that I found her pretty, and that messed with my head. I didn’t know if I was reading too much into the gesture. She probably smiled at everyone, I thought.
Yet something inside me wanted desperately to believe that she could see past the scars, the missing hair, the eye patch, and the limp—all superficial—and understand that there was much more to me than met the eye. Physically, I wouldn’t have said I was a catch even before Luyten C, and I was still trying to accept that my body would carry the burden of that experience for the rest of my life. I didn’t want to think that I would be forced to live out these days in solitude as well.
Lieutenant Holly walked away, and I replaced the LAR in its rack. Continuing my inspection, I saw cases of weapons, ammunition, and even explosives. There was also an emergency lever on the wall. The armory was a vital station in the ship, but it was also dangerous. The lever could seal and eject the armory so that the munitions didn’t damage the rest of the ship in an emergency situation.
I had used the armories on other ships, but that had only involved going to the window and checking out gear. In all honesty, I had always taken the armories and the Marines who worked in them for granted. Now I felt I could contribute to this space. As master-at-arms, not only were there things I could do, but with a little effort, there was much that I could do well. It gave me a sense of comfort to know that I was in a secure role where I could make a difference. While I continued to work on my body and its recovery, I would have a sense of purpose; and that was a feeling I’d feared I might never have again.
I was just about to lock the armory back up when my slate vibrated in my pocket. I pulled the device out and saw that I was wanted on Alpha: my treats had arrived. With those in my possession, I could truly make myself at home on the S.F. Rihla.
SURVIVORS CHAPTER 2
The chow hall was the same on every ship. There were large food prep machines, each with a variety of dinning options. I picked mushroom and cheese ravioli in parmesan cream sauce with reconstituted broccoli and chicken flavored protein loaf. On my first night on the Rihla, I ate dinner alone, then returned to my cabin to change my clothes before walking down to the physical therapy center. There was a large cardio section, which hurt my heart a bit: I had always prided myself on staying fit, but my injuries made running nearly impossible. I couldn’t use the cardio machines or most of the resistance equipment. Instead, I used bands and focused on increasing my range of motion. My left arm would only rise as high as my shoulder and ached when I tried to go any higher. I worked carefully but with a quiet intensity, focused on regaining a semblance of my old self. The PT center was mostly empty, save for a few Marines putting in the work to keep their bodies ready for whatever the corps might throw at them.
I did the same exercises my former physical therapists had put me through, pushing my artificial joints until exhaustion took hold. After an hour, I was sweating more from pain than exertion. With that pain came the sense of pride that a good workout always gave me. I enjoyed the fact that I strove to demand so much from my body, even when no one would judge me for taking an easier route or throwing in the towel completely.
After my workout, I showered, then made up my bed with the new sheets from the commissary and climbed into my bunk. Pat was still watching football. I slid the light-blocking, noise-dampening curtain closed and quickly fell asleep, worn out from both the physical and emotional strain of the day.
The next morning and first platoon meeting felt like they arrived only seconds after I’d shut my eyes. At 0645, I was dressed and waiting in the designated briefing room on Echo. There were a few other Marines waiting with me. They all looked hungover and exhausted, which wasn’t surprising: most of the platoon had leave, and the Pathfinder had an entire wing filled with bars, clubs, restaurants, and other forms of entertainment.
Within ten minutes of my arrival, the entire platoon was present and waiting for Lieutenant Bass. The TAC squads were exactly as advertised, two groups of cocky, hard-charging Marines. I had once been part of them, but I could see the disdain in their eyes whenever they glanced my way. In the culture of the Space Fleet Marine Corps, the TAC teams were the elite fighters, the superstars. Everyone else was beneath them and, to most members, not worthy to share the same space.
I sat in the back with Pat, along with the rest of the support staff that made up the third squad of Lieutenant Bass’s first platoon. I had three Marines working under me, Sergeant Nathan Bridger, Corporal Kelly Farris, and Lance Corporal Beatrix Finnegan. They had all said hello and not much else—likely out of some sense of internal embarrassment, I knew. By this time, I was used to the looks of fear and uncertainty my appearance often evoked; and the fact that they would all be answering to me once the platoon meeting was over only made them more apprehensive. I was their new boss, and they had no idea if I would make their lives miserable or not.
A first sergeant barked an order, and we all stood to attention as Lieutenant Bass entered. He looked fresh and excited as he stepped to the podium. Whatever the plans were for the Rihla’s cruise, he evidently approved.
“Welcome aboard the Rihla and to the First Platoon,” he said. “Most of you know me, and you know what I expect. Do your job, always be prepared, and we’ll get along just fine. All right, at ease—let’s get down to business. I’ve just received word from the captain that we’ll be making a cruise to the Leonis system.”
