After the Ashes

By Renae

Chapter Two : Two Percent

The delay caused by the Federation of Allied Worlds cowardly attack on the Confederation’s Medical Cruiser Hermes meant that I was stuck killing simulated Fed ships. Not to mention spending many hours in the gym under the watchful guidance and goading of one Marine Sergeant Bethany ‘Beth’ Millsap. I was working on my final set of pyramid training with the free weights and my arms were not quite dead, as the ship vibrated oddly, nearly causing me to falter on the lift.

The Hermes was currently in the ‘arms’ of a pair of Fleet Repair Tenders. They were hard docked to the Hermes by six sets of magnetically charged clamps each; making it appear as if The Hermes was slowly being devoured by two ravenous insects. The vibration was caused when one of the Tenders lifted away a whole section of damaged armor plating. Admittedly it was impressive to watch but damned annoying if you were trying to not drop a barbell that was loaded with forty kilos.

When the Ship lurched once again, Beth quickly stepped in and helped me to cradle the weights. “Damn, this is getting to be fucking old,” I sighed and slowly sat up. 

“No kidding, I can understand the Skipper wanting a solid hull between us and the Deep. But by Deity they could fucking warn us before pulling that sort of crap.” She motioned to the weights, “We better secure them before the morons decide to take the AG offline, yet again.”

I nodded, then moved to the opposite side of the bar and undid the stop. “I hear you. Joan had to have her arm set and fused after the AG flip-flopped while she was in the shower.”

Concerned she paused and looked at me, “Is she going to be ok?”

“Yes, though I hear the tech that fucked that up will be cleaning the heads for the next week.” I shook my head; “Joan was ready to clip his balls for that.”

I watched Beth wince in sympathy, “And they say I have anger issues, though I can’t say I’d blame her, but sheesh.” I nodded at her and worked at securing my side.

Privately I had to agree; Joan was the feminist from hell. Sometimes I felt my ‘hackles’ rise reflexively when she was on a role and ripping into men. Oh she worked well with a few men, most of which seemed to take her with a large grain of salt. Though from what I could tell she largely avoided men in general. Sure I looked and sounded like a woman, but mentally I was still trying to process the changes. More than once, some of her barbs at men stung a bit too deeply.

I had managed to get Joan a bit drunk, and talkative. Afterwards I could understand why she was so bitter. Joan for the most part was born and raised on Dolmar, one of the fringe worlds of the Federation. Her own father had sold her to one of the Fed’s brothels when she was sixteen. Which by the Federation’s law was legal, as females were largely considered ‘property’ within the Federation.

Somehow, she didn’t go into heavy details there, she managed to break out, and then steal her way onto a ship registered with The Alliance of Free States. The Alliance has a very matriarchal society, which while it grates on the Fed’s nerves; they also have the firepower to back up their sovereignty. So the Feds, for the most part, largely leave them alone. 

When Joan was ‘discovered’ on that ship and had related her story, she was given a berth until that Skipper set her loose on one of the League’s Refugee Worlds. Needless to say there is a large underground movement that exports ‘freed’ women out of the Fed’s Territories. Joan pretty much took to the Alliance’s doctrine and mindset, like an Alsatian Flex-cat to synthetic-alcohol.

Joan then ‘wandered’ over from the Alliance to volunteer when the Fed’s started their religious war of ‘Rightful Expansion’ with the Confederation of Unified Systems. Part of me suspects if she had her way the Fed’s capital planet would be a dimly glowing orb of radioactive slag. Many folks agree with her in that regard, though the Accords were largely designed to keep such things from occurring again.

“What’s got you in a daze?” asked Beth.

“Oh just thinking through the Accord’s and wondering if the Signatories are actually going to do anything.”

Nodding she strip a weight from the bar and then secured it, “About?”

“The Fed’s mistreatment of us, the attack on the Hermes, you know. Stuff.” I motioned to the track and headed that way.

“Well if it’s like what happened with the Fed’s and the Riga Sevex Colony Worlds, they won’t do jack shit,” she started jogging and I moved to keep up with her.

“Yeah, but they ‘technically’ were a secessionist group that the Fed’s helped to found.” I frowned, “Even if by our standards they were a separate nation at the time. The Accord Signatories decided a handful of systems were not worth an all out war.”

“Like their sanctions did anything,” she snorted in disgust.

I agreed with her there, the sanctions did nothing to slow the Fed’s down, much less hurt them economically. “If it were not for the Federation sharing borders with us and several of the other Signatory Powers they would not have even signed the Accords.” 

“As if that helped us any,” she added bitterly.

“True, but considering that they border us and the Alliance, they might have stepped on their own dicks this time around. Personally I would have rather jumped in and kicked the Fed’s out then, even more so now. Politicians, well you know how that goes…”

“We can only hope, from what little has filtered down to me they are going to present our case on Bellius Prime. Evidently they want it deep in the heart of Alliance territory, when they present the case to the Signatories.”

“That’s a nice bit of political maneuvering, all the newsies there will hype up the Fed’s abuse,” Beth chuckled harshly, “and with no small amount of luck The Alliance will want in on the action.”      

A tone rang through the ship, “Null Gravity Warning, Ship wide AG shut down will commence in ten minutes.” The message and tone repeated twice as we slowed to a stop.

“Well at least they warned us this time,” I pointed out to Beth as we collected our towels and water jugs.

“Yeah, care to bet the chef’s are going to delay lunch?”

“No, but can you blame them, considering some poor middy nearly played G-Ball with a twenty liter carafe of boiling coffee yesterday?” I asked.

“Ouch no.”

“So Joan, how is the arm?” asked Terrance with a chuckle.

Joan raised it, and then raised the index finger of that hand, “Seems to work fine Terry, how does it work for you?”

“I swear you two are as bad as some of my sister’s children,” commented Marge as she shook her head. “All six of them.”

“Your six sisters or their kids?” asked Joan.

“Yes,” smirked Marge as she slipped into a chair and fastened her restraining belt into place.

“At least they warned us this time,” said Joan as she took a belt from a cupboard and clipped it around herself. Then she took the free end and clipped it to a ring set in the corridor wall.

“You should count yourself lucky you didn’t drown,” commented Terry as he did the same. “If the showers had not kicked off automatically…”

“Hey I can swim, unlike a certain male I could mention,” she retorted with a point of her finger.

“On Trecas, water is used for drinking, and bathing. One does not ‘frolic’ much less cavort in it’s oceans or streams. Unless one wishes to feed the denizens of those previously foresaid watery places, with their own body.”

“He has you there Joan, and if you’d ever take time to read the xeno-biology reports on some of the Confed member world’s, you could plan your vacations better.” Joan wagged a finger to her own monitor, “I almost envy our charges, Bova’s a nice planet, aside from the polar extremes.”

“Some how I doubt Angela is going to be happy to be stuck dirt side for any stretch of time,” Joan paused as a triple chime announced the loss of gravity, “Even if they did give her a promotion out of the deal.”

“I did look up her hobbies, if it can go fast and induce a heightened state of adrenalin, he did it. I mean she did it.” Marge shook her head, “Talk about having serious thrill issues.”

“I resemble that remark,” said Joan as she flipped her feet ‘up’ to ease into a slow tumble at the end of her tether.

“Yes, but even you use an AG harness if you are going to do something radically insane.” She pointed to the berth where Angela was resting, “She is listed as being qualified in Old Tech aerial decent techniques, without an AG back up.”

“OK, I’ve seen some of the Old Tech Recreationists do some wild stuff, but if she uses a synth-cloth parasail and no AG… Are you sure she was sane before joining up?” asked Terry as he sat in a lotus several feet off the deck.

“As sane as any fighter pilot recruit ever is…” Marge replied with a smile, “even our own dear Joan was considered sane for that…”

“Just because I told the Chief Pilot’s Instructor where he could plant his evaluation…” Joan killed her slow spin with a sigh, “I mean really, just because men supposedly can focus better in a crunch in a Manta, it doesn’t mean they can fly better than me.”

“This is coming from the woman who used to own the top ranks in the recreational simulators,” jibbed Terry as his eyes half closed as he clasped his hands in his lap.

“Well considering Angela is almost living in them…” She shook her head slowly, “Though she did manage to get me to tie one on one night, other than that. It is sims, sims and more sims for her.”

“Ten to one says that instead of napping or reading something trivial, she’s reading tech manuals or studying flight data on every bird in the Fleet.” Offered Marge as she wiggled two fingers as if suggesting that easy money was in the offing.

“I don’t take sucker bets,” Joan unclipped and pushed off the wall to clip back in at the desk. She used her fingertips for traction and bent over to look at he terminal Marge was viewing, “Good gods she’s reading ‘Flight Controls and Checklists of the Marine Assault Tactical Support Fighter: Cat Shark.’” She pushed back and crossed her arms, “Care to bet it’s in the simulators?”

“No.”  Marge shook her head, “There is already talk about shutting her out of the simulators all together.”

“Ok, I’ll bite; why would any asshole be that stupid?” asked Terry as he opened his eyes fully.

“Morale or something, every time a fighter Jock on any of the other ships inches past her scores, she goes in and raises the bar another ten kilometers.” Marge snickered,

“Evidently there is a pool going on in the Hood as to who can keep her off top of the points chart by three positions for at least three days.”  

“So how many credits are you raking in?” asked Terry suspiciously.

“Well, I will not have to spend a single credit of my own money on leave, when I can go. The Manta Pilot’s are going ballistic, as she’s creaming them in kills alone.”

“So is it just the Manta jocks or?” asked Joan.

“All of the various fighter jocks and wanna-be’s. Of course the Marines are egging her on, but even there, there is some serious betting and sim time going down.” Marge smirked, “Rumor has it that the Admiral is placing bets ahead of time for the upcoming gunnery trials, based on all the increased kill scores.”

“Oh I have no doubt he’s having a ball. I suspect that if the Commandant wasn’t ‘The Boss’ of all things Marine, he’d be doing the same thing,” commented Terrance as he rolled his eyes.

“So any word on when we loose the Tenders and can get back on the way to Ova-Loa?” asked Joan as the warning tone signaling the return to gravity sounded.

“Not soon enough for me,” Marge sighed. “But it is going to get worse, ship’s crew, baring already those EVA trained and outfitted, we are getting fitted for P-Suits and drills.”

