Chapter 5

This is an unedited first look at my next project! Scene details may change before the final draft, but the gist of the story is there. You may find the odd typo or a sentence that doesn’t read quite right, but all that will be polished up before publication.

Olsom followed Doc and the twins down the Gauntlet’s cargo ramp and into the churning mess that was the CDNS Victory’s hangar deck. The air was thick with the copper taste of sub-light exhaust and betrayal. Figured that Bresto would throw her away first chance he got. Folks always did.

Hazard stripes outlined the busy transit corridor. A hangar tech blew past with an armful of drop chutes, close enough to feel the static off his coveralls. Another hatch cycled open, landing with a clang against the deck plate. Doc was already several paces ahead, moving easy through the mess like he knew right where he was headed. Sure would be nice to know where the hell that was.

Just like the depot all over again. No, further back than that. The admin blocks, where you learned quick to keep your head down and your mouth shut. Never knowing what was coming next or who’d be gone tomorrow. Hundred days of that at the recruit depot felt like breathing water, and now here she was, gasping all over again. Six more orbits of this shit show, if she made it past today. Though maybe… She stole a glance at Doc, at the twins following quiet behind her. They seemed different. Maybe having folks at her six counted for something this time.

Doc made a crisp about-face, moving backward along the bustling walkway with drill-field precision.

“Drop prep’s already started,” he said with that punch-or-kiss-him grin that turned her stomach sideways. “One hard cred says we beat the squids planetside.”

Smokes took a drag from his cigarette, pinched the coal between his fingers, and stuck the unused portion in his breast pocket. “I’ll take—”

“—that bet.” Vlan’s eyes flicked to Olsom as he spoke, throwing off that perfect twin-timing just enough to notice. He handed his brother a single, CDF-issued hard credit. Smokes tucked the clear, plexene wafer in the same pocket and padded it thoughtfully.

“You in?” Doc waggled his eyebrows at Olsom, his own cred pinched between two fingers. 

Tempting. Back in the blocks, you didn’t bet creds. You bet meals, shower time, who got to sleep with a wall at their back. Small choices, but they kept you alive, traded away with a smile like they didn’t matter. Doc made throwing away hard currency look easy. But she knew better. Who knew what would happen next, or how long they’d stay together. Founders knew she had nothing left to lose but herself.

“Too rich for my blood.”

The hangar deck ceiling towered overhead almost four stories. Not as grand as Three-Alpha’s hangar rings, but standing in the Victory’s hollow core gave a sense of the size of the ship. Several dropships sat in their drop cradles, all armor plated and hard lines, their noses to the hazard-striped drop doors running the full length of the bay. 

More of the dull green craft emerged from recesses in the exterior bulkheads, pulled by heavy gantries running along tracks in the ceiling. Deck crew in hazard vests and red helmets worked together to ready each ship, one running the gantry, the other directing traffic, all so those ships could plunge into Aegia’s unforgiving storms.

She’d never dropped before. One simulated drop at the depot, that was it. The mechanics of leaving the Victory, surviving re-entry, the possibility—no, the likelihood—of landing under fire, it was all theoretical.

“How do we know which one’s ours?” she asked. 

“Depends on the unit we end up with.” Doc spun to face the line of ships. “One platoon per dropship. Three platoons per company. Six companies to an exped.”

A Marine emerged through the crush of hangar personnel, decked out in full tactical kit—body armor, load-bearing gear, a CR-11 blaster rifle mag-locked to his chest plate—all of it colored the pixelated white and gray of the Marine Combat Uniform. His unbothered stare and corporal pips said this was not his first ride on the Victory. He probably ate hard drops for morning chow.

“Hey, boots,” he said, pointing to the Gauntlet’s tail boom jutting from the receiving bay behind them. “You the last ones off that scow?”

“Yes, Corporal,” the others snapped.

“Good. You’re with me.” The corporal turned and waved for them to follow. Stenciled on the carrying handle of his tac vest was the name LESSIG. “You from the depot?”

“Yes,” the twins said.

“Wow.” Lessig paused, eyeing the twins a second longer than was comfortable. “There a name for your condition?”

“Gravity.” The Rikkos shrugged.

Lessig made a face. “Not many spacers in the Marines.”

“They can hold their own,” Doc said.

“And you are?”

“Lance Corporal Myers,” Doc said. “Just finished combat engineering school.”

“Mechanic and medic, good to go.”

“We’ve all seen combat,” Doc went on. “Helped take back Three-Alpha’s hangar deck. For a while, anyway.”

