Starship Eternal (War Eternal Book 1) (23 page)

"She told you about it?"

"Yeah."

He nodded and motioned towards the door. "I've got to go find Goliath. Your ARR has a map of the ship. No need to get lost."

Mitchell stared. He was going to ask Watson what he had said, but he stopped himself. "You didn't just say Goliath, did you?" he asked.

"No, Captain," Watson said. "Maybe I should double-check my enhancements."

Mitchell put up his hand. "No, I'm okay. It's a pre-existing glitch." He slid his clothes on and headed for the door, Watson trailing behind him.

"Let me know right away if you have any problems," the engineer said. "I'm going to update my comm system first, so I'll be available within the next half hour."

"Definitely. Thanks, Watson."

"Any time."

Mitchell took the long way around to the main lift and then back up to B-Deck. He explored the p-rat while he walked, switching through the different functions, impressed with the increase in responsiveness. By the time he returned to his bunk, he had already found an old stream to watch before getting some shut-eye.

Ilanka was still there when he arrived, but her open mouth and slight snore told him she was sleeping. He whispered a goodnight to her and settled on the bottom bed. After sleeping on the hard floor of the storage room for the last eight days, he was grateful for the simple comfort.

He was asleep within minutes.

"Bind his hands."

It was the first thing Mitchell heard before he felt himself being grabbed and flipped. He opened his eyes and tensed, ready to fight back, only to feel something get wrapped over his head, and a pair of hands grip his neck while it too was tied to him.

Three sets of hands held him tight while a wire tie was used to hold his wrists together behind his back. Then he was lifted from the bunk and shoved forward, smacking into the wall.

"What the hell is this?" he said. He sensed someone to his left, and he kicked out that way, catching what felt like a stomach with his bare foot. An
oomph
of air followed by someone crashing into the bunks confirmed his suspicion.

"Get a grip on him, damn it," someone said. He recognized the voice.

"Captain?"

"Good morning, sunshine," Millie said.

"I thought we had an arrangement?"

"We do have an arrangement, Mitch. You're one of us now."

He was shoved forward again, out of the berthing.
 

"You treat all of your men like this?"

"You already got the warm welcome. This is the other one. I call it a team-building exercise."

He knew there were other people with her, but they stayed silent, letting her do the talking.
 

"Hazing?" Mitchell asked.

"Not exactly."
 

A fist cracked into his gut, and he gritted his teeth, refusing to react. Hazing had been banned from the military for years, and with the advent of the implants and ARR, it had become easy to track and identify, despite participant's unwillingness to rat out their squad mates.

Except he was on a ship of criminals whose p-rats weren't connected to the main military grid. Which meant it was fair game, and apparently an honored practice.

"Okay," Mitchell said, taking another fist on his shoulder. "Show me what you've got."

"That's the spirit, Captain," Millie said.

Hands gripped him and threw him into the lift. He smacked against the rear wall hard enough to lose his air. The lift headed down.

His p-rat was active, and he used it to position himself in the ship. They dropped down to the hanger deck, and he was forcibly shoved and kicked until they reached the starship's belly. At that point, the bottom of the bag over his head was lifted, and someone tilted a cup against his mouth.

"Drink it, Captain," Millie said. "That's an order."

Mitchell opened his mouth and took the stuff in. It was alcohol or something like it, crude and strong. It burned his throat going down, but he refused to cough. He swallowed what they offered.
 

"More," he said. They wanted to see how tough he was? He had been a Space Marine a lot longer than he had been a face in the media.
 

"Mitch-"

"Be quiet," Millie said.
 

Mitchell recognized that voice, too. Ilanka. A moment later, the cup was against his mouth again. He swallowed what was offered.

"Strip him," Millie said.
 

Hands grabbed his clothes and tore them away, leaving him bound and reduced to his underwear.

"You keep a tight figure, Captain," Millie said.

He didn't answer. The drink was stronger than what he was used to. Much stronger. He checked his vitals on the p-rat. His blood-alcohol had spiked in a hurry, and he felt a little bit dizzy. The implant should have been working to balance out his system, to keep him from getting too wasted.
 

That function must have been removed.

"More, Captain," Millie said, putting the cup to his lips again. He tried to turn his head aside and was rewarded with another punch to the gut. "I said more."

Mitchell drank it, fighting against the wave of nausea that rolled through him as a result. His levels continued to rise in a hurry, and when he felt the tie fall away from his hands he tried to hold them out and almost fell over.

"Take off the hood," Millie said.
 

The hood was lifted away. They were in the hanger. It was dark except for a spot of light being cast down from a searchlight mounted on the mech's shoulder. Millie was standing directly in front of him, having traded her full uniform for the grays. Ilanka was on his left, Briggs on his right, and a new person, a muscular black man, at his back. Behind them were a few bystanders - Watson, Cormac, a woman he assumed was Singh, two more muscle-men, a foppish blonde, and another petite woman with long, black hair.

Where was Anderson?

"Hello, Mitch," Millie said. She was smiling, excited. All pretense of stuffiness and superiority had faded from her, and he couldn't help noticing her curves beneath the simple clothes.
 

Her eyes dropped down. "I hope that isn't just because you're drunk," she said with a laugh.

"Now what?" he blurted, blinking his eyes. Millie split into two, and the hanger started to spin.

"The main event. Come on out!"

Anderson stepped out from behind the huge leg of the mech. He too was stripped down, his old body still in good shape, covered in tattoos and scars. He grinned as he approached them, and then reached out and took an offered cup of the alcohol, downing it in one gulp.

