Gates of Hell, page 12
“Stand down, Stathis.” Mathison putting an edge in his voice and Stathis took his hand off his pistol.
“How can we fight something like that?” Stathis asked.
“Harsh language,” Mathison said. “Keep your hands off your weapons. I don’t want you shooting holes in the shuttle.”
“Aye, Gunny.” Stathis sounded calmer, now. Score another one for NCO command presence.
Time passed, but neither Marine saw anything else. Finally, Mathison felt a warm sensation flow through his body as the Tiananmen entered normal space.
“We need to get out of this shuttle, Gunny,” Stathis said.
Mathison couldn’t argue. He did not want to be in the shuttle going through wormhole space again. It couldn’t be any worse in a prison cell, could it? What would happen if they had been in wormhole space for longer?
“Can you get us into the Tiananmen?” Mathison asked Freya.
“I should be able to. There’s a storage room near a shuttle bay you could use. I will change permissions so nobody else can access the space. That should keep visitors out. Unfortunately, senior officers will be able to override it. But it’s a big ship, so you might be able stow away successfully if we maintain control of the network.”
“How senior?”
“Just ship’s officers; commander and up.”
Which might work, unless it was a broom closet.
“Good,” Mathison said. “Better than here. With my luck, they’ll decide to jettison the shuttle in deep space because it’s useless weight. How do we get there?”
“That will be tricky. If you ditch your trauma plates you will look more like SOG crew in space dress, but the SOG crew members do not walk around armed.”
“So, we put our extra gear into a bag or something. Then we walk to the storeroom and lock ourselves in until an opportunity presents itself.”
“Yes, but I’ll also have to mask your presence, erasing it as we go. You can’t fart aboard the Tiananmen without it being recorded and analyzed for treason.”
“Any luck on finding out more from the bridge?”
“Yes and no,” Freya said. “The bridge and astrogation are on separate isolated subnets. I have no access to them.”
“And?” Mathison prompted.
“And they monitor even the officers for compliance,” Freya said. “I have observed a very interesting conversation between commissars. It appears the travel pods the troops sleep in are also incineration pods. They incinerated three troopers. Apparently they went crazy, a very severe case of Kiska Syndrome.”
“Great.”
“It makes me think things might not be much better aboard the ship,” Freya said.
“That’s nice,” Mathison said. “Can we work on getting to that storeroom?”
* * * * *
Chapter Twenty-Five: Storeroom
Gunnery Sergeant Wolf Mathison, USMC
The room was bigger than he had expected. There were several aisles, created using metal panels. There were crates stacked atop each other and magnetically attached to the walls. Boxes were coded, but they made little sense to Mathison until Freya accessed the inventory and displayed a pop-up in his vision showing the contents. There was everything here except weapons, explosives, and ammunition.
“You are the first line of defense against the total collapse of civilization and human decency,” the intercom said.
Mathison wished he could mute it. It was getting old. The damned voice had not shut up since they had managed to get aboard the Tiananmen.
“You are the firstborn. You are the guardians of society, the heroes of the future. Without the order and standards implemented by the Central Committee, humanity would devolve into individuality and violence. The Social Organizational Governance depends on you. You are the sharpened sword, the well-aimed gun, the steel gauntlet of the righteous. You are the champions of social organization and civilization. You unite humanity and will bring about a socialist utopia.”
“Can we shut that off?” Mathison asked Freya.
“Not easily. I’m filtering out the subliminal messaging, though. It is part of the mutiny defense mechanism. There are microphones throughout the ship that monitors sound levels. In places where there are not enough cameras, they use it like a radar system to map out people’s location and actions. They use the wireless networks similarly.”
“Seriously? Is that possible?”
“Yes. I am working to silence it in this room, but that could initiate a maintenance ticket and a crewman visiting with a replacement part. They are extremely paranoid aboard this ship and masking our presence is difficult. They behave like mutinies happen on a weekly basis or something. Not that I blame them, actually.”
“Gunny?” Stathis asked. “Do you think they would notice if I shoot the speakers?”
“Probably,” Mathison said. “But I’m wondering if that’s a bad thing, unless they also pipe it into the prison cells and morgue.”
Stathis stared at where the droning voice was coming from.
“You hold the line against lawlessness and social upheaval. You protect the weak, the young, the innocent. You defend our freedoms and our virtue,” the voice went on. “It is your mission in life to fight treason, social injustice, and disloyalty to the Central Committee, the guardians of humanity. Violence brings peace. Mercy provokes betrayal. Compassion breeds selfishness.”
