Back From the Dead (11 page)

“I officially have absolutely no idea what the
hell
we are supposed to do or what the priorities are, what assets we have, what the budget is, where we go, or what sort of timeline we have. I’m not even sure who you report to! 136 sections, 81 appendices, and at
least
a half dozen circular references–”

Lag cuts her off cheerfully. “Excellent!”

“What?! … Sir?”

“Could you find something in these orders to justify just about anything?”

“Well, yes,” Kat responds cautiously. “Likely there’s something, somewhere in here, that could, in theory, support anything short of multi-system genocide if you torture definitions and phrases hard enough.”

“And is there anything in there that prohibits action?”

“Narrowly read, it’s a straightjacket that makes us ask permission in triplicate to breathe.”

“So if we screw up, we get hung out to dry for disobeying orders?”

“Yes.”

“And anything we do that works out, we could justify?”

“… Yes?”

Lag grins. Kat nods slowly, beginning to catch on.

“So, let’s not screw things up, and see what we can do!” he says. “Let’s get started: Section 23 says we need to cut our core budget by 20%. That’s about the same as the maintenance section, I believe. Go find Chief Stenson, tell him he and his entire section are fired, and send him in here.”

Kat is appalled. “You want … me … to fire …”

“Yes,” Lag says cheerfully. “He should be out training some guys on the J-6’s.”

“Fired.”

“Absolutely.”

Kat stares at Lag in disbelief. Then she sets her face in a scowl, stands, salutes, makes an angry about-face, and stomps out. Lag smiles and returns to his e-reader.

“Fired again, eh?” says Chief Henery Stenson, smiling.

“Indeed. What’s the local talent like?”

“What, no vacation?”

Lag shakes his head. Stenson shrugs and flops into a chair. He’s in his late forties, trim and muscular, short-cropped graying hair and a mustache, wearing stained and well-worn cammies with rolled-up sleeves, and of course a tool belt.

“Eh, not bad,” Stenson says. “Local companies are a mixed lot, some good individuals, not many that could pass age, physical, or background as recruits, though.”

Kat, still standing in the doorway, is confused. “I thought he was fired?”

Lag ignores her. “How’s your section?”

“So-so. Usual mix. Only a handful of stand-outs.”

“Kat, how long to establish a local corporation?” Lag asks.

“Start a corp?”

Stenson grins at her confusion. Lag waits patiently for an answer.

“Uh. Well. An hour or so to find a location, if requirements aren’t too demanding, and another hour to fill out the forms and file. Pretty simple here, I think, depending on the type. But what does that have to do with–”

Lag cuts her off: “Section 30 says we must, quote, ‘support and utilize local companies where possible,’ unquote. Please work with Mr. Stenson to identify a suitable nearby location for
Stenson’s Heavy Equipment Repair Company
, file the necessary forms for it and an associated apprenticeship program, transfer employment for the dozen or so platoon members he wants to keep, expedite the background checks for any locals he wants to hire and train, and select
Stenson’s HERC
as the local contractor of choice for needed support services for our unit, as stipulated in section 118.

“I’m sure that when we leave, we’ll also be able to achieve our recruitment goal of 15% laid out in Section 55, too, because we can take them with us. Oh, and while you are looking at real estate, see if you can locate a suitable place for housing an infantry company of recruit trainees. Section 103 says to assist with other units in the area, and I know the 46th have some training problems the First Sergeant can help with while we take care of some other items.”

Kat realizes she’s been tricked, glares at Lag for a moment, then smiles. “I see. Okay, Sir. Be happy to.”

Stenson teases Kat as they walk out the door, “You didn’t think he’d
really
let me go, did you?”

Noncoms

Corporal Kaminski, a huge Viking of a guy, drives a light truck down the dusty road leading to Pad D9 while eating a brown food-ration bar. Sergeant Kaushik, a trim, light-skinned East Indian rides in the passenger seat. They’re both wearing full combat armor, minus the helmets.

“She said ‘recon and secure the building’,” Kaminski says defensively.

“When the Colonel or Top tells you that, yeah, you need armor, air cover, and a hot line to the artillery battery. When the Lawfare Officer tells you, you gotta be smart enough to know she means look it over and get a lease with option to buy.” Kaushik points at their armor and weaponry. “All this gear is useless for checking out a building. Contrary to common myth, not
all
soldiering problems are solved with massive firepower, explosives, hacking, or any of your other creative solutions.”

