Chapter 52

Third Mission, inbound in star system RKO-289 aboard the FUP Deep Space Exploration vessel Glenndeavor, 2401 CE

As Juliet piloted the Royal Yacht back toward our third retrieval target, Mister Kyler and I, standing with the others along the starboard side of the florescent red craft, watched from inside our vac suits while G2 Xazan opened the access panel on the side of the second escape capsule to get at the hatch control screen.

Our first retrieved new crewmember, Marine Corporal Aisins—call me anything but Raisins—stood apprehensively beside Beatrice. The two of them stood behind Helen and were flanked by Anika on their right, with Kyle and then me in our vac suits, on their left.

Aisins brushed the palm of his right tactical glove back over the buzz-cut white-blonde hair covering his tanned scalp for a third time that I’d counted. The Corporal had his AK strapped over the back of his camo-colored ballistic vest, barrel toward the deck, and his POT helmet was now hanging down over the left butt cheek of his combat pants—the chin strap hooked to his utility belt. The short-ish, muscular-looking Marine moved his weight from boot to boot as we waited for Helen Xazan to finish initiating the sequence to safely open the capsule’s top hatch.

Earlier while Kyle was going back out to bring in the second capsule, Anika told me through my ear-bud the Corporal had been very upset. Coming out of his pod he’d immediately told them we had to hurry and bring in his partner. Aisins quickly informed the three women that he’d not been able to contact PFC Groves at all once their pods cleared the Glenndeavor and that he’d even hacked into his pod’s comm unit using the communications features in his POT helmet trying to get a response from her.

I could easily see the Corporal was obviously worried about his partner’s safety. Inside my vac suit, I contacted RY, asking the shuttle’s AI if he had communications with the pod beyond taking control of the navigational and guidance systems when he’d maneuvered the craft safely into the airlock.

Our shuttle’s AI told me he was monitoring all the pod’s systems. Then RY confirmed an open and functioning comm channel inside the capsule. His deep baritone voice in my ear-bud next told me the biometric telemetry he was receiving indicated the occupant was alive and all of PFC Groves’ body functions could be considered normal. In fact, by the information he was monitoring, RY told me, the telemetry seemed to indicate a health adult female asleep in a deep REM state!

Relieved at the news, I toggled the emitter on the outside of my suit.

“RY says, by the bio-telemetry he’s monitoring,” I spoke up through my suits external audio emitter inside the quiet of the Cargo Deck passageway as the hatch seals on the very florescent-red capsule released, “that PFC Groves seems to be asleep and dreaming.”

“Well, fuck me,” Corporal Aisins said in soft voice that my suit’s external audio receivers easily picked up. In a louder voice he added, “Sleep when you can, ‘cause yah never know when you’ll have yahr next chance.”

The hatch of PFC Groves’ pod finally opened, hinging back toward the port side of the vehicle like the canopy of some atmosphere gliders. Along with a pair of attached information and control touch screens that would be within her reach when the hatch was closed, I saw her AR-style assault rifle was securely held against the inside of the curved hatch by two restraining straps. I noticed there was a short grenade launcher attached to the bottom of the Picatinny rail enclosing the barrel of her rifle.

As our group walked up closer to the escape pod so we could see over the edge of the hull into the cockpit, the majority of us could see that PFC Groves had her electric eyes deployed. Under the bottom edge of her visor she wore a small grin on her full lips that set of her tanned complexion. I could tell she was breathing with the relaxed cadence of sleep even though she was wearing her camo ballistic vest under the pod’s safety straps that snugly held her down on the fully extended acceleration couch.

“Yah almost don’t want to wake her up, what with her lookin’ so relaxed and all,” Corporal Aisins said as we all gathered around the front of the hull even closer. Helen Xazan climbed up the outside of the hull using two of the three kick-plates before she could lean over and plug the cable of a handheld med screen into a telemetry socket in a bank of controls along the starboard side of the cockpit.

“Then,” said Aisins, “I think about the three years she took off my life span ‘cause I was spazzin’ out when I thought she was unresponsive in some tin can floating along in the All Alone. The whole time I was thinkin’ that’s no way for a Fire-eater to die. No...” the Corporal told us in a serious-sounding voice, “she needs to die slowly before my eyes while doin’ some disgustin’ make-work duty on our way to wherever this shuttle’s takin’ us.”

