Tempered, page 10
part #1 of Space Chef Series
Wet and naked, I stepped out into my room. Small to begin with, the room was supposed to hold two officers rather snugly. I’d wedged one of my floating cases into the corner where another would sleep, so I was alone. My chef clothes wouldn’t be used for this small adventure. No, for this I needed my big guns.
The culinary cases really did hold both food and kitchen supplies. They were the decoy. Ship’s security was sure to scan those extensively since others would have contact with them. Personal items were supposed to be sacrosanct. Only explosive traces would allow them to be searched. My babies were packed better than that!
Palming a small DNA-triggered sensor in the far corner of the case I watched with glee as the inside walls folded back on themselves. So many of my early missions would have been far easier with tech like this. It took a special order from Admiral Hawthorne to get them for me. Lining the inside were all my special weapons and gear. It was time for some fun.
Cry Havoc
“Captain, we have a problem,” Master Sergeant Draven announced over the ship’s intercom system.
Pushing himself away from the table, Captain Vaslov smirked at the drunken form of his executive officer Thomas Watson, who was laid out across the table, his head down. The both of them had been drinking pretty steadily as they waited for the marines. Watson had passed out way earlier than he had. “Lightweight,” he muttered. “Obviously you haven’t been an officer all that long. Drinking is career, not a talent.” Grabbing the device’s receiver, he answered, “Couldn’t find her or she’s dead?”
Draven’s image lit up on the unit’s small screen. “Neither one. She and all those cooks are gone from the kitchen.”
“Gone? What do you mean gone? Didn’t you lock them in and place guards? This isn’t how you earn my trust, Sergeant,” the captain yelled into the mic.
“We did both of those. They just aren’t here. Is there another way out of this section that I’m not seeing?” Draven asked, wincing. He and his men had ripped the walk-in and freezers completely apart searching for that damn cook. They’d even checked the head. There wasn’t any obvious sign.
Vaslov thought for a moment then nodded almost to himself. “Between the freezers, there’s a passage down to stores. That’s the only place they could be if you’re telling the truth, here. There are a few electrical conduits down there leading up, but only a snake can squeeze through those. Not a herd of cooks. Seal the door and they can’t get out. They’ve jailed themselves down there for you.”
“What about the outer cargo doors? Can’t they use them to escape?” Draven asked, even as he directed his men to find the door.
“Nope. Air pressure equalization. Unlike the hangar bays, cargo doesn’t have force shields. We only load those sections in port. They require specialized equipment to even open them,” Vaslov explained. “There is a hatch connecting them upwards, but it can only be opened from inside bay one, and then only manually. Leave them down there. The gas will take care of them. Leave a guard or two and get back up here. Our benefactors should be arriving soon.”
“Understood, sir.” Draven cut the connection. Rounding up his men with a shout of “On me!” he cursed to himself. Being outfoxed by a bunch of fucking poorly trained cooks burned his ass. Nobody screwed with him that way. Not the Navy, not the officers, not even the fucking cops. One last score was what he wanted for his men. One last big one to retire on.
“Captain says they’re down in that hole.” Draven pointed to the sealed hatch to stores. Initially they’d ignored it, since it was locked from the outside. How they’d done that bit of mischief he’d figure out eventually. The captain discussed his plan to sell them all off as slaves already, and the marine approved. A little bit of extra cash would help them all out. “Unlock it and toss down a couple of CS grenades. Those bays are huge, but we might get lucky.”
Three marines approached the door and unlocked it. Standard codes weren’t needed in the kitchen. Anything of value that required securing was supposed to be in either the purser’s office or sealed up in the main bay. Who wanted food stocks, anyway? Only kitchen staff could prepare them. Chucking in a half-dozen mixed tear gas and smoke grenades, the men sealed the door back up quickly.
“That should ruin their day. Captain Vaslov says not to worry about them. When they gas the ship, we can retrieve them easily. Secure the main doors and switch off the lifts. If they make it out they won’t go very far. Be sure to lock as many inner doors as you can, then join me on the bridge,” Draven ordered his men. “As you sweep, lock any crewmen you find into their cabins. We won’t herd them together like this again. Just shoot them.”
