The Founder's Chosen: Sequence 01 Chapter 01

Major Adrian Huxton arrived at Salcrow anchorage by commuter space elevator, clad in worn grey civilian coveralls smelling of detergent. The clock overhead read 1900 hours anchorage time as he led the throng of civilian workers into the night shift. Salcrow in wartime didn’t sleep. Even the cafes and brothels he passed seemed to be changing from day to night shift, while putting up hastily constructed neon night signs.

Everything threw an ad at the ‘civilian’ hurrying along depicting things from swaying nudity to spinal augments. Adrian put his head down to resist the temptation after a three-week flight to the Salcrow System, then sixteen hours of various transit stations to reach this point. He chose to enjoy the detritus of the Republican Armada coalescing into a singularity of military power from a distance.

He hit the nearest public monorail terminal just as a monorail was preparing to leave. Adrian powered ahead, hauling his backpack with him. Someone yelled a warning, but he twisted sideways and slipped through the gaps. A couple commuters inside stared at him with pity, accepting him as a poor bastard late to his shift. Then they went back to their own business.

The monorail powered along ‘up’ the anchorage as its internal gravity kept his feet pointed at its floor, while he passed row upon row of people walking ‘sideways.’

Then they flew by a vast gallery showing off Salcrow in all its glory. The vast capitol ships of first and second Wicked Creek armadas were tucked in the structurally strong inner berths. The outer berths were occupied by the lighter destroyers. The hulls were a mess of shapes bought, captured, or salvaged from every nation the Systems had fought against or alongside in the 22 years since its founding. All had been forged in someone else’s shipyards for someone else’s wars.

Except one frequent shape.

Stuffed into the gaps between the larger warships were hives of rectangular Harrow-class destroyers. They were the first warship designed and built by the Systems. They were cheap for the weak economy and simple for mass production. Their hull had the largest torpedo battery put on a warship that size and nothing else going for it.

The Systems couldn’t build their own capitol ships. The Harrow would fill the gap with its numbers and massive torpedo salvo. The foreign built destroyers would fill the traditional screening and patrol roles of the weight class. The Harrow was a blunt hammer, in a swarm of hammers aimed at the enemy’s frontline.

One of those hammers was Adrian’s first command.

He rode the monorail to platform 8 and found her an hour of walking later. Berth 69-8d. Belladonna.

This is my brick. There are many like it, but this one is mine, Adrian thought as he looked out the portal at her. All 358 meters filled his view with dull grey slabs of armor, and stubby plasma drives. There was little else on the side facing him but the bare minimum of airlocks, 10 millimter point defense railers, and two single-40 millimeter turrets on this side for the bare minimum of anti-ship firepower. There were indeed many like her, and more coming out of the shipyards by the week as emergency funding struggled to build the Armada up to face the incoming enemy.

Then, he had a second thought: No one ever wanted me to have this. I took it by harder work, guile, and crossing lines no one else would.

He felt the power making him dizzy, so he stopped and reminded himself of the duties of the commanding officer, as proscribed by the Founder Jacob Hallard himself. First, to defend the Systems. Second, to guide his crew in duty and character. Third, to take responsibility for all their actions because that’s why they got the bonus pay for commanding a warship.

This side of the airlock was guarded by a lone soldier with a stout gladius on her left hip and a sidearm in the gunslinger’s holster over her belt buckle. She stood behind a podium, and by fidgeting had been standing several hours.

“Evening sir, state your purpose,” she said as he walked up. She was a petty officer third class, with a single red chevron on her shoulder. Paygrade of E4.

“Major Adrian Huxton, I’m your new commanding officer,” Adrian said, and offered his military ID for scanning and the mark 1 eyeball. He read her nameplate off her right shoulder.

Petty Officer Talanar snapped to the most rigid attention he’d ever seen, then saluted by punching a fist to her heart. “Sir, welcome aboard Belladonna.”

“You don’t salute someone unless they are in uniform because you’re saluting the rank, not the person,” Adrian chided her. He offered a hand, which she shook as her cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

“Thank you sir. You’re here a day early.”

The entire point of coming dressed as a civilian via to public transit network, thus avoiding all Armada ID scanners that could send a automated announcement to his registered command that he was coming; to arrive unseen. “Yes, I want to see Belladonna as she really looks like before you lot tidy her up for the official inspection,” Adrian said.