“Oh wonderful, and we are doing this because?” Terrance asked while stowing the safety harness.

“New Fleet Regs, we were not the only Hospital Ship that got jumped in the past week. The Curie and The DeForest Kelly had better coverage than we did, but that didn’t help them much. The Curie is heading for the breakers and the Kelly is looking at more time in the Repair Yards than we are.”

“Looks like The Accords are so much wasted paper now.” Joan cursed for a moment, “They are not going to pull ships crew are they?”

“Not from us, but we are going to get a portion of the Curie’s crew as is the Kelly.” Marge pointed to her terminal, “The sad news is that the Fed’s either killed or captured The Imhotep.”

“Shit, no wonder we are stuck in a battle group,” said Terry with a look of disgust.

“And have the Tenders’ working nonstop,” Joan frowned, “um have the Fed’s started going after the MEDEVAC shuttles as well?”

Marge nodded slowly, “Yes.”

“Ah, well unless you have any pressing duties for me,” Joan was frowning thoughtfully, “I think I need to spend some time in a simulator myself.”      

“Combat sims?” asked Terry.

“Sort of,” Joan grimaced and explained, “combat level evasive maneuvers.”

Marge blinked then nodded, “Go, you might drag Caruthers with you. I am sure she knows tricks that haven’t filtered down to Fleet yet.”

“Now there is a thought,” Joan grinned, “besides she owes me for wiping me completely off of the tally boards, and getting me drunk.”

“So Lieutenant back to massacre the current standings?” asked Ensign Flanders. Flanders was smirking as he punched a few keys bringing up the current Battle Group standings at his console. 

I laughed at his expression, “Has anyone pushed me down yet?”

“Well you still have a few ships that you don’t own the boards on, yet.” He cracked his knuckles and then scratched at his red hair, “So what shall we load up for you today, Stingrays, Manta’s, Tiger Sharks, Hammer Heads?”

“No of the above, do you have… Ah hell, Joan; what is the classification for the MEDEVAC Birds?”

“It’s the Fleet Medical Rescue Shuttle, also known as the Dolphin.” Joan said with a chuckle, “They were going to call them Nurse Sharks, but someone realized that they didn’t have teeth.”

I rolled my eyes at that, “Well in any case, Ensign Flanders if you will warm up one of them for us, ‘Ducky’ here wants a refresher course in evasion.”

“And the other bird?” he asked.

“The Marines’ Cat Shark, I have not flown one yet so Joan

here should have a fair chance of actually escaping me.” I laughed as she flipped me off, “Hey you wanted a real refresher.”

“Ok, so you want a typical planet to jump out, scenario?” he asked as he started entering commands.

“Yes, when she dies, reset us randomly so she has no idea where I am coming from.”

“When I die,” Joan scoffed, “more like if I die.”

I rolled my eyes at her, “Hey I am going to be giving you my best, and when I find all your weak spots we are going to switch to both of us in Dolphins. Then the real work will begin.” 

“Alright ladies, simulator six is the shuttle, and seven is the fighter. Do you want this recorded?” he asked.

“Not for the first sessions, though when we switch to shuttles only, yes. Though I think if anyone has priority on using it for training or otherwise, it’s the MEDEVAC pilots.” I motioned to Joan, “From what she’s told me they need it more than the combat pilots.”

“Aye Ma’am, open coded for MEDEVAC Pilots only.” He chuckled, “I expect folks will be screaming for it, what if the Skipper or higher wants it opened up?”

I shrugged, “This is a part of my own personal training file, as is Joan’s. Who we say they are open to, is up to us, apart from our commanders, and legitimate personnel from Training Doctrine and Operation Command. TRADOC is god after all.”

“Too true. Well those two simulators are yours for the next two hours, then I have a rash of others cued up.” He smiled, “Shall I book you for the same slots tomorrow?”

“Well if MEDEVAC pilots need the time, and only MEDEVAC Pilots, they can have my slot.” I shook my head, Joan had shown me recent Fleet losses in that department,

“We’re loosing too many of them to the Fed’s.”

He nodded slowly, “I had heard something about that.”

“The Fed’s evidently said screw the Accords, so we’ll have to do our damnedest to make sure they regret it.” I motioned Joan to the simulators, “Come on ‘Ducky’ let’s see if we can rewrite the book on evasion protocols.”

Our training session nearly wasn’t, as some jack-off had locked me out of the simulator system somehow. Fortunately Joan got on the horn to one of her fellow EVAC Jockeys, and I was using his codes to fly ‘under.’ Of course I had to extract his oath and an offer swap the same ‘personal’ training time with him that I was giving Joan.

Evidently he didn’t like the odds of late either. I managed to lock down my anger, and get on with training Joan; but I think I must have killed a few hundred other fighters in the process.

As we flew the first few runs of the set, Joan had wondered what was up, as I wasted her ‘escort’ first and then turned on her ship. She didn’t like being told it was common Fed strategy; I wasn’t quite lying to her. After all only an idiot left ships with guns alive and on their tail.

The Feds, the smarter Feds anyways, worry about fighters and their escorts before picking off unarmed ships. Besides I was mad enough to chew depleted uranium and spit gun rounds, and by taking that out on the escorts, I could then stay focused enough to evaluate Joan’s flight performance.

“So Joan, how in the Deep did you end up with the call sign ‘Ducky’?” I asked as I started the seventh set of her new evasion patterns. I was giving her the sets by the simple expedience of having her play follow the leader, every thing I did she had to copy. Since the computer was recording ‘my’ moves, she could return to the program time and time again.  

“Well, I had this attitude problem with some of the male instructors,” she said as she did her best to keep up with me. “One of the cocky bastards decided to rig my simulator with just about every failure he could, and still leave me with a ‘flying craft’.”

I nodded in my own simulator and dropped downwards relative to where she was than then used my attitude thrusters to pinwheel up and kicked my thrusters hard to change my vector so I was flying away ninety degrees off of her port side, and then I popped chaff and a flare. “Sounds familiar,” Alcady had done the same thing to me, on a regular basis.

“So anyway,” I heard her grunt as she did something in her simulator, “I managed to run the mission, but every time they asked if something was ‘wrong’, I kept saying: ‘Nope everything is ‘just’ Ducky.’” She paused and I saw that she was firmly on my tail, “How much chaff should I be popping in a real attack?”

I chuckled and thought for a second, “Every time I get a hard lock warning, when I was with the Hope, I’d kick two out and a flare. But Manta’s have better ECM and ECCM, so that made a difference too.” I checked my ‘gauges’ and they said I had used seven out of twenty chaff packs, “I’d say at least three maybe four and a flare.”

“All at once?” she asked as if taking an inventory in her head.

“No, you want to hit one just as you start, the next one a quarter or a third into the evasion. Hit the flare in the middle, then use the other ‘pops’ depending on when you roll or burn out.”

“I can see my chief tech going ape shit if I have to replace chaff at every recovery,” she commented adding in a rude noise.

“Better that than say, hosing out the crew compartment because you were taking hits or worse.” I shook my head, “I doubt we can get you a phalanx anti-missile tail pod, but we should try. It’d be legal in the Accords as its defensive only, like the chaff and flares.” The tail pod was a very small gatling gun, not a threat to an armored fighter. However, light missiles didn’t carry heavy enough plating protect against them. 

“How do you use them?” asked Joan as I started a new set of maneuvers.

“You just power them up, they’re tied into your threat detection unit. Mostly they sit idle until that goes off. But if you are being jammed they go active; and start looking for any laser or radar being directed at your bird. Once they track that, they look for a hot spot and open up for a few hundred rounds. They have a beehive round that they use fire off. A hundred round burst puts a cloud of ten thousand, six millimeter ball bearings between you and any missile.”

“Sounds nasty, can you use it on the ground?” asked Flanders over the com as Joan finished up her pattern.

“It only locks on laser and radar emitters and very hot thermal sources,” I shrugged unseen in the simulator. “There is a Tactical Version used by the Confederation Ground Forces, but that is mounted on a floater. They use a heavier round and it’s very effective against Infantry and the like, from what I hear.”

“I’ll bet,” commented Joan.

 There was a flicker then the signal for the end of the simulation flashed in the sim, and Flanders spoke over the coms. “Ok ladies your time is up. I have the flight data from the Cat Shark, should I just dump it?” he asked.

“Yeah, may as well, do me a favor and dig out who the hell put a block on my sim-access.” I started the shutdown cycle, and continued, “Who ever it is better have a good explanation for it, because if it’s some bullshit, I’m taking it up the chain.”

“Hoo boy, are you sure you want to do that Angela?” asked Joan as she leaned into my cockpit.

“Hell damned yes, I schedule my time, just like everyone else.” I pointed a finger at the cockpit controls, “Just because I may be a woman now, doesn’t mean I can’t fly or fight. I didn’t take any crap in basic flight and I sure the fuck will not take it now.”

“I hear you sister, though you may want to cool off and plan your attack, just in case.” Joan smirked, “We definitely need to get you a new call sign soon.”

“Just nothing cutesy or else,” I pointed a finger at her and frowned warningly, “I know where you sleep.”

“I hear you, now let’s get out of the way before the mob arrives,” she said and jerked a thumb to the control room

I wasn’t too sure what to make out of the odd gleam in her eyes, but it didn’t make me very comfortable. 

Ensign Flanders had left a message on my terminal saying that something was very wrong with my ID code or something. I wasn’t too thrilled to hear that; as it basically said someone in personnel had screwed up. Or someone with rank was fucking with me. In either case I was doing my best to think of vicious and cruel methods of retributions, to use when I found the bastard responsible. 

One of my instructor’s at flight school was fond of quoting and Old Earth author by the name of George Bernard Shaw. One of his favorite quotes was: “Two percent of the people think; three percent of the people think they think; and ninety-five percent of the people would rather die than think.” He would then ask; “What the hell was I thinking?” Usually right after I did something totally assed up.

Needless to say I heard that quote often enough, and only rarely do I get to use it myself; so I savor the times when it fits the occasion. Unfortunately, those times were far and few between. I glared down at ‘new’ flight jacket. My old, familiar, jacket was covered by patches for the different birds I had qualified on. The crowning marks of that jacket were the patches for the Manta and the one for the Darwin’s Hope, not to mention all of my kill tags. This one was naked and that pissed me off royally.

