From the desk of STAFF SERGEANT ROBERT S. CHRISTOPHER
May 12, 2055
Dear Mom and Dad,
Just a quick note to let you know that
within 72 hours I'll be on my way into space! I've been assigned a post as
Captain's guard and Marine attaché and instructor to crew! Imagine me marching around a small Army of
those little guys! The ship’s name is
phEY‑QUAD, pronounced PEA QUAT. For
some reason, the name is familiar but I can't recollect where I've heard it
before.
Anyway, it's a full sized cruiser. Mom,
the ship has a "Classified" status so I won't be able to mail a
letter off till we reach a port but don't worry, I'll keep out of trouble. I'll
have to! Griff pulled my bottom stripe again. Dad, it's the damndest thing. Griff
pulls my stripe and then assigns me to
the post I've been literally begging him for the last three years! My Orders
didn't give me too many details. I don't know how many of us are aboard or
where we'll finally be posted, but I'm ready. I've got to run now; Protocol is
giving me a run‑down of these folks we'll be
working for. I'll write soon.
Bob
P.S. Dad, if you talk to Griff, thank him for me. I was so excited about the
assignment, I think I forgot. And don't worry about the stripe; I'll earn it
back—sooner or later.
"GOD DAMMIT, CHRISTOPHER! HER
HUSBAND'S A FULL BIRD ARMY COLONEL! A FULL-FRIGGIN'‑BIRD‑FRIGGIN'‑COLONEL
. . . AND BY GOD, WE'VE GOT ENOUGH PROBLEMS WITH THE ARMY! THEY'RE TRYING TO
EAT US UP, AND YOU'RE OUT THERE PLAYING "HIDE THE SALAMI" WITH
THE WIFE OF A FULL‑FRIGGIN'‑BIRD‑FRIGGIN' COLONEL!"
"Yeah, but Griff, I didn’t even know she was married. No
ring, no—"
"THAT'S COLONEL GRIFF,
'SERGEANT' CHRISTOPHER. You see these funny little SILVER THINGS I'M
WEARING. Or did you forget what they're all about too?"
The good Colonel was now on 'full burn'
and the possibility of a bullet in the head to end the misery of the squirming
Jarhead trapped in the hurricane's direct path was remote.
"But, Sir…"
"AND STOP SQUIRMING AND GET YOUR
GA'DAMNED HANDS OFF MY DESK AND ON THE SEAMS OF YOUR PANTS—YOU’RE AT ATTENTION,
MARINE!"
"AYE, AYE, SIR!"
The Colonel paused. There was some
question in the Sergeant's mind as to whether the storm was past or if he had
just floated into the eye of the hurricane, the calm before the storm
really got underway. Griff pushed back into his chair, tilting it backwards
into what Christopher was certain was a "launch" position. The blast
was quick in coming.
The chair shot forward and the Colonel's palms
impacted the desk with enough snap and pop to rattle the starboard portholes.
"THIS GUY WANTS YOUR BALLS,
CHRISTOPHER, AND HE'S PULLING EVERY STRING AND PUSHING EVERY BUTTON HE'S GOT TO
GET THEM! But I'm not gonna let him have them! And do you know why I'm not
gonna let him have them? WELL, DO YOU, MARINE?"
"Sir, No, Sir!"
"BECAUSE YOUR BALLS ARE ATTACHED TO
THE OTHER SIDE OF YOUR ASS—AND YOUR ASS IS MINE! YOU GOT THAT, JARHEAD?
YOUR ASS IS MINE! AND THAT . . . IS THE . . . ONLY . . . THE ONLY REASON
I'M NOT SHINING A SILVER PLATTER TO PUT THEM ON!"
"Sir, Yes, Sir!"
For a frozen second, Griff's upper torso
hovered the desk. Christopher, unable to move an eye from 'dead‑on'
forward, could not see him clearly, but he could feel it. There was no doubt
about it. Griff might just shoot him, he was that pissed off!