While Draven was jacking around with his marines having a dick measuring contest or whatever, I was trying to work for a living. Pulling out all my shit, I ran through the checklist and armored up.
Body armor, check. This was the good stuff. Carbon fiber laced with super-kevlar and Draconian spider silk. Strongest natural fiber in the universe. An actual product from the Mouse Kingdom before they went all touristy. Army intelligence snapped up the process and every catchable specimen way before they built the castles and fun-rides. Pretty much only used by special operations and those high enough up the food chain to even know what they fucking were. Chair warming generals and admirals. Since I wasn’t exactly active anymore, I only had the vest and leggings. If I got shot in the head or arms I was screwed. Looking over my shoulder at how snug they fit me, I smiled. My ass was tight and shiny. Too bad I had bad guys to kill. This could be Party time instead.
Guns, knives, shit that goes boom! I had a sampling of it all. Admiral Hawthorne's theory behind my little stash was a simple one. Use what I had to get bigger shit. Raid the armory, steal a ship, blow up the bad guy. I’d been trained by the best the Confederation had to offer, and some they feared. If I needed more than twenty clips, I might as well kiss my tight ass goodbye right now. My bag was light, but it had all the goodies special ops was famous for. I was better than a bunch of pussy marines, and it was time to share it with them. “Cry havoc and release the...Goddess? Release the Goddess of war! Or the cook of war. Chef of war? Something like that. Time to get it on!”
Crouching low, I peeked out of my quarters’ doorway. No sign of any guards. I pulled up the ship’s schematics on my internal screen and double checked my plan. It only made sense for the guards to cover the major intersections leading to weapons and the bridge. This far forward, the engine room was too far away to get to. Not that my taking it would help this situation. I didn’t know a sprocket from a spindle in there. I’d be libel to blow us the hell up. No, I needed to either access the lift system going up a floor, or crawl back into the Jeffries tubes. I wasn’t about to dress down to get through them this time.
One guard. One. That’s all they left on the lift system doorway. I guess in hindsight it made sense. None of the regular crewmembers should think anything was wrong beyond added security. Only I knew the truth about the command staff. Even if it didn’t make any sense.
Marine Rudolph Buckley was about half asleep on the job. Pushing off the wall for about the fiftieth time, the private thought about what put him here, on guard duty no less. He’d spent four long, grueling weeks in the brig on board the Cincinnati before being transferred to Hell. He’d told the jury of his peers that he hadn’t meant to kill Petty Officer Jenkins in a fight, but he was lying. And they knew it.
There were only some times that temporary insanity would work in a military court. Rudy had already had his three saves. First back on Antar, where he’d been a militia sergeant, and then on Alpha Centauri Four as a cargo lifter. Changing his name and DNA trace were easier than it sounded, but he couldn’t give up the call of the military. Too much free shit and pushing people around for money sounded so right to him. Damn military cops! Using a new procedure, they’d drilled his teeth and found real DNA and his true identity after he’d been caught on a military station smoking an illicit substance. Instant ticket to Hell, the Confederation’s most secure prison planet. It was rumored most inmates lasted half a rotation before being killed. Almost no one returned from there, to be sure.
During the trial, Rudy wailed, pleaded, and beat his fists against the walls of his cell, to no avail. The prison guards had seen it all. Many potential inmates finished themselves off before the shuttle even touched down. But it wasn’t the kindness of strangers that saved him. He was alive now, but thinking of the past still made him shudder. Death was his only option until Master Sergeant Draven saved him.
“Ready to die boy? The moment we touch down it’s going to be a melee like you’ve only dreamed about. If they don’t eat you first, they’ll rape you. Nice smooth-skinned boy like you might last a day or so. Save me some of that and I’ll make you my bitch,” prisoner #2-543-9 yelled from across the bay.