Mathison walked around, checking what was in stock, when the voice changed and became louder.
“All personnel,” the voice said. “Jump stations. Report to jump stations immediately. Jump duration will be ten minutes. Anyone found outside their pod will be shot.”
“Can my jump station be out the airlock, Gunny?” Stathis said. “I really don’t want to go through that again.”
“Maybe it will be different inside the hull,” Mathison said.
The regular propaganda voice droned on.
“An open mind is weakness. You have been specially selected to serve in your current role. Your physical and mental capabilities have been carefully evaluated, and we have assigned you to the place that you can make the biggest contribution to the common good. You are exceptional and the free and happy people of the Governance appreciates your contribution. Sometimes your job may seem difficult, but your officers will not let your good work go unnoticed.”
Mathison rolled his eyes.
The icy chill of transition into the wormhole flowed through Mathison. He willed it to differ from the shuttle.
It wasn’t.
* * * * *
Chapter Twenty-Six: Inspection
Gunnery Sergeant Wolf Mathison, USMC
Neither of the Marines could move inside the cramped confines of the locker. Stathis was almost sitting on Mathison’s head, and Mathison was sitting on their weapons and trauma plates while the three crew inventoried the storage room. Freya could only block the inventory for so long because the officers seemed to work overtime to keep the crew and troops busy. Mathison knew it was because it took their mind off the casualties and kept them out of trouble.
Over the last week, Mathison and Stathis had spent most of their time tapped into the video feeds watching the people of the Tiananmen go about their daily chores. There were few robots in use, which did not seem efficient, and most crew were nothing more than meat puppets for their headsets, which told them where to go and what to do. The headsets linked into the main Tiananmen network and databases so any crewman could fix or replace most pieces of equipment by following the instructions displayed on their retina by their headset.
Combat troops were kept busy with constant drills and exercise. It was depressing to watch the way the troops were treated, like every day was boot camp. The Guards had no free time, no time to unwind, and Mathison couldn’t understand how they suffered through it. Many were like automatons. The crew and the troops were kept separated, which made sense since most of the crew were women and most of the Guards were men. It was easy enough to identify a person’s branch with just a casual look due to the steroids fed to the troops. The crew were small like Stathis, and the Guards were usually big like Mathison.
Freya, or Shrek, had adjusted the shipboard inventory to compensate for the rations and other supplies Mathison and Stathis were using. They were both armored, minus their trauma plates, just in case. The nearby bathroom allowed them to avoid overloading their suit systems, but Freya was making Mathison paranoid that some SOG technician would notice the increase in facility use and begin investigating.
“Are those women, Gunny?” Stathis asked as he watched the video feed of the storage room and the crew going cabinet to cabinet.
Mathison looked at the three crew members. The baggy, shapeless, dark blue jumpsuits made them appear sexless and plain. The Governance did their best to hide the gender of their troops, which probably made it easier to think of them all as not being different or individually unique, like ants.
“Yes,” Mathison said. “Watch their center of gravity. It’s higher.”
“Oh,” Stathis said. “Those SOG rations give me gas.”
Stathis shifted his hips again.
“Quit squirming,” Mathison said. Whenever Stathis moved his hips, he pushed Mathison’s head against the side of the locker.
“Gunny,” Stathis sang. “I just killed a man. Put my butt against his head, cut a fart and now he’s dead.”
“Shut up, Stathis,” Mathison said, thankful he was wearing his helmet and breathing recycled air.
“But those SOG rations give me gas,” Stathis said. Mathison couldn’t shake his head and there was something disturbing about Stathis farting next to his head. “It’s uncomfortable.”
“Wait until I put my boot up your ass,” Mathison said. Stathis stopped squirming so much.
“Gunny,” Stathis sang. “My tour had just begun—”
“I swear to god, I’m going to throat punch you, Stathis.”
“Maybe if things don’t work out with the Republic we can join the SOG ODTs.”
“Seriously?” Stathis had seemed to enjoy watching the ODT battalion aboard the Tiananmen train.
“They seem pretty hard core, Gunny. Not Marine standards, mind you, but they are the best we’ve seen. They also get real powered armor and blazers, unlike the Guard. I’ll bet with our SCBIs we could make ourselves officers.”
“You want to be an officer, Stathis?”
