Postal Marine 1: Bellicose (7 page)

Sirom's firm
Organization!Macrodyn Tectronics Universal
Macrodyn Tectronics Universal had diversified interests in a wide array of human activities. Macrodyn was one of the oldest corporations, even surviving the Decline. It was founded nearly 1800 years ago to exploit early hyperspace discoveries. Through the years it remained a privately-held corporation. The Maijoi family believed its longevity was due to that simple fact. That the Maijoi family had become one of the wealthiest non-aristocratic families was another benefit to the private holding. Sirom's focus within Macrodyn was shipbuilding—a field that had largely stagnated.

The Navy announced a plans to acquire a next generation of combat ship. The announcement came in the form of a competition calling on the great design firms to provide the new class of battleship.

It was a major announcement when the Navy reported its plans to acquire a new class of battleship, the
Manticore
-Class. It was intended to be a ground-up redesign of space craft. It was still limited by hyperspace physics, but the Navy's ambition was to spur a new era of design that would help them to better exploit the increasing discoveries of once-lost human settlements.

The Terran Decline happened abruptly nearly a thousand years before. Once reliable hyperspace routes collapsed. Hyperspace travel was never completely safe, but the Decline experienced almost complete paralysis of interstellar travel. Not all saw the breakdown of travel as a bad thing. It gave many the opportunity to sever old ties to corporations, governments and debt. At the same time, social upheaval led to many routes being deleted from route computers, never to be seen again.

The Decline ended nearly as suddenly as it arrived. The few surviving routes became easier to navigate. The routes long abandoned because they were too dangerous became navigable. Then the Terran Republic created the Terran Scout Service, the TS2 that later became the Imperial Scouts. The scouts traced old routes and started to re-establish ties with systems long isolated by the Decline.

Not all of the remote systems were happy being found. Quite a few did not think they were lost in the first place. The Imperial Navy was given the mission of helping those systems repatriate with the Imperium by helping the indigenous loyalists resist the seperationist rebels and restore legitimate governments and authorities on those separated systems. Foolish Imperial subjects would complain that the Imperium occurred after the Decline and had no legitimate right to subjugate sovereign systems.

The battleship design competition was narrowed down to the only two serious companies capable of the design and manufacture of such large ships. Macrodyn was competing against
Organization!Cel-Tainu Astrophysical Research Corporation
Cel-Tainu Astrophysical Research Corporation in the competition for the
Manticore
-class. Cel-Tainu was the favored designer, but Sirom planned to steal their victory. Smee would be his secret weapon.

While Sirom slept, Smee designed. While at work, Sirom led his design team. His uncanny ability to see beyond conventional designs and snipe the flaws in his teams efforts led many to call him a visionary. Over the months as the rough design was being developed, the moniker “visionary” was being used less and less. He was called The Prophet by his engineers—and his family. All the while, Smee plodded along, refining his final design based on new understandings of the
Manticore
's requirements.

Now the trials were nearly at hand, and Sirom was faced with some bad news.

“What do you mean the Navy is picking the Cel-Tainu design? Have you looked at the specs?” Sirom's frustration breached court etiquette. Smee was surprised to see how well
Dorsey Bowdoin
, who had just given Sirom the bad news, accept the explosive reaction.

“Your design is fantastic. Really it is. Look, you know how the Navy is. It has to look martial to be martial to them. The Macrodyn design doesn't convey the same sense of intimidation.”

“Have you looked at Cel-Tainu's specs? I'll grant you that it's well-armored, but at the expense of speed, maneuverability and—look at this—firepower. It can take a beating, but it can't dish it out, nor can it get away from it. Look at the energy maneuverability characteristics. This is supposed to be a fifth-generation design of interstellar-capable combat vessels. The EM characteristics show that the Cel-Tainu design can't even beat fourth-generation cruisers. Even some third-generation ships can beat it, like the
Chrader
-class. Sir Bowdoin, that's—that's pre-decline technology.”

“Yes, Sirom, I think everybody knows that third-generation is pre-decline.”

“Sorry, Sir.” His hands chopped the air to help him drive home his point. “But that means the Cel-Tainu design is a fraud.”

“You should watch your tongue. You've let the epithet ‘Prophet’ get to your head, Sirom. Do you think you can get away with using such uncivil language? It's enough I've suffered the indignity of your rashness.”

What do you think, Smee?

I think that Cel-Tainu has bought the judges.

That is certain. But, to make that accusation, even if it's true, would destroy the family.

Then you need to expose the fraud. You're leveling some serious claims.

Sirom took a moment to collect himself. “You're right, Sir Bowdoin. I apologize for my incivility. I don't want to appear ungrateful for your humility in coming to me personally to express the Board's decision. What do you think?”

