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Authors: Steven Savile

BOOK: Elemental
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The station's interior had been immaculate prior to the battle that had taken place within its passageways, and it was once more, thanks to ex-lieutenant commander Halby and her troops. As the officer made her way down the main corridor she could see where a section of bulkhead had been repainted, blood had been scrubbed off the deck, and the C & C Center's blast-damaged durasteel door had been removed. The strike team's com tech turned as the officer entered the compartment. She was seated at what had been Corporal Wamby's console—and was wearing
his
camos. They were slightly too large, but there weren't all that many choices, so Chow had to make do. She sported a page boy hair cut, almond shaped eyes, and wore a skull and crossbones tattoo on her left cheek. “Hey, boss … Look at this.”
Even though most of the syndicate's members had military backgrounds and the organization was structured much as the confed navy was, an element of pirate-style democracy had crept in over the years. Traditional military courtesies were a thing of the past; commanding officers could be voted out if they failed to perform adequately, and everyone was entitled to a share of the loot. All of which meant that while “Hey, boss,” was a perfectly acceptable form of address under normal circumstances, it was out of place within what was supposed to be a platoon of marines. “Watch it,” Halby cautioned mildly. “I'm a gunnery sergeant … Remember?”
“Oops! Sorry about that,” Chow responded wryly. “You look good in camos!”
“Yeah, sure I do,” Halby replied skeptically. “Okay, what have you got?”
“Well, it looks like the stuff the informant provided was accurate … Not only are we standing on top of an SFR [strategic fuel reserve] containing 250 million barrels of A-5 [military grade aerospace fuel], there's a nice subsurface ammo dump buried about five miles east of here, all of which should add up to a nice payday.”
“Yes, it should,” Halby said gloomily. “Assuming that the tankers enter orbit on time—and we can boost all that A-5 into space.”
“That's the part I don't understand,” the com tech put in. “Why place an SFR on the surface of a planet? Why not put it on a moon? It would be a helluva lot easier, not to mention cheaper, to transfer fuel under zero-gee conditions.”
“And you can be sure that the Confederacy has zero-gee SFRs,” Halby answered confidently. “Lots of them. But some, like this one, are positioned to support FCBs [Forward Combat Bases]. Let's say the bugs take a run at this sector … All the feddies have to do is route a combat supply vessel to Hardscrabble, drop a few hundred thousand tons of material onto the surface, and presto! They're ready to construct a base on top of the SFR … Then, about two weeks later, they'd be ready to fight.”
Chow nodded. “That makes sense … So what's next?”
Halby glanced at her wrist comp. The LST had cleared the atmosphere twelve hours earlier. So, assuming that all went well, the transport would rendezvous with the tankers and escort them back. In the meantime, a
real
Confed supply ship was scheduled to land on Hardscrabble with mail, fresh food, and other supplies. Assuming that Halby and her strike team were able to successfully fool the people aboard the LST, the feddies would depart the planet none the wiser and thereby extend the amount of time available to suck the SFR dry.
Or, if that strategy failed, they would kill the transport's crew and upload as much A-5 as they could before the navy came looking for their LST. The renegade had her doubts about that, but it wouldn't do to share them, so she grinned instead. “Well, I don't know about
you,
marine … But
I
could use some shut-eye.”
Even the transport was relatively small; she was large enough to mount a hyperdrive and carry a four-person crew, plus a six-person security detail and a passenger. All of whom were temporarily under the command of Ensign Tarla Tevo, who had sequestered herself within the tiny cabin set aside for use by the ship's CO [commanding officer]. It consisted of a locker, a narrow bunk, and a fold-down desk.
Now, as Tevo stared at the display in front of her, the challenge was to bring herself up to speed regarding the ship, its mission, and the people she had suddenly become responsible for. Tevo had left Owani's office only to discover that she had been placed in temporary command of
LST-041
, and the ship was departing for Hardscrabble Station in less than six hours. So while there was every reason to feel sorry for herself, there had been no time in which to actually do so. And now, in a desperate attempt to live up to her new responsibilities, Tevo was scrolling through her crew's personnel files.