She nodded quickly, a smile forming briefly on her face before she stuffed it back beneath her military professionalism. “Sir, do you have any bags I can assist you with?”

“They’re being shipped up tomorrow. I just brought my one uniform,” Adrian said and tapped his backpack. “I would like my tour now, starting at the nearest bathroom to change.”

“Yes sir, please stand by,” she said. She cocked her neck to the side to speak into her collar radio. “Security patrol, this is security airlock watch, I need you at the airlock on the double.”

A minute later a young man with a wide face and dusky skin burst out of the airlock. He had a bruise over his left eye. “Security Patrol reporting for duty, all conditions normal about the ship,” he said fast as possible. It was a speed that could only be achieved by reciting it endlessly out of sheer boredom on watch.

“Copied and acknowledged,” Talanar said. “This is Major Adrian Huxton, our new CO. Give him a full tour,” she said.

The young man’s jaw dropped. He was Able Spacer Marijowka, with three blue chevrons. He had a gladius on the hip of his coveralls and riot gun in hand. That was a short-barreled shotgun with a reinforced butt for melee combat and receiver shaped to only take non-lethal ammo varieties.

“Don’t salute him, he’s out of uniform,” Talanar said.

Adrian gave her a nod of approval, then shook Marijowka’s hand. “Start with a bathroom please, so I can get into uniform.”

“Yes sir, please follow me.” He spun about. The airlock required him to manually pull open. A failsafe in case of power outage or hacking.

“How long have you been aboard?” Adrian said as they walked up the path, floor plates rattling under their feet. There was about six centimeters of metal and power conduits separating them from the vacuum.

“Four years, sir. My entire career.”

“That’s a full enlistment contract, did you reup or did war orders interrupt your plans?” Adrian said.

“A compromise of both, sir. I wanted to reup conditional on a transfer to something new, still in this region, but with larger corridors. War orders interrupted that,” he said. “Where are you from?”

“I just did three years on Mellencon, building a major supply depot,” Adrian said.

“Are you from this part of the Systems, sir?”

“No, I was raised in Farrigan,” Adrian said. The Systems had fifteen demarcated regions. Salcrow was in the South Wildlands, Mellencon was in the North wildlands. Both were on the fuzzy, border between the Systems and the power they were not quite but probably at war with; the Talwar Federation.

Farrigan was in the Bloody Vale region, on the far side of the Systems.

Marijowka whistled. “You made quite the trip.”

“I was raised there, but my home is wherever the Armada sends me,” Adrian said.

“With respect, sir, you’re the first lowborn major I’ve seen who isn’t bald or greying, so I get that you love this life,” Marijowka said. Adrian burst into laughter.

Belladonna’s interior was as compact as the worker habs Adrian had grown up in. There was room for one person to walk straight. Adrian’s shoulders grazed the edges of recessed consoles and storage cabinets every couple meters. Whenever another soldier came down the other way, Marijowka declared “Security patrol coming through,” and the other soldier pressed themselves against the wall for them to pass.

They all glared at Marijowska. A few made sure to bump into him as they passed. Only a Petty Officer Second Class, with two red chevrons and the same wide face and dusky skin, nodded at him. Adrian took note silently.

“Are you from nearby?” Adrian said.

“Yes sir, a little colony a couple jumps over. I was glad when I was posted to a ship based nearby,” Marijowka said. There were no colonies a couple jumps over. There were a number of planets that had never recovered from the great Rebellion. When the Imperials had pulled out of this part of space, they’d burned everything they could on the way.

“You get to see family often?”

“All the time, sir. I’m saving to move my three sisters here, where there’s actual jobs,” he said.  They came to a stop. “Forward working toilets are right here, sir. And the forward barracks and bridge are one ladder up so we’ll start there, after,” Marijowska said. He pointed at a hatch marked in blue writing, ‘toilets, male.’

“Thank you,” Adrian said. “And, good on the family. Take care of them.”

“Trying, sir,” he said. Then, he put on a fake smile, that ended where his lips did. “Fortunately, I’ve got a second family right here.”

“Are they now?” Adrian said.