Three hundred prisoners stacked in three by three half meter isolation cubes lay in rows across the deck of the ship. The most violent were stacked together at one end. Killer though he might be, Rudy wasn’t like the others. His kills were much cleaner than the psychotic man in the next cell. Shouts, screams, and taunts filled the air all around him. A phrase from history popped into his brain all of a sudden, “Those about to die, we salute you.” They were all about to die; most of the prisoners were just fighting back in the only way they knew.
Rudy wasn’t all that religious, but clutching his manacled hands in front of him, he said a prayer or three to all the deities he could remember. Buddha, Loki, the White Christ. Surely one of them might put in a good word for him with the Creator of Space.
Boom! The cargo ship shuddered. The lights dimmed suddenly. Lying on his side, Rudy could sort of see out of the small feeding slit in his cube. None of the attendants were present, but he could hear the faint whine of repulsor rifles. Maybe there’d been a break out?
Gunfire noises increased so much that the other prisoners were now screaming. Some to be saved, some to just end it now and take all the pain away. Rudy could go either way.
The flickering stopped as did the sounds of battle. An occasional shot reinforced the idea that someone had won. Who it was remained to be seen.
“Shut the fucking hell up, you goddamn rats!” A voice suddenly shouted over the hanger bay loudspeaker.
“Fuck you!” A prisoner at the edge of the deck yelled back.
“Cha-cha-chow…” The stuttering of a fleet battle rifle sounded as it killed the protester and shut everyone up. Including the psycho across from Rudy. “Speak out of turn and you’re dead. We can space the lot of you right now if you like!”
The bay fell silent. All Rudy could hear were the sounds of his own breath. Half a second later the voice yelled again. “We’re looking for a few good men. Former military, cry out as we pass. The rest of you, shut the fuck up or die.”
Taking the chance as manna from heaven, Rudy volunteered right then and there. Twisting his body into a human pretzel he managed to stick his fingers out the food slot. “Take me. I’m a marine.”
“Marine,” said the shadow of a man standing next to his opaque cube. “Unit and length of service.”
Rudy swallowed hard and repeated his basic info. Each and every Confed soldier and sailor knew their details intimately. You needed to if you wanted to be paid by the quartermaster.
“I’m a marine too! Take me! Get me out of this thing,” the psycho next door started shouting at the man.
“You, you aren’t worth the shit on my boots. A marine, my mother's white shiny ass,” the evaluator exclaimed. Pulling his sidearm he shot the psycho in the head. “Let that be a lesson to all of you. Lying will get you dead.”
And so, Rudy was rescued. The ship he was on was scuttled. Whether it happened before or after they removed the prisoners was none of his business. All he knew was that Draven and those above him saved his life, and for that he owed them everything. Including his loyalty. So no matter how boring the job was, it was better than an isolation cube on its way to planet Hell.
Slinging off the backpack he wore, Rudy dug around inside it for a stim pack. If he wasn’t being relieved, maybe he’d take a small hit of paradise to wake him up. It was then he felt the knife at his throat. Shit.
How stupid were these guys? Turning their back to both directions of the hallway? Idiot.
“Drop the pack,” I whispered into the man’s ear. As hungry as my blade might be for blood, I needed information. This guy was about to give it to me, or else. “Slide your ass into the meeting room over there.” I gave him a not so light punch to the kidneys in the direction I wanted him to go. “Move it!”
Like every new place, I’d scouted the hallways out pretty well with the access I was given. Besides visitors’ quarters, this floor contained two meeting rooms and a set of extra heads. The meeting room was what I wanted for question and answer time. Keeping my knife blade under his chin, I stabbed him with a preloaded knockout stick. Just one of my more special tools. The fake marine went down like a sack of potatoes. Now for the real fun.
Hoisting him to the ceiling up was the hardest part of my plan. Because of construction details and battle damage needs almost every room on board ship was equipped with places to hang equipment. It took very little time to secure him and then all my strength to get him up high, like a side of beef.