The LST's pilot was a warrant officer named Lars Womack, who, in
addition to successfully working his way up through the enlisted ranks, had numerous commendations to his credit.
The copilot, a chief petty officer named Liz Yanty, was not so distinguished. Not only had she been busted back to first class prior to making chief again, it appeared that the noncom had an on-again off-again drinking problem.
A first class petty officer named Omada was the ship's power tech, and a first class named Richy was the load master. Both had been in the service for quite awhile, had received good ratings over the years, and appeared to be reliable.
Tevo didn't have access to the P-1's for Staff Sergeant Pepe Mendoza and the six marines under his command, but took comfort from the fact that the jarheads certainly
looked
sharp. As for Marine Lieutenant Tony Pasco, who had orders to assume command of the marine detachment on Hardscrabble, he was along for the ride.
Confident that she had a handle on the human part of the equation, Tevo turned her attention to reviewing the many processes and procedures related to delivering, and accounting for twenty tons of valuable supplies. A task made all the more difficult by her failure to pay attention at supply school. Something she had already come to regret.
Two hours later Tevo emerged from the tiny cabin, nodded to Mendoza as the marine squeezed past her, and made her way forward. Omada was seated in the tiny C & C Center with his back to the corridor. He had black hair, Eurasian features, and the broad shoulders of a gymnast. As with most of the crew, the power tech knew the ensign was green as grass, but he was willing to cut the pork chop [supply officer] some slack so long as she didn't come on too strong. He raised his ever-present coffee mug by way of a greeting and was pleased when she took a moment to chat with him.
Then, confident that Omada knew what he was doing, Tevo stuck her head into the control room. It, like everything else on the ship, was small. There were two passenger seats, one of which belonged to Tevo,
fronted by positions for the pilots, only one of which was occupied. Chief Yanty had the watch, and because the ship was in hyperspace, she didn't have a whole lot to do. She turned to see who had entered the compartment. She had frizzy red hair, broad cheekbones, and lots of freckles. Her eyes were small and bright. “So,” Yanty began, “how was your nap?”
Tevo took note of both the petty officer's tone and what could only be described as a lack of military courtesy. The officer chose to ignore the petty officer's question and settled into the pilot's chair. “I took a look at your flight log, Chief,” Tevo said evenly, “and I noticed that you and Womack have been to Hardscrabble before. That makes you an expert … So, tell me everything there is to know about Hardscrabble, starting with those nasty storms. Then I'd like to hear what the Confederation has on the surface—followed by whatever you can tell me about the poor bastards who are stationed there.”
“Yeah, I'd like to hear that stuff too,” a male voice put in, and Tevo turned to find that Lieutenant Pasco had entered the compartment. He had a wolfish countenance, hollow cheeks, and thin, nearly nonexistent lips. Not a pretty man, but the sort who looked as if he could think his way through most problems, and kill the rest.
Tevo nodded. “Welcome to the class, Lieutenant. Have a seat.”
Within a matter of seconds, Yanty had been put in her place
and
elevated to the status of a subject matter expert. And, because she'd been dealing with officers for more than fifteen years, the petty officer couldn't help admiring the skill with which the feat had been accomplished. The result was a subtle change of expression and a grudging sense of respect for the young ensign, as she began what turned into a one-hour seminar on the planet Hardscrabble.
Eventually, after both officers had exited the cockpit, Womack came to relieve Yanty. He had a long, sorrowful face, a pilot's passion for detail, and a penchant for games of chance. Though not the sort of friends who go on liberty together, the twosome had a good working relationship and
shared a common skepticism where regular officers were concerned. “So, how's the princess?” Womack inquired as he settled into the prewarmed seat. “Omada told me that she spent more than an hour up here.”