“They’re all we’ve got in space, sir,” he said without any enthusiasm.

“Well, I hope they remember that being family means you’re willing to sacrifice for each other,” Adrian said.

“Is that your definition of family, sir?” he said.

“That’s the one I’ve learned,” Adrian said. “Goes both ways.”

“A slag neglecting guard duty? What the fuck is this?” a deep, rasping voice said.

Oh. Adrian made the connection between the glares and Marijowska. The Timerians were descended from a dark age colony on the garden world of Timerid, outside the System’s current borders. They’d expanded into a little civilization of their own. About 150 years ago, they’d been conquered by the vastly larger and superior Talwar Federation.

The Talwar had then gone and sold everyone with Timerid blood to the old Empire as slaves, to secure peace with their equally powerful neighbor. They’d even deported the Timerids in vast freighters.

When the Great Rebellion had happened, the Timerids had been inherited by the Systems. The Talwar had suddenly lost the hard, solid wall of unbeatable Imperial forces stopping their expansion. It had taken them 25 years to do something about it.

The Timerids wanted to go home, but the Talwar wouldn’t let them back. So, they’d stayed, and now they were rebelling and the Talwar were probably funding them with some promise of ‘home.’ And the Talwar were preparing to invade to ‘protect an oppressed minority.’

Adrian hated geopolitics.

Anyways, the soldier who marched into view was a grey-skinned mountain of a man with three gold chevrons on his shoulders. Master Chief, the highest enlisted rank of all. His nametag read ‘Hoy.’ “State your business, slate,” he said.

“Security Patrol Master Chief, on duty,” Marijowski said.

The Master Chief stared him up and down with the stinking eyeball of a senior enlisted looking for an excuse to tear a junior enlisted apart. Adrian had been on both ends of that eyeball during his ten years as an enlisted man.

Hoy gave up after a few seconds. He saw Adrian and got a little smile. “What are you doing playing with a civilian onboard our ship? That doesn’t look like any of our crew.”

“Sir, this is our new commanding officer, Major Adrian Huxton.” Marijowski said.

“Then why didn’t you announce it on the intercom?” Hoy swiped him across the cheek with a backhand.

“Why are you assaulting a subordinate?” Adrian said and pulled out his ID. Suddenly he knew where the black eye must have come from.

Master Chief Hoy read the ID and snapped to attention. “Welcome aboard, sir.” Adrian saw a silver ‘B’ on his chest. This wasn’t just a master chief, this was the command master chief, the senior enlisted for the entire destroyer. The enlisted Adrian would be working with the most.

Adrian shook his hand. “Why did you strike a subordinate.”

“I’m correcting one of our more troublesome soldiers. We go back a long way, eh slag?”

“You will not use known racial insults to address crewmembers, or physical punishment to correct them. I don’t believe in either of those things,” Adrian said.

Hoy raised an eyebrow. “I’m just worried about security details, sir. If you’re taking a tour of the ship, I’ll take over.”

The entire point of Adrian showing up early was so he could get a look at the ship before it was triple-mopped and decked out for his first inspection. A regular soldier would give him a more unbiased opinion than the CMC, who had something to lose.

“Yes. Once you apologize to Marijowski for the racial insult,” Adrian said.

“Sorry, able crewman,” Hoy said, while glaring daggers at Marijowski’s face. “Take a hike.”

Adrian would keep an eye out for retaliation. He went in and changed, emerging two minutes later in his officer’s black trench coat and black slacks. Across his left breast was a gold stripe, indicating he’d been an enlisted man before he became an officer. Two red bars sat on his shoulders. The only thing he was missing was a golden ‘B’.

“That was fast,” Hoy said.

“Being a drill instructor, I practiced this a million times,” Adrian said.

“You were a DI?” Hoy said and sounded genuinely impressed.

“I was for three years. I graduated twelve divisions. That’s about a thousand recruits,” Adrian said as a smile formed on his face. He’d loved teaching. Every terrified recruit who’d come under his care had emerged a soldier on the other side.

“You DI’s are maniacs. I’m betting Belladonna’s going to be the smartest ship in the armada now. How high did you get before you went officer?” Hoy layered on the charm and the boyish smile

“E6,” Adrian said. Ten years enlisted. “Now. Before we start this tour, I need to know what’s going on with the Timerids?”

