Indomitable (29 page)

“Bowl.”

Promise slid it over as Sephora spewed liquid.

“Okay—” It came out so fast Promise did a double take. “—roomie.”

“For a tough girl, you sure are squeamish.”

“Shut up,” Sephora said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “When we get to Hold let's go apartment shopping. I'll hold down the fort while you storm across the 'verse and break skulls for a living. I'll consider school but no promises. Job for sure. Something
not
in the service sector. My dad liked to fix things. Maybe I'll try that. Make sure you send a vid once in a while so I know you're still alive.”

“Ah—that's sweet,” Promise said.

“Stop it, or you'll make me puke again.”

 

Thirty-four

MAY 19
TH
, 92 A.E., STANDARD CALENDAR, 1152 HOURS

INBOUND TO PLANET HOLD

AROSA STAR
PASSENGER CRUISER

As soon as they
jumped in-system, Promise's minicomp chirped to attention.

“What was that?” Sephora asked. She and Promise were on the couch in Sephora's dayroom and both had their nose in a book.

“My commanding officer.”

“That doesn't sound good.”

Usually isn't.
Promise looked up and tried to reassure her. “I'm sure it's nothing.”

When they were thirty mikes away from making orbit around Hold, Promise commed the colonel directly. At such a short distance, the
Arosa Star
's civilian-grade comm was more than adequate; it was certainly not FTL, but the lag was a small inconvenience.

“Why have you been off-net?”

Promise stalled for time. She couldn't very well tell the colonel about her encounter on Kies Tourosphere. “Solar flare?” It was a least a plausible explanation. “I'll have my implant checked when I get back to base.”

“You do that. ETA?” Lieutenant Colonel Price Halvorsen didn't waste words.

“Fifteen hundred hours. Sir, I'm not traveling alone.” She waited several seconds for Halvorsen's response, schooled her face to neutral and attentive.

Again, a small delay, and then the colonel's one-word response. “Explain.”

And now Promise began wishing she had access to an FTL comm, because the lag was giving her plenty of time to second-guess what the colonel's message was about. Mere seconds filled her lack of information with several unpleasant possibilities.

Which brings up the First Directive—no lying to a superior officer. I killed a man too, at least I was partially to blame for his death, and I'm covering up a sex-trafficking operation.
She'd thought a lot about how to explain Sephora's presence and she fully intended to tell the truth, just not all of it, which probably violated the spirit of the directive even if she was technically following its rule.

“I met a young girl during my vacation. She worked for Kies, and so did her father before he passed away. She helped nurse me back to health when I fell ill. Sir, she's an orphan at a crossroads. Sir, I know what it's like to be in her shoes and I want to do something about it.” Promise paused, unsure of what to say next.

Halvorsen's next response followed several seconds later. “And you're telling me this because?”

The lag was a bit less now.

“She's moving in with me until I can secure a place off-base. May I have the rest of today to get her settled before I report for duty?”

The colonel's expression froze for a moment. When it did change, his face softened and he looked less like a colonel and more like … Promise wasn't sure like what. More human. Un-Halvorsen.

“What you do in your personal life is your business. We will talk more about this girl later. It sounds like what you're doing is admirable, Lieutenant. But—” And several seconds ticked by. “—don't forget your duty.” The colonel held up a finger and stepped off-screen, putting her on mute. He came back a half mike later. “You've got the rest of the day to get her settled. Send me the girl's I-dent and I'll have a temporary pass waiting for her at the north gate. Report in the morning to the Square, at eight hundred hours. Regular dress and minimum glittery. Some of the brass will be there. Check your minicomp for directions.”

The Square?
“Brass, sir? What's this about?”

“Tomorrow, eight hundred. Be early.”