The only other time he'd seen Griff this
mad was when Christopher was a kid. On a hunting trip at his family's cabin in
the Adirondacks—a remote spot known to Griffen and Christopher families as Common
Ground—some poor bear had tried to make off with a pot of venison chili the
Colonel had just spent three hours slaving over. Griff damn near "butt‑stroked"
the poor critter to death with the empty pot before chasing it a mile and a
half through a swamp, swinging an empty chili pot in one hand and his kabar in
the other. The bear, at every bit of 350 pounds, had the good sense not to
turn and fight. It just kept running until darkness fell and it could give the
Colonel the slip.
Unfortunately for Sergeant Christopher,
it was eight o'clock in the morning. Age differentials not withstanding, it
was doubtful he could outrun the Colonel for more than a few hours.
Abraham Lincoln Griffen was known
throughout the Corps as a tireless old coot. His hard-core 'pro‑Marine'
stands over the last two decades had already earned him not one, but two
Presidential Reprimands (both of which he was rather proud of), effectively
ending any advancement beyond his current status. The younger officers saw him
as a throwback to the Marines of the First and Second World Wars.
His attitudes were infectious throughout the enlisted and NCOs, and were a
source of irritation in other branches of the military. He had seen Congress
cut the ranks down well below the 100,000 mark, and only a "lucky"
turn into the space program had enabled him (and the Corps) to dodge a rather
large bullet. But the crap over the last year was that the Corps was near to
being put under the total control of the Army—a fate worse than death by most
historical Marine standards—as a prelude to disbanding.
This current turn of events was not what the
Colonel needed. Unless he acted quickly and correctly he would lose an able,
if not somewhat dense, Non Commissioned Officer and sustain a serious casualty
in the war for survival. He needed every good man or woman the Corps had.
With a rush of escaping breath, he placed himself
back in the seat and stared quietly out a window for a few seconds. When he
began talking again, his face never left the outside view.
"What am I supposed to do with you?" His
voice was calmer. “You’ve got a degree in communication electronics. You've
been offered Quantico twice and turned it down twice. The number of stripes on
your arm goes up and down like an Otis elevator. You turn out top platoons of
new Marines and you pull 'hair brained' stunts like this…"
"Sir—"
"Shut your trap, Marine! Right now
you've got nothing to say that I want to hear. As of 09:00 hours you are
relieved of your duties as Senior Drill Instructor. Start packing. If I can't
get you out of town fast enough and get this asshole off both our backs…"
Griff broke off.
His face turned away from the window to
some papers on his desk.
"Dismissed."
* * *
OFFICE OF MARINE INTELLIGENCE, WEDNESDAY, MAY 12, 2055
"You're not dealing with Pro basketball material
here. The tallest Malacan Chaki you're going to meet is five foot four inches
tall. I shouldn't say that…" Intelligence Officer Lieutenant Eustace
Wiggert paused and took a drag off of the half-burned butt in his ashtray. He
had never recognized the regulation for smoking bans in Federal buildings when
addressing a rank of lesser stature. "There must be a region where for
environmental causes they can grow to five-eight or five-nine. Maybe they
cross‑bred with another species. Who the hell knows, they don't waste
much time talking about themselves. All business."
Christopher checked his notes over. "How
long will it take me to learn their language?"
"Fifteen, twenty years. But that's
if you're a whiz in linguistics! Those extended jaws of theirs create a lot of
pops and whistles the human vocal system can't reproduce. They make this
cracking sound… Don’t even worry about it. After twenty-five years, the best
the Colonel can do is extending a minor greeting or two. Stick with the collar
translator. You’ll be OK.” Wiggert ran a nicotine-stained finger down his
age-yellowed notes looking for information his space-bound brother might find
useful. “I've always thought it was 'strange.” Of all the species we've come
to know in the last quarter century, the species we've known the longest we
know the least about. I wish I could tell you there was something 'mysterious'
about it, but there's not. I guess they're just too busy organizing the
"Great Flea-Market" universe we've come to know to talk much about
themselves."