“The ensign has a lot to learn,” Yanty commented as she got up to leave. “But she knows that—and is willing to listen.”
Womack's bushy eyebrows rose slightly. “That's high praise coming from you.”
Yanty paused in order to look back over her shoulder. “Screw you, sir. No disrespect intended.” Both of the pilots laughed.
The tension within the underground C & C Center was so thick that Halby could have cut it with a knife as Chow's right index finger made contact with the screen before her. “Here they are,” the com tech announced. “Right on time.”
“Excellent,” the officer replied grimly. “Challenge the bastards … and make it sound good.”
So Chow demanded codes, a chief petty officer named Yanty provided the proper responses, and the incoming LST was cleared to land. Halby took advantage of the intervening time to hold a last-minute team meeting. “Remember,” she concluded, “fool them if you can … But if it looks like one of them is onto you, kill them and put out the word. It would be nice to have the extra time, but we can lift a lot of A-5 without it, so don't hesitate to pull the plug. Questions?”
There weren't any questions, so the renegades dispersed. Some remained in the C & C Center, others sat down to eat, and some went to bed. Each team member knew which feddie they were pretending to be, had memorized that individual's P-1, and was at least passingly familiar with the dead person's specialty. Time seemed to crawl as the pirates waited for the LST to make its descent, people spoke in terse sentences, and the trap was ready.
 
 
The dome-shaped shelter was well camouflaged, and if it hadn't been for the rows of pole-mounted landing beacons that funneled the ship toward it, the blister would have been nearly impossible to see. It was a nice day by local standards, or so Womack thought to himself as he fired the ship's repellers, countered some moderate wind drift, and goosed the in-system drive.
Chief Yanty eyed the instrument panel as the ship closed with the dome—ready to warn Womack if any of the LST's systems fell below minimums. But the readouts remained in the green as the boxy transport passed between the huge metal doors, slowed as Womack fired the bow thrusters, and coasted to a stop. There was a noticeable
thump
as the skids touched down, followed by a marked increase in visibility as the big doors cycled closed.
Both Tevo and Pasco had left the cockpit, and the pilot was still in the process of shutting the propulsion system down when Yanty peered out through the view screen. Two people had turned out to greet the ship—but both were strangers. A virtual impossibility, since the petty officer had been on the
last
ship to land on Hardscrabble. She turned to look at Womack. “Hey, Wo, who
are
those people?”
The pilot had anticipated such a moment and was ready. The spring-loaded blade shot down into his right hand, and Yanty felt something slam into her chest as Womack's arm whipped around. She looked down, saw the metal handle, and felt something give way deep inside her body. The petty officer looked puzzled as she turned to confront the man beside her. “Why, Wo?
Why?
”
“I'm sorry,” the warrant officer replied sincerely. “But I lost a lot of money when I was on leave, and the syndicate purchased the debt … It wasn't personal.”
Yanty wanted to reply, wanted to tell Womack what an asshole he was, but the copilot lost consciousness before she could speak. There was a soft
thump
as her forehead made contact with the padded instrument panel, and a pool of blood began to collect in her lap.
The warrant officer hit the release on his flight harness and came to his feet. Then, having made his way back to the hatch, he slapped a button. Servos
whined
as the door closed, and there was a discernable
click
as Womack triggered the lock. The run to Hardscrabble Station was over.
Dust was still swirling around the ship, and the tang of ozone hung heavy in the air as Tevo made her way down the LST's ramp. Pasco was right behind her with a T-2 bag hanging from each fist. A man who identified himself as Lieutenant Kavar and a woman whom he introduced as Gunnery Sergeant Raster were there to greet the newcomers. Both wore hard suits and clutched helmets to their chests. “It's good to see you!” Kavar proclaimed enthusiastically. “Especially
you,
Lieutenant Pasco … Hardscrabble has been fun—but I'm ready to rotate out.”