“It’s just due diligence, sir. Here we treat all soldiers equally but also take into account their abilities. There are ninety-two Timerids in our crew and we know they don’t treat anyplace they live well, or the people who own that place. I’m keeping an eye on that, as is my duty” he said.

Adrian thought over what it would be like to join the armada and know that no matter what you did, you’d never be good enough. Then he accounted that most soldiers were just here to do a job, and didn’t want to prove themselves for their entire race. “No,” he said.

“Sir, may I speak freely?”

“Yeah,” Adrian said.

“Most of the crew, including myself, are from around this region. We’ve dealt with Timerids our entire lives. You’re not from around here, trust us,” Hoy said.

“Continue the tour,” Adrian ordered, and slung his backpack back across his shoulders. Arguing now with the senior enlisted would do nothing. Not until he had seen everything, and had officially taken command tomorrow..

He drew an annoyingly large number of salutes as they crossed the ship. Every time he received one, he had to return it.

The aft barracks were in good shape with the beds made and no egregious signs of dirt or poor maintenance. There was a smattering of loose gear and a few crew playing video games on a projector in a corner, but it was quite good. Engineering was packed with yellow-clad technical soldiers as they prepared the destroyer to get underway. Alarms blared as they SCRAM tested one of the two fusion reactors.

Adrian stood at the back of the reactor chamber and watched as they emergency shut down the reactor. Then they blew out the coolant tank, refilled it, and powered the reactors back up. All done perfectly

The computer core and bridge were well maintained and polished. Belladonna was five years old. Her serial number was 0623, out of the 1142 currently built Harrow destroyers.

Then they took the main corridor all the way forwards to the torpedo bank. This corridor was wide enough for three to walk side by side.

The torpedoes were three batteries of five tubes. Each was separated by a dividing wall of armor plating. Each tube was a dark cavern large enough for Adrian to walk through and feel the heat of space through the sealed hatches. Adrian examined the massive elevators that raised Atlatl torpedoes from the magazine and the rails that let crew jam them into the launchers.

“How often does she get to test fire?” he said.

“Torpedo drills are monthly since we’ve been in dock. We follow the armada’s existing schedule,” Hoy said.

“And combat stations?”

“Weekly,” he said.

“Where are you during combat drills?”

“Usually, I’m patrolling the main corridor, making sure no one is breaking combat discipline. Sometimes I check on the different departments to make sure no one’s slacking,” Hoy said. “That’s everything. Want to go to your cabin?”

“Yeah,” Adrian said. He thought Hoy over. The soldier should have been an ideal CMC. Except his treatment of Timerids was unacceptable. And clearly setting the example. Adrian could change that. He had the power to do that now that he commanded his own warship. A CO was god on their ship. They set the schedule, the laws, the standard operating procedure, and when a crewmate misbehaved, they were their judge, jury and sentencer.

Adrian’s cabin was near the reactors, far enough from the bridge that a hit couldn’t take out both, but close enough he could sprint there by a single corridor. It was four tight, square rooms, pre-furnished with a dining table, desk, and bare bed. Adrian would have his stuff arriving tomorrow morning.

“Well, it’s better than a tent with a generator,” he said. “I’m not in the shipnet. Can you send two people up for me, in about two hours’ time: whoever is ITADMIN tonight, and the XO,” he said.

“Yes sir,” Hoy said. He saluted, again, and Adrian had to return it, again.

When he was out, Adrian threw himself down on the bed and set his alarm for 100 minutes.

He awoke 90 minutes later, refreshed by the full sleep cycle, and was doing a quick core workout when his alarm went off. He showered fast, then sat down and thought in the 10 minutes before his meetings were expected. Hoy and the rest of the crew seemed well put together and solidly trained and motivated.

That didn’t matter if they were willing to exclude crewmates for what they were born as. If they could make up a justification for the 46 Timurieds aboard, they could do it for anyone else. What he saw was a problem that went top to bottom in rank. His meeting with the XO would tell him more.

Adrian opened his comp and composed a message with two recipients.

Lord Colonel Molitor Graev,

Lady Major Tarly Artreyas

Hey. I made it at long last. Yes, I did show up a day early. Anchorage looks pretty hopping, wish I could have been here a few weeks ago so we could get drinks and start a barfight somewhere.