"A dirty job, but somebody's got to
do it?"
"Yeah. They’re workaholics,
friendly, curious and, luckily for us, not really aggressive. That's one of the
mainstays of your job. We seem to rate as the #1 aggressive animal in this
galaxy. We set their ships up with a few weapons and drive off what few
pirates there are out there and keep primitives from hacking them up on
unexplored planets. Our government's been putting Marines on sailing ships for
almost 300 years now for the protection of crews and cargo. Now we're put on
ships leaving the solar system. Remember, Christopher! These little buggers
kept us from having to have a "going out of business" sale. Their
insistence of our participation in the space program kept us floating. We owe
them! The biggest break the Corps has had in the last hundred years was
Griff's Zippo lighter. All that technology changing hands and we were the only
ones walking around with fire in our pockets! Goes to show you. It doesn't
take too much to impress the universe. That's probably why Griff's
sending you!"
It almost seemed unfair. For centuries
Mankind had expected enlightened beings of vast technological advances that
held out their hands to give Mankind the meaning of life. What they got was a
discount universe that humped along in its own unique way—20% off for cash
substances, in God we thrust/you pay cash, Buyer Beware, trying to survive as
comfortably as possible, just like Mankind. Okay, some of them had gotten off
the proverbial ground a bit earlier than we had, but hey! Everything at its
own pace! The majority of beings in the universe held to that. The creature
comforts got swapped around, but you were on your own to develop the technology
to travel yourself. It kept competition to the minimum.
The lack of aggressiveness, which
mankind in its own unique way had worked around, was almost universal. Almost—but
not quite. There were "lower" species which, while they seemed not
to be very good at it, intermittently went on a tear pirating whatever they
couldn't manufacture, barter, or buy outright. Griffen had seen this and
worked out the first of a number of "deals" or "contracts"
for the U.S. Marines to exchange security of a crew and goods for merchandise
of national importance. The biggest surprise to come out of this whole magilla
was the incredible value of earth's garbage. A good garbage dump could be remanufactured
into heat, light, and (yes, that good old standard) electricity for a third of
a planet, too distant to be seen with the largest telescope on Earth. A near-perfect
arrangement. Near-perfect. The Malacan's, who had been visiting the Earth for
centuries on the sly, were more than a little impressed with young Lieutenant
Griffen. They, for whatever reason, rated him with the great Mayan Chieftains
of old (a group who, despite their primitive nature, had worked out many a
successful deal with the Malacans—silver, gold, certain types of wood and
stones—for working calendars, architectural assistance, and other minimally
valued items). A Presidential 'Invite' had been refused and interpreted as 'we
deal with Griffen only'. Aye, there was the rub!
"They're likable enough"
Wiggert continued, "but don't get them confused with drone bees. They’ll
work non-stop and right over you but the bottom line is, they're people just
like you and me. Any questions so far?”
The Sergeant re-conned his notes and
shook his head to the negative.
"Yeah! Right! Let's get onto the
physical. Don't let their size fool you. They're hairy, short, fat, and ugly.
Think of those Mayan and Aztec wall paintings you studied in college. For 500
years everybody on this planet called them "Impressionistic" Art. How
the hell did we know they were photo‑stats of business contracts! The
average Malacan Chaki is as smart as you and nearly twice as strong. From the
belt buckle right up to those over‑sized filler‑ports they call
ears, they're almost solid muscle. From the belt down? Well, runners they're
not. The legs and lower back seem to be geared more toward lifting and hauling
rather than running. They're cooperative and take directions well; team play
is not a strong point. If, in the event you succeed in pissing one of
them off, you'll know about it really quickly. Those golf-ball sized eyes of
theirs will… I don't know how to explain it. Roll over backwards? Sink into
their heads? Bottom line. The pupils of their eyes disappear. And like any
other sailor you'll find out just how many of the colloquially popular words of
your language they've learned!"
"So they can speak English if they
want… to?" Christopher realized Wiggert's attempt at humor seconds too
late.