Bowdoin seemed relieved. “I don't think they seriously considered the Macrodyn design. But, you won't hear me say that in public.”

Sirom, I'm reviewing the requirements. The candidates are supposed to be evaluated via simulation.

“Sir Bowdoin, one indulgence. Were the two designs evaluated by a simulation?”

“What do you mean?” Bowdoin's eyebrows raised.

Sirom continued. “The contract requirements state that the designs are supposed to be competitively evaluated by simulation, as the Board would have ordered that simulation. I don't recall receiving a solicitation from the Board for the simulation program. Did they do the simulation as mandated by the Emperor?”

Bowdoin smiled. “No, Sirom, they did not. To the best of my knowledge they went with the printed mockups.”

“Mockups? You mean they picked the pretty one, not the one designed by a team of the finest ship design engineers in the Imperium?”

Bowdoin laughed. “Don't get cocky. I need to review the requirements document myself. You know I have to present the Board's decision to the Emperor. I would not want the dishonor of failing to adhere with his standards.”

Don't let them fight one-on-one. Ask for a fleet action.

Sirom cupped his chin in his hand as if to reflect. “The assumption is the simulation is supposed to be head-to-head, the Cel-Tainu design verses ours. I suppose the Navy would not want to embarrass themselves by having to admit they did not run the Emperor's simulation. Would you suggest that they put together standard fleet configurations? Let's go with a heavy battleship array. For added measure, perhaps you could suggest they mix in third-generation units on the Microdyn fleet.” His comment was a veiled threat of exposing Bowdoin for failing to honor the Emperor's terms in the competition. The Board already had a decision without the simulation, which was a clear violation. He remembered the simulation, but the contract was silent on what kind. With Bowdoin wanting to redeem himself, he would have to yield to Sirom's request.

“Thank you for that. It will give the appearance that I favor their decision, but have to bend to the rules.” Bowdoin looked frustrated that the simulation had to be run at all.

“While at the same time, it will prove my point that their design can't even stand up against a fleet of obsolete junk.”

A few weeks later, Lord Dorsey Bowdoin sent out a summons to both corporations to provide simulation copies for trial. Sirom noted the Macrodyn fleet was more than two-thirds third-generation. He smiled.

Where's my thank you?
thought Smee.

Over the six weeks since Bophendze' return from the orbital,
Makaan
continued to assign Bophendze to the worst duties. He became the Oneday regular brig guard, which at least gave him Twoday off. Then somehow Corporal
Makaan
had worked a deal with the other three teams in their pack to have Bophendze clean their berthing areas, which took most of the duty day. Fourday he was on kitchen duty. Fifeday he worked in the hangar. The last two days of the week tended to vary, depending on what deal Corporal
Makaan
had worked out with another unit. Bophendze slowly felt less like a marine and more like a maid. The joke amongst those in his team was that all he lacked was a scanty outfit to complete the ensemble.

Throughout his servile sentence, Bophendze's team continued to just meet the satisfactory standard of an Imperial Postal Service Marine. With Bophendze not in the team they were forced to operate one man short. That affected their performance. That his team preferred to operate one man short disheartened Bophendze. Nobody literally was better than him.

On the seventh week, he was on loan to one of the gunnery crews. One of the worst assignments on the ship was to clean and lubricate the cruiser's main weapons. The ship was armed with six dual 250 millimeter cannon batteries, in addition to four guided missile tubes. The six batteries were distributed in pairs at three equidistant points around the narrow part of the ship.

Each gun had a recuperator that reduced recoil transfer to the ship. The recuperator had a greased metal rod that guided the piston. That grease slowly deteriorated and had to be replaced a few times each year. The Postal Service had the guns re-greased after every major combat operation.

It took Bophendze the better part of a day to strip off and apply new grease for each gun battery. To re-grease all the guns took most of the week. As nasty as the job was, he was not assigned maid duties in other compartments where other Marines would laugh and call him names.

Bophendze finished re-greasing the guns on battery two on Twoday. He did his best to get the large globs of grease off. To be completely grease free would require an hour of scrubbing at least. He started walking out of the battery to his berthing area.

“Hey!” a gunner yelled.

Though surprised, Bophendze turned slowly because he was exhausted. “What?”

“Thanks for all your help. Tell Corporal
Makaan
we give our regards.”

“Sure.”
I'd like to give him something to regard.

Maybe I can get transferred out of the infantry? After a few trips to the hangar and now the gun batteries, maybe I'm more suited to being a mechanic? Why was I not given the chance to choose my job when I enlisted? I did sign up for twenty years, after all. I can't do all these bosun jobs for twenty years.