 

Thirty-five

MAY 20
TH
, 92 A.E., STANDARD CALENDAR, 0722 HOURS

REPUBLIC OF ALIGNED WORLDS PLANETARY CAPITAL—HOLD

THE OUTER COURT OF THE SQUARE

Promise stepped out of
the compact aerodyne and looked up at the cloudless sky. She raised her I-dent bracelet to the reader mounted to the aircar's door to pay her fare, and watched the yellow craft shrink into the distance.
Glorious morning,
she thought. A flock of gulls overflew her position in a V formation. They winged by, seemingly without a care in the world, their singular purpose oblivious to the craft she'd just exited. The aircar adjusted sharply to avoid a collision with the lead bird.
We're never going to own the skies, not like they do.
Her eyes fell to the outer court of the Square, the headquarters of the Republic of Aligned Worlds Department of Defense and the central hub of the RAW Fleet Forces: Marine Corps, Navy, Branch Sector Guard, and Department of Planetary Militias.

The RAW Special Operations Command and Bureau of Military Intelligence (including MARINT and NAVINT—you could insult BUMIL without disparaging a particular military branch, which came in handy during cross-branch socials) each took an entire floor. The Republic's Central Intelligence Agency and a few subordinate clandestine services on the plainclothes side of the fence called the Square home too, and they took up the top floor. The suits and uniforms didn't mix much. Theirs was less a friendly rivalry and more a cold war.

Beret smartly canted on her head, she inhaled and said a quick prayer.
Sir, please cover me.
Then she spun toward the entrance and through the first checkpoint.

“I-dent please,” said the Marine Corps sentry. Like Promise, she wore her RAW-MC regular-dress uniform and white beret.

The grounds of the Square were covered with security drones, most no larger than a small bird, and you'd never find them unless you knew exactly what to look for. Four branch flags fluttered in the breeze atop five-story poles anchored in ferrocrete, their bases flooded by a man-made lake still as glass. Manicured lawns and grasses sprawled in every direction. Smaller flags—one for each of the planetary militias—ringed the perimeter of the lake for more than half a klick. Montana's was a recent addition. Multicolored fish swam through knee-high greenery while several species of bird bobbed in the morning sun. A hundred-year-old piece of artillery sat on a dais and still went boom every independence day. The antique two-seat supersonic to its right was banking sharply on its mount, while the dummy pilots inside gazed out the armorplaste and saluted passersby. A statue of the first RAW mechsuit stood defiantly in the sun. To Promise the thing looked more like a Merkava tank than a suit of mechanized armor.

The Square's flat gray façade complemented the flat navy blue of her regular-dress uniform, and its reflective windows mirrored the polish of her glittery and commendations. The grounds were full of women and men from every branch in their regular- or business-dress uniforms, and all wore the RAW-FF's white beret with the seraph, globe, and anchor cap badge. The white cover was the unifying dress symbol of the Fleet Forces. Otherwise the colors of their regular-dress slacks and short-waist jackets set them apart like mat-colored signal flares. Marines wore navy blue, Sailors wore dark green, and the Sector Guard wore dark brown.

The small group of red berets playing ball on a well-manicured lawn immediately caught her attention. Red covers were a rare sight, and worn only by an elite group of special operators, Marine Corps Force Space-Reconnaissance. Even the Navy and Sector Guard SPECOPS wore white. Seeing the red tops filled her with awe. They were the best of the best the Fleet Forces had to offer. You couldn't try out for SPACECON either. You were asked, if you were lucky.

As Promise neared the inner court of the Square, she caught sight of the Montanan standard fluttering in the breeze. Its reds, blues, and golds dipped her into her past and the memories it dredged up refused to be ignored. More flags ghosted overhead as the names and faces of her fallen surfaced, janes and jakes of Victor Company she'd led and lost in the defense of her birth world. Her Montanan Marines.

As she passed by the lake it became a war-torn haunt. Promise quickened her pace toward the tiered entrance steps and through the second checkpoint. The guard was a smart-looking private first class, not one of those rent-a-sentries. She scanned both of Promise's eyes and her I-dent bracelet, used her minicomp to wand Promise's body. A genderless holo appeared beside Promise that matched her every move. The guard approached the image and deft hands quickly stripped layers away down to the bone.

“You're clear, Lieutenant. Have a nice morning.” The PFC saluted sharply before turning to the next in line.