“You work out,” I said as I stripped the imposter marine of all his things. “Nice abs. If you weren’t the enemy, I’d do you right here and now. You could tell all your asshole buddies down in the swamp that you’d ridden the wild chef. But since you’re not really a marine, you don’t get that privilege.” Using my knife, I sliced away his trousers and shorts. Sizing him up, I laughed. “Then again, you are a much smaller marine than I’m used to. That’s got to be how you tell the good from the bad, size. You’re a bit short there, buddy.” Giving him a sharp poke to the genitals, I woke him up.
“Ready to start talking now, little man?” I taunted.
“You bitch! Cut me down now!”
“Nope. I have all the cards. Your name badge says Buckley. Is that your real name?” I asked, holding up the name patch. Just for fun, I’d cut the uniform off him.
“Get me down or so help me…” Buckley shouted, but he stopped mid-sentence as my icy cold blade brushed up against his balls.
“Here’s how we’re going to play my game. I’ll ask the questions and you, you’ll answer them. Don’t bother screaming, these rooms were designed so the corporate stooges could have all the privacy they think they deserve. “Ten centimeters thick.”
“What do you want to know?” Buckley exclaimed, a touch of fear in his voice.
“Did I ask you a question Mr. Buckley? I don’t think so.” Using my knife, I cut him across the chest. Barely breaking the skin, the sharp blade severed several small blood vessels.
“Aaaaa!” Buckley screamed in pain.
“Now I know you’re not a real marine. That’s barely a scratch. State your name and rank, for real. Not this mercenary shit,” I ordered, my knife at the ready.
Buckley flailed his arms and legs around. “Buckley, Rudolph no-middle-initial. Marine recruitment and social services division.”
I snorted. “R and S? You’re one of those pussy boys? Seriously? Your kind hides in the gutter, scraping planets of their young and educated. I’m surprised you know how to fire a rifle much less hold one at port arms. How’d you end up with this bunch, pussy boy?”
Buckley shook his head. “No. I recognize you now. You’re that chef the captain wants.”
“Captains never get what they want when it comes to me. Vaslov would only be so lucky. Now, who are your little friends, and how did you get on this ship?” I asked again, jabbing him with the point of my blade.
“Arrgh, you can’t do this. Torture is against navy regs!” Buckley screamed at me.
“Is it?” I shrugged. “Where I come from, things are a bit different. You might say I’ve got connections. Let me tell you what I’m going to do if you don’t start with the talking. I’ve got some fun tools I picked up a few years ago called hemostats. They look a bit like old-fashioned scissors. Rim world colonies don’t have the luxury of Robo-docs and AI surgeons. They do things the old-fashioned way. You called me chef. Did you know that in culinary school they teach you how to identify the parts of animals? Have you ever tried Rocky Mountain oysters?” Not waiting for an answer, I sliced his genitals right off his body. The sinew and blood vessels parted in a spray of blood. Using a hemostat, I cut his bleeding off. But not before the spray covered me from head to toe. Wiping my face off, I grinned up at the now screaming man, my face a rictus of death incarnate. “It’s party time and I’m hungry.”
Who Likes Oysters?
It took carving Buckley’s arm off him to get him to finally speak the truth to me. Carving a man up like a chicken is a lot easier than one might think. All you need is the will and a sharp knife. Humans are much like cows and pigs. We have the same basic parts. The extremities are the easiest to cut off, but you have to do it properly. You can keep someone alive for days on end with the right tools. Tools I didn’t have. So just the threat of carving out his tenderloin, cooking it up, and feeding it to Buckley broke him. Well, that and the testicle I fed him. Being a chef was so much fun!
Once he swallowed and stopped screaming, Buckley poured his guts out to me. He explained Draven, the mercenary group he’d formed, and the contract they’d gotten from Captain Vaslov. He’d mentioned the mysterious third party as well, but that information was need-to-know, and Buckley did have the clearance for it.
Vaslov would bring them aboard. They’d play at being marines for a couple of weeks then turn the ship over to this third party. Simple. Shooting members of the crew hadn’t been part Vaslov’s plan. Draven seemed to have his own agenda. Buckley and his compatriots didn’t care either way, as long as they got paid. It was a death sentence for all of them if they were caught, anyway.
