Opening Moves (8 page)

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Encyclopaedia Galactica, 2792 C.E.

C H A P T E R  2

Camp MacArthur

Commonwealth of Mars, North American Union.

April, 2796 C.E.

Located a hundred kilometers to the north-east of Olympus Mons, the Sol system's highest mountain, Camp MacArthur and the sixteen domes spanning the city of Aldrin, with its hundred and twenty thousand people, were a monument to humanity's determination to seed the stars with life. Spreading out in all four cardinal directions smaller domes covered the harsh landscape of the red planet surrounding Aldrin. Farms and science stations and local atmospheric converters made up the lion's share of these. Mag-rail lines crossed the barren wastes on high pylons, connecting the settlement with hundreds of others all over the Martian surface.

Fifty million people called the Red Planet their home. It was still too cold outside to leave the safety of pressurized settlements without thermosuits, and the density of the Martian atmosphere left a lot to be desired, to put it mildly. Nonetheless, life was spreading on Mars, slowly but surely. Resistant algae had made the beginning, followed by the dark green fern that now grew in the valley, reaching deep into the ground where water could be found. A few decades ago the colonial administration had begun to plant genetically manipulated Siberian taiga trees. Their small groves also could be found all over Mars' surface now. It'd still be a century or more before people would be able to walk in the open, without rebreathers. But Mars would become a green world, eventually.

Camp MacArthur, named not after the hero of the Second World War but a Union president from the 26
th
century, was a town within a town. The military base had a separate energy and water supply, operated community centers, a hospital and a courier landing pad for atmosphere-capable starships. And old-school vending machines.

“
Centauran Macadamia or walnut-vanilla?” she mused. “Centauran Macadamia or walnut-vanilla?”

Samantha Lee had managed to narrow the options from the nearly infinite number of sweets programmed into the vending machine down to two possible choices. Though 'vending machine' was a term selling the blocky piece of technology short. Its intestines consisted of a set of very versatile 3-D printers and vats of base organic matter. Sammy really didn't linger too long on that part of the information, though. These thoughts only led one into the kind of territory where you asked what kind of meat they put into hotdogs...

Tall, athletic and pragmatic, she was used to making important decisions, for example about how to assault an enemy bunker, when to airdrop out of a dropship flying at Mach 10, or where to go on her tenth wedding anniversary with her partner Natasha. But trying to decide between the two treats? Rome had been built in less time than it was taking her to make up her mind.

“
Centauran Macadamia,” she said resolutely, then placed her ID card against the machine's scanner, selecting the macadamia treat with the special flavor found only in Alpha Centauri variants. A softly modulated voice asked her to 'Please Wait' before, with a whirring clank, the mechanism produced a brightly wrapped bar from the machine's innards. She shuffled on her feet as it took the mechanism a small eternity. It wasn't for the first time that she wondered whether someone deliberately built these things to be slower than a 24
th
century VI system. With a sigh Sammy decided to pass the time by staring out of a nearby window.

Outside, a platoon of soldiers jogged by in digital camouflage fatigues, their sergeant encouraging them on in the inimitable style appertained to drill sergeants across times and national boundaries, pounding across the concrete parade ground and marking their pace with a centuries old song. Beyond them were the plain faced, low slung buildings common to all North American Union Armed Forces garrisons across half a dozen solar systems, their simple and spartan interiors a testament to the fact that Congress had chosen to have them designed by the lowest bidder. The dome covering the base was said to be amazingly strong, able to survive a shuttle crashing into it at supersonic speeds. Lee doubted anyone had ever tested that boast, but it gave the inhabitants a little extra confidence living daily within feet of the danger of suffocating.

The whirring of the vending machine stopped, prompting Lee to turn around. To her annoyance the bar – wrapped in bio-degradable compounds – remained wedged in the release mechanism, dangling down but not actually willing to plunge down into the collection tray.

Sammy spat a silent curse. The bar had cost her the extortionate amount of one credit and she sure as hell wasn't going to let anything cheat her out of that – especially not a goo-printing machine! She leaned back and checked out her surroundings. The large mess hall was completely clear, the rows of plain steel tables cleaned and left neatly arranged for the next set of meals in about two hours. She could hear the regimental cooks at the far end of the hall behind their doors slaving away in the kitchen. Sammy weighed her options and shrugged. It was safe to figure they were too busy to pay attention to a few sharp crashes and loud noises, which was exactly what Lee was about to create.

She was tall and athletic, especially for the offspring of a Korean father and a purebred, Midwestern American mother. In fact, at six foot three she actually towered over a good part of her platoon. Her toned physique, buzz cut and angular facial features just served to underline her presence as a soldier and member of the chosen ranks of the Airborne Assault Force, the power armor wearing special infantry regiments of the NAU's army. They weren't quite on the level of actual Special Forces, but they weren't too far off the mark either.

She grabbed the machine, easily pushing it back a few inches so it was leaning on its back supports, then let it go. It slammed back level with a jarring crash. The echo bouncing back from the bare walls of the corridors made Lee cringe. Unfortunately the bar remained in place. With a resigned sigh she spun around her own axis and gave the machine a kick, and finally the bar dropped into the tray with a most satisfying 'clunk'.

With a chuckle of victory Sammy grabbed the prize and turned to leave, stumbling to a halt as she found herself nose to nose with a hard faced man who had apparently sprouted silently from the shined ground. Lee was about to give him a few choice insults about sneaking up on her when she quickly noticed a pair of Captain's bars on the mans shoulders. Stopping in her tracks she snapped straight up to attention.