Anyways, ship is great. Tarly, I don’t care you’ve got a dreadnought’s guns to command, Molitor and I each have our own destroyers now and that’s far better. Have fun with your target practice.

I’ll talk to you both when I get the chance. I’ve got to do all the change of command stuff while also doing to pre-deployment stuff, so I’m going dark for a few more days.

He paused, grinning at his computer.

There was a knock at the door. He sent the message and stood. “Enter,” he said.

The man who entered belonged on a propaganda bit. If Adrian had gone on zyte and searched the ideal armada officer, it would be him. He had broad shoulders and chest, and a cleanshaven face with eyes that beamed with pride in his own service. He snapped to attention and saluted. The orange sash with red dashes at his hip fluttered. Nobility

Adrian stood and returned it. The man had a good three centimeters and ten kilos on him. All of that was muscle. He felt like he filled the entire room. Adrian had never had a noble subordinate. Such things happened in the vast size of the Armada, but it was rare. And it was awkward. The nobleman could end his career in a moment.

“Lord Major Alonzo Lennier reporting for duty, sir,” he said. “I was not expecting you until tomorrow.”

Adrian offered his hand. Lennier squinted at it, before shaking. “Major Adrian Huxton. That’s generally the point of a surprise inspection. How long have you been aboard?”

“Eighteen months, sir. I was XO for Belladonna through most of her last deployment, then I’ve been in charge for most her current dock period.” He puffed out his chest proudly.

“Eight weeks as acting CO, how’s that been?” Adrian said.

“Well, I have to send all paperwork up to the admiralty to get it signed off since I’m still only the XO, but yes,” he said. “I have a question. I know we’re deploying in a week, but I’m still not sure if the Talwar have actually invaded. Do you know any more?”

“The Talwar aren’t over the border yet, but with the amount of forces they’ve amassed, they definitely will be. However, the admiralty’s pretty sure now that they are leading, arming, and using unmarked warships to fight with the rebels,” he said.

“So, we’ll at least get to kill them,” Lennier said. “Outstanding. And we’ll kill our internal enemies too. I doubt they’ll be too hard. Imagine being sold into slavery by the Talwar a hundred and fifty years ago, then rebelling so you can rejoin them now.” He shook his head.

Adrian would get to that. “Well, what’s the plan for tomorrow?”

“We were going to do a deep clean tomorrow morning at 0600. Then your official assuming command ceremony would be at 1000, followed by the inspection. However, apparently you already did the inspection,” he said.

“I liked what I saw. The crew seem motivated, all the safety protocols are being followed to their reasonable limit. Discipline looked fine enough for three days before we depart to war. Cleaning was good enough for non-inspection time,” Adrian said.

 He watched Lord Lennier deflate a little.

“That’s a complement to you,” he said.

“Thank you sir,” the nobleman said. He looked late twenties. Average age for a highborn Major. All that meant was, since Adrian’s enlisted years counted towards seniority, he was decisively the junior officer. “Do you still want the inspection tomorrow?”

“That one is going to be dress uniforms?” Adrian said.

“Yes sir, full parade.”

“Have you done the final mechanical inspection?” Adrian said. FMI was the big official inspection every ship did before deploying. Everything got turned inside out.

“No sir, that’s in two days.”

“Scrap the parade inspection. If it was a week or two away, I’d do it, but the crew needs to focus on the important stuff.”

“Yes sir,” Lennier said. “Sir, you’re not scheduled to take over command for another ten hours. Did you want your initial briefing now?” he said.

“Yes,” Adrian said. He looked around the room. He had two lounge chairs to his name.  “Take a seat. I actually have one more question before we get started.”

“Yes sir?” Lennier said, and stopped halfway to the armchair.

“I watched direct harassment of the security patrol watch, because he was Timerid. When I confronted CMC Hoy about it, he gave me the excuse that all Timerids needed extra discipline. Why is that the policy?” Adrian said, gently. He was angry, but stepping on a noble’s pride would only enrage them. That wouldn’t get him an answer.

Lennier frowned at him. “Sir. I wouldn’t worry about the common soldier’s business. We have a very good disciplinary record and they police themselves well.”