His musing stopped. He had been so tired he was not paying attention to where he was going. He looked at the passage he was in and realized he had missed a turn. He walked back down the passage, hoping to catch a familiar landmark. Not finding one, he turned down another passage. He put his hand in his pocket, and felt the implant. He started to roll it in his fingers.
Would having the implant at least keep me from being lost? It could be any kind of implant. Either way, it can't make things any worse than they are now. All I need to do is find a way to get it installed.

He looked for landmarks, not trying to look lost or concerned.
I know those pipes.
He started down another passage toward an intersection that looked familiar. As he reached the intersection, he thought he heard somebody running up behind him.

He started to turn when a sack came down and covered his head. Its mouth tightened around his neck. He could not see through the thick material that the sack was made of. He reached up to pull it off when somebody kneed or punched him in his gut. He started to double over, but his head was being pulled back by whoever held the sack. He felt hands grasping his arms, but slipping off from the grease. For once he was thankful to be coated in grease.

Stars filled the darkness as somebody punched him in the face. Then again. And again. He tried to move, only to realize somebody had wrapped binders around his legs. The binders tightened, taking away his ability to balance. He collapsed to the deck.

He turned to his side, only to feel boots kicking into his abdomen. Another kick in his legs. In his back. To his head. He lost track of where the kicks landed as his nervous system gave up trying to report each new offense. He clung to consciousness as the beating continued.

“Stop.”

Bophendze tried to recognize the voice. It had come from one of his assailants. The pain reached a point where his entire body was starting to go numb. He could feel throbbing all over his body. He hoped nothing had been broken, but could not be sure. He struggled to breath as his diaphragm refused to respond.

“You need to get the hell off this ship. If you don't leave on your own, we're going to throw you out of an airlock.”

The voice was right near his ear. Bophendze recognized it immediately: Corporal
Makaan
. He tried to respond, but managed only a few slurred syllables and spitting up. The metallic taste of blood in his mouth reminded him of the kicks to his face. He knew he had to have a broken nose.

“Let's go.”

As Bophendze lapsed out of consciousness, he was able to make out four different voices talking and laughing as they moved away.

The wind gently beat the curtains. The erratic but regular pulse from the curtains slapping the window frame coaxed Litovio awake. The sunlight beamed onto his bed, several inches down his chest away from his face. Litovio calmly stretched his arms, his fists helping force the sedentary blood back toward his heart. The open window let in the song of morning birds, a species Livotio had never paid attention to before.
I could get used to this kind of life again.

His stretch complete, Litovio relaxed and sank back into the mattress. He contemplated another day of leave as he scratched his chest hair—four days left to go. Sufficiently bored he inhaled deeply and blew out a raspberry.

A beat later the familiar shriek of a shuttle blew out the bird songs. The curtains violently thrashed the frame and debris blew in from the courtyard outside. The sudden change left Litovio ducking for cover, away from the window. Just as he put the bed between him and the window, the other window that flanked his bed crashed open. Litovio grabbed his comforter and twisted it into a protective cocoon around his otherwise bare body. “Somebody is going to pay for this.”

He bolted up and over to his wardrobe. As he did, a servant from outside quickly scurried into Litovio's bedroom. He opened the wardrobe with haste and grace. “The morning greeting robe,” Litovio said.

The servant instead picked Litovio's Postal Marine uniform from its hook.

“You fool! I said the morning robe. Can't you hear me over the engines?”

The servant merely nodded and pointed outside. The engine outside started to whine down, indicating that the shuttle had landed. Litovio walked to the open window. To retain his dignity, he started to close the window—slowly. It gave him time to study the shuttle. It was a Postal Marine shuttle.
How long did the servant know the shuttle was coming?
Litovio latched the floor-to-ceiling window shut and drew the curtains out of mock decency. The curtain closed, he walked his naked body back to the wardrobe.

“On second thought, I think I'll wear my uniform today.”

“A wise choice, Master Lieutenant.”

Litovio was perfectly capable of putting on his own uniform. He could not have survived the
Naval Academy
if he was not self-sufficient. He chose to let the servant dress him with a surgeon's precision. It let the servant retain his dignity.

Several beats later, Litovio was dressed in his perfectly tailored uniform. Postal regulations prohibited tailoring the uniform. Litovio decided that meant he could not have a custom-made uniform. Instead he had this rack-bought uniform appropriately sized for his slender, wiry frame.

He patiently walked down the stairs to the reception room. Nobody told him he had guests, or where the guests were. But any Sabanoi host knew the protocol. Whomever disturbed his serenity with that infernal shuttle was waiting in the reception room. Just off the entry foyer and sequestered by double doors, the room gave the host ample time to set the right mood.
It must be a messenger of some sort. Have to act with the appropriate military crispness. No refreshments for the messenger?