Oh it had my nametag, and of all things a Tiger Shark patch with a Gold combat stud in its eye. So it wasn’t quite naked, but it felt that way to me. Every single patch, tag and marker on my old jacket; had been paid for. Paid for in pain, tears and the blood of both my friends and myself. I walked over to my berth’s desk and punched up my records on the terminal; specifically my flight and training records. I was going to make a print out of all my kills and such and take it down to supply later.

Rather I tried to call up my files, and failed. I sat down and punched in my Fleet ID, and my new name. When that failed I just entered my ID, it seemed to think about it for a moment then pulled up the Fleet’s KIA roster. I stared at the flashing line of text for a time.

Lieutenant Caruthers, Mark A. 2297583, Deceased 05NOV3066.

I closed my eyes, and then opened them, yes I was still listed as dead, “Funny, but I don’t feel dead,” I commented to the air. I then called typed in my new name and looked for myself in the Hermes’ database, I was there but listed under a different ID number. I punched in the request for those records and hit a wall, figuratively and literally.

As I sucked at the scraped knuckle I had acquired when I had punched the bulkhead in frustration, I glared at the records. It listed me, my blood type, and set my age a few years younger than what I was and my new statistics. I pulled up my awards and then dug out my cheat card from the awards ceremony, they were correct, apart from the line of text in each that read: Restricted Access, redirect enquiries to Confederation Security, followed by a slew of routing numbers.

Frowning I printed that screen, and then pulled up my flight data records. Every bird I had ever flown was listed, and in the certifications block was the same restricted access routing number. The block that should have been overflowing with kills, and other such information was not quite empty. It said, all data prior 17DEC3066 is Restricted, and then it listed my kills and such from the attack on the Hermes. At least it gave me credit for those kills and listed me as the Flight Leader.

I sat silently for a moment then punched up the routing code that the records gave me. I sat there glaring at the terminal for a long time, just when I was about to reenter the data again the screen blanked and it said to report to the Poseidon, section TA-31, then it listed a time stamp, which I supposed was when I was supposed to be there. A clock in the corner of the screen said I had about an hour to make it over there.

I frowned as the door chimed, “Enter at your own risk!” I yelled back at it. When it chimed again I fairly flew out of my chair and went to the door, “What?” I asked loudly as the door opened, startling a pair of Marines in dress blacks with side arms; they blinked and then slowly saluted me. I returned the salute and repeated the question in the same tone as before.

“Ma’am, we are here to escort you to the Poseidon,” said an uncomfortable looking corporal whose nametag read Gutherson, C., he then swallowed visibly.

“Am I under arrest?” I asked feeling a slow burn start to rise in my chest.

“No Ma’am,” said the private whose tag read Parks, T.

“Can you tell me what the hell this is about?”

“No Ma’am, our orders just said to fetch you to the Poseidon, then to TA-31.”

“Fine.” I walked back in and grabbled my flight jacket, the red beret with the bogus unit flash on it and my Female Tactical Pouch, in other words my fucking purse. Back at the door I stepped out and placed the beret on my head, “Ok let’s go and get this bullshit over with.” No, I was not in a good mood.

The flight over to the Poseidon was via the Captain’s Gig; it wasn’t as fancy as the Admiral’s but I suppose I should have been happy about having a comfortable ride. Unfortunately I was not in the mood to even look out at the Deep, my Marine escorts were looking a bit skittish every time my eyes locked with theirs. They had spent most of the time trying not to look at me, nor were they communicative beyond ‘Yes man, no Ma’am, and I can’t say Ma’am.’ Which did nothing to help my already soured mood. 

Once docked in the Poseidon, we picked up another pair of Marines, who then lead us deeper into the bowels of the ship. Section TA-31, was mostly unremarkable aside from the fact that there were more Marines stationed in and about it. Those were in battle dress uniforms complete with assault rifles, they all had the same placid expression of alertness mixed with boredom. It was amusing in some ways as they seemed to be instantly more alert as I walked past them. Though it pissed me off even more, first they ‘killed me’, and now I get to be eye candy.

My escort led me to a mostly empty room that while carpeted, and furnished with an assortment of equipment, was empty. The plaque beside the door, read ‘Processing’ and was designated TA-1, I scowled as evidently any answers were going to be delayed further. A female ensign came in and handed me a set of forms, “Please read and sign Ma’am.”

I looked at them; they were basically the same forms I had filled out ages ago, when I applied to flight school and other security clearances I had filled out over my time in the Fleet. “Why am I filling out forms I have already filled out once before?”

“Those are um, out dated Ma’am,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. Then she handed me a pen, “Its regulations Ma’am,” she offered as if that was the answer for everything.

I glanced though all the forms, all of them had been filled out and the only thing they needed was my signature. I paused at one block where it read next of kin, that block was marked ‘none’.

“There is an error here,” I pointed that block out to the ensign, “I definitely have next of kin.”

“Ah, Ma’am, I think you should sign the form anyways, it’s normal in these sort of updates,” she said with a perfectly blank face.

I was really starting to wonder what the fuck was going on, but I signed it and kept working my way through the stack. The final form was a newer one; evidently my security rating was getting bumped way the hell up. That gave me a moment’s pause, and then I signed that paper and pressed my thumbs on the specially treated boxes that would hold their prints.    

That done she collected all the forms and quickly left the room, a minute or so later I was escorted to a briefing room that held the Confederation, Fleet and Marine flags. I gazed at the long table and empty chairs and tried not to let the anger, confusion and frustration that was piling up, keep me from thinking.

The phrase, ‘Only two percent of the people think,’ kept rolling around in my head as I paced the room looking at the various pictures and stills on the walls of the conference room, trying to lock down those emotions. I noted the pictures of the Confederation’s ruling Triad, and the assembled Council that filled one frame. Then I walked my way down the Mandatory ‘Chain of Command’ pictures; I picked out a few faces that were new to me, and the ones I recently had met. By the time I had reached the flags again I was somewhat calmer.

I almost didn’t hear the door open, though I was mildly surprised to see the Commandant walk in followed by the Admiral, the Major from the other night, they were followed by a handful of other people, one of which was carrying in a camera. I braced to attention where I was and saluted, “Sir, Lieutenant Caruthers reporting as directed, sir.”

The Admiral’s brow rose slightly as he returned my salute, “Stand easy Lieutenant, you are not in trouble.”

I relaxed to something not quite parade rest and stood there waiting for the other bomb to drop. “I suppose you are curious as too your status?” the Admiral asked.

“You could say that sir, I just recently found out I was dead.” I wasn’t able to keep a hint of anger out of my voice.

The Admiral nodded, “We didn’t expect that either, Lieutenant. However we all must bow to a higher authority from time to time.” He glanced around, “If everyone is ready?” He paused for a moment, and then nodded to his adjutant.

“Attention to Orders,” the Adjutant announced in a clear voice, and everyone in the room came to attention. “The Ruling Triad of the Confederation of Unified Systems, the Council and Confederation Fleet reposes special confidence and trust in the fidelity of Lieutenant Caruthers, Angela Lin.

In accordance with Fleet Regulation Seventeen Seven dash Six Bravo, by such we do promote her to the Rank of Commander. With all the attendant responsibilities and duties of such rank as conferred upon her this, the Fifteenth day of December, Three Thousand and Sixty-four.”      

I stood there in mute shock as both the Admiral and the Commandant approached and took turns swapping my old rank insignias out for the new ones. Then after exchanging salutes and handshakes, the obligatory photo was taken with me holding the orders and standing with the witnesses.

Once we were allowed to relax I finally worked up the gumption to ask the first obvious question that popped into my head, “Why?”

That question produced a few chuckles though the Admirals face was slightly grim, “The Fed’s produced a body stating that you were dead, just a few days after you saved the Hope.” He shook his head, “We know you are not, but the politicians are drafting you into a double headed axe. Two heroes for the price of one.”

Indignantly I glanced at both the Commandant and then the Admiral, “Begging the Admiral’s pardon, but that sounds pretty messed up to me, what of my family?”

“They have been carefully briefed and are ‘willing to put up with it,’” He made a small shrug with his shoulders and smiled gently, “as long as you can come home sometime.” That bit of phrasing had sounded a lot like my father.

“Your parents understand the need to have the Signatories firmly in our pocket,” added the Commandant with a tight smile,” considering the Federation has blatantly violated the Accords.”

“You would have been promoted to Lieutenant Commander, about six months ago, had Darwin’s Hope not been running operations where it was. Technically you would not have been eligible for promotion to full Commander for another year or so, but the recent circumstances did merit it.” Added the Admiral, “And you did earn it Angela, it’s not a bribe for you to keep your mouth shut.”

“However, you will only be able to say you were related to your other self, that, is an order. Unfortunately almost all of your records are now classified and damned few people have full access to them. Most people will make the assumption that you worked for a time in Confederation Intelligence and your new security clearance will help in that aspect.” He shrugged slightly, “It’s real enough, just try not to use it without a damned good reason. Understood?”

“Yes sir, but what of my flight status?” I tapped the Tiger Shark and the stud in its eye, “This is only a fraction of what I am entitled to wear, what of the rest?”

He chuckled for a moment, “Don’t worry, you’ll get plenty of flight time in your next assignment.” He sighed and shook his head; “You are technically authorized to wear the other patches, including the Manta, with the combat studs and tags. However in keeping with your new life and by order of The Grand Admiral, you are ordered not to.”  

I stood there fuming for a few minutes trying to think of something polite to say in rebuttal, and I could feel my nails biting deeply into my palms.

“I can see you are upset about something Commander,” noted the Commandant.

I took a breath and slowly let it out, “I am trying to find a way to express my displeasure with the Grand Admiral’s Orders, and not end up in the brig or demoted. Sir.”

Among the tense laughter the Admiral nodded, “In that case it is often best to say nothing.” He sighed, “If it were up to me Caruthers, considering you saved The Hermes, and all the things you and your fellow pilots on Darwin’s Hope did, I would have let you wear them. But for the good of the Confederation, we both have our orders.”

“However, I do have something that might lessen that sting some what,” offered the Commandant and he held out his hand to the Major. “While it is not as ‘flashy’ as the Manta patch, very damned few people are authorized to wear this, in the Navy that is.” He opened a box and carefully removed two items from it, “This patch is worn by only the best in the Marines, and it can only be awarded for extreme heroism under fire, and then only by the Commandant Himself. That would be me.” He said with a chuckle as he passed the large patch to me.