“
What's your name and unit, soldier?” the officer asked. He was a heavy set black man with a shaved head and neat goatee beard. He looked about mid-thirties in age which, given the marvels of modern medicine and the extended lifespans they produced, meant jack all. Hard eyes rested in deep sockets in the captain's face. His whole demeanor spoke of the man's confident manner. He was a by-the-book officer if ever Sammy had ever seen one.

“
Private First Class Samantha Lee, sir,” she rattled off loudly. “Alpha company, Ten-Twenty M-A-F regiment, sir!”

“
I see. I'm glad to see your unarmed combat skills came in useful just now.” He glanced at the vending machine, some noticeable dents in its side. “Although I doubt they were designed to defend us from an invading army of snack dispensers.”

“
Sir, no sir!” Lee snapped. Great, another officer who liked the sound of his own voice.

“
Do you have an explanation, Private Lee?”

“
Sir, I paid my money but the machine refused to deliver my choice of snack, sir.”

“
So rather than report the fault you decided to try and persuade it yourself?”

“
Seemed like the quicker thing to do, sir. Cause less trouble for base maintenance, too, sir.”

“
How very thoughtful,” the captain remarked with a smirk. “Still, it took your money and gave you nothing back. Sounds just like our government to supply us with something like that. You have to wonder why a military base has a vending machine anyway.”

“
Yes, sir.” Lee agreed automatically.

In truth the machine was actually very popular. She and her comrades did enough PT that a couple sweets wouldn't make any difference. They burned more calories just suiting up than one of these things had in them. Of course she wasn't going to tell this officer that. When dealing with the higher ranks the best course had always proven to be to just nod and let them think they were infallible.

“However understandable your actions, you were still in the wrong,” the Captain concluded. “You'll pull guard duty tomorrow evening, is that understood?”

“
Perfectly, sir.” Inwardly she was relieved. Guard duty was a waste of time Sammy would have rather spent otherwise – and elsewhere. Still, all things given that was pretty lenient considering the damage to government property. Of course, it screwed up her plans to celebrate Private Keppler's twenty second birthday, but it was still luckily nothing more like a slap on the wrist.

“
All right private, dismissed.”

“
Yes, sir.” She stood a little straighter, then stepped back and hastily headed for the door.

* * * * *

The captain grinned, then went to the vending machine. With a shrug he placed his ID card next to the reader and made his selection. It was a hard balancing act keeping discipline in troops without being overbearing. An officer had to be respected but not necessarily liked, and the way he did that was through fairness and making sure everyone knew their responsibilities and where they fitted into the big picture. He frowned deeply as his selected treat refused to be delivered, just like it had for Private Lee. For a second he considered following her example and attacking the machine, but then reminded himself to lead by example. With a huff went to find someone from maintenance.

* * * * *

“Hey Sammy, we thought you'd got lost!” a shout greeted her as she entered her platoon's barracks.

“
Come on, she only had to go to the mess hall! Sammy could find a mess hall on any alien planet blindfolded!” A barrage of laughter and whooping calls followed.

“
Come here, sweetie! Let me give you a hug 'n a kiss, show you what a man I am!” a tall, broad-shouldered soldier called out.

Samantha slapped the back of his head and the two shared a broad grin. “Even if I was into men you'd still be too much of a knucklehead to have a chance.”

“Oi, now you've hurt my feelings,” he chuckled.

“
Quit it, Grunt,” Sammy smiled and tossed him the bar. “Next time fetch your own damn calories. Your laziness almost got me thrown in the stockade.”

Private Harold 'Grunt' Kayser caught the flying snack and immediately tore into it, the two lines of tattooed dots and dashes under his left eye vanishing in pockets of skin as he chewed through the treat. Everybody in this barracks shared that combination of dots and dashes. It was an ancient communications' code almost a thousand years old, symbolizing two numbers: 10-20, the number of their regiment. “So, what happened, sweetie?”

Kayser had wooed Samantha rather provocatively when he had first joined the unit until the point where she had – literally – slapped a good portion of sense into him. Strangely enough a close friendship rather than lasting hostility had been the result of that more than sub-optimal opening. Life sometimes followed strange paths.

She settled down on her bunk bed and took off her uniform jacket, revealing an army green tank top with a stylized eagle and the letters
M A F
emblazoned on it. “Damn machine's broken so I had to fix it.”

“
You mean you gave it a good kicking, eh?!” Private Tucker claimed with a laugh, his thick Alabama accent easily recognizable.

“
That's what I said: fix it.” Lee smiled, flexing her muscles. The tattoo of a black skull framed by a triangle standing on its tip grinned from her upper arm. Around the triangle's edges ran the phrase
Per aspera ad astra
, the regiment's old motto. “Anyway, I
did
get it fixed, got you that damn macadamia crap, then got caught by an officer who saw it all!”

There was another burst of laughter from the platoon. There was nothing malicious about it, but they did tend to find misfortune that wasn't their own amusing.

“But it was cool. The guy gave me extra guard duty but nothing formal. So, I guess it turned out okay.”

“
Say, this officer,” Private Rourke began with his Long Island accent. “Didn't happen to be a bulldog looking fellow with a bald head?”

“
Well yeah, he did kind of. Why?”

There were a few more whistles and chortles.

“Well, Sammy, that was Captain Madison, the new Alpha Company CO.”

“
Our new
boss
,” Tucker said unnecessarily. “What is it they say about first impressions?” he grinned widely.