As he approached the door, he looked at the butler. “Should we pour him a drink?”

“Her, Sir.”

“
Her?
” He paused. “That's highly irregular. Do we even have women in the Postal Marines?”

The butler shook his head.

“Not a Marine then, but a Marine ship. Certainly irregular.” He paced briefly, then wheeled back to the butler. “Well she must have a refreshment of some sort. If she's here on business she's not a native—let's make her some ziemann. Salted.”

The butler bowed slightly and motioned with an open-upturned hand toward the door. Litovio sighed and walked toward the door.

It opened, timed to his entry. Sabanoi protocol allowed for a somewhat grand entry.

Litovio walked in to see an elegantly dressed young woman, although a little plumper than he would have thought. “Good morning, Miss.”

“
Khaooldro
Gojoneddus.”

Litovio halted. The hard guttural start of her name and the rattle of vowels was hard to hear.
There's no way I can pronounce that.
He resumed, undaunted. “You certainly have a way of the dramatic entry.”

She blushed. “I suppose it was. Sorry about that. I was sent by the regional Postmaster. You are Captain Ambrose Litovio, right?”

“Lieutenant, but yes.”

“Right. You've been promoted.”

Marsileno Litovio burst in at that moment. He wore his morning greeting robe, embroidered with gold and platinum thread. “What is the meaning of this.”

“Father, this is—a Postal messenger.”

“What do you want with us?”

Khaooldro
seemed unimpressed. “Captain Litovio is immediately recalled to active duty. You have one cycle to join me on the shuttle, or be considered a deserter.”

“Why?”

“Sorry, Sir. The orders are confidential.”

Litovio knew Marsileno hated secrets in his household. Before he had a chance to intervene, his father spoke up. “Girl, you had better explain all of this. Immediately.”

Rather than speak,
Khaooldro
touched her headset at the temple. Her hand then dropped back comfortably to her side.

Marsileno said, “Miss, you have one beat to explain. This is Sabanoi. You're not from around here so I'll indulge your naïvete.”

A bit of a smirk emerged from
Khaooldro
's otherwise calm face. The entry door opened without announcement. A stick of Marine Infantry calmly walked through the door, weapons casually slung over their shoulders. A pair of them stationed themselves at the entry. The other three walked into the reception room, failing any attempt they might have tried to look casual. Full body armor stripped away any casual or peaceful pretenses.

“Captain, time is of the essence. You are on duty.”

Litovio turned and hurried up the stairs. He was followed closely by a Marine.
Bodyguard?
He looked back at the reception room to see that the other two Marines were “guarding” his father, rather than protecting
Khaooldro
. By the time he returned to his room his servant had nearly finished packing his bag. He stood for another two beats as the servant finished. The bag zipped shut, the servant looked at Litovio plaintively.

He shrugged. “I suspect it is better that I pack light.” He looked at the Marine. The visor concealed the face beyond enough that the Marine was essentially anonymous. Regardless, Litovio spoke to him. “Any hint what I'm about to encounter?” Litovio looked at the guard patiently and unwaivering.

The guard spoke, “Sir, my task is to ensure you are on that shuttle before the cycle lapses.”

“No chance I can desert?” Litovio smiled, hoping the guard would catch the humor.

There was no way Litovio would know if the guard beyond was caught off guard. The guard replied simply, “No.” The guard tried to be distracting as he unshouldered his rifle. He remained by the door and put the rifle in rest position. The blatant, albeit calm, show of force persuaded Litovio that desertion was not an option—not that he ever considered it. The guard's reaction led Litovio to smile.

“Okay, I guess we should load the bag on the shuttle. I'll be along shortly.” Litovio watched his servant carry the bag out of his room. The guard seemed to maintain his focus on Litovio, but his position was such that any threat from the servant would be easily countered.
There's an efficiency to an Infantry Marine.

After the servant disappeared, Litovio poured himself a glass of ziemann juice. He drank it like a shot, not caring that the servants properly salted it. He held the glass to the guard, who shook his head.

Litovio walked down the stairs. The two guards in the reception room continued to keep his father in control. For his part, Marsileno knew rather than try to resist. Part of Litovio relished his father's submission. He walked over to his father. “Sir, I'm sorry for the disquiet brought to your house. I know you dismiss us as pirates, but I'm a Postal Marine. Maybe one day you'll accept me.”

He turned and walked out the entry. Litovio continued to the shuttle and boarded.
Khaooldro
sat waiting for him. The excitement of being essentially abducted from his home would have made him giddy ten years before.

“Can you tell me now what's going on?”

She smiled. “All I can tell you is you're being sent to
Guna
to escort an admiral.”

Me escort an admiral?
“Admirals are for fleet actions. The Postal Marines don't have that rank.”