It was fairly stunning in its own right, a large blue giant, with a white beard and with a vivid Gold crown. In one hand was a silvery trident and in the other he held the reins to some sort of aquatic beast that breathed red fire. Bordering the circle were the words, ‘For Honor, Duty, and Commitment’ on the top half and on the bottom was ‘Semper Fidelis!’ 

“When you climbed into that Tiger Shark and led my two ruffians into combat, you technically fell under my command. As such you are entitled and instructed to wear this patch as well. Though you will have to wear it on the left shoulder, which by Marine tradition declares that you served in combat with that unit.” He chuckled, “Those patches and the ribbons they come with, will give you no end of grief from your fellow Navy pilots, but they cannot deny you your right to wear them.”

I took that patch, noting it was the same Hammer and Trident that had been painted on the tail fin of the Tiger Sharks. Though it was done in Gold and red and along with the words ‘Semper Fidelis,’ and ‘The Commandant’s Own,’ worked in black around the border. “Thank you sir, it does help.”

“Being the Commandant, does have it’s perks,” he grinned at me, “those are officially yours to wear until you die, and not even the Fleet can say otherwise. Though you may have a hell of a time figuring out who to cheer for in the Marines versus the Fleet Games.” 

The Admiral laughed but he nodded, “Those patches are ‘legal’ for use on all your uniforms, one of the odder Fleet regulations. But considering what you can’t wear…”

“Yes sir, I understand, though this new life is more than slightly galling,” I admitted with a mixed set of emotions in me..

He nodded slowly and his voice took on a empathetic tone, “And unfair, but the ‘goal’ of it is the important part, your supposed death. The data recovered of your torture at the Fed’s hands, and the other evidence we recovered, will hurt them.”  

“I just hope it is enough sir, I am not sure what else I can give up and keep my sanity,” I said with a sigh.

“You’ll endure Commander, you’ll endure,” he motioned to the door where a clerk was waiting and waved her in.

An Ensign came in with a small stack of papers and a chip, “Your copies of the awards and the additions from the Marines have been annotated into the public portion of your records Ma’am.” She handed me the papers and then handed me a ‘new’ ID card with my name, rank and new Confederation ID number. “I took the liberty of correcting the error in the Standings Board, Ma’am and the simulator access as well, your new ID is now linked to them.” She smiled, “Give them hell Ma’am.”

“I think there is a party we are late for, and since it’s the New Commander’s responsibility for the first round.” I glanced over to see Clarice smiling as she added, “We should go and see what the bar will bear.”

“So how was your night Joan?” asked Terrence as he parked an empty floating stretcher in its slot before locking it in place for charging.

“Well I got more than a bit drunk, again.” She sighed and smiled wickedly, “At Commander Caruthers’ expense this time.”

Marge looked over from where she was running an inventory on instruments and meds, “I did hear something about that, but I was stuck in meetings. Evidently the Charge Nurse had to steer her into her berth, and then slapped her with a pair of Scrubbers while she was passed out.”

“Ouch, well I hope she’s in a better mood than earlier yesterday.” Joan shook her head, “Talk about a relentless bitch, my ego was pretty flat by the time she got done evaluating my performance.”

“Was she deliberately mean?” asked Terrance with a frown.

“Not really, though she was angry at something the powers that be did. My programmed escorts were so much vapor before I could even start an evasion. Eventually Flanders had to set the escorts at god level, just to give me a chance at starting an escape. And she still fried my ass ninety-nine percent of the times.”

Marge chuckled, “Well she is one of the best, if not the best pilot in the current Battle Group. Did you learn anything from it?”

“Oh yeah, she set me up with about sixteen different evasions that are not even in the books yet, and some other advice.” Joan flexed her wrists and groaned, “My crew chief wasn’t happy with her suggestions, but he changed his tune when I showed him the current MEDEVAC losses Fleet wide.”

“Terry, please do a quick scan on Joan’s arm, just in case she came unglued.” Marge smiled impishly, “Physically that is.”

Joan made a rude noise then walked over to a berth and then Terrance moved a scanner down her arm, “She’s got some inflammation, but the bones are still set.” He then motioned to her head with the scanner, “I don’t get any readings from her head.”

Joan batted at the scanner with a mock growl, “I’ll get you later.”

Terrance laughed and moved out of reach, “Promises, promises.”

“Easy you two, scanners cost credits you know,” Marge chided as she laughed at them.

“Ok Boss, any word on when we jump?” asked Terry as he stowed the scanner.

“Well it should be about nine hundred hours, if all goes well. The scan team is walking the hull now, so once they give the green light on the armor…” She paused,

“However long that takes, then we’ll be a few short hops to Ova-Loa. Have you checked the discharge papers on our patients?”

“Well the ambulatory ones are mostly completed, I think the only one left is Angela’s and that’s mostly due to her new rank and ID numbers.” Joan sighed and added, “Too bad we can’t keep her longer.”

“I will miss our guardian hellcat, but she’d be wasted if she was stuck with us,” Marge walked over to point to a monitor that displayed the Deep as seen from the bow of the Cruiser, “We need her out there, not stuck on some planet.”

“Her orders came in?” asked Terrance as he looked over from a bin that held fresh linens.

“Yes she’s off to the Fleet Officers Command Course on Bova.” Marge chuckled, “If I read her orders correctly she’s going to be putting a world of hurt on new pilots for a time as a Pilot Instructor.”

“Damn, I’d kill to be in that class, if she can tighten down my evasions, just think what she could do for my attacks.”

“Joan, as much as you hate the Feds, do you really want to face the same odds she does every time she goes out to fight?”

Joan was silent for a long moment, “Some days, yes.”

“And the other days?” asked Terry with a look to the monitor that showed the Deep and a clock that was counting down to Jump.

“The other days I thank god I’m the best fucking EVAC pilot in the Fleet, and not the hand of Death.” She looked at the other two, “Most nights I can sleep without nightmares, Angela can’t or doesn’t.”

“Yeah, she’s definitely paying for it, especially after…” Terry shook his head and walked over to tap a key changing the monitor so it showed Angela asleep. “Who guards the dreams of the warriors?”

“I don’t know, but I wish they would do a better job of guarding hers,” said Marge with a sigh, “I offered her some meds, but she turned them down, she said she had to be ready, if the call came down to fight.”

“I think the only reason she will allow herself to relax and get drunk is because of the Scrubbers.” Joan shook her head, “Ever so fucking vigilant, if she wasn’t so sane I’d swear she has been running the knife’s edge of PTSD.”

“Who say’s she isn’t?” asked Marge. “The Psyche’s have only seen her for the briefest of times and then I think she had them fooled.”

“Unlike some of the other’s, Angela is ‘together’, most of the times,” Terrence paused briefly, “and when it counts the most, she’s at her strongest.”

“It’s afterwards, when she’s all alone, she lets it out.” Marge shook her head sadly, “The duty nurses at night, keep finding her awake, doing exercises or trying to broil herself in the showers.”

“It’s one way to hide the tears, and to temporarily forget the pain,” said Joan softly, “I know it all too well.”

I was looking at my orders with a bit of confusion, the chipped version was tucked away in my jacket pocket, but the orders invariably came in both the chip and hard copy, you have got to love tradition. Once I stripped out the usual cross codes and extraneous routers I was left with the following assignment information and a weight allowance and transport data.

CDR. Caruthers, Angela Lin, Confederation ID 58324296,

Assigned –Classified-       11-05-3064 : 07:30

Reassigned CMHC 2099 Hermes 12-17-3066 : 17:25

Transferred to FMCS Bova 912, FOCC AFO.

Effective : 12-27-3066 : 00:00

Though I think I wasn’t the only confused person in the room, as they had pretty much handed the orders out in the galley as a prelude to some sort of briefing. Sergeant Bethany Millsap, my personal trainer and motivational ass kicker was looking as bewildered as I felt. “Where in the Deep, is Bova Nine Twelve?” she asked with a hint of unease. 

“Actually Beth, it may be more of a what, than a where. It vaguely sounds like a station or a rock if you ask me.” I shrugged and pointed to the personnel roster that was appended to my orders, “Where ever it is, we all seem to be headed there. Now if I knew what the hell FOCC was I might be happier.”

“Fleet Officer Command Course,” offered a voice from behind me and I looked back, to see that Colonel Hitachi was looking grumpy too. Well grumpier than usual, she wasn’t handling the transition well. From what little she alluded to, her life before the Fed’s was pretty much a security black hole. Confederation Intelligence and Recon Specialist, one of those ever so fun peoples you drop onto a planet and expect bad things to happen to the enemy in short order. 

“Joy, I suppose AFO means either Assistant Flight Officer or in cruder terms Another Fucked Officer. Why do I get the feeling I am going to going to teaching Jig’s and Middy’s how to fly?” I asked feeling more than a bit angry.

She chuckled and waved her own orders about, “I feel your pain; evidently I am going to be teaching Basic Recon or something, what a fucked up deal.”

I looked over to Beth, “What did you get for an assignment?”

“Officers Candidate School,” she said with a frown, “I really didn’t want to be an officer.”

“Why not?” I asked with a smile, “The money is good.”

She shook her head, “Don’t take this wrong, but I work for a living. Officers don’t.”

The Colonel snickered and then she said, “Oh you’ll work alright, though you may have to pretend that you don’t.”

I smiled and pointed at her, “I suppose it’s the Commandant’s way of showing his faith in you. Now if I knew what the blazes I did wrong…” I sighed, “I should be heading back to the front or at least a carrier. I’m a fighter pilot not a gods be damned nursemaid.”

“What I don’t get is why we didn’t get any down time, my orders didn’t include any leave time, did yours?” asked Beth as she frowned unhappily.

“No,” I shrugged and scanned my own orders again, “I am not sure my family is ready for this.”  I paused and suppressed a queasy tremor in my emotions, “Can you picture the look on their faces when I say, ‘Hi Mom, and Dad I’m your son.’”

“Put yourself in my shoes,” I looked back to see the Colonel studying the deck with a dark look, “my fiancée, no let me rephrase that; the Federation pretty much wrecked our lives.”    

That bit of information pretty much explained why she was so down all the time. I’d made a discrete inquiry or two into the odd chances of whether we’d be able to get surgically changed back to male. Unfortunately the Fed’s did something with our genome that even if we could tolerate the implants, the shift in hormones would likely blind us, if not outright kill us slowly in time.

