Citadel, page 1
TROY RISING 02
I am NOT a physicist. Nor an astronomer nor a mathematician nor, indeed, much of a biologist. Assuredly not a rocket scientist. I'm one of those people who uses the word "integral" only and always to mean "central to some subject." You can get me to cringe by saying the word "polynomial."
I took physics, I took calculus, I took astronomy. (And, yes, passed all three.) That's not the same thing. Like Barack Obama on the subject of economics (which I can talk about much better than physics) the information was stored just long enough to pass the course and then forgotten.
Obviously, this has been something of a trial while writing this series. In the Vorpal Blade series I have the luxury of simply tossing that on my coauthor, Dr. Travis Taylor. Alas, Travis got a real job and he's been busy. So I had to find other people to help.
As with Live Free or Die, I'd like to thank Bullet and Belinda (Gibby) Gibson for their assistance not only with the math but also with general proofreading. However, the task being somewhat more complex this time, others got involved. I'd like to thank Stephanie Osborn, who is an astronomer, as well as "The Croatian Mafia," Ivan Knezevic and Robert Bosnjak. The three of them have gotten me back to the point I could get C– in college-level Newtonian physics.
In addition, when it got really complicated, I'd like to thank Dr. Les Johnson, Deputy Manager NASA Advanced Concepts Office, Dr. Larry Kos, also of NASA and Dr. Charles L. John, ditto. I often poke fun at NASA but the reality is that the recent decisions of the Administration in that area have me fuming.
Thank you all for your help and support.
My eyes are closed I feel you're far away
Far beyond that shining star
I know you'll find what you've been fighting for
Far beyond that shining star
"Glory to the Brave"
"ARRIVING ASSIGNED PERSONNEL FOLLOW THE YELLOW LINE!" the 1MC blared. "UNASSIGNED PERSONNEL FOLLOW THE GREEN LINE TO ASSIGNMENT. PERMANENT PARTY FOLLOW THE BLUE LINE! ARRIVING ASSIGNED PERSONNEL FOLLOW THE YELLOW LINE...!"
"Are we assigned or unassigned?" Spaceman Apprentice Jack Yin said, looking around the echoing shuttle bay. The Columbia II shuttles held sixty people, mixed about equally between military and civilian. But if any of them were willing to give directions to some newbie recruits it wasn't evident and none of the threesome was about to ask.
"Do I look like I know?" SA Sarin Chap said, shrugging his A bag up on his shoulder.
"The lowest of the low have to be unassigned," Engineering Apprentice Dana Parker said. "And since we are the lowest of the low, we will go to unassigned."
"And if we're wrong?" Sarin asked, gulping.
"Then we will get chewed out," Dana said. "And told where to go."
"Heh," Jack said, grinning. "You know, there's more than one way to—"
"Just walk, Jack," Dana said.
Her earliest clear memory was walking. Walking and fire.
She sort of had a vague memory of being somewhere with her mom and dad. She was pretty sure, thinking about it later, that it was a mall. And that was about the only real memory she had of her dad. The first clear memory was the walking. And the fire. And the smell of things that weren't made to burn. And a sky that was a strange red. Like it should be dark but it was red like a banked fire. And ash. Thin. Light. Constant.
She sort of remembered the buses. And staying places she wasn't used to. Hotels. Tents. She remembered telling her mom it was okay to cry. Which didn't make any sense 'cause her mom was always crying.
Then they were at Uncle Don and Aunt Marge's farm.
And then her mom "went away" too. That was how they phrased it to a three-year-old orphan from the L.A. bombing. That they went away, like they were taking a trip to Maui for a while or something. They had three nearly grown kids of their own and a sister who had carefully hung herself where only her sister would find her, and a new three-year-old to raise and they just said "Your mom had to go away. You're going to be staying with us for a while."
The door had a big sign that read "Unassigned Receiving." Dana pushed it open and negotiated her seabag through the door. Jack didn't even think about trying to give her a hand. He knew better by now.