He looked at Beatrice standing beside him and said, reading the name tag on her matte black vest, “G3 ... ah, Hen-der-son. Yes, Henderson—I want to thank you and the crew for pluckin’ the two of us out of these things. You wouldn’t happen to have a spare, old-fashioned toothbrush around somewhere that PFC Groves can use to clean the heads on a daily basis during our journey, would yah?”

Anika snorted and then started to giggle on the other side of Bea. She said, “I am liking you already, Corporal Aisins. Yes, I am. Let me be introducing myself.”

My younger wife introduced herself, then Beatrice, Helen Xazan, me, and finally Kyle Kyler to Corporal Aisins—I didn’t know where Caz and Melvina had gone; Juliet was manning the Flight Deck.

Then we found out the Corporal’s first name was Ron. It was Ronald, he told us, if the ladies were upset with him. He said he and the still sleeping PFC Groves were members of Fire Team Alpha, Oscar Squad, Fifth Platoon, 1st Company, 3rd Regiment, 14th Space Division, of the 1st Space Fleet.

That said, he eyed Anika, then Bea, giving each of their faces a measured search. Turning to his left, he just glanced at Kyle and me. I figured he was unable to see our eyes through our vac suit bubbles—certainly not mine, because of my deployed data visor. Kyler and Xazan were wearing tactical helmets we’d confiscated along with the rest of the contraband found in the big supply compartment in Shuttle Bay One. Those helmets didn’t have data visors or any communications gear built into them, but we’d fitted both of them and Caz with very snazzy radios we’d also confiscated at the same time.

Then, like the ancient light-bulb going on, my inner geek reminded me that all the other Marines aboard the Glenndeavor during this mission that we’d met were members of the 2rd Company, 3rd of the 14th. Aisins and Groves must be part of the elements I knew had to be reinforcing Major Luce’s Rifle Company.

The Corporal, my PAW offered in a sure-sounding voice from my lizard brain, was checking to see if any of us, the women at least, knew about the true structure of our Marine Security Detachment I bet.

I wondered why Aisins would even think to check for a reaction to what he’d told us.

“According to the bio-telemetry I’m monitoring,” the deep baritone voice of RY came through my ear-bud as well as my external audio sensors, making Corporal Aisins raise his head and look up at the audio emitters in the overhead, “PFC Groves will be waking up soon.“

“About damn time,” the Corporal said, looking at Bea and pointing up with his right tactical glove’s index finger. “Who was that?”

“That’s RY,” my voluptuous lover said from under her Kilo helmet with a grin on her lips. “He’s the shuttle’s AI. Sort of ah hunky sounding voice, don’t yah think?”

“Welcome aboard, Corporal Ron Aisins,” I heard RY’s voice saying in my ear-bud. “The crew of this shuttle specifically picked both of you from the other individuals in your group of escape capsules knowing your experience and training would complement and reinforce their existing tactical skills and numbers. I see that you have extensive training in not only heavy weapons, demolition, communications, and squad tactics, but you’ve also participated in four missions that included combat experience. There is a block on sections of your service record. I will not ask why.”

None of two-legged sentient beings in the Cargo Deck said a thing, and I saw a funny grin play across the Corporal’s face.

“I see that PFC Groves served with you during the last two of those missions,” our AI added. Now Bea, Anika, and Helen were looking up at the overhead. “The crew were correct in their assumption that both of you are well worth the effort to bring your capsules aboard.“

“What a dreamy voice to wake up to,” the sleepy-sounding voice of PFC Groves came from out of her escape capsule—then I heard her yawn as her arms lifted up out of the cockpit and she stretched, still strapped down. “Ummm, now would somebody please help me get out of this tin can? It’s nice for a little nap, but I want to stand up and shake hands with the guy who belongs to that sexy voice.”

“Hah! Good luck with that,” Helen Xazan told the PFC as our Medic leaned back over the florescent-red side of the capsule and reached down into the cockpit to give our newest crewmember a hand in getting free.