“Ah Deity,” I wanted to say something comforting, but the year the Hope was at the fringe of the Fed territories I had been ‘Dear Johned’ myself. That news had nearly ended me on one flight, though Boojum had saved my ass, kicked it completely and then got me blind drunk afterwards.      

“Yeah, so much for that happy ending,” she sniffed and I dug in my purse to hand her a tissue, “Thanks, damned hormones.”

We both nodded, it was more polite to blame it on the hormones rather than our emotions, at least in public. It likely didn’t help in that that the Colonel and I could have been twins, aside from the eye color; as hers were more hazel to my emerald green.

“Admiral on the deck!” called a Marine Corporal who was stationed at a hatch at the fore of the galley, bringing us to attention and stilled the various mutterings.

“At-ease and take seats please, I’ll try to keep this short.” He walked to a lectern and then took a moment to look at us. “As most of you have already gathered, you are all heading to roughly the same duty station for a time.” He nodded slightly, “And from the expressions on some of your faces most if not all, of you are not happy with those orders.”

He took off his jacket and set it on a chair, “Normally I’d let some other poor bastard be the one to explain the Fleet’s actions.” That produced a mild stir and I was wondering just how bad, the bad news was. “However, we do owe you more than that.”

“I suppose I should start off by apologizing for your lack of leave time, regrettably it is necessary.” He held up a hand, “Not so much because we are at war, but because the doctors feel that you need more time to become more adjusted to your new life.”

I stood up, “Begging the Admiral’s pardon, but why?”

“Ah Commander, that is a good question and a fair one,” he motioned that I should sit, so I did. “You are not the first batch of changed prisoners that we recovered from the Federation.” He let that sink in for a moment.

“Normally, we would have given you some therapy and leave time before sending you back to duty. Unfortunately when we did just that, it had rather disastrous results.”

He sighed, and then waved a hand to indicate us all, “While many of you have done well thus far, of the first fifty we had freed, only fifteen have survived reentry into our society. And of those fifteen, a handful are less than sane.” He shook his head and held up both hands to ease the sudden murmurs, “Needless to say it was a definite failure on our part to look after our own. One of which we have no intention of repeating. Further information is available from the ships terminals or will be available to you at your duty stations.”

From the expressions around me, everyone pretty much looked like they had their first Wormhole Transit. Though no one was puking his or her guts out, so I suppose that was a plus. Personally I was not quite sure what to make of it all, fifteen out of fifty was a pretty screwy survival ratio; so I could see some of the need for the precautions. Though I had a distinct feeling my next duty station was going to suck.

“Now I understand some of you are less than enthused by your duty assignments.” There were more than a few not quite suppressed murmurs of agreement there, mine included. Which earned me a not so subtle nudge in the ribs from Beth.

“Fleet and other commands feel it would be better if you were all in the same place, seeing familiar faces and dealing with familiar issues. On a daily basis.” He looked around then continued, “Bova Nine Twelve is one of the Combined Forces major training planets. Its various schools encompass all aspects of the Confederation Military from Fleet, Confederation Ground Forces, Special Ops and last but not least the Marines.”

“Some of you may be asked to travel to Bellius Prime in The Alliance Territories, to give testimony to the Signatories of the Accords.” He held up a hand as the angry undertone picked up again, “Though that will be voluntary.”

“In the mean time, while on Bova, you will be either teaching, learning new skills or with luck, relaxing.” He smiled, “In either case we are not just dumping you there and forgetting you. It is our hope that in that environment you will eventually be able to return to your old duties or take on new ones. There are three hundred more of you who have yet to be awoken, and they will need as much support as you got or more. They will be joining you there and once released from medical they will likely be placed amongst you.”

“I am not volunteering for punching bag duty again,” I hissed softly to Beth who tried not to laugh.

Packing down my gear didn’t take much time, of which was depressing in its own right. Ship’s Supply had seen to adding my new rank and patches to all my uniforms other then the Dress Whites, but even that one sported the ‘Commandant’s Own’ patch. My combat flight gear had been stowed in its protective crate, once again by the Ship’s Crew. Admittedly I didn’t own much, on Darwin’s Hope, but some of that stuff was of a sentimental nature. With luck I could get some of it back from my parents later on.

The last bit to be stowed away was a plaque from the Skipper of The Hermes, a touch of the button and it would light up showing The Hermes in space from all angles, after which a list of ships crew and patients would scroll up. He apologized for not having me up to dinner at the Captain’s Table. From what I gathered he had spent most of his time lately keeping the ship going, and doing the necessary paperwork and so forth after the attack. Considering how well the Ship’s Crew had been taking care of me I could not complain.

That stowed I returned to my bunk and picked up my latest ‘gear’, a navy issue ten millimeter sidearm, with extra clips and belt. Evidently my jump in security level required that I carry one when traveling in uniform, and to have it handy when not in uniform. I had spent some time on the Marine’s Cruiser using the range there, getting comfortable with it. I wasn’t the best shot with it, compared to the range instructor, but I could hit what I was aiming at.

I belted that on and picked up my new beret; its color was canary yellow, signifying I was an instructor. The flash on it was for the Second Confederation Fleet Command Doctrine Division. It was a plain blue disk with a horizontal white segment with those initials on it. If you asked me the combination of the flash and the beret was a bit hard to look at, but it did catch the eye, making me easily identifiable.

Which was likely the intention. In Fleet slang, I was ‘Gold,’ basically it meant I was the deliverer of certain doom and wrath if I caught you fucking up. Not to mention I was likely the bane of your existence if you were under my command. In some ways it was rewarding, the other side of it was annoying that I had to be ‘Perfect’ in appearance at all times. After all, if I was going to bust on some poor sob’s appearance I had better be looking pretty damned ‘strack’ myself.

The door chimes bleeped and Joan walked in, one of the perks of being on the medical staff; your privacy was only yours if they felt like it. “So all packed up?” she asked.

“Yes, there wasn’t much to pack,” I shrugged and put on the beret, “so how do I look?”

“Very scary, and damned cute.” With a mild frown she added, “You are going to have a hell of a time of it unless you bust balls from the get go.”

“Wonderful,” I groaned at aggravation that was surely going to arise in time. “Why fucking me? I mean it’s sort of flattering, if you go for that sort of thing. Which I do not.”

“Well consider it another reward for a job well done, they only select the best of the Fleet to teach,” she grinned and added, “besides you’ll be certified on all the birds by the time you are done.”

“Oh joy, I’d rather be on a carrier heading back out,” I said with evident sarcasm.

“Look at it this way, you’ll have most nights and some weekends off. Which is more than some of us will get,” she took a small tool from her pocket. “One last medical duty and you are free to go.”

I looked at her suspiciously, “Oh?”

She motioned to my left wrist, “Yep, unless you really want to walk around with a medical transponder on your wrist?”

I glanced down and then held that arm out to her, “I’ve gotten used to it being there.”

“Well it’s only suitable for duty uniforms; if you are a patient.” She turned my wrist over and touched the tip of the tool to a silver spot, and with a click it fell open.

I eased it off and handed it to her, “Thanks Joan, for everything.”

She pulled out a small box from her pocket after stowing the tool and the monitor, “Oh I am amply repaid and then some.” She handed the small box to me, “I know you got something from the Skipper and Crew, but this is from Terry, Marge, the other EVAC Pilots and me.”

I opened the box to find an expensive watch inside, “You all didn’t have to.” I pulled it out and studied it for a time, “This is nice.”

“Well considering you’re all ‘Gold’ now, we can’t have you being late. Check out the back side,” she pointed to the watch.

I turned it over to see where is was inscribed with, “To our Guardian Angel, may your wings never get clipped.” I blinked a few times and smiled, “Thanks Joan.” I spent a moment putting it on and looked up to see her frowning slightly.

“I am going to miss having you around,” she said and then her tone was a bit more serious. “Look, we know you are having a time of it, at night, even if the Psyches’ don’t. Promise me if shit gets too bad you’ll get help.”

I blinked and nodded, “I’ll keep it locked down.” At her frown I continued, “I don’t want a medical down check.”

She nodded, “I understand, but you don’t have to fight every battle alone.”

“I’ve got your Fleet ID, if things get too rough I’ll write,” then I grinned, “who knows maybe we can find some planet to blow a month’s leave on.”

“I’ll hold you to that Angela, now I better scoot before I get all mushy.” She chuckled and explained, “I never was good at good byes.”

“I can relate, just make sure you practice those evasions,” I said though my throat was tight.

She braced to attention and saluted, “Yes Ma’am.”

I returned her salute, “Now get out of here before I get all mushy myself.”  

She grinned, “Give them hell Angela.”

“Oh I will, believe me I will.”

The Four Orbital Stations at Ova-Loa were called Leeloo, Korbin, Dallas and Mupass. I was of course, was waiting on a hop over to the Dallas, and then to the transport that would take us to Bova. Typical military, hurry up and then wait, though I was not the only one waiting.    

Colonel Hitachi and I were sitting in the in the same lounge, I had learned her first name was now Kimi, though it was pronounced Kee-mee. She smirked as she explained that it meant ‘Upright’, and that her last name roughly translated out as ‘The dauntless man standing before the sunrise.’ When she added a crude gesture after saying that, I suddenly understood why she was smirking.

“Your nurse friend is right, you know?”

“About?”

“Having to bust balls from the get go.” Kimi pointed to a gaggle of young men who were sporting maroon and black berets, “They will only see the pretty girl, if you don’t show them your claws from the first instant you have control over them. Smack them down hard, otherwise you will never have any respect from them. Even if you out rank them, can out fly them or out drink them.” 

I nodded in resignation, “Give them the Alcady treatment, no slack, no breaks and pile the crap on higher.”

Kimi looked at me then asked, “Alcady being?”

“One of my old flight instructors, now she was a right bitch.”

“Sounds like a good role model for you to emulate, just remember; there is a limit before it becomes abuse.” She pointed out with a chuckle, “But don’t worry your senior instructor will let you know if you get too close to it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said and pointed to the boarding lock, “I just want to get it over with, and get back to what I am supposed to be doing.”

She nodded and glanced down to my waist, “What’s with the side arm?”

“Regulations, my security clearance is just a few stops below God’s.” I shrugged uneasily, “I dunno, it sort of feels good to be armed.”