“I watched punches thrown at a soldier on watch,” Adrian said.

“As I say with enlisted, trust Hoy’s judgement. He’s been in twenty-five years and is as bitter as they come.”

“No,” Adrian said. “Those people are soldiers. Therefore the rules apply. If I were acting commander I’d have started arresting people there.

“Well, the Timerids are a troubled group. I’ve met a few in the officer ranks and they definitely earned their reputation. As long as they live up to the standard, they will be fine. Clearly this one was not living up,” Lennier said with a sudden sternness.

“The standard is the standard, but it must be applied equally and must be upheld in legal, legislative ways. Not by assaulting a soldier on duty,” Adrian said. This conversation wasn’t solving anything. “Listen. I’m going to give you my standard now, first. I’ll give it to the full crew tomorrow. I expect practicality. Get the job done in the most effective way possible. Worry about appearances if there’s time.”

“Yes sir,” Lennier said. His face was a mask of professional joy. Adrian could see little lines around his eyes that told him the Lord Major didn’t like being ordered about by a lowborn.

“That said, if you’re wearing the uniform, you are good enough. I will punish the next person I see striking a sentry.”

A single alarm trilled. Adrian leapt to his feet.

Lennier cocked his head as he listened to his earpiece. “Code one two one, medical bay.”

Code 121; soldier assaulted with a deadly weapon. Adrian’s adrenaline pumped into overdrive. Normally, he’d sit where he was and get updates from the security watch and medical. This was his first day, however, and he needed to do better. “Let’s go,” he said, and they raced out of his cabin.

They were forwards in bare minutes. A destroyer wasn’t large for a warship, after all. The medical ward was nestled behind the solid armor partition separating the entire torpedo area from the back two thirds of the ship, guarded by a pair of reinforced doors painted white. A half-dozen crew in various states of uniform and pajamas were clustered around the doors. Someone was crying wet sobs.

“Make way!” Lennier bellowed. He practically shoved them aside. Adrian followed.

There were a dozen gurneys in the general floor. There were two medics and the ship’s lone doctor huddled around the first bed. Two wore white coats over their pajamas. The only one in full white uniform was the doctor, puncturing a pouch of white blood substitute with a needle. Her sleeves were red past her elbows.

“Second blood sub pouch in,” she said, and jabbed it straight down.

Adrian circled around at a safe distance. He saw an arm flopped over the side. Red and white dripped off its slack fingers, onto a puddle on the floor. The sounds of the drops was drowned out by the compressions

“Heartrate flatlining,” a medic up to his elbows in blood said. “Get another blood substitute, he’s still too low.”

“Copy, third round of blood subs in,” the second medic, a teenager who had to be fresh from boot camp said and snatched another white pouch off the cabinet behind the bed. He was wearing sweatpants and an electric blue sweater that said ‘Salcrow Debauchery Society.’

“Heartrate flatlined. Begin compressions,” the first medic said.

“Beginning compressions,” the doctor said. She leaned over the gurney, locked her elbows, and began CPR. Adrian circled a little further to get a glimpse of the victim. He saw a bare chest. Nanite sealant was a grey paste meant to expand in contact with liquid and fill a wound. He saw lots of spots of paste over the chest.

“Time 102 hours begun compressions,” the first medic said. Adrian heard a pop as the first rib gave way under CPR. Then the second medic leaned around the doctors arms and jabbed the blood sub pack right beneath her hands.

“Get the rebreather and help me,” she said. He grabbed a rebreathing off the wall after, hands coated in red and white. He planted it, and hit the red button. The vents opened and pumped air right into the victim’s lungs. Except pink foam burst out of them.

“He’s bleeding out his mouth. You missed a wound,” the doctor said.

“He’s got over a dozen wounds, I’ll scan again,” the first medic said. She shoved the rebreather back into the kid’s hands, flicked the foam across the room, then resumed compressions. Adrian saw a round jaw between her arms as they pumped up and down fast as she could.

Thirty compressions, she flicked more foam away.

The teenage medic came in with the rebreather immediately. A wheeze burst into the air, and the victim’s chest rose. Adrian’s hopes rose for a moment. Until he realized that was just the rebreather pumping air in, and the man was still very much in cardiac arrest.