“I heard it’s bad out there.” Lessig waved them through the armored hatchway, out of the hangar deck and into the Victory’s starboard arterial. Just inside the broad passageway, two access lifts lined the interior bulkhead. “What about you?”

“What?” Olsom blinked. The edge of Lessig’s mouth lifted slightly as he squinted at her uniform. 

“Hello, Victory to PFC Olsom.” He slapped the lift control and one door rattled open. “You basic and blooded, too?”

“Yeah, er, yes, Corporal.”

“Three shiny-ass boots and one brand new doc.” Lessig reclined against the wall as the door closed and the lift jerked upward. “Could be worse.”

“Where we headed, Corporal?” Myers asked.

“Deck Three, Company Berths. You’ll report to Lieutenant Revan and do whatever the hell he says, check?”

“Yes, Corporal.”

The lift shuddered to a halt, a chime signaling their arrival on deck three. Marines filed past the open door, long busy lines stretching fore and aft. NCOs barked orders and junior Marines complied, filing the charcoal gray corridor with the familiar cadence of task and purpose.

“Come on.” Lessig strode into the corridor like he belonged there, the other junior enlisted making room as he passed by. “Designators on the bulkheads tell you where you’re at. We’re looking for F-3 at the end of the hall.”

Company designations flashed by as they hurried down the hall. The large block letters laser-etched into the bulkhead were half as tall as Olsom, painted the now familiar dropship green. The smell of deck wash and rank sweat drifted through open squad bay doors. Inside, rows of neatly made bunks stacked three-high from deck to ceiling.

As promised, the letters F-3 marked the end of the corridor. The office across from the squad bay was small, with barely enough room for the young lieutenant seated at the tiny desk, busily gesturing to his datapad. Lessig knocked at the door frame. The officer waved them in without looking up.

“Enter.”

Lessig stuck his head through the open hatch. “Got the last of the stragglers from Three-Alpha, sir.”

“Good.” Lieutenant Revan looked up from his work, the optimism fading as he stared at Olsom and the others through the office window. “Only four?”

“That’s all I found, sir.”

“Twelfth-dammit, we’re still short.” The lieutenant frowned at his datapad, drumming his fingers on his desk. “Fine, send them in.”

Lessig emerged from the tiny office with another barely there smile. “Go on. I’ll come get you when it’s our turn in the armory. Fifteen minutes tops, so talk fast.”

By the time Doc and the twins made their way inside the office, it was standing room only. There wasn’t much to the small space: a mass-fabricated desk with built-in flatscreen, a squeaky rolling chair, and nothing on the bulkheads other than power junctions and atmo ducts. Place looked temporary, like whoever sat here knew better than to get too comfortable.

There wasn’t much to the lieutenant, either. He was trim and fit in his well-pressed white-and-grays, his hair buzzed high and tight, every bit as mass-fabricated as his office. Typical academy polish—healthy skin, perfect teeth—probably from a family with creds to spare. The scant ribbons on his chest said Lessig had probably been at this longer than him.

“Names, ranks, and MOS, please.” He handed the datapad to Doc. “Sign the indoc form, bottom right.”

“Lance Corporal Rob Myers, Combat Engineer, sir.” Doc pressed his thumb on the pad, then passed it to Smokes. 

Doc’s service record filled the flatscreen terminal on the desk. Aegian. Made hab block drill guide when he was just a gamma, whatever the hell that meant. Even his service ident looked handsome, showing off his short, wavy hair and chiseled jaw.

“Welcome aboard, son. You ready to give your heart and your life to the Twelfth in defense of Her mountain and Her people?”

“Yes, sir.” Doc straightened, his boots knocking together sharply. He thumped a fist to his chest, pressing his knuckles into his ribs. Not a military salute, but a religious one. 

Typical Aegians, wearing their faith like armor. Olsom never understood their obsession with the Twelfth, but watching Doc’s unwavering conviction, she felt a twinge of envy. Must be nice to have that kind of certainty, especially now.

Revan’s eyes flicked to the twins.

“Vlan and Tlan Rikko, Private—”

“—First Class, basically trained, sir.”

Revan’s stare narrowed. “Aren’t you two a little old for the Marines?”

“It’s the gravity, sir,” they said.

“I see. Born in the ERMC. Bet you’re both ready for some payback today.”

“We were just alphas back then.” Smokes gave a shrug. 

Vlan did, too. “Don’t remember any of that, sir.” 

“I see you have skeletal mods,” Revan went on, swiping through their file. “You’ll pull a lot of G’s in our drop, and Aegia’s gravity is a bit over standard. You have your boosters on you?”