She whistled softly, “I have a decent clearance myself but I don’t need a side arm at all times.” She shook her head, “I will bet you’ll have extra duties because of it.”

I groaned at her pronouncement, “You are probably correct.”

“Ah well look at it this way, if the Fed’s try something you have an extra weapon,” she paused as a group of what were obviously recruits was herded into the lounge. “Care to bet some of those will be yours?”

I shook my head, “I did not sign up to be a fucking nursemaid.”

“Well you may get enough time to bone up on few subjects at the Command Course. You would end up there on your next promotion anyways, so if you can kill some of the course work now…”

“I could get back to flying that much sooner,” I said with a smile.

“Or commanding something bigger that a fighter,” she countered.

“That would suck hard vacuum. The last thing I want or need is to be stuck commanding a ship that stays in some damned battle group most of the time.” 

“How many officers above the rank of Colonel have you seen flying a fighter?” Kimi asked with a tap to her own collar.

That stopped my mental gears for a moment, “Well there was the Admiral at Flight School.”

“But that is a training unit, not a combat unit.”

“Shit,” I said and then I groaned silently into my hands.

“Well you have a few more years of freedom in fighters before they move you to something heavy,” she offered in consolation.

I had managed to doze off in the short hop between stations, only to be awoken by an Ensign, “Ma’am, are you Commander Angela Caruthers?”

“Yes she is,” chimed in Kimi for me as I forced myself into alertness.

“What can I do for you Ensign?” I asked once I was tracking things.

“The Skipper requests that you come forwards to Operations, Ma’am.”

I unbelted from the seat with a sigh and made sure my beret was tucked into my pistol belt, “Lead on Ensign.”

He walked down the aisle and I followed carefully as a few feet stuck partially into the aisle as well. I surely didn’t enjoy having my nap disturbed, so I was careful not to bother them as well. The Grouper Class transport was your typical commercial transport reworked to be a military craft, though the food was worse and they rarely served drinks.

“Through here Ma’am,” he pointed to an open bay and to a Midshipman, who was looking a bit perplexed.

I walked over to him and stood there for a moment, “You wished to see me Skipper?” It felt odd calling someone I out ranked, ‘Skipper’ but he was in command of his own ship.

“Yes Ma’am, you have an encoded message,” he motioned to a chair and a terminal with a palm scanner, “if you will swipe your ID and place your palm there, I will get out of your way.”

   I did has he asked and he nodded politely before departing. I sat and punched in the confirmation code I had to memorize just recently. The terminal blinked once and displayed its message.

The printer next to me spat out and identical set of instructions in hard copy. I looked back to see the Skipper waiting at the entryway. “Nothing earth shaking Skipper, are you headed to Mupass next?”

“Yes Ma’am, I have been instructed to deliver you there after offloading the current horde.” He paused, “Do you need something brought up from the hold?”

“Just my flight bag, and my EVA Gear. Everything else will continue on to Bova 912 ahead of me.”

“Yes Ma’am, I’ll have it brought up and secured here with a floater, will you need to change?”

“Not here, its just a ferry job,” I motioned to my orders, “evidently I am starting my new job early.”

“Well at least you will miss the media circus.” He rolled his eyes, “We expect to be delayed as evidently some big wig is going to hit Dallas and every Newsie is there poking about.”

“I take it I am to stay aboard until we hit Mupass?” I asked quickly.

“Yes Ma’am, we should be arrive at Dallas Station in ten minutes. You can stay here or return to your seat, if you like. If you will excuse me I have to get back to the bridge?”

“Thank you for your time Skipper,” I nodded thanks to him and said, “I better go back and tell folks I am off to work, then I’ll return here.”

“No problem Commander, enjoy the flight,” he nodded to me before he walked forwards to a set of stairs and up.

I had my suspicions about the media circus and sudden change in orders but I wasn’t going to fret things. I walked back and let Kimi know what was up before taking up residence in Operations again and closed my eyes. You learned to sleep where ever and whenever you could, so I did.

The never-ending card game was back in session in the pilots wardroom. As usual the quadruple team of Lieutenant Commanders’ Tommy ‘Boojum’ Jennings, Paul ‘Griffin’ Griffith, Jeremy ‘Stacked’ Decker and Luke ‘Slo-Hand’ Palmer, were taking turns lightening the pockets of the transport flight pool’s newest pilots. 

They could have been quadruplets, if you merely looked at their flight jackets that were covered with kill tags and ship patches. Centered predominantly on the jacket backs was the largish patch that was the Manta. In the eyes of each of the patches was the gold combat stud, signifying that had flown that particular bird in combat. Around the Manta patch the kill studs and tags were thick and seemed to threaten the other patches on the jackets. Directly below the Manta, almost recently applied was the patch for the Darin’s Hope. That patch was neatly bordered with gold kill tags making sure the eye was drawn there.

They were all roughly the same height, not quite five foot six inches tall. Jennings hair was a sandy brown, and he had a small scar just below his eye that had come from particularly nasty bar fight. His eyes were hooded yet the green in them sparkled as he looked over the cards he held. Griffith’s hair was an odd mix of bronze and brown that one might discretely call auburn, if you were into hair. His eyes were a placid brown and he seemed lost in thought though occasionally he would blink as if the smoke bothered his eyes.

Decker the picture of stoicism, with his red hair close cropped to his head and the cigar he was merrily puffing away on was occasionally hiding his gray eyes. Palmer was sitting back in his chair, holding his cards invisibly behind his large hands, he was a dusky tan and while his head was bald, he sported a tidy mustache that was a light gray. His eyes were closed and he seemed lost in thought, when he opened then he tossed his cards out onto the table, “Fold.”

“Coward,” taunted Decker, “I raise five.”

“I’ll see your five and raise you another ten,” responded Jennings with a smirk.

“That’s it I’m out,” said Griffith with a groan.

Decker tossed in the ante and smiled, “Let’s see you top this, aces and eights, he said and laid out his hand.

“I bailed on a crappy two pair?” asked Palmer with a frown.

“Well you’ll just have to be happy you got out before I dropped this on you, “Royal flush, and that kills your hand Decker, you must be loosing your touch.”

“Crap, it must be the hangover,” Decker said with a groan.

“Yeah, someone must be trying to fuck with our heads, ghost mail. What sort of fucker sends hard booze on the behalf of a dead man?” asked Luke with a frown.

“Damned if I know, but shit, they at least sent us good stuff,” Griffith said with a smile.

“And what is a real kicker, it was Snark’s favorite brand too,” Jennings was frowning darkly, “I have to wonder if he had a will or something.”

“Could be,” said Decker, “if he hadn’t been so fucking heroic…”

“Yeah, but he pulled off the kill, the little fucker could fly.” Jennings stood up, “I’m heading over to Operations, maybe we’ll finally get the fucking hell off of this shit detail.”

“Amen,” chorused the rest as the cards were collected and reshuffled.    

Mupass Station was the second of two military stations orbiting Ova-Loa, and it was more geared towards military operations than Medical. I was welcomed aboard by an Ensign who then directed me towards Fleet Replacement Depot Six, where in theory I would find a fresh group of birds ready for my inspection, and acceptance. Part of me expected to find a handful of fighters, what I found would almost equip a Light Carrier and then some.

Row after row of everything from Hammer Heads, Archer Fish and Mantas greeted my eyes. I took a long moment to admire the lines of a few of the newer looking vessels, then I went to find the Depot Office and figure out what was mine. After a few minutes of searching I looked around then flagged down a Middy.

“Pardon me Midshipman,” I asked with a smile, “where would I find the Depot Office?”

She looked up from her data pad with a start and snapped to attention, “Sorry Ma’am, I was doing a check, the D-O is portside aft. Look for the orange and yellow hash-marks on the deck, and the hatch is covered with red hash-marks.”

I thanked her and towed my float palate in that direction; the bay was several hundred of meters wide and long. I kept getting odd looks and every time I passed a group of techs or other personnel, I kept finding myself repeating “Carry on.” Oh the joys of being promoted and ‘Gold.’ “Joy,” I muttered as I found the hatch that was marked both by the red hash-marks and labeled with Depot Office and a second bar that read, CWO7 McClain, W.T.  Underneath that in very small script was the words ‘God works here.’ Smirking slightly I opened the hatch to the sound of one very loud gentleman’s complaint of “Where the fuck did you put it?”

Suppressing a smile I walked in and stood at the counter and listened to what was a fairly blistering set of instructions that were only partially profane. I had to give the Chief credit for not repeating himself once, though a few of his euphemisms were unique to me. I coughed once politely, figuring it would slow him down, as his back was turned to me. Instead he continued his diatribe and added a few more invectives.

His staff on the other hand noticed and immediately sharpened up from their slouches, which only gave him a moments pause, “… And finally when Commander Caruthers arrives I want the paper and chips on my desk and ready for him.”

I rolled my eyes and interrupted, “Pardon me Chief.”

“What?” he half bellowed as he turned to see me standing at the counter. It took him a less than a moment to notice my rank and my beret. “Ah, pardon me Ma’am.”

“Commander Angela Caruthers at your service, Chief. I hear you have some new birds for me?” I deliberately stressed my new first name and watched his ears turn a ruddy red. He was about six foot tall and was slightly heavy set though he did not appear to be soft. His hair was close cropped and a speckled black and gray.

He looked me up and down and then nodded once, “Aye Ma’am, though the papers for them are nowhere ready it seems.”

I shrugged indifferently, “If you were as surprised as I was by the suddenness of my orders, it cannot be helped Chief.” Hell I could be gracious, as it seemed his day was as fucked up as mine was thus far.

“No kidding Ma’am, in any case we’ll get them sorted out,” he said and waved to his staff, which quickly started looking busy.

“So how many of those out there are heading to Bova?”

“All of them, though not all to one unit.”

“All of them?” I asked feeling a bit confused by the concept of having command of over a hundred and more ships.

I could see a twinkle in his eye as he answered, “Yes Ma’am.”

“Crap,” I said and let out a sigh, “Fleet just loves it’s little surprises doesn’t it?”

He chuckled, “It’s not that bad Commander, you’ll have plenty of pilots to fly them there. He walked over to what I presumed was his desk and picked up a data pad, and returned to me. “This is yours to keep, I’ll dig out the forms for it later. It has your pilot’s roster and a map of the station. You will likely have to stop by Operations and Fleet Intel so you can brief your pilots later on.”