Kaminski grunts, takes another bite of the food bar, then throws it down on the dash in disgust. “Get used to it,” Kaushik tells him. “Not likely to get better soon. Top says to keep a low profile in town, and there are not a lot of HQ services out here yet.”

They drive a bit further, approaching a building on the outskirts of the spaceport. “That’s gotta be it,” Kaminski says. “What’s that across the street?”

“It’s a ship, Corporal.”

“Well, no shit, Sarge. I mean, what kind of ship?”

Kaushik takes a long, very studious look. “Old.”

They drive up next to Building 1701 and look it over: your basic industrial beige metal box with an eight-meter roof, large doors, and a few windows. “Seems in decent shape,” Kaminski says. “Doesn’t look big enough.”

“Drive around it, let’s see all sides,” says Kaushik. Kaminski takes off around the corner of the building, leaving a cloud of dust.

Before the dust has even started to settle, a van pulls up across the road. The back doors open and a half dozen rough-looking gents in coveralls jump out. Seeless steps out of the front, and they all walk toward the ship, rounding the corner, heading for the open ramp.

After their quick lap around the building, Kaminski and Kaushik park just behind and to the side of the van. “Looks like someone’s home,” Kaushik says.

“Think Chief Stenson’d like to know about the ship parked across the street?”

“Oh yeah. He loves classic ships. Let’s drop in, say ‘Hi’.”

They hop out of their vehicle, check and sling their rifles, and head for the ship. They walk around the side and find Helton, standing on the cargo bay deck, surrounded by Seymore’s thugs on the ramp.

“So, if you want anything done,” Seeless snarls, “you go through
us
, right? No more calls to anyone else that can’t do the job.
Capisce
?”

Sergeant Kaushik clears his throat very loudly. “
Ahem.
I do not mean to interrupt any local issues, but who owns this ship?”

Seeless wheels around in anger. “Who’s askin’?”

Kaushik is polite but firm. “We are.”

“Not your business.”

“Yes,” Corporal Kaminski says, “it is.” He’s poised on the balls of his feet, hands casually close to critical parts of his gun. “We’ll be using the building across the street. We wanted to find out who’s blocking our spectacular view of the … view.”

“I’ll talk to you when I am finished with him,” Seeless sneers.

“Like I said, I just want to know about the ship. Then we’ll be on our way,” says Kaushik.

“I’m the owner,” Helton interjects, “and they–”

“SHUDDAP!”

“Oh, I’m wishin’ Harbin was here,” Helton mutters.

“WHO did you say?” Kaminski demands.

“SHUT IT!”

“Harbin Reel? Ninety-five kilos of lethal bad-assery?”

“I SAID SHUT! IT!”

“How do
you
know him?” asks Kaushik.

“Saw some action together.”

Seeless is about to have an aneurysm; he hates being ignored. His enforcers are confused, uncertain, and angry. This is not what they’re used to.

Kaminski glances at Kaushik. Simultaneously, rapidly, and with practiced grace, they unsling their rifles; chamber rounds; low ready; move back and apart. Kaushik speaks in his crowd-control voice:

“PLEASE DISEMBARK IMMEDIATELY! ANY LEGITIMATE LEGAL DISPUTES WILL BE DEALT WITH IN THE PRESENCE OF UNIFORMED LAW ENFORCEMENT AND WITH PROPER PAPERWORK PRESENTED FRONT AND CENTER! FAILURE TO COMPLY WILL BE MESSY! MOVE IT!”

Seymore’s hired muscle moves quickly but awkwardly, unaccustomed to rifle-carrying professionals in armor. Seeless moves more slowly, accustomed to being the one who is scary and in charge. “You haven’t heard the last of this, Mr. Rich Guy. Not by a long shot.”

“I wouldn’t be talking about shots when someone has a rifle on you,” Helton says. “It works out badly sometimes.”

“I’ve got friends in high places!”

“We are the friends in low places,” Kaminski threatens. “Now MOVE IT!” Seeless and his thugs slink away to their vehicle. Helton watches the two armored soldiers on his doorstep as they watch the van roar away. Then they relax.

“Thanks for some very timely support,” Helton says.

“No problem,” says Kaminski. “Top woulda killed us if he knew we let someone he served with get hurt and didn’t do anything.”