"Engineering Apprentice Parker," Dana said. "With a party of two, I guess."
The woman behind the desk was a civilian, blond and, unsurprisingly, pregnant. Dana was even more blond, had had full-blown Johannsen's until she got gene-scrubbed by the Navy doctors, and managed to keep from getting belly-full in high school by determination and a lot of cold showers.
"Transmit your orders," the civvie said, nibbling on a cracker. She considered her screen and sighed. "You're assigned."
"Told you," Sarin said.
"Go down the corridor to the hatch that says Assigned Personnel," the woman said, pointing to the door.
"Thank you," Dana said.
Jack, by dint of being barely able to squeeze into the small compartment, was by the door. He yanked it open and squeezed more so Sarin and Dana could get out.
"If this thing is so huge," Sarin said. "Why the hell is everything so squeezed?"
The corridors were narrow. They had to hug the bulkhead so a harassed looking PO could sidle by.
"Do I look like I know?" Dana said, opening the door to Assigned Personnel.
This compartment was larger and included nicely uncomfortable looking chairs for those unfortunate enough to have to wait.
There was no line.
"Engineering Apprentice Parker," Dana repeated. "With a party of two."
"Orders?" the PO behind the desk said, then contemplated his screen. "One-Forty-Second Boat Squadron. Take the purple line. That leads to the One-Forty-Second offices."
"Aye, aye, PO," Dana said, turning around. "Jack? You're in my way?"
"Sorry," Jack said, stepping aside.
They called him "Gentle Ben" from the old TV show. As blond as Dana, and therefore a carrier for Johannsen's before he got scrubbed, he was about as big as a grizzly and, except when you got enough beer in him, about as gentle as a lamb. Unfortunately, when you did get enough beer in him, it turned out he had a mean streak a mile wide. That also showed up, fortunately, when friends needed a hand. Dana could generally hold her own with difficulties, but Jack was useful to have around.
The three had been at separate A schools that were co-located at McKinley Base. They had run into each other from time to time, mostly in the EM club and the combined mess. They weren't the only guys who got to following the short blond engineering apprentice around sniffing like bloodhounds. But they were a couple of the nicer ones, so Dana was just as glad they'd been scheduled to ship out together.
McKinley was just about the largest Navy base in the U.S. after the loss of Diego, Jax and Norfolk. A collection of rapidly growing prefabricated, prestressed, dug-in concrete buildings, it was located about fifty miles outside Wichita, Kansas, in what had once been a dense-pack nuclear missile base. The second largest Navy base in the U.S. was outside of Minot, North Dakota. Every base anywhere close to a city, including Kings Bay, Bremerton, Pearl and Great Lakes, was either closed or in the process. The "wet" navy had squeezed down to a collection of fast frigates, most of which were based either overseas or at Key West. There was talk of calling it the "Sea Guard" or something.
Dana didn't really care. The only Navy that mattered to her was the one that kept more rocks from falling. The one that might, someday, get her some payback for a mom and dad who had to go away.
The purple line seemed to go on for freaking ever. She didn't have trouble with carrying her A bag—it wasn't much heavier than a bale of
"Finally," Sarin said, shifting his A bag.
Sarin was not much taller than Dana, with black hair and a fading but clearly once severe case of acne. The way that he drove a plant, Dana had asked him why he wasn't in IT or something.
"I deliberately failed the exam," he'd said. "I spent five years working for my brother running cable. I'm about sick of it."
The line continued on for a while but you could tell they were finally in Myrmidon country. Most of the personnel were Navy, for one thing, and most of them were wearing flight suits.
Finally the line terminated in a hatch, and it was a real hatch, that read "142nd Receiving." Someone had taped up a hand-lettered sign under it that read "Abandon All Hope, ye who enter here."
"Cheery," Sarin said.
"Yeah," Dana said, cycling the hatch. It didn't open.