I took it and nodded, “What about armament?”

“As per Regs Ma’am, we’ll be moving them to the munitions bay once the papers here are settled.” He motioned to the bay, “Is the Flight School at Bova is getting set up again?”

“I suppose Chief, I barely got assigned to there, barley get on a transport and then I am here.” I motioned to the deck, “Are there any surprises I should be aware of?”

“One, well maybe two.” He stepped out from around his counter, “If you’ll follow me Ma’am, just park your floater off to the side of the hatch, no one will bother it.”

I did as he asked and he lead me through a maze of ships, “We have been tending some thing totally brand new while the other ships arrived for transport. If I read though all the black-outs in your records correctly, you may be the only one rated to fly it.” He walked a ways further to where a pair of Marines patrolled around a tarp covered aircraft.

They stopped just in front of us and requested my FID, of which I fished out and handed over. He slid it through his data-pad then he and his partner braced to attention, “Ma’am.”

“Time for the wrapper to come off boys,” said the Chief pointing to the tarp.

When they stood frozen, I sighed and looked at one specifically, “If it’s not too much trouble Marines,” I turned slightly so that my new red patch was visible to them. “I would like to see what I am going to be signing for and flying.”

“No Ma’am its no trouble at all,” they quickly said and set about removing the tarp from the bird, I smiled, maybe the ‘C-O’s’ Patch was good for something after all.

“From what I am given to understand Ma’am, mass production of these has just started.” The Chief hitched his thumb over his shoulder to the row of Electric Eels, “Those will be moved back to Planetary Defense Fleets, and then phased out in a few years, if I read things correctly.”

I nodded and studied the bird, “What’s the classification?”

“It is called the Goblin Shark.” He pointed to the strange nose on it, “It’s got enough electronics packed into it that is a Fed farts in the head, from three parsecs out you’ll know what he ate for dinner.”

“So it’s what just a ramped up Eel?” I asked cautiously.

He laughed and motioned for me to examine the bird, “Take a walk around the bird and study it for a moment, its got enough hard points to make a Whale shark nervous.”

I did as he suggested and walked the length of it noting the odd positioning of the cockpit, as it seemed to sit back under a flat sword like blade that was parallel to the wings. The Chief was right it had quite a few points to attach pods and the engines and maneuvering jets were huge. In that respect it was similar to the heavy ordinance and dedicated role Whale Shark, if not it being sleeker and much smaller. The wing lay out was equally strange as a tri-level canard sat in the front, though staggered a meter apart. The main wings could have come from a Manta, if you made them nearly three times the normal size.

I wasn’t sure if I was pleased about the gun placements or not, as the nose gun looked more like a scaled down version of a turret on a frigate. Topside was a gunner’s turret equipped with a duel Gatling gun system that looked to be twenty millimeter. Internally I was betting the nose gun was at least thirty millimeter.

“Well it looks like it has teeth,” I finally commented to the Chief after my circuit of the bird.

“Well Ma’am if I read things correctly it’s supposedly the Fleets answer to the to the Fed’s Arbalest. Just a lot meaner and quicker on the draw.”

“So she’s a ship killer?” I asked critically.

He shook his head for a moment, “I think you are the first female pilot to call a fighter a ‘she.’” He chuckled,

“In either case it does look that way Ma’am.”

Inwardly I tucked that bit of information into my head, I had always referred to ships in the female gender, unless it was distinctly named after a man, like Darwin.

“Is there a simulator set up for this bird?”

“Yes Ma’am, one has been prepared for you, your crew has been training on them for a few days.”

“Crew?” I asked blankly.

“Yes Ma’am, a Gunner, an EW Tech, and last but not least an Intelligence Officer,” he motioned to the data pad in my hand, “That has a list of your crew ‘Skipper.’”

I blinked at that, my first coherent thought was ‘You have got to be shitting me.’ My second thought I put into words, “Is this supposed to be an independent command?” 

“Yes and no,” offered another voice.

I turned to look then braced to attention, “Sir.”

“Carry on, Commander, Chief,” he nodded to us, the Colonel’s nametag read Orson K. T., “It has the legs for it, but it’s not practical. Yet.”

“Ah Colonel, who commands the bird?” I asked cautiously.

He pointed a finger at me, “You do in this case. While the Intelligence Officer might out rank the pilot, decisions in a fight can only made by one person, the pilot.”

“I can see one problem sir,” I motioned to him.

“And that is Commander?” he asked slowly.

“What happens with the crew when they are not on board, and the senior officer is not the pilot and things get cross-ways?”     

He chuckled, “Well in that case things could be difficult. However, SOP states the minimal rank of the pilot is Lieutenant Commander.” He smiled, “I don’t think you or I will bump heads in that department, as I can’t fly a kite.” He took out a Tac package, “This is current as of today, I can spare you the trip to Fleet Intel, but you are the Commander of the Flight. So between a visit to Operations, plotting your routes, sim time and briefing the pilots, and a briefing with me, you have a busy few days ahead of you.”

“Aye sir,” I said as I took the Tac from him and tucked it a pocket. “Where is my berth for the next few days sir?”

He chuckled, “We’ll find something.”

“Well we got a Flight Officer,” announced Jennings as he opened the hatch and kicked the room’s blowers a bit higher before walking in. The smoke was not quite thick enough to cut with a blade. 

“Oh?” asked Slo-Hand from the card table, he had a predatory smile that invariably hinted at a deadly hand.

“Yeah, ready for a real shit kicker?” asked Jennings as he pulled up a chair and spun it around to sit on it backwards.

“Hit me,” said Decker, then he picked up the card and winced. “Jeeze, you can tell I didn’t shuffle. So what’s the word?”

“It’s a Caruthers,” He shook his head looking just a bit bemused, “Snark never said anything about his kin did he?”

“No, but then he was a deep one at times,” offered Griffin, “a relation or?”

“Damned if I know, she outranks us though…” Jennings was frowning, “not to mention she’s the Alternate Flight Leader for some school on Bova, which means she’s another fucking ‘Gold’ assed bitch.”

“Hey it could be worse it could be Colonel Alcady as the CFO, now there was a bitch,” said Palmer which elicited a set of cursing and moans.

“No shit, ah well she can’t be all that if she’s an AFO,” commented Decker, “I bet she’s dog assed ugly.”

“With our luck, yeah,” Jennings groaned, “can you tell me why the fuck we are doing nothing but milk runs again?”

“You know, thirty fucking missions and its break time, in our case it’s a long fucking break time. Fucking Regs,” Decker threw his hand to the table.

“Yeah, talk about bullshit,” added Palmer with a sigh, “I’ve put in transfer request so many times in the past few weeks that they just hit copy when I walk in. Go fucking figure.”

---------------------

The next few days were a fucking pain, from going down the pilot’s roster and assigning them to birds. Planning for every possible jump point in a three-parsec tube around my designated flight path, to scrabbling around the various birds and signing for them and their payloads. The briefing with Colonel Keith Orson was actually pleasant and as nearly interesting as the sim time. Nearly.

Then there were the invariable complaints from the pilots who wanted to be flying a different bird, that I had put a clamp on hard and fast. I put them all in the same room and read them the riot act, while they were in the push-up position. As I was sure that they would have good understanding of things from that angle, that trick I had endured from Alcady time and again.

“One, I am the Flight Commander,” I paused, “Is that under stood?” I asked loudly.

“Ma’am, yes Ma’am!” they responded.

“Two, I put you in birds you are combat rated in, not ones you merely know how to fly, is that understood?” 

“Ma’am, yes Ma’am!” they responded.

“Three, I am the fucking Deity of this Flight, you fuck up on my Flight you will wish you were not conceived, do you understand me?”

“Ma’am, yes Ma’am!” they responded.

“Four, there are only four pilots in my flight even close to my skill level. They will be the voice of Deity as they are your Wing’s Leader’s, if they tell you to do something; you had better fucking do it on the double and twice as fucking high. Do you hear me?”

“Ma’am, yes Ma’am!” they responded.

“Fifth, do you see the beret on my head?”

“Ma’am, yes Ma’am!” they responded.

“Good, because if you piss me off any further you will be polishing every fucking bird assigned to this Flight, until I am satisfied that they pass muster. And I guaran-damn-tee you will be flying a trash hauler if you fuck that up. Are we clear?”

“Ma’am, yes Ma’am!” they responded.

“On your feet!” I commanded, “Wing Leader’s take charge of your Wings, P-suit inspection and Tac dump in one hour, no bull shit, no fuck ups, no kidding. Dis-missed!” I barked at them and walked out of the room.

The Colonel nodded to me and walked down the corridor a ways before speaking, “That was neatly done Commander.”

“Thanks sir, I will admit I was a bit pissed.”

“I think they understand that,” he said drolly, “I take it the four pilots you singled out were those from Darwin’s Hope?”

“Yes sir, I have no doubts of their ability and which way they will react if the fecal material hits the impeller,” I smiled tightly as I said that.

“I see, have any of them approached you?”

“Only one sir,” I sighed, “Lieutenant Commander Jennings, my old wingman.”

He paused for a long moment studying me for a time, “I see, and did you say anything about?”

“No sir, he just asked if I was related to his wingman, and then offered his condolences,” I had felt like crap lying to him and it must have shown.

“Ah, in time the truth may be known Commander, but until then do keep your distance, socially.” His tone was soft but his implied order was not easy to take.

“Yes sir, but for a year he was as close as a brother,” I shrugged helplessly. “This, officially sucks sir.”

“One of the burdens of command is separating ourselves from our men, emotionally. And yet we have to have some measure of trust in them and them in us, otherwise when the shit does indeed hit the fan we would be fucked.” He chuckled, “Though by including them in your ‘discussion,’ you have already set a boundary. They know it, and subconsciously so do you.”

I considered that for a few moments, “Yes sir I can see that.”  

“What do you think of your crew?” he asked.

“Well they are sharp, a bit high strung perhaps but they should loosen up once we get some real flying in.” I motioned to him, “You are the only one who’s not had their P-suit checked, sir.”

He chuckled, “I’ll wander down to the inspection and have it checked by Jennings, as you have some sim time slotted then correct?”

“Crap I had forgotten about that,” I frowned, “Sir if you would inform the Wing Leaders that I will be spot checking their inspections?”

He laughed but nodded, “Aye Skipper, I think I can do that.”

