The Crypt: Shakedown: (A Military Sci-Fi Novel), page 5
“Nitzie, mate, I gotta go back to the ship,” Arimun said. “I’m tanked.”
“One more bar, Ari,” Nitzan said. “We’re going to that place I been telling you about. It’s great, I promise.”
Nitzan was running late. He tapped at the bracelet on his right wrist, which made his cell interface appear above his right palm. Oh-two-thirty. He also had a half-dozen texts from other Raiders, wanting to drink the night away, and one from his sergeant politely reminding him what would happen were he late to boarding drills the following morning.
“Why do you keep checking the time?” Ari asked, then bent over and vented the second half of his dinner.
Nitzan shut off his bracelet display. “Just curious to see how long we’ve been drinking.”
“Too long,” Arimun said. “That’s how long. Come on man, if we run into those slack-balled sailors again, I might be too drunk to kick their asses.”
“Whatever, Ari. Remember that fight you started last year? Down on Deck Four?”
Arimun laughed a long, slow, drunken laugh. “Oh yeah, that’s right. At the navy officer’s club? Man, there were, what, ten of those clams against the two of us?”
“That’s because I was the only one dumb enough to go with you.”
“You always back me up, mate.” Arimun thumped Nitzan’s shoulder. “You got my six.”
“Always will,” Nitzan said. “But I left that bar with fifteen stitches. You owe me. Come on, one more drink?”
Arimun blinked slowly, the liquor gumming up his gears. He thought for a moment, then nodded.
“You’re a fucker to call out that marker, Nitzie. You know that?”
“Can’t argue with you there.”
They stumbled along the deck and took the next lift to Nineteenth—an international deck. Humans with skin in the common tones of pink, tan, brown, and the weird bleach-white of Tower natives. A few of those ugly, six-legged Ki. Floating Harrah zipping about near the ceiling. And, occasionally, Whitokians, the nastiest of all. Leekee, too, but on Zackmann the few members of that species usually kept to the waterbars frequented by Dolphins and Aqus.
Nitzan found the Nineteenth fairly empty. Carousing crews from civilian ships, sure, and the usual sailors, strikers and Raiders from the half-dozen Fleet warships docked at Zackmann, but it wasn’t the passageway-filling party spot he’d expected.
“My feets don’t work,” Arimun said. “Give us a hand, will ya?”
He threw his arm over Nitzan’s shoulder. Nitzan led him down the passageway.
“Black Beast’s balls, Ari—have you gained weight?”
“Yep. New bench-press max, too. I’m fucking yoked, man.”
Nitzan stopped them at a bar door. “We’re here.”
Arimun looked up at the flashing neon sign above the entrance: Huygen’s Hidey Hole.
“Nitzie, this one of those red joints? I fuckin’ hate Martians.”
“Quit your bitching, Ari. We’re going in.”
Huygen’s Hidey Hole didn’t have much of a crowd, a fact mostly hidden by the dim lighting. Three Harrah hovered around a man seated at the bartop’s left corner. Assorted working boys and girls moved from table to table, offering their goods. Men and women in crew jackets, shoulder patches showing their boat’s home system—Rodina, New Earth, Neptune Net Colony, and two crews from Saturn Net Colony. A Whitokian, alone at the bar’s right corner.
Three clams, sitting at a table, their white uniforms perfectly pressed, stared insolently at the two real fighting men who’d just walked in. Nitzan disliked sailors. Drunk as he was, he hoped they started some shit.
He helped Arimun to an empty table and sat him down.
“I gotta piss,” Nitzan said. “Get us a couple of drunks.”
“We are a couple of drunks.”
“Drinks,” Nitzan said. “I mean drinks.”
“Got it.”
Nitzan kept his balance, mostly, as he stumbled to the bathroom. He had to walk past the cone-shaped Whitokian to reach it.
They were utterly vile creatures. This one was male; you could tell by the slime-covered green skin. Females, with their orange skin, generated more slime, which was why they weren’t allowed in most Human-run joints. The male had both pairs of spindly legs—Nitzan thought they looked a bit like lobster legs—propped up on the bar stool’s rungs. Folds of flesh hanging between each pair sagged almost to the floor. In the water, Whitokians were graceful and powerful. On land, they had all the beauty of an old man’s wrinkly nut sack.