"How many did he have?" he asked Millie.

"Three."

"Three?" Anderson sounded surprised. "Fine." He quickly gulped down two more cups of the stuff.

"The rules are simple," Millie said. "Winner is the one that's still conscious. Loser gets hung to the Knight for the evening."

"What?" Mitchell started to say, looking over towards the mech. He had just enough time to see there was a crossbar welded to the armor plating on the knee, and then he was stumbling backward, trying to recover from a heavy fist to his jaw. The onlookers cheered around them.
 

"Cheap shot you bastard," he said. There was no way Anderson was as wasted as he was already.

"You heard the rules," Anderson replied, closing in. He grabbed Mitchell's shoulders and threw him under the light.

Mitchell stumbled and fell, unable to keep his balance with the alcohol in his system. He couldn't remember the last time he had been so drunk. It had happened fast. Too fast.

Anderson was on him in a second, kicking him in the ribs. He coughed as the blows poured into his gut, hitting the already bruised skin. Whatever Millie thought of him, whatever her desire for wanting him to join her Riggers, it was clear that she was setting him up to lose this particular fight.

"Come on Anderson," she yelled. "Finish him if that's all he's got."

Anderson stopped kicking, reaching down for Mitchell's shoulders. As disoriented as Mitchell was, he somehow managed to get his hands out and bat the older man's grab away, reversing on his knees before falling over onto his back again.
 

The drunken haze was starting to make him angry.

"Where are you going?" Anderson mocked. "There's nowhere to run. Get up, you coward."

Mitchell rolled over and forced himself up. His feet shifted and everything was spinning around him. He could hear the other crew members cheering and whistling, and he was sure they were taking bets on who would win this ridiculous fight.
 

It was going to be Anderson. Mitchell was sure of it. He was doing his best, but he could barely stand, and the older Marine didn't seem to be feeling the booze at all. Of course he wasn't. Mitchell had no doubt he was accustomed to the drink.

"Come to daddy," Anderson said, moving towards Mitchell, knees bent, hands out. Mitchell threw an awkward punch at the man, stumbled back a step, and put his arms up to deflect a flurry of incoming blows. He managed to defend himself from the first set before a sharp elbow caught him in the temple, and he spun around and hit the deck again.

Anderson circled around him, laughing. Mitchell lay on his stomach, fighting a wave of nausea that threatened to force him to spit up whatever drink remained. As fast as it had affected him, it couldn't have been much.

"Anderson, do it." Millie's voice was a harsh snarl. If he had doubted she had the temperament to commit murder before, he didn't now.

The older Marine reached down and took Mitchell's shoulders again, pulling him up and holding him in a tight choke, slapping him in the face with his free hand over and over again.
 

"How do you like that?" the man spat. "Frigging Greylock."

Mitchell tried to turn his head away, his anger replaced with humiliation. Wasn't that the point of this? To humiliate him? How did Millie think this was going to bring him closer to his new teammates?

"Come on, Mitchell. I knew you were a wimp, but this is embarrassing," Anderson said through his laughter. He heard more laughing from a few of the gathered crowd, Millie's loudest of all.

He had a decision to make. He could let Anderson continue to embarrass him, or he could just give up. He fell limp in the man's grip, closing his eyes. Anderson held him up for a moment before realizing he had passed out.
 

"I guess I win," he said. He lowered Mitchell to the floor, rolling him over so that he was face up. "Loser gets strung up."
 

Mitchell held his eyes closed, listening to the soft sound of Anderson's feet on the cool metal floor. The losing was the humiliating part, not the hanging. He was a Marine, he had suffered worse than spending a night dangling by his wrists.

He could feel the softest brush of air when Anderson bent down to gather him by the shoulders again.

Then he made his move.

Head pounding, every muscle feeling leaden, Mitchell gathered himself in one motion, reaching up and grabbing Anderson's legs. He pulled as hard as he could, shifting the Marine, yanking hard enough so that his feet wound up skidding along the floor and continuing forward.
 

Anderson tried to find his balance, but there was no purchase for his heels and he cursed as he fell, hitting the ground hard on his back. Mitchell gritted his teeth, rising and tackling him before he could recover, throwing angry punches into the Marine's head. Anderson tried to get his hands up to block, but Mitchell had gotten his knees on them and was using his weight to hold him down. He rained the blows in, one after the other, opening old scars along Anderson's face and creating new welts and cuts.

"Stop. Stop. I submit, damn it," Anderson said, his face open and bleeding.

Mitchell heard him give up, and still continued punching.

"Captain," Millie said sharply, her officer's visage returning in an instant. Mitchell ignored her, continuing to hit Anderson in the face. She had wanted to teach him some kind of lesson. He was going to teach her, and Anderson, one instead.
 

"Get him off," she told the black man.

Mitchell finally stopped when he saw him approaching. Anderson lay beneath him, his face bloody and battered, his consciousness gone. Mitchell looked over at Millie and then spat on the Marine. Only then did he get to his feet.

"Loser gets strung up," Millie said. He had been wrong. She didn't care who won or lost, just that they danced to her tune.

Mitchell looked down at Anderson, and then back at Millie. Then he looked over at Ilanka, who seemed embarrassed to be part of the whole bizarre ritual.
 

"Go to hell, Captain," he said. He walked past them all, forcing himself not to stumble despite his drunkenness and anger, heading out of the hanger without another word.