"Who dares approach the gates?" The voice was a "com" in her plants. The caller ID was blocked.
The first time she got a plant com it was unnerving. The voice sounded like it was in your head but a "real" voice at the same time. Sort of like telepathy. On the other hand, it made communication over distance easier than radio since hyperwave was faster than light.
Glatun implant technology was still rare and expensive. Mostly it was being used by the U.S. and other "advanced" militaries. There was more to the implants than just a super-radio. The plants acted as a sort of PDA that could record video, drawn from vision, and audio, recall notes, act as a cell phone and last but not least, could connect to other computer systems and the Internet or hypernet. And there were physical aspects. There were various upgrades and improvements that could be installed with the plants. In Dana's case that included a "spaceman's package" that permitted up to six hours in an airless condition, resistance to toxins and radiation, elimination of motion sickness and resistance to vacuum and various smoke inhalation issues. It didn't mean you could breathe vacuum for very long, but you could survive longer than an unaugmented person.
"EA Parker with a party of two, reporting?" Dana commed.
"You may enter, EA Parker," the voice said. "One at a time."
The outer hatch undogged and Dana entered an air lock. She cycled the hatch, then checked the telltales.
"Uh..." she said. "The other side of this is vacuum?"
There was a banging on the bulkhead and the light cycled to green.
"Try it now."
The hatch opened outward. If it was really vacuum, she was about to do a Dutchman without a space suit.
She thought about that for a second. This was just another test. She was good at tests.
Beneath the main air lock control panel is the manual testing system. Manual tests of atmosphere integrity may be obtained...
Thank God she hadn't slept through that class. She opened up the access panel and twisted the knob. Air immediately started sucking out. She quickly closed the test knob.
Asking another question was out. There was no way they were just going to kill an arriving noob. Somebody was playing silly buggers.
She put her ear to the steel bulkhead. Faintly, she could hear something that sounded very much like a small motor.
"Tell you what," she said. "I'll open the hatch if the joker with the vacuum cleaner will shut it off."
The hatch cycled from the other side and a tall Coxswain's Mate First Class grinned at her.
"Welcome, junior space eagle," the CM1 said. "Come in! Come in!"
There were three people in the compartment, a Bosun's Mate Second Class and a Spaceman First Class behind desks and the CM1. The CM waved with both hands, like he was directing a taxiing shuttle.
"Come, come, we don't bite!"
"Much," the BM2 sitting behind a desk said. He was bent over some paperwork and clearly not enjoying his reading.
"Uh..." Dana said. She'd gotten it right the first two times but the vacuum indicator had sort of thrown her. "Engineering Apprentice Parker with party of two?"
"Welcome, EA Parker," the CM1 said. "You are a sight for sore eyes. A FUN that actually can figure out that red means stop. Stand by." He got the distant look of someone using a plant and set up a small hand vac on the manual indicator. "Hold this, will you?" he said, handing it to Dana.
A moment later, Jack stepped through the inner hatch and looked around.
"Hey, Dana! Is this where we're supposed to report or not?"
"It becomes clear why EA Parker was placed in charge of this group," CM1 Keith Glass said, considering their orders. "Two of you just failed the single most important test of being useful junior space eagles. You will hear this not once, but again and again and again. This is not Earth. This is the Troy. Around Earth there is a protective sheath of, fortunately breathable, gases called an at-mo-sphere. Around Troy there is this thing called va-cuum. It smarts rather severely when one attempts to breathe it. Two of you just attempted to test that fact. Had you done so in other than controlled conditions you would now be swelling up like freeze-drying grapes and I'd probably have to do the body recovery.
"Since there are still far too few mighty master space eagles with much time in this thing we call space, I have been chosen to deliver your inbrief. You just got the first and second part. The first part was the test, the second part was the lecture. I repeat. Always. Check. Air lock. Integrity. Can I get a repeat back?"
"Always check air lock integrity, aye," the three newbies parroted.