Nitzan could say one thing for the nasty creature, though—the Whitokian was drinking hard. Two empty steins sat on the bar top in front of him. His spindly arms wrapped around a third like he was ready to protect it against booze thieves who might snatch it away.
For a century and a half now, Humans and Whitokians had interacted, embraced trade, shared technology and culture. That, without a doubt, was one of the many reasons the Union had gone to hell in a hand basket. Non-Humans. Disgusting.
Nitzan entered the Human bathroom. One guy at the urinal, taking a leak. A quick visual scan under the four stalls—no feet.
There, on the base of the toilet in the second stall, a bit of red electrical tape. Nitzan checked to make sure the urinal guy was still pissing, then tried the stall door. Locked. Nitzan coughed three times.
The stall’s lock slid back, allowing Nitzan to push the door open and quickly step inside. He shut and locked the door behind him. A man sat on the flat toilet tank, his feet on the seat. He wore a black jacket, brown slacks, brown shoes. No jewelry. He looked like a typical messenger for any of the gaudy businessmen who packed Zackmann Station.
You are late, the man signed with his hands.
My apologies, Nitzan signed back.
Hand-language was the first thing they taught you in the Cloister. Nitzan had picked it up quickly, along with mastering dialects and accents from the Union’s bigger planets. He’d learned so much in the Cloister, far more than just languages and culture. He’d learned tradecraft. He’d learned how to kill. How to act, to lose oneself in a role, to so deeply become someone else you didn’t think it was someone else at all.
Five years in the Cloister. At fifteen, the bishops declared Nitzan ready to serve, had sent him away from the Purist Nation to Thomas 3 in the Planetary Union. There, he’d been placed in an orphanage. That had been an eye-opener. Little information about the Union reached the Nation. The info that did get through was mostly about sports figures, movie stars, and the ultra-rich scum that secretly ran the galaxy. In the orphanage, Nitzan saw evidence of the Union’s corrupt culture: bribery, assault, extortion, pedophilia, and more.
When he turned seventeen—or at least when he turned seventeen according to the birthdate of his false identity—he was booted out of the orphanage. That was expected. Nitzan took the few dollars he had to his name, called a transport, and went straight to the Fleet recruiting office. Hours later, he started the pre-enlistment steps. He slept at the office. Fleet recruiters had signed up many a teen just like him. Recruiters were quite familiar with kids showing up who had no place else to go.
The next day, Nitzan boarded a shuttle for Brittmore Base. There, he gave his oath of loyalty to the Union, and he started boot camp to become a Raider.
It is time for your service, the man signed.
Nitzan’s heart pounded a double beat. Finally. After three years in Fleet, his handlers had a mission for him, something other than pretending to be a Unionite, something other than fighting and killing his own Purist Nation countrymen.
I am ready, Nitzan signed.
The blasphemers have a secret warship. The James Keeling.
The Keeling. The Crypt. But that was just a story, wasn’t it?
We thought it destroyed, the handler signed. The heathens repaired it. Chatter indicates they are adding crew. We know almost nothing about the Keeling, but we believe it is capable of a new kind of stealth travel. If it is back in service, we need you on board. We must know more about this vessel. We will find a way to contact you there, but we do not know how to do that yet.
I don’t know how to get transferred to it, Nitzan signed.
The handler smiled. They use discipline cases for much of the crew. Cowards, thieves, rapists, perverts… and murderers. Kill your companion. Right now. We’ll handle the rest.
Kill Ari?
I should kill one of the sailors instead, Nitzan signed. Raiders hate sailors, it makes more sense.
The man’s eyes narrowed.
You will do as you are told. Have the heretics corrupted you?
Nitzan shook his head, shook it hard. No, he hadn’t been corrupted. He couldn’t be, that was why they’d sent him to the Cloister, why they’d invested so much time and capital into putting him in the right place at the right time.