Earlier, Juliet had contacted Arrbra and informed her of our change of mission and the third pod we were detailed to go get. Arrbra replied that she would conform to our movements while staying clear of the Royal Yacht as Juliet maneuvered to reach our final recovery target. Mister Kyler and I took the intervening time to de-suit, use the head, and then try relaxing until we got closer to our last retrieval while our two new crewmates used the emitter stalls and ran their uniforms through the laundry facility also in Stowage Space B.

Using my Heavy during that time, I did some research on the C-ELMER channel concerning the crewmember we’d be bringing aboard. As the Royal Yacht made our final approach, and without rushing around, Mister Kyler and I both suited up and were back in the Cargo Airlock in plenty of time to begin retrieval of our last target. However, by that time none of the crew, old and new, was happy with our assignment any more.

Once he and Groves were cleaned up and joined us in the Galley, everyone seemed to agree with the way our new crewmate, Corporal Aisin, had bluntly put our situation. He made his pronouncement after reading the file I’d projected up in the holographic field against the starboard bulkhead as we all sat around the galley table and drank some very good coffee from Anika’s family stash while the shuttle closed on our final target.

“We’re as good as fucked until we at least make planet-fall,” Corporal Aisin sighed, and then finished his coffee in two big glugs. “At least this is damn good Joe. That’s the first step in winning me over,” he said as he looked around the table at the rest of us before nodding to his left. “Now Groves there, she’s easy, just give her extra ammo—”

“—and you can still diddle that little wiener of yours all by yourself,” PFC Groves said in a calm-sounding voice from my right where she sat at the end of the galley table. Groves looked bored, gazing at Aisin over the steaming cup of coffee she held up near her chin. “That’s bullshit, and you know it. I am not easy. It has to be dry ammo wiped with an lightly oiled cloth, and the right caliber. You’re just lucky I had that power nap, Corporal.”

“So,” Melvina Bimini spoke up from down the table near the holographic field, “what can we do about this officer?”

“Wait and see,” said Beatrice as she pushed away from the table. “Wait and see if we can win this Lieutenant over. I mean, he’s not in our chain of command, is he? Golly, he’s some kind of a lawyer, you know? Now let’s get ready to bring him in. I’m just glad we didn’t have time to bake him a cake.”

Now we knew that out in the All Alone inside the escape pod that was our target was one Lieutenant Daniel Strauss Straperlo, of the ExServ Judge Advocate General’s Corps. This particular JAG officer belonged to the Interstellar, International, and Operational Law Division (Code 010), and it seemed he’d been assigned to the Glenndeavor specifically for this mission.

My inner geek figured the Lieutenant was aboard in the event the Ship discovered that Artifact RKO-289 was an alien spacecraft and there were at least some of the crewmembers from the Artifact still alive somewhere in the solar system, most likely down on the fourth planet. The Lieutenant was on this mission to make sure each and every i was dotted and the t’s got crossed in our legal dealings if we could communicate with the alien crew and any negotiations began. Hopefully those negotiations would happen before the Marines had to use force to secure their objectives, and not after the smoke cleared.

Without anyone asking for his opinion, RY’s deep voice spoke up in the galley and informed us the Lieutenant had been burning up the communication channels since his pod joined its assigned formation. We learned from RY that the Lieutenant was demanding to know why he’d not been rescued from the abomination of a tiny escape vehicle he’d unknowingly been directed to during the evacuation. Then RY played a snippet of one of the messages directed at, “any ExServ or other vessel that can HEAR ME, blast-it-all—RESPOND IMMEDIATELY!”

We had all heard the whine in the JAG officer’s voice—instantly that edgy tone got on my nerves. My paranoid ass-wipe was certain that the Lieutenant ending up by himself inside one of the single-person capsules wasn’t the mistake Mister Straperlo thought it was. And what kind of a name was Straperlo anyway?

“You know,” Kyle’s voice came into my ear-bud as we waited inside the still air-filled lock, “there’s a whole lot of bad things that can happen to cargo during retrievals like this one. Most of them aren’t even the retrieval team’s fault.”

“And that fault is what; as in omission or commission?” I asked with a snort.

“As in accidental ... unforeseen,” his voice replied. “I’m too good of a cargo handler for the other types; but even I’ve lost cargo to the Big Black once or twice. Never anything essential to the mission mind you; however, when your Slack account finally hits zero, things happen.”