"That sounded very rote," Glass said. "But if you don't check air lock integrity you will not live to be mighty master space eagles such as myself. So it's up to you. I don't even have to write the next of kin.
"The third part of the in-brief. You have joined the mighty One-Forty-Second Tactical Assault Squadron, part of the First Troy Boat Wing. I might add that since there is no second, third or fourth squadron, we are the First Boat Wing. Our job is very simple and oh so complex at the same time. We deliver the mail. The mail may be food, supplies, scrap metal, equipment, actual mail, or, if we are very unlucky, Marines express service. Whatever we are delivering, our job is to ensure timely delivery. Neither snow, nor asteroids, nor laser fire shall stay us from our appointed rounds. Please be very clear on that. Whether your mission is to ensure that the boats remain functional or to drive them, your first, last and only job is to ensure delivery.
"The fourth part is like unto the first three. Most of the things we do, there is only one way to do them and survive. There is no third option. Do it right or someone dies. There is no 'good enough.' There is no 'close enough for government work.' If you cannot get your head around everything you do, every moment, every day, being a very big deal, please see BM2 Grumwalter for paperwork to transfer to the Army or something where it's not. Please do so before you kill me or someone I like. You do not yet fall into that category but you're unlikely to just kill yourself. Are there any viable and intelligent questions?"
He looked at the three and nodded.
"Good. I wasn't going to answer them anyway. That is what your division petty officers are for. Who are on the way to collect their little lambs. Go in violence to deliver the mail."
"This is your rack."
Engineer First Class Sean Sumstine clearly was enjoying showing the new Engineer Recruit around. That might have been because it got him out of his normal duties but Dana figured it was the way he was looking at her with calf-eyes.
Being in quarters, alone, with a guy had some rather unpleasant memories associated, but Dana decided to take Sean on first impression. He was a nice guy. Unlike certain EM1s she'd met in A School.
The quarters were much better than she'd expected, a two-person room with its own head. And, apparently, otherwise unoccupied. There were two racks and wall-lockers but both racks were unmade, indeed the mattresses were still in plastic, and the wall lock
"You get to pick your side," Sean said. He was short, five-six or so, with sandy brown hair. She didn't even have to ask if he'd had Johannsen's. Not that it was any problem for guys. They were all born with Johannsen's. They called it being male. "We, uh..."
"Don't have many chicks," Dana said, setting down her A bag. Sean had made a motion when he picked her up at Squadron to help her with it. She'd just glared.
"I, uh, wouldn't have said 'chicks,'" Sean said. "But, yeah. Just leave your A bag. Next step is getting your suit. Then you're off until next watch."
"When do I start..." Dana said, then shrugged. For all the classes she'd had, she wasn't sure what her job actually was. "When do I start working?"
"I'll come get you next watch," Sean said. "Thermal's off-watch at the moment so I don't even know your assignment."
"Thermal?" Dana said.
"Sorry," Sean said. "That's Engineering Mate First Class David P. Hartwell. Also known as Thermal, behind his back, because he managed to get one of our first Myrmidons drifted right in the way of a SAPL. It was on dispersed beam and the Myrm just sort of... melted."
"Oh my God," Dana said. "Was the..."
"There was no crew," Sean said. "And it was written off as an accident after about a zillion Incident Evaluation Reviews. It really wasn't his fault. But he doesn't expect to make chief any time soon. Anyway, he's the division engineering mate who's in charge of us lowly wrench turners. And since he's off-watch, I get to show you around."
"So... where do I get my suit?" Dana asked.
"Prepare for a looong walk," Sean said.
"There's no way I'm ever going to be able to find my way around," Dana said.
They must have walked a mile but she figured it wasn't in anything like a straight line. There had been about four elevators, two escalators, several sets of stairs, more corridors than she could count and two grav walks. Those were new but they weren't that much different from the sliding walkways in airports. She'd just followed Sean and tried not to seem like a noob.
by John Ringo have rating 4 out of 5 / Based on32 votes