But Ari… his friend…
Nitzan forced the doubts away. He had his orders. Nitzan Shamdi—once known as Abbas al-Kenja—knew what had to be done.
The handler reached out with his index finger and gently touched Nitzan’s forehead. Softly, so softly, the handler traced the pattern of an infinity sign.
The gesture made Nitzan’s heart ache with joy. It meant that after the mission, he would be fully confirmed as a Purist Church elder. When the mission was over, he could, at long last, go home.
Praise be to High One, the handler signed.
Nitzan walked out of the stall. No one at the urinals or the sink. He headed back into the noise of Huygen’s Hidey Hole.
A drunken woman fell in front of him, her short skirt sliding up her bleach-white thigh. Sluts from the planet Tower—they couldn’t hold their liquor. Some side effect of the gene mods that removed all color from their skin. It kept them from getting cancer or something like that.
He helped her to her feet, leaned her against a table. She gave him the eyes—she wanted him. He didn’t want her. He wouldn’t have wanted her even if she’d been sober. Skin like hers wasn’t among the tones created by High One. Someday she’d burn in the pits of hell. Maybe Low One would give her the hard fuck she so obviously needed.
Nitzan slid past other patrons, sat down at his table. Arimun held a mag-can of lager. Another can—already opened so it would be properly chilled—was waiting for Nitzan.
“That was a load off,” Nitzan said. “Had to go so bad I saw yellow. You feeling any more sober, mate?”
Ari nodded. “A little. Maybe.” His maybe stretched out, slurred, revealing he wasn’t one bit more sober. “But those fucking clams keep looking over here. Especially the big one. I think they want to brawl.”
Nitzan smiled. He reached down to his right ankle and pulled out the tactical knife he kept in a holster there. He set the knife on the table. No one was supposed to carry weaponry on-station, but who the fuck was going to question a Raider carrying a little ol’ folding knife with a little ol’ 13-centimeter blade?
Ari looked at the knife. He smiled a drunken smile.
“You never go anywhere without that thing, Nitzie. You gonna give them clams a little mark to remember us by?”
Slowly, quietly, Nitzan unfolded the blade. He set it flat on the table, covered it with his forearm. He turned in his seat to grin at the clams.
“Hey,” Nitzan called out. “Hey, you waste-pipe pieces of sailor-shit.”
A hush fell over the bar.
The big sailor glowered back. He and his two dress-whites cluster-buddies must have come from a ceremony of some kind. That, or these choads thought dressing up would get them laid for free. Fucking clams, ready to have a fancy, pinkies-out tea party at the drop of a hat.
“Hey,” Nitzan called out again. “You flat-backers sipping champagne over there? Does it taste like your captain’s asshole, or is that flavor permanently embedded on your tongue?”
The biggest of the three sailors stood. He looked like an iron pipe someone had wrapped in white tissue.
“You should shut up now,” the sailor said. “This isn’t a conversation you want to have, jizzie.”
Jizzie. Fleet slang for Raiders. Clams hid in their shells, while jizz got shot into space.
“Not a conversation,” Nitzan said. “More like show and tell. I got something to show you.”
The sailor smirked. “And what’s that? Your tiny pecker?”
The big guy’s buddies also stood. One man, one woman, both ready for a fight.
“Ari,” Nitzan said, “before we mop the deck with their pretty white suits, I wanna tell you a secret.”
“A secret?” Arimun wobbled, almost fell off his chair. “What secret?”
Nitzan leaned closer. Arimun did the same.
“I want you to know, Ari, that the Union will fall.”
Nitzan thought back to his drill instructor, who’d hammered one mantra home above all others—slow is smooth, smooth is fast, fast is final.
In one calm, measured motion, Nitzan grabbed the knife and slid the tip into Arimun’s neck, a smidgen to the right of his windpipe—the blade sank deep.
Arimun stared, blinked slowly, as if he wasn’t sure if it hurt or not.
Nitzan had a moment to think about all the good times he and Arimun had together. About the times they’d been under fire together. About the times they’d lost squadmates together. About the times they killed together.
Then, shouts from the clams, from all across the bar brought Nitzan back to the moment.