“It would be an easy life. Just make sure we have the best NCOs. I think our SCBIs could arrange that. NCOs do all the work.”
Mathison opened his mouth then shut it. Arguing with a private was a good way to get dragged into the gutter of stupidity and beat to death with inexperience.
“That’s right, Private,” Mathison said with the patience of a parent.
Some battles could not be won. And some battles were not worth fighting.
* * * * *
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Colonel Feng
Gunnery Sergeant Wolf Mathison, USMC
Mathison did not want Stathis to go alone, but there were no other options. He expected alarms any second as he watched the private make his way through the corridors. The young Marine looked and acted just like one of the regular spacers, with his shaved head, baggy, dark blue jumpsuit that didn’t fit, and the slouch. It tore at Mathison. He wanted to yell at the young man for slouching like a slob, but he was doing a great job emulating the SOG spaceberts.
While there were the occasional large spacers, there were very few small Guardsmen. He watched through the Tiananmen’s cameras being displayed on his retina by Freya, geared up and ready to rush to Stathis’ rescue. He didn’t like sending a young, inexperienced private into harm’s way. Not like this. But Freya assured him it wouldn’t be a problem. Mathison knew anything that could go wrong would. And while it was difficult to tell him from one of the spacers, this was Stathis, and perhaps the only skill Mathison knew the young man was truly good at was fighting.
Stathis had spent hours watching the crew as they moved around the ship, and Shrek had downloaded some manuals for the two Marines to go over, but this was an acting job and that worried Mathison. How could a private be a competent actor?
One of them had to get more food, though, since the stock in the storage room was minimal. One would think they would spread emergency rations throughout the ship in large quantities, but the SOG, in its infinite wisdom, had decided to not put many in the storage room and the Marines had already gone through the small stash. Since Stathis was less obvious, both SCBIs agreed he had the best chance to move around the ship without being noticed. Mathison was just too big and memorable.
Mathison felt a little better as he watched the private walk down the corridor. The private acted like a natural spacer, and he was nearly to the supply commissary where the SCBIs had arranged for an order to be ready for him. It was just a small box, nothing big or noticeable. They were emergency rations, and the official story was that he was replacing some in a storeroom that had expired. On a large ship like this, Mathison hoped nobody would recognize a new face.
Stathis turned a corner and almost bumped into a SOG officer dressed from head to toe in gray so dark it was almost black. Stathis leapt out of the way and froze like the other spacers usually did.
Mathison had seen this officer several times. He saw the hammer and sword symbol on his uniform, the emblem of the ODT. Commissar lightning bolts and a colonel’s eagle adorned his collar and shoulder tabs. Mathison’s mouth went dry. The SCBIs had not seen him because that corridor had some broken sensor links.
“Stop,” the colonel said.
Mathison brought up a dossier on the ship’s net. Colonel Shing Feng, commissar colonel, ODT qualified and most of his record was classified at a level not even Freya could dig up. Crap.
“Yes, Friend Colonel,” Stathis said, coming to a pretty good equivalent of SOG attention, hands at his sides, chin up as if exposing the throat, shoulders pushed way back.
“You don’t look familiar, friend spacer,” Colonel Feng said, like a predator who had spied prey.
“I’m sorry, Friend Colonel,” Stathis said. “I seek to serve without recognition.”
The colonel scowled at Stathis.
Mathison checked his rifle. Yes, he had a round chambered. The colonel had a sidearm, like all officers. Stathis had nothing except his bare hands. Mathison doubted he could get to Stathis in time. The young private was a level up and about five hundred meters to the rear of the ship. Stathis was good at unarmed combat, though. If he could take on an Aesir, he should be able to stomp some stuck-up, prissy commissar, but then the gig would be up and the SOG would hunt for them.
“What division are you?” the colonel asked.
“Blue division,” Stathis said. “Under Lieutenant Bukolov, Friend Colonel.”
“Are you one of the spacers we picked up at Tau Ceti?” the colonel asked.
“No, Friend Colonel,” Stathis said and Mathison’s blood went cold. Why the hell hadn’t the private said yes? That was an easy out.
The colonel nodded, as if satisfied.
What?
“We didn’t pick up anyone in Tau Ceti, did we?” the colonel asked. “What is your name?”
“I don’t know about Tau Ceti, Friend Colonel,” Stathis said. “This spacer’s name is Zale Bobylev.”