"Yeah. They can speak English a lot
more readily than you can speak their language. They can understand it more
quickly too. So don't take it for granted they don't understand what you're
saying. If you serve with one or two of the taller Malacans, count on them to
know at least a few sentences. I don't know why, but they always seem to. Here's
another interesting point, you'd think the bigger ones would be better workers,
stronger. They get the lighter duties. Why? Maybe a religious thing? Who
knows? We can't even figure out how they reproduce, and we haven’t had the
need… or maybe the nerve to ask one of them yet. DON'T BE THE FIRST! Remember!
You're as much a politician as a Marine."
"Why do I get the feeling my
reputation pro—”
"Your reputation is something
"not up" for discussion, Sergeant. Not here, not in the fleet, not
aboard ship! Which
brings us to the final point. You are a United States Marine on board on a
foreign ship. IT'S A JOB! NOT A FUCKING ADVENTURE! Keep it
that way! You are on a classified vessel. UNC! Under NO Circumstances
are you to communicate through any other means than Wizzers. If you have any
personal messages of importance, use the "Folds"—nothing else! From
Colonel Griffen, it'll pass through the censors. No names, no dates, no
locations. You know how it works in reverse.
“These people work, eat and sleep. Keep
that in mind when choosing what personal items to bring aboard. You'll be
provided with four months worth of foodstuff. Count on being aboard for at
least six months. Need I say more? Keep in mind, like most cultures in the
universe, they have little or no concept of music, no video for entertainment. Their
alcoholic beverages tastes like horsing piss, and kicks like a mule. You don't
want to know what their food tastes like. Try it and you'll understand why
they'll travel thirty or forty light years for a basket of Jersey corn or Georgia peaches!
“I need not remind you again. Mind your
manners! I have Colonel Griffen's word that he'll find a 'yard arm' to hang
you from at the first hint of trouble. Do I make myself… clear, Sergeant
Christopher?"
"Is it getting cold in here?"
"Cold enough to freeze the eagle off
your globe and anchor. Scuttlebutt has it, it's Griff's ass on the line as
well as yours. And I personally know of 45,000 Jarhead Marines on this planet
alone who’d be willing to throw you a party of immense proportions if you screw
up!"
With a final caution about logbooks being
kept up to date, Sergeant Robert S. Christopher was "dismissed" with
instructions to embark at Port Kennedy within twenty-four hours. Once
Christopher was gone, Wiggert's face sank slowly onto the outstretched palms of
his hands.
"I got a real bad feeling about
this," was the single thought in his mind as he nervously fished for
another smoke.
FROM: maWHA coHLI
COMMANDER AND CAPTAIN: phEY‑QUAD,
PORT NEhi ne oa, MALAKA CHAKI
MY FRIEND GRIFFEN,
MANY THANKS ON BEHALF OF THE PEOPLES OF MALAKA CHAKI. YOUR
INTERCESSION SHALL AGAIN BE FRUITFUL FOR BOTH OUR PLANETS. YOU’RE IMPLANTING
OF SERGEANT CHRISTOPHER, MISTER ROBERT/S, IS MOST HOPEFULLY RECEIVED. HIS
QUARTERS, AS YOU SUGGESTED, ARE ADJACENT TO THE WORKERS, BUT WHY WE STORE ONLY
MINIMAL FOOD STUFFS FOR HIS USE IS BEYOND MY SCOPE. BUT IF, AS YOU SUGGEST, IT
WILL HEIGHTEN HIS PERFORMANCE, SO IT SHALL BE. IF I MIGHT BE SOBOLD,
COULD YOU PLEASE REQUEST OF SERGEANT CHRISTOPHER, MISTER ROBERT/S, TO OBTAIN ME
SEVERAL PINTS OF LIGHTER FLUID, RONSOL IF POSSIBLE. I PROMISE YOU, HE SHALL
RETURN WITH A NEW PAIR OF BA‑nimols SHORT STOCKINGS FOR YOU.
|
LET THIS BE SEEN,
39th DAY OF sahjo Darhi.
|
To:
COLONEL A.L. GRIFFEN,
MARINE
AIR STATION AT BEAUFORT,
S.C.,
U.S.A., EARTH.