“Fun?” Pasco asked doubtfully as he shook the other man's hand. “It isn't nice to lie to a fellow officer.” The man playing the part of Kavar laughed dutifully and offered to help with Pasco's bags.
In the meantime, each having performed a visual reconnaissance on the other, the women arrived at vastly different conclusions. Halby, in her role as a gunnery sergeant, liked what she saw. Ensign Tevo was young and, judging from the way she handled herself, barely out of supply school. Which meant the newbie would be that much easier to fool.
For her part Tevo felt somewhat intimidated by the marine noncom, who not only projected an aura of authority greater than that inherent in her rank, but looked to be tough as nails. Although it was unlined, Raster's face had a hard, almost mannish quality, and her eyes were like blue lasers. “Welcome to Hardscrabble, ma'am,” the gunnery sergeant said, offering Tevo a very precise salute.
“Thank you,” the ensign replied as she saluted in return. “Our loadmaster is getting ready to push the cargo modules off … Can your people lend a hand?”
“Yes, ma'am,” Halby replied. “We were starting to run short of
food—so you can count on some enthusiastic participation! I'll get a couple of exoskeletons up here and we'll empty that ship in no time.”
“Good,” Tevo replied. “We're supposed to clear the atmosphere by 0800 local tomorrow morning.”
The sooner, the better,
Halby thought to herself, and activated her suit com.
Tevo allowed herself to be given a tour of the underground complex after that, and had just returned to the hangar when she ran into Womack. The warrant officer looked concerned. “Have you seen the Chief?” he inquired.
“No,” Tevo replied. “I thought she was with you.”
“No, ma'am,” the pilot responded. “She left the ship shortly after you went below. I haven't seen her since.”
“I'll keep an eye peeled,” Tevo assured him, and watched Womack walk away.
Should I be worried?
she wondered.
Or was the Chief simply goofing off somewhere?
And what about what she had observed in the complex below? Small things really, like the nonreg tattoo on the com tech's cheek, or the fact that a completely different man could be seen standing next to Kavar's wife in the holo cube on his desk. All of which could mean something—or absolutely nothing.
Servos whined loudly as a marine clad in a twelve-foot-tall exoskeleton stalked past. The framework was yellow with black stripes. Beacons flashed on durasteel shoulders. As Tevo followed the machine toward the ship, she noticed that a security camera was tracking along with her. That added to the sense of unease as the supply officer followed the exoskeleton up into the LST's cargo compartment, where she waved at the loadmaster on her way to the main lock and the compartments beyond. She was looking for Sergeant Mendoza, but was pleased to find both the noncom and Lieutenant Pasco in the tiny wardroom. They looked up as she entered. “Just the person we wanted to see,” Pasco said as he came to his feet. “Would you like some coffee?”
Tevo shook her head. “No, thanks … What's up?”
“Well,” Mendoza began, glancing at Pasco as if for reassurance. “I think something's wrong here.”
Tevo's eyebrows shot up. “Really? Well, so do I … Tell me what you've got.”
It turned out that the marine had noticed three incongruities. The first, and most glaring, item was that all of the station's marines were wearing sidearms, even though there was no reason to do so. Equally strange, from his perspective at least, was the fact that one of the privates was at least forty years old. And another, a teenaged kid, kept referring to Mendoza as “sir,” rather than Sarge, or Sergeant.
Once Mendoza was finished, Tevo shared
her
observations, and the marines listened intently. Finally, when she was finished, it was Pasco who gave voice to what all three were already thinking. “I don't know how, or why, but I think these people either killed the marines who were stationed here or took them prisoner. That leaves us with very little choice but to take the place back.”
Mendoza looked concerned. “Yes, sir, but what if we're wrong?”
“Then I'm going to have a job transforming large rocks into small ones,” Tevo said grimly. “But the alternative, which is to do nothing, is even worse. Especially if they're after all the A-5 stored in the salt domes under the base. So, here's what I want you to do … The key is to communicate with our people one-on-one in a way that won't tip the bad guys off. Then, when everyone is ready, we'll make our move. Lieutenant, you're more qualified to handle that part of the operation, so let me know what I can do to support you.”