“Why don’t you know if we picked up anyone in Tau Ceti?” the colonel asked.
Stathis shrugged, and Mathison wanted to strangle the private. You don’t shrug at commissars!
“I don’t have a lot of friends, Friend Colonel,” Stathis said.
“Are you anti-social?” Feng asked, sounding more curious than angry.
“No, Friend Colonel,” Stathis said quickly. “I mean, I don’t have a lot of friends I talk to a lot.”
“He’s accessing the Tiananmen data net,” Freya told Mathison. “I’m feeding him some bogus information.”
“Hm,” the colonel said, looking at Stathis but reviewing the data Freya was feeding him.
“Fine, Spacer Bobylev,” Feng said. “Go about your business.”
“Thank you, Friend Colonel,” Stathis said, popping out an open-hand salute, showing Feng the palm of his hand before sprinting down the hallway away from him.
Mathison let out the breath he’d been holding.
The commissar watched Stathis go, his face expressionless. There was something about the colonel that made Mathison nervous.
Stathis hadn’t done half bad; that was a surprise.
The private made it to the commissary, picked up the package, and made it back to the storeroom without having to talk to anyone else.
“That colonel is a crafty bastard,” Freya reported as Mathison opened one of the rations Stathis had brought back. “He’s actually going through Blue Division’s watch roster looking for Bobylev.”
“And?” Mathison thought.
“Shrek and I have made sure he found what he was looking for. But he is a dangerous person. Even with such a large crew he can identify a spacer on sight alone.”
“Maybe we can arrange for him to have an accident?”
“Maybe you can. I can’t do that.”
“Right,” Mathison said. “Well, you get me a button, and I will make it happen.”
“That might be an option,” Freya said. “I will review my protocols and conscience.”
“Good,” Mathison said. He wished Stathis had been able to get something other than emergency rations. Was it the fate of humanity to always make emergency rations taste like rotting garbage?
Colonel Commissar Feng might have to be dealt with, especially if he started poking around more. Mathison scanned the logs Freya had dug up on him. He seemed to spend a lot of time talking with someone on the Tupolev and spent a lot of time with the ODTs. As a colonel it looked like everyone, including the captain, deferred to him, but Mathison wasn’t sure if that was because he was a commissar or because of his connections to the person on the Tupolev.
“How can we fight something like that?” Stathis asked.
“Harsh language,” Mathison said. “Keep your hands off your weapons. I don’t want you shooting holes in the shuttle.”
“Aye, Gunny.” Stathis sounded calmer, now. Score another one for NCO command presence.
Time passed, but neither Marine saw anything else. Finally, Mathison felt a warm sensation flow through his body as the Tiananmen entered normal space.
“We need to get out of this shuttle, Gunny,” Stathis said.
Mathison couldn’t argue. He did not want to be in the shuttle going through wormhole space again. It couldn’t be any worse in a prison cell, could it? What would happen if they had been in wormhole space for longer?
“Can you get us into the Tiananmen?” Mathison asked Freya.
“I should be able to. There’s a storage room near a shuttle bay you could use. I will change permissions so nobody else can access the space. That should keep visitors out. Unfortunately, senior officers will be able to override it. But it’s a big ship, so you might be able stow away successfully if we maintain control of the network.”
“How senior?”
“Just ship’s officers; commander and up.”
Which might work, unless it was a broom closet.
“Good,” Mathison said. “Better than here. With my luck, they’ll decide to jettison the shuttle in deep space because it’s useless weight. How do we get there?”
“That will be tricky. If you ditch your trauma plates you will look more like SOG crew in space dress, but the SOG crew members do not walk around armed.”
“So, we put our extra gear into a bag or something. Then we walk to the storeroom and lock ourselves in until an opportunity presents itself.”
“Yes, but I’ll also have to mask your presence, erasing it as we go. You can’t fart aboard the Tiananmen without it being recorded and analyzed for treason.”
“Any luck on finding out more from the bridge?”
“Yes and no,” Freya said. “The bridge and astrogation are on separate isolated subnets. I have no access to them.”
“And?” Mathison prompted.
“And they monitor even the officers for compliance,” Freya said. “I have observed a very interesting conversation between commissars. It appears the travel pods the troops sleep in are also incineration pods. They incinerated three troopers. Apparently they went crazy, a very severe case of Kiska Syndrome.”
“Great.”
“It makes me think things might not be much better aboard the ship,” Freya said.