The Rikkos padded the bulky meds in their pockets and nodded. They were so unassuming, besides their exaggerated height and wrinkled faces. Body mods or not, their spacer-thin frames weren’t built for this kind of beating. One standard G turned their faces to wrinkled leather. Made ’em look like someone’s grandfathers. Hard to think of them as Marine material, but they’d proven themselves back on Three-Alpha. Olsom leaned in, straining to catch every detail. When Vlan offered her the datapad, she startled. Her turn.

The indoc form read like an admin block waiver, lots of legal jargon demanding everything and giving nothing back. Emergency wartime transfer: CDMS Victory, F Company, Third Platoon. She’d signed a million of these in the last hundred days. One more wouldn’t kill her.

“PFC Larke Olsom, sir.” The datapad accepted her thumbprint with a tight, haptic buzz before she passed it back to Revan. “Basically trained, sir.”

“Strong scores on your exo sims.” Revan’s eyes scanned the display. “Your senior drill instructor says you have an aptitude for close combat drill, particularly hand-to-hand.”

“Grew up in an admin block, sir.” Just saying it brought back the memories of tight bunks, moldy showers, and sour testosterone. “Had to learn early.”

Revan set the pad down and looked at her, his eyes lingering, as if he’d never seen an admin block refugee before.

“I understand Vestia can be a wild place. I’m sorry to hear that, Private.”

“Don’t be. I’m not.” She lifted her chin and had to suppress a spiteful grin. “Sir.”

“Very well.” Revan rolled back his chair until it knocked against the rear bulkhead. “Welcome to F Company, Third Platoon. I need ten more of you, but we’ll make due. 

“I’m your platoon commander, Lieutenant Pius Revan. Corporal Lessig is First Squad leader and my acting platoon sergeant. As you’ll see, we’re very shorthanded. The Concordat caught us mid-rotation and nearly thirty percent of Victory Marines are still on the surface.”

The chair creaked as Revan stood, datapad in hand. His fingers danced across the screen, pausing only when he stopped to scrutinize each of them in turn.

“I’m going to need two-hundred percent from each one of you to make up the difference. Listen to your NCOs and your fellow non-comms. They know the Victory way. Twelfth-willing, in time, so will you.”

“Yes, sir,” Olsom snapped, her words blending with Doc’s and the twins’.

“Good. Tlan, exo operator. You’re with Toelke and Mezzior. Squad Three, Fireteam Two.”

Smokes didn’t react, didn’t even blink. Almost like he didn’t hear. Or didn’t want to.

“Olsom, exo operator. Vlan, breacher. Myers, combat engineer. You’re now Squad Three, Fireteam Three.”

Something bright and dangerous bloomed in her chest. No exo school yet, but she was basically qualified. And Founders take her if that wasn’t the least important part. Doc and the twins would stay together, right there with her. After Bresto dumped her like spare parts, she’d been sure everything would split apart again. That’s how things always went. But here was Revan, putting them all in the same squad. Side by side on the firing line, just like Three-Alpha. Just like it meant something.

The noise started low, animal and wrong. Vlan’s face twisted up, eyes spilling fat tears while a sound like dying kept building in his throat. He wasn’t the hard ass Marine who’d fought beside her on Three-Alpha anymore. When his legs gave out, Smokes caught him, held him while he shook and keened against his brother’s chest.

Strangest thing was Smokes. Not a twitch, not a word. Just stood there holding his brother like stone holding water. These two had killed raiders together barely two hours ago, moved like they shared the same brain. Now this.

“What in twelve hells?” Revan’s face screwed into a frown. He slammed the datapad down on the small desk, but Vlan remained locked in his trance-like state.

“I… I don’t know, sir.” Doc’s usual confidence wavered. He turned to her, eyes begging for help.

She watched the twins, remembering how they’d moved on Three-Alpha. Always in step, always together. Sitting beside each other at the bar, always within arms reach even as they fought their way to the Gauntlet. Not once had she seen one without the other close by.

“They’ve never been apart,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. And here was the lieutenant, splitting them up with a few careless words, like cutting a crid in two. No wonder Vlan was coming apart. Hell, they probably hadn’t been separated since they were welps.

Her excitement about keeping the squad together turned to ash in her mouth. What good was staying together if they were already broken? 

“Calm down, Private, that’s an order!” Revan shouted, to no effect. Vlan’s rhythmic wail grew louder.

“Sir,” Olsom began. “You can’t—”

“What?”

“You can’t separate them.”