“Ouch,” Arimun said.
Nitzan ripped the knife sideways, grunting with effort to slice the edge through the carotid and jugular, through muscle, ligaments, and skin. Blood spurted from the slash, gushing on the table, on the floor, on Arimun’s shoulder.
Footsteps pounding on the floor told Nitzan he had only seconds.
He made them count.
“Sorry, brother,” he said to his dying friend. “Tell Low One I’ll be sending more of your kind his way.”
The clams slammed into Nitzan and dragged him down.
5
He’s a blasphemous urine-drinker.
A tragic first impression. Susannah attempted to remain focused, but the subtle reek of Major Tom Bratchford’s breath wafting across the metal desk had already weakened her resolve. Simply put, she couldn’t shake the image of him gulping down a hot, steaming mug of his own pee—not the best way to picture one’s new boss.
Susannah forced herself to make eye contact.
“We’re pleased to have you, Lieutenant Rossi,” Bratchford said. “Do you prefer to go by rank or be addressed as Doctor?”
He smiled, revealing yellowed teeth and receding gums. Bratchford’s mouth was probably filthier than the waste treatment tank of the Nicholas Otto, the research vessel to which Susannah had been assigned.
“Since I’m here as a scientist, sir, Doctor seems more fitting.”
Bratchford needed to trim his nose hair. Ear hair, too. No wonder he was such a miserable person—the hair fleeing his scalp had found other places to flourish.
Susannah glanced around the small compartment. Dents and scratches in the gunmetal gray walls. Dust tentacles fluttering from an overhead vent vibrated as stale air blew past them.
“Lieutenant, are you upset about being recalled?”
Ask how she’d like to be addressed, then ignore her preference. The man probably thought that was clever.
She fought the urge to defer to Bratchford. Defer to him simply because he was male. Over the last ten years of her life, she’d come to accept that a woman’s role was to support the men who furthered the faith. Within reason, though. She’d had a run-in with a holy man who wanted things High One did not permit. Susannah took that man down.
Her instincts screamed at her to look away, to act submissive in both demeanor and voice. But the religion that taught her such behavior no longer wanted her. She’d been excommunicated. This was her life now. She would stand up for herself, or at least try.
“It’s not what I wanted, Major,” Susannah said. “But I assure you I won’t let my feelings get in the way of doing my job.”
“Honesty.” Bratchford huffed a laugh. “That can have its uses. Do you intend to keep your hair that long? No place for long hair in a lab. Most of the older women who work for me cut theirs much shorter.”
Older women? Susannah was two years shy of forty. Hardly old.
“The length is within regulations, sir.”
It was, but barely. She wore her dark hair—gray strands and all—pulled back in a tight ponytail. Her hair was heavy enough that it hung straight down, without any frizz or puffiness that might get her cited for appearing unkempt.
“Regulations,” Bratchford said. “Those have their uses, too.”
There was something ominous about the way he said that. Was he the kind of leader who just came out and told you what he wanted or was he the type that gave little hints and then raked you over the coals for not reading his mind?
Susannah felt so far from home. But what was home now? The Union wanted her. She didn’t want the Union. She wanted to be in the Nation. The Nation didn’t want her.
“I haven’t had a Purist under me before,” Bratchford said. “At least not someone so… blatant… about their faith. I would think one facial disfigurement was enough.”
Wonderful. A religious bigot for a commanding officer, one who seemed to think Susannah cared about her looks. She was proud of her face. The infinity tattoo on her forehead and the scar that split her right eyebrow with a flash of pink skin were both marks High One had put upon her.
“Doctor Rossi,” Bratchford said. “Maybe I should call you Sister Rossi. Did you really spend ten years as a… let me see if I have this right—” he checked her record “—as a truck driver for a Purist convent?”
He wanted to get under her skin. They’d only just met. This was another test from High One, and she would pass it as she’d passed all the others he’d set before her.
“The Shrine of the Blessed Landing had a hauler donated by a benefactor,” Susannah said. “Sourcing our own supplies saved money. I’m good at learning, so I learned how to fly it.”