“That’s nice,” Mathison said. “Can we work on getting to that storeroom?”
* * * * *
Chapter Twenty-Five: Storeroom
Gunnery Sergeant Wolf Mathison, USMC
The room was bigger than he had expected. There were several aisles, created using metal panels. There were crates stacked atop each other and magnetically attached to the walls. Boxes were coded, but they made little sense to Mathison until Freya accessed the inventory and displayed a pop-up in his vision showing the contents. There was everything here except weapons, explosives, and ammunition.
“You are the first line of defense against the total collapse of civilization and human decency,” the intercom said.
Mathison wished he could mute it. It was getting old. The damned voice had not shut up since they had managed to get aboard the Tiananmen.
“You are the firstborn. You are the guardians of society, the heroes of the future. Without the order and standards implemented by the Central Committee, humanity would devolve into individuality and violence. The Social Organizational Governance depends on you. You are the sharpened sword, the well-aimed gun, the steel gauntlet of the righteous. You are the champions of social organization and civilization. You unite humanity and will bring about a socialist utopia.”
“Can we shut that off?” Mathison asked Freya.
“Not easily. I’m filtering out the subliminal messaging, though. It is part of the mutiny defense mechanism. There are microphones throughout the ship that monitors sound levels. In places where there are not enough cameras, they use it like a radar system to map out people’s location and actions. They use the wireless networks similarly.”
“Seriously? Is that possible?”
“Yes. I am working to silence it in this room, but that could initiate a maintenance ticket and a crewman visiting with a replacement part. They are extremely paranoid aboard this ship and masking our presence is difficult. They behave like mutinies happen on a weekly basis or something. Not that I blame them, actually.”
“Gunny?” Stathis asked. “Do you think they would notice if I shoot the speakers?”
“Probably,” Mathison said. “But I’m wondering if that’s a bad thing, unless they also pipe it into the prison cells and morgue.”
Stathis stared at where the droning voice was coming from.
“You hold the line against lawlessness and social upheaval. You protect the weak, the young, the innocent. You defend our freedoms and our virtue,” the voice went on. “It is your mission in life to fight treason, social injustice, and disloyalty to the Central Committee, the guardians of humanity. Violence brings peace. Mercy provokes betrayal. Compassion breeds selfishness.”
Mathison walked around, checking what was in stock, when the voice changed and became louder.
“All personnel,” the voice said. “Jump stations. Report to jump stations immediately. Jump duration will be ten minutes. Anyone found outside their pod will be shot.”
“Can my jump station be out the airlock, Gunny?” Stathis said. “I really don’t want to go through that again.”
“Maybe it will be different inside the hull,” Mathison said.
The regular propaganda voice droned on.
“An open mind is weakness. You have been specially selected to serve in your current role. Your physical and mental capabilities have been carefully evaluated, and we have assigned you to the place that you can make the biggest contribution to the common good. You are exceptional and the free and happy people of the Governance appreciates your contribution. Sometimes your job may seem difficult, but your officers will not let your good work go unnoticed.”
Mathison rolled his eyes.
The icy chill of transition into the wormhole flowed through Mathison. He willed it to differ from the shuttle.
It wasn’t.
* * * * *
Chapter Twenty-Six: Inspection
Gunnery Sergeant Wolf Mathison, USMC
Neither of the Marines could move inside the cramped confines of the locker. Stathis was almost sitting on Mathison’s head, and Mathison was sitting on their weapons and trauma plates while the three crew inventoried the storage room. Freya could only block the inventory for so long because the officers seemed to work overtime to keep the crew and troops busy. Mathison knew it was because it took their mind off the casualties and kept them out of trouble.
Over the last week, Mathison and Stathis had spent most of their time tapped into the video feeds watching the people of the Tiananmen go about their daily chores. There were few robots in use, which did not seem efficient, and most crew were nothing more than meat puppets for their headsets, which told them where to go and what to do. The headsets linked into the main Tiananmen network and databases so any crewman could fix or replace most pieces of equipment by following the instructions displayed on their retina by their headset.
Combat troops were kept busy with constant drills and exercise. It was depressing to watch the way the troops were treated, like every day was boot camp. The Guards had no free time, no time to unwind, and Mathison couldn’t understand how they suffered through it. Many were like automatons. The crew and the troops were kept separated, which made sense since most of the crew were women and most of the Guards were men. It was easy enough to identify a person’s branch with just a casual look due to the steroids fed to the troops. The crew were small like Stathis, and the Guards were usually big like Mathison.