For nearly half an hour, the lieutenant gave a formal lecture about the system. Leonis B was a planet in the habitable zone of its system. Our ship would make orbit, launch mapping satellites, and essentially lay claim to any resources in the system. It used to be a mundane task to explore new star systems before the Orrkasi had crossed our path. They were eager to extend their own reach, and we had been engaged in almost constant warfare ever since. There was no reason to believe that the Orrkasi had invaded the Leonis system, but there was always a chance, and Lieutenant Bass was hopeful that the TAC teams he commanded would see action. I couldn’t help but wonder how he would feel if he had the first clue just how horrible the Orcs were.
For a moment, it took an effort to push back the terror of my own memories. It hurt just as much that my experience was so tainted by those nightmarish recollections. I loved being on a TAC team, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with men and women I respected. The bonds formed during countless hours of training and experiencing the horrors of combat together made them like family. It hit me that I was no longer part of that world. My job was simpler, and, for the first time in my adult life, that was a blessing to me.
When the platoon meeting ended, I got to my feet slowly and shuffled down the aisle. The members of the TAC teams were crowded around the door, blocking the way. I stood back, in no real hurry to leave. My little group of gunsmiths was waiting for me, but we weren’t required to staff the armory until noon. Before that, we would just be going over a shift schedule and assigning roles. The responsibility of being the senior NCO of a ship’s armory was in many ways simpler than managing fire teams and making sure a squad was ready for combat.
I was almost to the door when a big man bumped into me. The blow knocked me off balance, and I ended up leaning against the wall to keep from falling. The last thing I wanted was to look weak in front of the Marines of the TAC teams. The man who bumped me was a sergeant whose name badge identified him as Theo Barker. He glanced over at me and flashed a wicked grin before turning back to his companions without commenting on his rudeness. I knew the type: he wore the TAC team designation of a screaming eagle on his uniform, but there were no ribbons for combat drops. Some Marines thrive in training but can’t handle the rigors of actual combat. Despite this, I could tell that Barker thought himself superior to me; I doubt he even saw that I formally outranked him. Still, I let it go, reminding myself that there was no need to start a feud. Barker’s rudeness wouldn’t affect how I did my job.
Pat, who was standing nearby, didn’t see it that way. Given what I knew of his background and the pecking order pervasive in the military, perhaps it was because he had endured years of disrespect from combat operators who looked down on him as a logistics officer.
“Sergeant Barker!” Pat snapped. “Don’t turn your back on Staff Sergeant Vanhorn. You owe him an apology.”
I raised my hands, hoping to wave off the need for an apology. Barker turned, glanced at me, and grinned again.
“Sorry, I didn’t see you there, Staff Sergeant,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. “I’ll have to be more careful. I didn’t realize I was in a handicapped zone.”
He chuckled as he turned away. Pat took a deep breath, clearly offended by the flagrant insult. I knew he was about to explain to the room exactly who I was and why—at least in his eyes—I deserved their respect. It was commendable, but I didn’t want people to think I considered myself a hero. The truth was, I felt exactly the opposite. My job on Luyten C had been to accomplish the mission objectives and get my Marines back safely. I’d only accomplished half of that. I would pay for my failures with pain, probably for the rest of my life. Almost getting myself killed didn’t merit any special treatment.
“Don’t,” I said quietly to Pat. “It’s not worth it.”
“He can’t treat you like that,” my cabinmate fumed.
“It’s fine, really. I hate to admit it, but I used to be the same way,” I said. “Guys like Barker have to believe they’re invincible. They can’t second-guess their actions, not on the battlefield.”
“But we aren’t on the battlefield,” Pat argued as we left the briefing room. “And nothing gives someone the right to disrespect a superior. It’s bad for morale.”
“We’ll let it slide just this once,” I told him.
I took my time descending the stairs to Delta. The jocularity of the TAC teams had made my own self-consciousness much worse. They were strong, and I felt weak; they moved quickly where I was still slow. More than anything else, they were full of hope, while my future was tainted with despair. The corps had given me the tools to rebuild my body, but my mind was still struggling to accept this new normal.
On Delta, I shuffled around to the armory, where my new team was waiting. The door was standing open, a clear violation of protocol: the armory was a secure facility on the ship, and that security was not to be compromised. Since the ship was in port, however, I had no obligation to chastise my team; and it was soon apparent that they had left the door open for me.
“Ten-hut!” Sergeant Bridger announced as I entered.
My three fellow Marines all came to stiff attention and saluted, even though that wasn’t customary, as salutes were usually reserved for officers and as a show of respect. I returned their salute with a smile.
“All right, cut that out,” I said.
“Just wanted you to know we’re excited to have you, Staff Sergeant,” he said.
“Well, I’m glad to be here,” I said. “Did you all work with my predecessor?”
“Corporal Ferris and I did, Staff Sergeant,” the young sergeant explained. He was short man with a clean-cut face and the beginnings of a potbelly. “Corporal Finnegan came on a few days before you.”
“Well, the first thing you need to know is that I prefer to be called Van,” I said. “We work together, and I prefer proficiency over protocol.”
“Understood,” he said. “I go by Nate.”