Promise saluted a couple of majors and a captain on the way up, nodded at a good-looking first lieutenant who did a double take, and returned respect from some junior officers and sergeants. A RAW-MC colonel with his arms loaded simply nodded and said, “Lieutenant.” A Navy captain recognized her, stopped in midflight, and turned to salute
her.
This drew a small crowd, most of whom looked clearly confused over why the captain was saluting a lieutenant of Marines. His “Thank you for Montana, Lieutenant” seemed to put their questions to rest. Promise's cheeks heated in the warm sea of recognition and she nodded politely, returned his salute as crisply as she could. Didn't think she'd ever get used to that.

As she entered the inner court, she pulled her cover and tucked it under her arm. Her glosses clacked across the hollowed floor and over the inlaid stars that formed the Deck of Heroes. Each star was embossed with the name of an honored warship, unit, or soldier from nearly three hundred years of Republican military tradition. Reading the names as she passed overhead helped calm her nerves.

There was the RNS
Janice-Krighton,
and the RNS
Dect,
three stars over.

Master Sergeant George Manuel 33 A.E.–69 A.E., RAW-MC.

1st Battalion, 5th Marines,
with “Darkside” standing out in blocked quotes.

Because she was indoors, she dispensed with the salutes. The nods and “good morning, sir”s and “ma'am”s were simple common courtesy and she scolded herself to pay better attention.
Eyes up, P.

Above the entryway floated a holo of the Fleet Forces' seraph, globe, and anchor. The ubiquitous symbol of the RAW Fleet Forces kept station in the air thanks to a small army of projectors mounted into the floor, the overhead, and the walls. Every Marine, Sailor, and Sector Guardian wore the seraph, globe, and anchor with pride, as a cap badge on the crown of the beret. Flanking it was a second holo, of the militiaman with a rifle on the shoulder. This symbol was a throwback to before FTL, before the First Diaspora, when Holy Terra's fractured nation-states had depended upon volunteer, part-time citizen soldiers to defend their homelands.

Promise thought hard for a moment. If she had her history correct, militias predated even the iron horse and the rifled long gun. Militiamen from across the RAW's core worlds and protectorates wore the militiaman's badge with obstinate pride. Its presence in the inner court of the Square was an important reminder of the history and genesis of the Republic. A large standing fleet force was critical to the safety and security of the Republic of Aligned Worlds. But the militia had made its existence possible. The militia had given birth to the RAW through an armed rebellion against the Terran Federation, in a desperate bid for self-determination.

A drone met Promise outside the inner court's central bank of lifts. “Good morning, Lieutenant Paen,” said the reflective globe in a pleasant enough voice. “If you'll follow me.” The drone didn't turn around so much as reverse direction.

Together they entered the northwest lift, which abutted the outside, and took it to Level 47 of eighty total floors. The lift floor was transparent and after a quick look down Promise swallowed and decided to look outside instead. The view of the grounds below swelled until she could see the sprawling tarmac and pads and runways of Joint Spaceport Mo Cavinaugh in the distance. There was the control tower, and over there lay dozens of dropships and smaller vessels in their assigned cradles. To Promise they looked like a fleet of children's playthings.

She watched an assault-class LAC lift off and climb vertically into the air before gradually pulling forward. Once clear of the spaceport, the LAC accelerated into the atmosphere and soon disappeared from sight.

Promise straightened her jacket and turned around as the doors opened on Level 47. She walked into an unmarked hallway with multiple access points. None bore distinguishable markings. The globe wished her a “good day” and reversed course again as the lift's door closed.

The RCIA's seal hung on the opposite wall. A seraph with daggers for wings was ringed by a gold circle and the words “Republican Central Intelligence Agency.”

Well, I'm not in RAW-MC territory anymore,
Promise thought.
Now what?
She looked left and right. Heard a door open and came round to see her old platoon sergeant step into the hall with a cavernous smile on his face.

“Gunny, boy am I glad to see you.”

“Lieutenant, it's nice to be seen,” said Gunnery Sergeant Nhorman Khaine. He stuck out his hand and gripped Promise's enthusiastically. “How was the vacation?” Promise's early years in the Corps had been in Khaine's toon, before he was bumped upstairs to Battalion.
That seems like a lifetime ago. Simpler times for sure. So, how was my vacation? Um … that's complicated.