Helton clarifies: “I didn’t say we
served
together, I just said I was in some action with him.”

Sergeant Kaushik: “But he’s been in uniform since forever, so … how?”

Possibilities

Chief Stenson, wearing coveralls, drives a light truck down the dusty road leading to Pad D9. Colonel Lag, wearing camo, rides in the passenger seat. “They said I had to check the thing out,” Stenson says. “And that you had to meet the owner. They were kind of mysterious about it. But then, it’s not the first thing about Kaminski that is a little murky.”

Lag pretends to be scandalized. “Are you implying one of our noncoms might have a less-than-pristine past?”

“Guess it depends on how much of the official story you believe.”

“It’s good to get out of the office anyway. Always useful to eyeball things in person when something unusual comes up. There’s the building. Big enough?”

“Depends. Right now, we’re light on everything, so it should work,” says Stenson. “That ship, now. Looks like an old Meridian transport, all right.”

“Emphasis on old.”

“So much the better. Having an old hulk for training right across the street would be great. No worries about grounding it when some wanna-be private does something craptacular.”

Stenson pulls off the road to the side of the ship, near the small door with the lowered ramp, and he and Lag hop out of the truck. A quick touch-check of their clothing and sidearms, then they walk up the stairs and in through the hatchway. Lag stops abruptly between the inner and outer airlock hatches. He holds his hand to his ear, then glances at the computer screen mounted on his forearm. He looks quizzically at Stenson, who meets his eyes, touches his ear, and nods.

Lag: “Com check. One, two.”

Stenson shakes his head, then tries: “Com check.”

Lag starts to shake his head, then nods.

Stenson: “Com check. One, two.”

Lag nods again and responds: “Com check?” Stenson nods. “Weird,” says Lag.

“Jammer, or interference?”

“Check them when we get back.”

They walk silently and cautiously into the cargo bay and across to the other side. Stenson sniffs the air, at first carefully, then deeply, nodding in appreciation. As they scrutinize the cargo bay, their eyes are drawn to a movement at one end of the row of middeck windows. Their eyebrows rise and appreciative smiles grow on their faces as they see, walking down the opposite middeck passageway, visible from the waist up as she passes each window, Allonia: naked, arms raised as she puts her hair up in a towel, her healthy full-figured feminine curves displayed to great advantage.

She freezes, turns and sees them, shrieks, and drops her arms to cover herself as she drops out of sight below the window sill. Her embarrassed and angry voice rings out through the open window, “Helton! You HAVE to get my shower fixed TODAY!”

Lag and Stenson grin widely, suppressing good-natured laughter. “Think I’m gonna like this ship,” says Stenson, mirth creasing the corners of his eyes.

“You were right,” Lag replies, “
Outstanding
training value.”

Helton has walked up from behind while they were distracted. “Shower might take a while, though.”

In the Officers’ Mess, after a good meal, empty plates and glasses still on the table, sit Helton, Lag, and Stenson. “Let me get this straight,” Helton says, “You’ll help me fix some of these systems as training for your maintenance section; I buy the parts, you get them working.
And
once we renovate the quarters you’ll also pay me to use the ship as a barracks and training facility for a different batch of recruits?”

“Correct,” Lag replies. “It keeps us out of town, gets a bunch of our people in one place, and it’s not often we have a real ship to screen raw recruits on. You have over a hundred berths, and if you can talk Allonia into making company-sized portions of food like this, we’ll have no problem attracting qualified people. It’s been a while since I’ve been on a ship where the air smelled a healthy green.”

Helton’s still skeptical. “Why? I mean, why me? It’s not millicredits you are talking about throwing my way.”

Lag smiles at some internal joke. “Got a soft spot for people who have been screwed by security forces.” Helton raises an eyebrow; the colonel doesn’t look like the sentimental type. “You struck me as smart and principled when we met on the liner. That’s hard to find around here. That you’re acquainted with Harbin is a bonus I find even less often. And on the off chance that Stenson can work some magic, having a fully functional transport that isn’t on anyone’s radar could be … useful.”

Stenson chuckles dryly. “It’s going to take more magic than even I have to get this thing
fully
functional. Flyable, maybe.
Maybe
. Eventually. But, in the meantime, I really could not imagine a better training setup. Always liked classic ships, and this one is a gem.”