“Scan’s detecting nothing,” the first medic said.

The first doctor resumed compressions. “Drop the machine and get a probe. He’s bleeding in his respiratory system.”

Another two puffs of the rebreather. The first doctor had dug the paste out of a wound over one lung and was manually probing with a long, thin filament. When he leaned in, Adrian saw grey coveralls hanging off the gurney in ribbons. The medics had cut them off the soldier, but there were many other cuts they hadn’t done.

Two more breaths. Another wheeze.

“No pulse, continuing compressions. Get the pacer coil.”

The kid ran away and came back with a white box. He removed two paddles and held them at the ready.

“Found it, two stab wounds intersected in his left lung, we only got one. I’m sealing now,” the first medic said.  He snatched another pack of nanite paste and ripped it open. Then he pressed his fingers deep into the chest wound. Sweat dripped off his nose and splashed into the blood.

“Deploy the pacer coil,” the doctor said and withdrew. Adrian saw a face as she pulled back. Wide, young, with dusky skin. He took a blow to his heart. Marijowski.

The teenager put one pad on either side of Marijowski’s sagging breastbone. “Scanning now.” He chewed his lip furiously while the older doctor looked on with a blank expression that told Adrian how worried she was. “Shock calibrated!”

“Stand clear,” the doctor said. The three retreated a step. Adrian did too without thinking.

A zap. They leapt back to CPR

“Negative pulse. 116 hours, resuming compressions.”

Adrian watched Marijowski’s face through the whole second CPR cycle. He didn’t look afraid, or angry, he didn’t have any expression. Everything was dulled and empty.

Another shock. “Negative pulse. 119 hours, resuming compressions.”

“Come on buddy. You’ve got blood and oxygen, fucking breathe,” the first medic said.

“Swap,” the  doctor gasped. They rotated one position around Marijowski, and she sank down atop the pulse coil. Sweat dripped off the tip of her nose into the blood. The teenager resumed compressions.

What was his first name? Adrian wondered. He’d never gotten it.

“Shock calibrated,” the first medic said. They stood clear. Another zap rang through the dying man’s body.

“No pulse,” he said.

“Negative pulse 122 hours. He’s been out for nineteen minutes, I’m calling it,” the doctor said. She left the pulse coil on his chest. CPR had broken enough ribs it was sunken a centimeter in. The body looked like a rubber dummy. All the muscle tension that a living, even unconscious human had was gone, and the body was draped over the gurney like a rubber model.

“Get a report to the major.” The doctor sighed, but it was high like a whistle as she held back a tear. “Someone did this.

Another doctor looked up, for the first time. “Ma’m, Lord Major’s already here.”

“Get it filed and bring it to my office. And get the poor boy covered up, now,” Lennier said, even though he was maybe five years older than the dead enlisted man. He looked around and sighed. “Major, we’ll meet upstairs tomorrow. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

That shocked Adrian into action. He hadn’t signed off on command yet, which meant legally he’d avoid responsibility for the murder. But one of his new crew had just been murdered by another. That wasn’t something to run away from. He strode forwards, ignoring the blood splashing under his boots.

“Doctor,” he said softly to the lead doctor. She didn’t look up from her paperwork. “Doctor,” he said firmly. She looked up.

“I’m fucking busy, talk to Lord Lennier.”

Understandable given what she’d just seen, which was why Adrian didn’t immediately shout at her.

“I’m your new commanding officer,” he said.

She looked up again, and stared him over.

“Complete that report and give it to me now. So I can have it when we catch whoever did this and put them in hell,” Adrian said. “I saw you do everything to save Marijowski, I’m not going anywhere until it’s done.”

“Yes sir,” she said.

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Hello everyone, thank you for reading.

Military science fiction literature has a cliche, very common opening. The main character arrives at their new command, excited for the future. Very upbeat and gung ho. I wanted to play with it a little bit and deconstruct it.

After all, shiny new warship isn’t just a big killer machine. It’s a flashpoint where years of industrial development leading up to its construction combine with the many flaws of the hundreds of people assembled to crew it. And a commanding officer somehow has to wrangle all that together and get it in fighting shape.

It’s never easy in the best of times.

If you’re eager for more, please remember to like and subscribe. I’ll see you next Wednesday.