Pasco had been hoping that the naval officer would delegate the actual assault to him and nodded wolfishly. “No problem, Ensign … The sergeant and I will prepare a plan.”
“Good,” Tevo said soberly. “But be careful … If we're wrong, and these people are legit, then I'd never forgive myself if somebody got killed.”
“Roger that,” Pasco acknowledged fervently. “By the way, we're outgunned, so can I include your people in the assault team?”
“Go for it,” Tevo replied. “And while you're doing that—I'll locate Womack. Perhaps the two of us can find Chief Yanty.”
The impromptu meeting broke up after that—and it was ten minutes later when Tevo entered the cockpit. Womack was there, seated in the pilot's position, where he was updating the ship's log. Yanty was nowhere to be seen. The warrant officer looked up as Tevo entered. He could see that something was wrong from the expression on her face. “Hey, Ensign … What's up?”
As Tevo dropped into the cramped copilot's seat, she noticed that it was damp, as if it had just been cleaned. Then, as she went to move one of her boots, it made a
scritching
sound. That seemed odd, but the naval officer had a lot on her mind, and was in a hurry to brief Womack. “So,” she said, once the sitrep had been delivered, “all hell's going to break loose … But we need the chief. Did you locate her?”
With assistance from two of Halby's fake marines, Womack had been able to carry the dead petty officer into the cargo compartment, where they dumped the body into a half-empty cargo module. Loadmaster Richy had been standing no more than thirty feet away at the time—checking cargo off his manifest. But now, having learned that Tevo and Pasco were onto the deception, the warrant officer needed to speak with Halby as quickly as possible. He started to rise. “No, ma'am. But I'll take another look. If you're right, and these people are posing as marines, we need to find the chief pronto.”
And it was then, as Womack began to get up out of his seat, that Tevo realized the truth. Like Yanty, the warrant officer had been to Hardscrabble
before
. So, if the people currently in control of the base were imposters, then Womack should have realized that and warned her. Unless the pilot was in on it—and part of a conspiracy.
That was the moment when Tevo knew that the sticky stuff under her boots was blood, that Womack had murdered Yanty, and that she was in trouble. Because just as some of the ensign's thoughts registered on her face, Womack's registered on
his
, and the pilot made his move. Being trapped within a tight space, and confronted with a much larger opponent,
there wasn't much the supply officer could do but grab hold of Womack's wrists as his fingers wrapped themselves around her throat. The male was stronger than Tevo, however, so it wasn't long before the naval officer's vision began to blur. Knowing she was about to lose consciousness, Tevo let go of her assailant's wrists and scrabbled at the instrument panel. She wasn't a pilot, but she could read and knew where the intercom switch was. The officer's right thumb made contact, and as Womack was forced to momentarily release his grip, Tevo uttered a garbled cry.
Womack hit the supply officer with his fist. The blow hurt, but gave Tevo a chance to breathe, and that was good. Tevo brought a knee up into Womack's crotch, heard the pilot grunt, and stuck her right index finger into his left eye. That produced a cry of pain—and the pilot pulled back to clutch at his face.
Pasco arrived five seconds later, pistol-whipped Womack, and dragged the pilot back to the point where he could be strapped into a seat. Tevo followed, speaking as succinctly as she could, conscious of the need to take swift action.
“All right,” Pasco said once the report was over. “The gloves are off! Womack did us a favor … Now that we know the score, some scumbags are going to die. Here, can you fire one of these?”
The pistol, which Mendoza had removed from the ship's arms locker, felt heavy in Tevo's hand. “I'm no expert,” the supply officer confessed.
“But I fired one in OCS.”
“Terrific,” the marine replied dryly. “Try not to shoot any of our people … And hide it. We're going to a party.”

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