“Kelly,” introduced one of the two women. She had a round face and dull brown hair twisted into a complex braid that was wound into a bun at the back of her neck. She looked to be about my age, but it was difficult to know for certain.
“Trix—it’s short for Beatrix,” the lance corporal added. Trix was the youngest member of our little team. She was thin, with blonde hair cut short and bright green eyes.
“Very good,” I said. “I’m guessing you already had a schedule in place, Nate?”
“We did,” Nate confirmed. “Six-hour shifts.”
“Was it acceptable?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Good, then we’ll keep it. What are your specialties?”
“I’ve got experience in power supply management,” Kelly offered. “I would be glad to keep up with the batteries and charging rotation.”
“Very good,” I said. “Nate?”
“I’m a bit of an inventory nerd. I love lists.”
“Great. You can keep track of ammunition. Trix?”
“I don’t really have a specialty yet,” she said. “But I’m good with my hands. I build models, or at least I used to.”
“Where did you serve before this?” Nate asked.
“I was an administrative assistant at the Lunar base,” she said.
“I can teach you everything you need to know to service these weapons,” I told her. “You and I will do a complete check of every weapon in here. I’ll take charge of the explosive ordinance personally. If you have an issue with anything or anyone, you come to me. I don’t care what the issue is—I’m available day or night.”
As if to emphasize my point, the slate in my pocket buzzed. I pulled it out and glanced at the screen. The message turned out to be a summons to meet with the ship’s captain.
“Looks like you’re a popular person,” Nate said with a grin.
“Do you have other requirements for us?” Kelly asked. “PT? Training?”
“No,” I told her. “Just keep in mind that we’ll be on this ship for a long time. Do what you need to do to stay sane. Other than that, no one is allowed in the armory other than senior officers and the four of us. If someone wants a weapon with live ammo and the ship isn’t on alert status, they need authorization from their CO. Let’s keep it simple. I’ll be back and take the first shift here while the rest of you get squared away.”
I left them to work out the rotation schedule. It didn’t matter to me when I worked. Life on board a ship was all about routine. There was nothing to differentiate night and day—it was all the same. The easiest way to deal with the stress of a military vessel was to create a routine and stick to it. I cared much more about the happiness of my team, so once they had their preferred slots in the rotation, I would build my daily routine around it. I also planned to spend more time with each member of my team during their time in the armory. The best work environments, in my experience, were both professional and friendly.
Checking my slate, I saw that the captain of the ship, Liza Dunning, had requested that I meet her in her office, which was directly across from the command and control center. When I made my way there, that part of the ship opened up, displaying a small waiting area just inside. To my surprise, I found Lieutenant Holly stationed at the tiny desk outside the captain’s office.
“Staff Sergeant Vanhorn,” she said with a brief grin; whether she meant it to be or not, I was enchanted. “Right on time.”
“I was just in the armory,” I said, cursing my inability to think of anything else to say.
“I’ll let the captain know you’re here,” she said, tapping some of the icons on a large tablet-sized slate. “You can sit down. She’s on a video conference at the moment. There’s no telling how long that might last.”
“Do senior officers always serve out here?” I asked, waving at the captain’s office.
“You may not have noticed, but I’m actually a junior officer,” she said, tapping the gold bar on the collar of her uniform.
“I’ve seen you all over the ship,” I said. “I just assumed you were second in command.”
She laughed. “I’m Captain Dunning’s gopher. But I don’t mind—I plan to be in her chair one day, and when that day comes, I want to know everything about the ship…even the armory.”
“I can tell you everything about it,” I said, glad for the opening. Flirting wasn’t the best idea—after all, she was an officer, and not even one in the corps—but there was something about her that I couldn’t resist.
“Is that so?” she asked.
I cherished the hope that she was flirting back, while telling myself that it didn’t really matter if she was or not. In that moment, it just felt validating to believe she was. It had been a long time since anyone had looked at me with anything but pity or revulsion.
“Absolutely,” I replied. I was about to say more when her slate beeped.
“That’s Captain Dunning,” she said. “She’s ready to see you now.”
“Thanks,” I said, glad that I hadn’t sat down. I didn’t want Lieutenant Holly to see me struggle with something as simple as standing.
The captain’s office had double doors that slid apart as I approached. Where Lieutenant Bass’s office had been small and utilitarian, the captain’s large office held more creature comforts than any other place on the ship that I had seen so far. That might have been customary; never having been summoned to a captain’s office before, I had no way of knowing for sure. Until my promotion to staff sergeant while still recovering on Titan, I was an average grunt who never went near senior officers if I could help it. I still felt an undeniable sense of apprehension as I walked into Dunning’s workspace.
She was seated behind a wide desk, the surface of which showed three holo-projectors. I could see that she had two pages of information projected, and the third projector showed the command interface of her computer. As I walked forward, trying not to limp, she passed her hand over a switch to deactivate the holograms. She waved at one of the chairs across from her desk.