Freya, or Shrek, had adjusted the shipboard inventory to compensate for the rations and other supplies Mathison and Stathis were using. They were both armored, minus their trauma plates, just in case. The nearby bathroom allowed them to avoid overloading their suit systems, but Freya was making Mathison paranoid that some SOG technician would notice the increase in facility use and begin investigating.
“Are those women, Gunny?” Stathis asked as he watched the video feed of the storage room and the crew going cabinet to cabinet.
Mathison looked at the three crew members. The baggy, shapeless, dark blue jumpsuits made them appear sexless and plain. The Governance did their best to hide the gender of their troops, which probably made it easier to think of them all as not being different or individually unique, like ants.
“Yes,” Mathison said. “Watch their center of gravity. It’s higher.”
“Oh,” Stathis said. “Those SOG rations give me gas.”
Stathis shifted his hips again.
“Quit squirming,” Mathison said. Whenever Stathis moved his hips, he pushed Mathison’s head against the side of the locker.
“Gunny,” Stathis sang. “I just killed a man. Put my butt against his head, cut a fart and now he’s dead.”
“Shut up, Stathis,” Mathison said, thankful he was wearing his helmet and breathing recycled air.
“But those SOG rations give me gas,” Stathis said. Mathison couldn’t shake his head and there was something disturbing about Stathis farting next to his head. “It’s uncomfortable.”
“Wait until I put my boot up your ass,” Mathison said. Stathis stopped squirming so much.
“Gunny,” Stathis sang. “My tour had just begun—”
“I swear to god, I’m going to throat punch you, Stathis.”
“Maybe if things don’t work out with the Republic we can join the SOG ODTs.”
“Seriously?” Stathis had seemed to enjoy watching the ODT battalion aboard the Tiananmen train.
“They seem pretty hard core, Gunny. Not Marine standards, mind you, but they are the best we’ve seen. They also get real powered armor and blazers, unlike the Guard. I’ll bet with our SCBIs we could make ourselves officers.”
“You want to be an officer, Stathis?”
“It would be an easy life. Just make sure we have the best NCOs. I think our SCBIs could arrange that. NCOs do all the work.”
Mathison opened his mouth then shut it. Arguing with a private was a good way to get dragged into the gutter of stupidity and beat to death with inexperience.
“That’s right, Private,” Mathison said with the patience of a parent.
Some battles could not be won. And some battles were not worth fighting.
* * * * *
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Colonel Feng
Gunnery Sergeant Wolf Mathison, USMC
Mathison did not want Stathis to go alone, but there were no other options. He expected alarms any second as he watched the private make his way through the corridors. The young Marine looked and acted just like one of the regular spacers, with his shaved head, baggy, dark blue jumpsuit that didn’t fit, and the slouch. It tore at Mathison. He wanted to yell at the young man for slouching like a slob, but he was doing a great job emulating the SOG spaceberts.
While there were the occasional large spacers, there were very few small Guardsmen. He watched through the Tiananmen’s cameras being displayed on his retina by Freya, geared up and ready to rush to Stathis’ rescue. He didn’t like sending a young, inexperienced private into harm’s way. Not like this. But Freya assured him it wouldn’t be a problem. Mathison knew anything that could go wrong would. And while it was difficult to tell him from one of the spacers, this was Stathis, and perhaps the only skill Mathison knew the young man was truly good at was fighting.
Stathis had spent hours watching the crew as they moved around the ship, and Shrek had downloaded some manuals for the two Marines to go over, but this was an acting job and that worried Mathison. How could a private be a competent actor?
One of them had to get more food, though, since the stock in the storage room was minimal. One would think they would spread emergency rations throughout the ship in large quantities, but the SOG, in its infinite wisdom, had decided to not put many in the storage room and the Marines had already gone through the small stash. Since Stathis was less obvious, both SCBIs agreed he had the best chance to move around the ship without being noticed. Mathison was just too big and memorable.
Mathison felt a little better as he watched the private walk down the corridor. The private acted like a natural spacer, and he was nearly to the supply commissary where the SCBIs had arranged for an order to be ready for him. It was just a small box, nothing big or noticeable. They were emergency rations, and the official story was that he was replacing some in a storeroom that had expired. On a large ship like this, Mathison hoped nobody would recognize a new face.