I stopped and turned to face him slightly, “Does this feel as weird to you as it does to me?”

“A little bit, but then my usual slot is still answering to a Skipper; just on a larger ship.” He stopped and indicated the two of us, “Your little crew is a bit over ranked for their assignments, but we’ll be writing the book, for others to follow. Everything we do, everything we get right or screw up goes into making the Fleet and the crews that follow us that much better.”

“Hell of a damned job sir,” I finally commented after a breath.

“But one we can handle, now scoot Skipper.” He grinned and did a neat about-face; “I’ll break the news to the boys and girls.”

“Yes sir,” I smirked, “If Jennings gives you any crap, which I doubt, ask him what a Pink Floret is not good for. And then ask if he wants to have ‘that’ bit of information spread about the Fleet.”

He paused then started laugh loudly, “I had read something about that from the Commander of Darwin’s Hope’s logs. Very entertaining.”

That made me turn about to look at him, I could feel my eyebrow rise as he said, “I’m in Fleet Intelligence, we know everything.”

I blinked and carefully did my own about-face, ‘Only two percent think…’ twirled around in my mind as I walked the corridors leading to the simulators reserved for my crew.

“Well she sure the fuck isn’t Snark,” Cursed Decker as he strode into the ward room. “Even if she is good looking, I want to shove that fucking beret up her ass.”

“Tell me about it, how the hell can there be a Alcady clone?” asked Palmer. “One was fucking bad enough, now we have another, and shit she’s barely a baby combat wise.”

Jennings was sitting at the terminal typing furiously, he sat up slowly from his slump when the terminal lit up with a red boarder and a screen full of text. “Ut oh,” he groaned.

Palmer got up and walked over to look at what caused such a sound of concern, “Shit that’s a security flag, what were you trying to do, hack the Base computer?”

“No, just trying to get some intel on our boss,” He scrolled down the screen to where the ratings for her certifications were. “It says she’s combat rated in Manta’s if you can believe that.”

As the others crowded around he tapped the screen, “She has as many certs as we do and there’s that,” I ran his finger along one line of text that was repeated over and over again, “Insufficient Security Authorization, which means she is Fleet Intelligence or something…”

“I thought you were cleared for some deep shit?” asked Decker with a frown.

“So did I, evidently or boss does or is something so Black Op’s.” He looked back over his shoulder, “We don’t want to piss her off or flying a trash hauler might seem nice by comparison.”

As they nodded he added, “Though she said she was a cousin of Snark’s, so she can’t be that bad of a pilot. I mean look here, what’s not under the black is very odd, ‘Combat Rated’, not just merely certed.”

“So what the fucking rock did she crawl out from under to get all of that?” asked Griffith.

“I don’t know, but she’s flying that bird they had tarped down and guarded, so she has to be something hot,” Jennings looked back, “And she tapped us out as Wing Leaders, so she either has read up on us or knows something we don’t.”

“She is on the ball though, the last fuck up of a Flight Leader had to be hand held through getting the roster’s up,” Decker was shaking his head, “Not to mention putting greenies in Mantas, what a fuck wad.”

“‘I put you in birds you are combat rated in, not merely know how to fly…’ She’s going to be a fucking pain, but she seems to know her job,” Palmer said with tight smile, “And she’s not hard on the eyes either, once you get past that fucking beret.” 

“Yeah, she even walks like Alcady,” Griffith said, “you know, that ‘I’ve got more balls that you do’ walk.”

Palmer snorted, “Yeah, bull dyke from hell, so who wants to get her drunk and take one for the team?”

“Yeah right,” said Jennings, “I get the feeling she’d rip them off and feed them to you if you tried it. I mean, you see her nervous habit with the datapad yet? She raps that pistol of hers like she is just itching to use it.”

“Scuttlebutt says some newsie got in her shit and she just about challenged him to a duel, I have no doubt she’d do it too,” added Decker.    

“No shit, she is a hard ass, that is for sure.”

The Goblin Shark, no matter how you loaded it up for combat, was scary. The shear amount of ordinance it could carry nearly set my teeth on edge. As even with the shields from hell, I could picture one damned huge bang, if the ammo went off all at once. Unlike the Fed’s Arbalest, our ship killing missiles would be external and would take but a flick of the switch from either my seat or the gunner’s go set them all off and running. Or I could take half and the gunner could take half, getting two kills for the price of one.

The front guns took some getting used to, as they fired one then the other, staggering the rounds as they fired. I looked up the feed mechanisms noting how the ammunition for them sat in two separate drums, both of them under my ass metaphorically in the ship. I can’t say I liked how fast they fired or rather didn’t fire like a Manta, but the rounds they used evidently made up for it in punch when they hit.

I was putting it though one of my favorite combat Sims, and getting decent scores, when Lieutenant Commander Pete ‘Tagger’ Walls came online.

“Gunner hot Ma’am, permission to engage?” he had a strange ‘drawl’ to his voice, but according to him everyone from New Texas had that.

“Go to work Tagger, see the Fed Cruiser portside and down thirty?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

“You have control of portside missiles, ruin its day,” I said as I toggled that bank of missiles over to him.

“Aye Ma’am, one order of crispy crunchies on the way,” he commented, sounding somewhat distant as he focused on that task.

I ignored him and took on a pair Caesar’s, the Fed’s medium space superiority fighters, the Goblin ‘felt’ a very heavy to me, but there was no denying that she could keep up with the smaller ships. However the mass and inertia she carried, made her a real bitch in a full out furball.

I was clocking the second Caesar when a new voice chimed in, “What the?”

Suddenly concerned I challenged the speaker, “Who is this?” I also hit the suspend button on the simulator.

“Carry on Caruthers, I’ll deal with this,” that voice I recognized as the Colonel’s, so evidently he was ‘watching’.

Reassured, I woke up the simulator and continued to polish off the Caesar I had started on. There were two heavy pushes from the presser field in my simulator that represented the launches of two ship killer missiles, from the port side and I used the momentum they added to the Goblin to roll up and on a Federation Frigate. “Two starboard heavies away,” I called as I launched them at the Frigate.”

“I need an angle on the Cruiser for the finale’. Two were not good enough but its shields are down,” stated Tagger as a Pillion vaporized under his fire, “if you could oblige.”

I chuckled, “Ask and you shall receive.” I then angled our ship back to the Cruiser noting some flames and out gassing from it.

“Heavy away,” he commented and then he said, “portside heavies black.”

“Roger Tagger, feel free to lighten our load on that other Frigate,” I grinned wickedly and rolled the ship sharply so that he was angled on it.

“Good thing I don’t get vertigo,” was his only comment as I watch his bank of missiles flare off.

I was eyeing what the Fed’s called a Light Carrier, “Going for the Hail Mary on the Light in three, so work quick.”

“EW reports solid kills on Frigate one, Cruiser one, and shields, no correction, Frigate two is dead.” I smiled as the Colonel added in his report. Our EW Tech, Chief Warrant Officer Two Arlene ‘Boombox’ Lloyd, rarely chimed in on channel unless it was ‘dire’, in her own words, “I’m making the Fed’s ears bleed and other things, unless something is way off, I’d only get in the way if I was on channel all the time.”

The Colonel’s handle was ‘Haxxor’, as evidently he did some pretty strange stuff like ripping data out of the Fed’s computers as we flew by them. He and Boombox were a pair, as much as Tagger and I were. Between the two of them, no enemy ship was safe, data wise and I had a serious hunch we were damned near invisible emissions wise. I suspected that there were some interesting things going on in his simulator, and that much of it would be over my head, intellectually. 

My own handle was, to my surprise my handle was ‘Death’, as in ‘The Angel of Death.’ Joan had left me a note in my P-suit helmet saying that Guardian Angel would not suit me, “Especially if I had to hammer it into peoples head that I was one mean bitch.” I broke from my brief reverie and started the prep for the ‘Hail’ Mary, by switching the missiles completely to his control. “Ready Tagger?”

“Locked and cocked,” and I could hear the lock-on tones over the coms.

“One for the Money,” I called and Tagger sent every missile we had left on board at the Light Carrier.

“Two to get ready,” added the Colonel a moment or so later, as he and Boombox did their thing to the Fed’s sensors and what not.

“And three to go!” I called and started running several hard and nasty evasions before tagging the jump command in. For a moment the holograms swirled randomly emulating the jump out to safety. When the HUD stabilized I took a quick scan of my instruments all the missiles were black as expected and our guns were barely in the yellow, fuel was firmly into amber as this was supposedly a ‘deep’ raid. “Guns yellow, Missiles black, Fuel amber, I read the Bird as green, confirm.”

Three voices chimed in as confirmed I leaned back and stretched in my simulator. I waited or the kills and hits tally to come up and nodded slowly as we seemed to start to ‘click.’ “Looking good people, the ‘Hail’ took out the shields on the Light Carrier and did some minor damage, we smacked them hard but no biscuit. I think we’re going to have fun when we can use live ammo.”

“We’ll have to try a different mix,” suggested Tagger, “if this bird as half as hot in the Deep, as in sim, the Fed’s are gonna be so screwed,” opined Tagger. “Logging out for dinner.”

“Commander, you need to wander down and do some spot checks, my p-suit is green,” the Colonel reminded me that I had unfinished work.

“Roger that, nice work all around team, now I just have to go bust some heads,” I growled which evoked some laughter. Part of me wondered who the odd intrusion was, but I figured that if the Colonel didn’t think it was worth mention I could ignore it.

My spot inspection was not quite uneventful, as I had caught a glimpse of something odd with one helmet. I wasn’t sure what to make of the slight refraction that was in the clear dome of that helmet, so I dropped it to the deck and the slight refraction became a spider-web of cracks. “Well that helmet is crap,” I calmly announced and left it lying on the floor as I focused on it’s owner. “How old is your suit?”

“About two years Ma’am,” he replied nervously.

I nodded slowly, “Any ejections?”

“Yes Ma’am,” he answered and fretted slightly under my gaze.

I let him stew for a moment, “Right, consider your suit down-checked by my authority. Evidently it was not rechecked properly by your prior duty station,” I said in a dead pan, as I doubted he’d be negligent ‘there’ after being ejected. “You are dismissed for refit. Move out.”

“Yes Ma’am,” he quickly picked up the remains of his helmet and all but double-timed to escape from my possible wrath.