A full cruiser of phEY‑QUAD's
nature can only be compared to the wooden, masted ships of old—immense
capacities for storage, capable of years away from port, running through seas
of time and space as fluid as any ocean—and as in the ships of old, a never-ceasing
repository of endless duties and constant repairs. As hands from one world
held firmly onto those from another, many such ships crisscrossed each other in
search of trade and commerce.
In the space of only slightly more than
scant decades, Marines had become a precious commodity to be obtained. Yet, as
only could occur on Planet Earth (as it was rumored), the greater the needs,
the fewer Marines were to be had. By act of Congress and various political
pressures, the numbers that constituted a "corps" were changed to
lower and lower figures.
To most of the universe, 'thoughts
political' tended to be abstractions, as the actions of daily life were of top
importance. There were speculations that this was an attempt to corner the
market on salable security. This, to the main trend of thinking, could be the
only rationale for reducing that which was most useful and willingly purchased
or rented. The rationale of humanity in general, though, tended to lose most
non‑Terrans.
When Flight‑Grade Marines, as those
who's Military Occupational Specialty was 7513, Space Travel Transport were
known, relayed stories of historical Marine figures like "Howling
Mad" Smith and "Chesty" Puller and such Marine history as Tarawa
and Belleau Wood to more non‑aggressive cultures, alien heads would shake
in disbelief. And although the concept or existence of war was not unheard of,
the idea of a nation sending more aid and relief to the vanquished Italians
than to Marine forces still fighting a raging war in the South Pacific during a
planet-wide conflict was more than a little confusing. The return of Iwo Jima to an enemy that a scant ten years earlier had taken so many Marine lives lost
them completely. And yet, in a galaxy where most commodities in the universal
market plate were scarce, it enhanced the standing of these Flight‑Grade
Marines as beings worth knowing. Security anywhere is a prized commodity.
The history of the United States Marine
Corps was a simple though repetitive one. Superior numbers or firepower had
never been prerequisites of the job. “You’re on your own” was an altogether
too familiar situation. Having had a history of 'too few', 'too little', and
'little help in sight' the Corps had reinitiated several policies it had found
necessary to employ in the past to stand off the latest political onslaught.
As numbers began to be whittled down and
their involvements with non-terrestrials increased, recruit numbers had
actually grown steadily higher. The Corps raised its standards higher and
higher and the failure rate through Parris Island reached almost 65%. Those
who would survive the Battle of Parris Island might not claim to be the best,
but they left little doubt as to their ability to survive!
But political and budgetary pressure took
its toll. The average enlisted Marine would usually last about one or two re‑ups
and then find such difficulties as trying to keep aircraft in the air with
little or no replacement parts available too frustrating to deal with. They
did their jobs, burned out, and left. It was an externally caused situation
that worried men like Griffen to no end. Marine policy had dictated cutting
from the top, so the longer you stayed the more likely the possibility of
having your contract terminated for the slightest infraction or failure to
perform grew. It was common knowledge that retirement from a career in the
Marine Corps was not likely. It was a hard, nasty job that could only leave an
individual with a one in four chance of getting off the planet—and the right to
claim the title of former Marine when they left. It had amazed Griffen to no
end that so many had felt that that was enough. It fired his determination not
to fail. It was a quiet heartbreak to see so many leave early in their
careers.
But some did stay.
Young Mister Christopher, who could trace
his Marine ancestry back to the First Great War—the one that was to end all
wars—was one. With no great desire to command, the status of Non Commissioned
Officer was quite acceptable to him, plus or minus a bottom stripe or two. And
now after nearly eight years as a cog in the wheel, he was being released from
his Drill Instructor duties to a cruiser, representing the Red & Gold as
ambassador to the many great planets waiting to be met.