“So,” I said, hoping what Kyler had just told me didn’t mean he was an adherent of the Church of the SubGenius, “what you’re really telling me is you believe that while Moses parted the Red Sea and that guy Oppenheimer split the atom, it was Bob who actually cut the crap?”

“Goodness no! I didn’t say that,” Mister Kyler’s voice rang in my right ear as he laughed while holding up the palm of his right gauntlet, shaking it back and forth.

We both noticed the green atmosphere indicator bulb over the outer airlock hatch went from green to yellow and the pumps began evacuating the air from around us.

“Cots-G never had a foothold on the dirtball where I grew up. Members of the Church of the SubGenius would’ve called me then as they’d call me now—Pink and Slackless,” I heard Kyler’s voice telling me in my ear. “I didn’t encounter any believers until I joined up and ExServ took me off-planet; haven’t been back since. But those believers do have some great sayings.”

“I’ve sure heard enough of them on this Mission,” I replied, thinking back on some of the times I’d listened to crewmembers calling for Slack in one sense or another and wondering if any of them were actual followers of the Saint of Sales, J.R. “Bob” Dobbs.

“From what I’ve seen,” Kyler’s voice said from my right ear-bud, “you and Bob both believe in at least one of their slogans.”

“Okay,” I replied with a sigh, “what one is that?”

“It’s certainly; ‘Too much is always better than not enough’—don’t you think?” said Kyler’s voice. And then he brought his right gauntlet-covered hand up to his armored bubble, tossing me a quick salute. “Me and Xaz firmly believe in that one too—Slack be praised.” I could see him nodding his helmet through the crystal surface, a big goofy grin on his face under his camo-colored head covering.

“You’re online with that,” I told him and gave the tether going from my suit’s utility belt down to the deck a half-hearted jerk as a test. I didn’t want the suit’s assists to cut in and perhaps break the webbing of my tether line. “Let’s just hope our Slack isn’t tested by this JAG officer.”

“I hear that,” Kyle said and I felt the internal overpressure stiffening my vac suit as the air was sucked out of the lock around us. With a shrug of my shoulders that jogged the feedback circuitry in the augmentation units, the stiffness was gone just as the yellow indicator over the hatch went red.

As the external hatch started to cycle open, I was ready for what was outside. I let myself actual enjoy gazing at the expanding spectacle of the heavenly view presented by the Big Black while the boots of my vac suit were firmly planted on the deck plates and the airlock door seated fully open against the exterior bulkhead to my left.

Down in my brainstem, my paranoid ass-wipe hummed a monotone tune. He was mostly calm while hoping to see an errant chunk of meteor smash through the florescent red hull of our target outside. The capsule was now about 100 meters off our port side and five or six degrees above our line of flight.

My inner geek was seriously thinking about asking RY to pipe The Blue Danube into the audio emitters inside my suit to drown out the monotone coming from my lizard brain. There was an old Earth sci-fi movie in my collection that was known, along with other elements, for accurately portraying the silence found in the vacuum of space. The director had used The Blue Danube with stunning effect during one of the scenes.

“Are the two of you ready—again? Over.“ Juliet’s voice asked through my ear-bud. This time I didn’t nod my Kilo helmet inside the clear bubble on the shoulders of my vac suit while standing there beside Mister Kyler in the evacuated cargo airlock.

“A-firmative, dear. Over,” I said, still feeling awed by the multitude of unblinking stars light-years away out in the Big Black. The scene was marred only by the florescent red escape pod and no meteor streaking from out of the vastness of the All Alone beyond the shuttle to solve our problem.

For all we know, my inner geek said from down in my lizard brain, this Lieutenant could be a great fellow and a fine addition to our merry band—once he’s gets out of that little can. You know we’d both be at our wit’s end if we were out in that thing right now.

Fat chance of that, I thought, remembering the sound of the JAG officer’s voice demanding a response from any ship that heard his broadcast. The whine I’d heard in Lieutenant Daniel Strauss Straperlo’s voice was from frustration and anger, not panic. A good officer would have the internal fortitude to remain calm and not let his emotions take control and evacuate his wits while broadcasting to the fleet.

That’s why you aren’t officer material, my PAW informed me. Now cross your fingers and pray for a meteor!