Stathis turned a corner and almost bumped into a SOG officer dressed from head to toe in gray so dark it was almost black. Stathis leapt out of the way and froze like the other spacers usually did.
Mathison had seen this officer several times. He saw the hammer and sword symbol on his uniform, the emblem of the ODT. Commissar lightning bolts and a colonel’s eagle adorned his collar and shoulder tabs. Mathison’s mouth went dry. The SCBIs had not seen him because that corridor had some broken sensor links.
“Stop,” the colonel said.
Mathison brought up a dossier on the ship’s net. Colonel Shing Feng, commissar colonel, ODT qualified and most of his record was classified at a level not even Freya could dig up. Crap.
“Yes, Friend Colonel,” Stathis said, coming to a pretty good equivalent of SOG attention, hands at his sides, chin up as if exposing the throat, shoulders pushed way back.
“You don’t look familiar, friend spacer,” Colonel Feng said, like a predator who had spied prey.
“I’m sorry, Friend Colonel,” Stathis said. “I seek to serve without recognition.”
The colonel scowled at Stathis.
Mathison checked his rifle. Yes, he had a round chambered. The colonel had a sidearm, like all officers. Stathis had nothing except his bare hands. Mathison doubted he could get to Stathis in time. The young private was a level up and about five hundred meters to the rear of the ship. Stathis was good at unarmed combat, though. If he could take on an Aesir, he should be able to stomp some stuck-up, prissy commissar, but then the gig would be up and the SOG would hunt for them.
“What division are you?” the colonel asked.
“Blue division,” Stathis said. “Under Lieutenant Bukolov, Friend Colonel.”
“Are you one of the spacers we picked up at Tau Ceti?” the colonel asked.
“No, Friend Colonel,” Stathis said and Mathison’s blood went cold. Why the hell hadn’t the private said yes? That was an easy out.
The colonel nodded, as if satisfied.
What?
“We didn’t pick up anyone in Tau Ceti, did we?” the colonel asked. “What is your name?”
“I don’t know about Tau Ceti, Friend Colonel,” Stathis said. “This spacer’s name is Zale Bobylev.”
“Why don’t you know if we picked up anyone in Tau Ceti?” the colonel asked.
Stathis shrugged, and Mathison wanted to strangle the private. You don’t shrug at commissars!
“I don’t have a lot of friends, Friend Colonel,” Stathis said.
“Are you anti-social?” Feng asked, sounding more curious than angry.
“No, Friend Colonel,” Stathis said quickly. “I mean, I don’t have a lot of friends I talk to a lot.”
“He’s accessing the Tiananmen data net,” Freya told Mathison. “I’m feeding him some bogus information.”
“Hm,” the colonel said, looking at Stathis but reviewing the data Freya was feeding him.
“Fine, Spacer Bobylev,” Feng said. “Go about your business.”
“Thank you, Friend Colonel,” Stathis said, popping out an open-hand salute, showing Feng the palm of his hand before sprinting down the hallway away from him.
Mathison let out the breath he’d been holding.
The commissar watched Stathis go, his face expressionless. There was something about the colonel that made Mathison nervous.
Stathis hadn’t done half bad; that was a surprise.
The private made it to the commissary, picked up the package, and made it back to the storeroom without having to talk to anyone else.
“That colonel is a crafty bastard,” Freya reported as Mathison opened one of the rations Stathis had brought back. “He’s actually going through Blue Division’s watch roster looking for Bobylev.”
“And?” Mathison thought.
“Shrek and I have made sure he found what he was looking for. But he is a dangerous person. Even with such a large crew he can identify a spacer on sight alone.”
“Maybe we can arrange for him to have an accident?”
“Maybe you can. I can’t do that.”
“Right,” Mathison said. “Well, you get me a button, and I will make it happen.”
“That might be an option,” Freya said. “I will review my protocols and conscience.”
“Good,” Mathison said. He wished Stathis had been able to get something other than emergency rations. Was it the fate of humanity to always make emergency rations taste like rotting garbage?
Colonel Commissar Feng might have to be dealt with, especially if he started poking around more. Mathison scanned the logs Freya had dug up on him. He seemed to spend a lot of time talking with someone on the Tupolev and spent a lot of time with the ODTs. As a colonel it looked like everyone, including the captain, deferred to him, but Mathison wasn’t sure if that was because he was a commissar or because of his connections to the person on the Tupolev.