The line of of F Company Marines coming and going outside Revan’s office began to stall. Some whispered, others laughed, all of them staring at the Vlan’s display through the office window. Revan’s bewildered gaze hung on the brother a second longer before turning to Olsom. He let out a short, humorless laugh.

“This isn’t a psych ward,” he muttered, running a hand over his scalp. “I need combat ready Marines, not… whatever this is.”

“They can fight, sir, I swear. They just—”

“Then get them squared away, Private.” Revan slid the chair beneath his desk and moved toward the exit. His face loomed close to hers, cheeks red beneath his angry stare. “Out,” he hissed. “All of you. Now.”

“Aye, sir.”

Olsom took Vlan by the arm and pulled him from Revan’s office. He tried to struggle, still keening for his brother, but Doc was right behind them, ushering Smokes through the door. Revan stormed out after them, datapad tucked under his arm, pausing when he reached the gathered crowd. The other Marines straightened at his approach, retreating to the edges of the corridor.

“What are you all staring at?” Revan shouted, before continuing down the hall. He waved the datapad in the air. “Get to the armory, now. We drop in forty!”

Vlan’s sobbing mellowed, but he still clung to his brother. Smokes just stood near the F-3 squad bay door, fumbling for a cigarette with his free arm. Doc reached into his kit and pulled out an auto-doc. He squinted at the little screen, adjusting the machine, the control knob clicking loudly with each turn.

“What are you doing?” Olsom asked.

“Just a little something for his nerves.”

Vlan didn’t flinch when Doc tugged at his collar. He hung on to Smokes, face hidden, while his brother’s hand moved mechanically, thumb striking the lighter again and again in a futile attempt to ignite it.

“What the hell, Doc?” Olsom hissed, her voice lowering as more Marines walked past. “You can’t just drug him. We’re going back out there!”

Doc threw a nervous head nod to the passing Marines, then leaned closer.

“You heard Revan,” he whispered. “You really think he’s going to change our billets now because Vlan threw a tantrum?”

She glanced back down the hallway, but the lieutenant was already out of sight. The man refused to see—to fix—the problem he’d caused. He was an officer. He didn’t have to. Doc was right. It’d be up to them to figure this out.

“Look, you’re the exo operator.” Doc’s gaze settled on her, heavier than its typical, light-hearted feel. “That makes you fireteam leader. So, this is your call.”

“What?” Olsom shook her head reflexively. “You’re the lance corporal. You’ve got rank, time in service—”

“Don’t be such a boot,” he smirked, the hint of a flirt in his curled lips. “Billet trumps rank every time. And you’ll be the one wearing metal soon enough.”

Fireteam leader. Yeah, she’d memorized the field manual on small unit tactics same as any boot, but manuals were just words on a screen. Real leading meant real dying if you fucked it up. Bresto knew that when he’d thrown her away. No room for screw ups on his super secret op. Now Vlan was falling apart in front of her and these Marines were supposed to trust her with their lives. She couldn’t even trust herself.

“I… I don’t know.” She shook her head for what felt like a long time, as if waiting for an answer to appear. “What would you do?”

“It’s my job to keep Marines combat effective.” He tilted his head toward Vlan. “That is not combat effective.”

“What would you give him?”

“FL-7, a field-grade anxiolytic.” Doc held the device toward her. “Just takes the edge off.”

The tiny display blinked steadily: 

FL-7 – 15.0mg standard Dose. Advise patient to side effects of mild sedation, disorientation, potential motor skill impairment.

“Will he still be able to fight?”

“Can he still pull a trigger? Yes.” Doc’s frown didn’t make her feel any better. “Though I wouldn’t let him handle a brick of plasmex for an hour or two.”

“He’s our fucking breacher, Doc!” She let out an anxious laugh. “I don’t know. This don’t feel right.”

Smokes stood there, still holding his brother, eyes wide and pleading. His jaw clenched and unclenched, the movement so slight she almost missed it. With a slight turn, he held Vlan closer, neck bared to her like some kind of sacrifice. Only thing was, Smokes didn’t show weakness. Not ever. This wasn’t about what he wanted; this was about what his brother needed. She couldn’t argue with that.

“Okay, Doc. Give it to him.”

Doc pressed the auto-doc to Vlan’s neck, a flat puff of air the only clue anything had happened. Almost immediately, Vlan’s whimpering softened and his breathing began to steady. Even Smokes seemed to relax, like he’d been dosed second-hand. 

Olsom let out a breath, but the knot in her gut didn’t loosen. Drugging Vlan was just patching a leak in a hull breach. She’d have to find a way to get through to Revan, make him see what he’d done. Until then, this patch job would have to hold.