During the short plane ride from the
Marine Air Station in Beaufort, South Carolina to Florida he had tried to
imagine what this great vessel would be like and what his reaction would be
upon seeing it. As is often the case, it was the first impression
that's the lasting one, and most often tells the story!
"Ooohhh Shit! I'm riding 'shotgun'
on a ga'damn garbage truck!"
* * *
"...don't give me that bullshit,
Marine, I'm still Colonel around here… No, I won't order your court martial
and subsequent execution! Now, ga'dammit, Bobby, get your ass on board your
ship and that's an… No! I don't think challenging an army colonel to dueling
pistols at sunrise is the answer… I have my reasons, believe m… No, No… Operator,
we are… Wait! Operator, we are… Yeah, and so's your mother! And have a good
flight, Jarhead!"
SHIP'S
LOG
THURSDAY
55 ‑
05 ‑ 13
ENTRY 1
Have boarded, 17:00 hours. Per current ship's orders—I AM
THE ENTIRE MARINE CONTINGENCY! FOR THE NEXT 6 MONTHS TO A YEAR! I'M
IT! Since no one but me will be reading this, I intend to take what
liberties my own conversations will offer. Have ordered my personal effects
weighed and inventoried to my list.
298 pounds total, the
following items:
|
1
PAIR (ENTIRE)
|
DRESS BLUE UNIFORM
|
|
3
" "
|
STANDARD
FATIGUES
|
|
7
" (ASSORTED)
|
MATCHED
STANDARD UNDERWEAR, SOX INCLUDED
|
|
35
VIDEO DISCS
|
32
COLOR/ 3 BLACK&WHITE
|
|
1
ELECTRONICS
|
VIDEO/AUDIO
DISC PLAYBACK UNIT
|
|
122
R&B AUDIO DISCS
|
AUTHORIZED
ENTERTAINMENT
|
|
2½
GALLONS
|
JACK
DANIELS, GREEN LABEL
|
|
ADJUSTMENTS
|
WINTER
UNIFORM
|
|
"
|
SUMMER
"
|
|
2
CHRONOMETERS
|
1
CHEAP, 1 NOT
|
|
1
SWISS ARMY KNIFE
|
NON
‑ TRADABLE
|
|
30
MAXWELL HOUSE
|
2
POUNDERS
|
ALL MILITARY SUPPLIED
EQUIPMENT STOWED PRIOR TO ENTRY, LIST VERIFIED.
Have not as of yet met the Captain.
Definitely looking forward to that! Departure for Picatinny at 06:00 hours.
Oh boy.
The quarters were only slightly larger
than the DI quarters attached to the barracks at the Island. They would be
considered rather plush by Marine standards—no Olive/Drab anywhere (nor camy
for that matter), carpeted floors, a small work/entertainment module complete
with a coffee maker as requested… and a genuine shower that could draw almost four
gallons of slightly more than lukewarm water a day. Only the military-style
cot and tightly-placed footlocker lent an air of military concept to the room.
Hell! Christopher had expected a pile of
straw by the boiler. This wasn't half bad if you didn’t mind Ramada Inns! If
only he could locate that intermittent tapping that had been driving him
quietly crazy for the last twenty minutes!
The problem that generated from the types
of metals and alloys that the Malacan used in their spacecraft was a simple one
of acoustics! Simple in the fact that the audio tracts of Malacan ears
could readily refuse to accept the vibrations telegraphing through the alloy
beams and metal walls for the most part. The human ear, however, could not. The
intermittent tapping was ping‑ponging around the room. The systematic
search from corner to corner to locate the maddening noise culminated at the
doorway. Christopher opened the door.
Standing in front of him (actually,
towering over him by a clean 3 inches or better) was a Malacan stevedore making
chattering and clicking noises, somewhat reminiscent of the steam injectors on
an old ‘39 Chevy.
"Hold . . . Hold on. WAIT A
MINUTE!" The shout caused the stevedore to flinch and move back a step. Christopher
adjusted the translating device affixed to his collar.