With a shake of my Kilo helmet inside my suit, I took a deep breath and relaxed. Again I beheld the formations making up the evacuation flotilla heading toward the sun, RKO-289, somewhere way, way forward of our shuttle. This time I was seeing white hulls and gray hulls, their navigation lights blinking among the host of colorful stars viewed from a different angle than before. And there was only one glowing escape vehicle that I could see, evidence the retrieval mission in this area had been a success.

I knew Arrbra’s shuttle was again in formation with us somewhere on our starboard quarter. And with the Royal Yacht now within 80 meters of our lone target, RY nullified the local gravity inside the airlock. For the umpteenth time I was glad I was tethered to the deck.

“Reaching start of EVA window in, four,” the deep voice of RY came across our open guard channel and into my ear-bud just as before,” three, two, one, initiate EVA Mister Kyler.”

With soundless puffs of expelled gas from the unit encircling the waist of his vac suit, Kyle’s boots came free of the airlock deck and he was outside the hatchway opening with two lines trailing behind him.

Once again, I focused my attention on the reel paying out the tether line attached to the back of his suit’s utility belt. However, this time, watching the long alternating florescent pink and florescent lemon sections of his safety tether as well as the winch line unspool, I didn’t let myself become mesmerized by the rhythmic play of colors as I must have before.

“Okay Xaz,” said Juliet from my right as we stood behind our Medic with three meters of room between us and the bulkhead at our backs. “We’ve done all that we can. Let’s get him out of there.”

G2 Xazan opened the access panel on the side of the florescent escape capsule to get at the touch-screen hatch control.

I was tired, before I’d retracted my data visor and took my place in line I was shocked to discover it was 1408 when I checked the time—we’d already been aboard the Royal Yacht for just over 8 hours! However, during that time we had been very busy.

We now had the stern of the last retrieved vehicle resting just over four meters aft of the Cargo Airlock and the small craft was spotted in the center of the Cargo Hold passageway and ratcheted down. Besides the proper clearance on its starboard and port sides for traffic along the passageway, there was room for a tow-lift or the cumshaw cart to maneuver between the nose of the third capsule and the aft drive units of what had been PFC Corry Groves’ pod, which was now correctly secured to the deck as well.

In front of the PFC’s vehicle was Corporal Aisins’ florescent red craft, and there was now proper clearance to starboard, port, and aft of that vehicle for foot traffic or a tow-motor as well. There also was the approved four meter clearance between the bow of the first pod and the Engine Room hatch, which was located in center of the aft bulkhead closing off the Cargo Hold passageway.

While we were doing all this, Mister Kyler proved he knew the cargo-handling SOP by heart, yet he’d even asked Mister Henderson to use her data pad to double check the approved distances since we were going to be dealing with an officer and a lawyer.

We’d all agreed it was unavoidable that Lieutenant Straperlo had to remain inside his pod for the additional time it took us to assure our retrieved cargo was properly secured according to regulations. As we worked to make the deck of the passageway shipshape, RY’s deep voice reported that Straperlo’s comm system inside his pod seemed to be experiencing some kind of interference from an unknown source. Not only hadn’t the Lieutenant been able to send or receive any messages since we’d started towing his pod toward the Royal Yacht, he also couldn’t monitor what was happening outside his craft using the external audio and video pickups either.

Now to my left stood Mister Kyler, then Mister Henderson, with G2 Blaugelt-Sitwell at the end of our line—all of us with our rifles at Port Arms. Marine Corporal Ron Aisins and PFC Corry Groves were assigned to stand ready with their rifles near the aft of the red pod, while G4 Melvina Bimini and G2 Jodie Jane Cazinska stood at ease three steps back from the nose of the escape vehicle. Each of us was ready to snap to attention at our shuttle Captain’s order.

When we first learned the identity of our luck-of-the-draw that was waiting out in the Big Black for us as we sat around the galley table, Juliet was determined that we welcome the Lieutenant aboard the Royal Yacht with a formal show of respect so he couldn’t fault us for any of our actions from the start.

Anika thought that was a fantastic idea, saying the longer we kept the Lieutenant off balance and reacting to our established schedule that was backed up by ExServ regulations, the longer it would be before he might try to impose his own authority on us, thinking he had a better idea as to how to run the everyday workings of the shuttle.

Corporal Aisins spoke up and said he didn’t care one way or the other, Lieutenant Straperlo wasn’t a command officer; Straperlo was a staff officer. Aisins told us the problem we were faced with now was that in his experience; staff officers could be a royal pain-in-the-ass when they found themselves out among the troops with no brother officers to hob-knob with and they had no specific mission framework to guide them.

In addition, Aisins wondered aloud if the Royal Yacht had the room to create a dedicated space designated as Officers’ Country to keep Straperlo separated from us while we got on with our daily business until we made planet-fall. And the first order of business, Aisins felt, was to follow up on our goal of becoming a cohesive combat unit by drills and classroom work. That, he told us, was especially important since we didn’t know where on the planet we’d come down at the present, or what other assets, other than Mister Die Florrie’s shuttle, would occupy our LZ.

Once Anika told him she felt sure we could come up with a temporary quarters for the Lieutenant that would keep him out of the hold that was set aside for our quarters, Ron Aisins relaxed. He let us know he felt reasonably certain an ExServ lawyer wouldn’t have anything to contribute to the classroom work or tactical training exercises. Then the Corporal promised to take over Groves’ threatened duty of cleaning the head with a toothbrush if Straperlo actually wanted to take any part of the training we’d be practicing over and over.

After listening to everything Aisins had said, Beatrice suggested that those of us who weren’t name-friends should become name-friends before we had to bring the Lieutenant aboard. In doing that, she offered, we’d have a developing bond to further separate us from this unwanted officer. So that was what we did between sips of hot coffee and bites of the fine sandwiches Jodie Jane and Melvina had put out.

“Okay,” Caz spoke up as she’d started gathering empty coffee cups from around the galley table as our impromptu meeting and name-friend ceremony broke up, “I’m willing to help do whatever to see this guy’s quarters isn’t near ours.”

So now Kyle, Bea, Anika and I were all dressed in accordance with regulations and displaying red SPI bands on the left upper arm of our fresh duty blues; we were wearing side arms and helmets—as we were under arms and on duty. Each of us had handcuffs on our belts as well as wearing our POCs, and there were extra magazines for our weapons in pouches on our persons. However, none of the four of us were wearing our body armor; we left that to the Marines. Luckily there wasn’t the need for RY to play a trilling boatswain’s call through the passageway audio emitters; Straperlo was only a Lieutenant.

As the seals on the escape capsule’s long hatch released and the canopy started swinging open to the port side, Juliet called out loudly, “Atten-shun!“

All of us came to Attention. Standing stiffly to my right, Juliet rendered a salute toward the craft.

Over the edge of the red-florescent hull, I could see the rumpled, finger-length, black hair on Lieutenant Straperlo’s head as he rose up off the acceleration couch, pushing down with both hands on the armrests, I guessed.

From the cockpit, he looked around as he stood up in his rumpled duty blues, his wide-set eyes big under his bushy eyebrows. His face was flushed and Straperlo seemed to me to be in his mid-thirties, with a thin nose and a square jaw.

The Lieutenant had a dimple in the center of his chin as I did. However, I thought that his dimple made his small lips look as if he’d just sucked on a lemon. Straperlo’s large ears stuck out from low on the sides of his punkin head and he had what was called a five-o’clock shadow on the otherwise pale skin of his jaws, cheeks, and neck down past his Adam’s apple.

After taking in his welcoming committee arrayed on three sides of him, the Lieutenant finally focused on Juliet and, straightening his posture, he returned her salute.

“At ease,” he told us and cleared his throat as his right arm came down. “Don’t just stand there, somebody get me a ladder so I can climb out of this dastardly vehicle.”

“Command Pilot of the shuttle, Royal Yacht, G4 Mindenhall-Sitwell at your service, Sir,” Juliet spoke up from my right as we all went to a crisp at ease posture. I could tell the Lieutenant was noting that six of the ten people he saw outside his craft were holding assault rifles—in the proper and respectful position—and we were all wearing holstered pistols and helmets, be they Kilos, POTs, or low-tech head gear.

“Welcome aboard, Sir,” Captain Mindenhall-Sitwell announced. “I don’t know if there is a disembarkation ladder anywhere aboard, Sir. Mister Xazan, see to it the foothold panels on the outer hull are disengaged and free moving.”