"Now! What!"
"maWHA Captain coHLI greets you.
Dinner is at 12.03‑ 19:00 hours, Mister Roberts."
"That's 15 minutes from now! You
guys do everything on short notice?"
"I've been here over one hour and
one half hour, Mister Roberts, sir. You would not answer the knock Mister
Roberts, sir, and I would not…"
"You've been knockin' at my chamber
door for over an hour?"
"Yes, Mister Roberts, sir."
"Who the hell is 'Mister Roberts’?”
The stevedore pointed to a nameplate that
had been placed on his door: 'SERGEANT CHRISTOPHER, Mister Robert/S. ' And
while, to an Earthman it made no sense, to a Malacan stevedore being exposed
for the first time to Earth culture, it made perfect sense. Christopher just
stared at the stevedore. There was no time to explain patrilineal ascendancy
and the Republican Party now.
"12.03‑ 19:00 hours,
huh?"
"Yes Mister Roberts, sir. Would you
like me to straighten your—"
"There's nothing to straighten. I
just got here. I haven't even unpacked yet."
"But, Mister Roberts, sir…"
"Just set up the coffee pot, then
get lost!"
* * *
The phEY‑QUAD could have brought in
a higher price as an antique than a working cruiser. It was one of two
remnants of a fleet of almost thirty such ships that had hopped from planet to
planet, purchasing coal, lumber… any bulky material that was more convenient to
obtain in great mass units. What it said to Flight‑Grade Marine
Sergeants was "we're in no hurry to get you from point 'A' to point 'B',
so settle in and make the most of it.”
The heart of the ship was an engine that
could convert almost any fissionable material, nuclear wastes or like byproducts,
to energy for propulsion, life support… whatever was required. The ship was
referred to as "friendly"—reliable, efficient. And what it lacked in
speed, it made up for in dependability. Most importing planets had at least a
few. It was looked upon as owning "sensible shoes.” While it was capable
of speeds many hundreds of times faster than any engine mankind had produced,
it merely 'lumbered' through space and time as far as the rest of the universe
was concerned. But in a universe where nothing went to waste, it too had its
place.
The inner compartments of the hull were immense, two
rectangular units, side by side, each of the dimensions of a twelve-story
building. Sitting atop that was a single space of almost twice that volume. Honeycombed
throughout were almost countless smaller storage areas, fourteen sleeping
halls—twelve for a crew of 877, the thirteenth and fourteenth for officers,
dignitaries (although, as far as anyone knew, no dignitary had ever had reason
to be aboard), or any other personage that required non‑dormitory arrangements.
The Malacans had even thought to provide what would be tantamount to
conference rooms and several dinning areas of a more formal nature if giving a
negotiation a nudge were necessary. From the outside it looked like a large,
square box on stilts. Depending on the gravity of a given planet, ferries
could be required to get it through an atmosphere and into space. Christopher's
assessment of the vessel as "garbage truck" was, if not flattering,
certainly accurate.
* * *
maWHA coHLI had been an Officer for longer than
Christopher had been alive. His crews often wondered if he had some strange
illness that made him forget where his wife lived. In truth, he was a curious
old bugger (his words) who could not consume new experiences quickly enough to
leave him satisfied for long. He had found the universe a great library full
of strangely alluring peoples and places. While he was not yet satisfied, he
had seen more than most sailors in any place at any time. He had seen so much
in the past it often enabled him to see into the future. But it did not take a
fortuneteller to see this Marine was not at all pleased to be here.
"Sergeant. I might suggest you
finish your steak. Soon it will be a memory at best. The ship's galley
prepares little unprocessed food. Perhaps… perhaps it is not? To your… "
"Sir, the food is quite acceptable…"
"Umm." coHLI had learned long
ago not to try and pry information out of a creature you had to live with for a
who‑knew‑how-long? It was better to trust Griffen's judgment
than to exercise his own at this moment. Griffen had often told him how 'Golden'
silence could be. He estimated that through the course of this meal, he had
gathered and stored at least his own body weight in the yellow stuff. But
coHLI was one who could equate minor victories with major ones. It pleased him
when the Sergeant finished his meal. At least this dejected young man, who was
trying so hard not to breech protocol, was open to suggestion.
Dishes were cleared. The same stevedore
that had patiently stood at Christopher’s doorway reappeared and, much to his
surprise, poured both he and the captain two fingers of Johnny Walker Black. It
induced a raised eyebrow, which did not escape coHLI's glance. It was the
opportunity he'd waited for.
"The first time your Colonel and I… how
does he say it? Got 'bombed' together, it was Mister Walker here who… opened
the bomb bay doors?" coHLI smiled faintly. “I tell you. It was Mister
Walker's doing as much as Griffen's, that those first contracts were reached! We
must have been some sight; sitting cross‑legged on the engine room floor,
too blasted off to speak clearly. We jiggled, shook and grunted like two
children and consummated our deal with another bottle and tried to talk about
women in sign language! It never occurred to us to turn our translators on! That’s
when I knew I liked your Colonel Griffen and his Mister Walker." coHLI
studied the liquor in his glass for a moment then, to Christopher's further
surprise, blasted it down in one toss.
"Well! Now there is work to be
done! Acquaint yourself with the ship and crew." coHLI paused. For a
second Christopher was certain that another blast of Walker was coming. It
didn't.
"I will not hold you to official
duties until we have reached your Picatinny. That is in… New Jersey, America, no?"
"Yes sir. Dover. New Jersey. America. Yes sir."
"Ah. Yes. Dover! Good. At that time will I
begin to outline the duties for which you were 'lent' to us." The captain
paused and with a deep breath, picked up the nearly full Scotch bottle and
pointed the label at Christopher.
"My crew wonders why I seem to like
your planet so much,” coHli explained, as he turned the glass container. “On
Malaka Chaki, there is a city much like your own New York city. If there is a
vice to be had, it can be had there. And I cannot get a taste of this
there for all I possess at any bar or bistro. Sad! We have nothing even close…
"
"Sir, I've heard that Malacan
liquors are …"
"UGH! Griffen is correct! They all
taste like horse piss and kick like mules!"
SHIP'S LOG
FRIDAY
55 ‑ 05 ‑
14
ENTRY 2
Preparing to embark
for Picatinny, in Dover—New Jersey—America. Since Dover cannot accommodate a
vessel of this size, we'll have to use the barges to carry the cargo to the
storage docks. Leave it to the Army. They turn a Marine Reserve Unit into a
junkyard and then leave us no way to get to it. Had dinner with the Captain
last night. I don't know what Wiggert was talking about! They don't have much
to say about themselves? The little bastard wouldn't shut up! It seems our
Captain has a fondness for liquor and ladies, if I read my drinking stories
right. Well, you've seen one sailor, you’ve seen them all! I've got a few
gallons of Tennessee's best and can talk all night about… huh! I wonder if
their hanger is on the same runway as ours?
Judging
by the conversation last night, I don't believe my main function here will be
as guard to the captain. By the looks of the ship's cargo itinerary, we're to
clear garbage sites from one end of infinity to the other!
Have been assigned
a private stevedore. Wiggert was right, the bigger they are the less they're
assigned. I now have a 6'3" House Mouse. It’s Boot Camp all over again. Likeable
enough. Since the translator doesn't equate names from one planet to another,
I found I could not pronounce the poor bastard's name, so I issued him a new
one. 'Friday'! In honor of a butler I saw in an old black & white movie
disc. It seems Friday has the same problem with my name—and likes to talk a
lot. Because of the nameplate on my door, I have become "Mister
Roberts" to what little of the crew I've met.
Dover may be my last
exposure to Marines of any sort for a while. I've got some buddies to look up
in the few hours I'll have loose. I'm hoping this will be a good crew. I'll
know in about two hours!
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