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Combat Ops - Chapter Two
NOTE: This story is dedicated to Chris Bunch, author of the best military science fiction and fantasy I have ever read. The profane terms “drakh” and “clot” are used in homage to the mannerisms and speech he developed (along with Alan Cole) for the eight books in the Sten series, published 1982-1993.
Christopher R. Bunch
December 22, 1943 – July 4, 2005
*Long live the Eternal Emperor!*
(Note, italics and notative text do not post properly. Italics will be designated with asterisks before and after the italicized phrase, *like this*, and notatives will be designated with parenthesis, like this: 5.41 x 10(5th). I hope this keeps things readable. For the original manuscript in PDF format, contact Coach_wade@hotmail.com.)
***
The door chimed. MiexonBionic ran a hand over his eyes, blurred from staring at datapad screens and deciphering reports, and glanced at the sensorpad next to the passage. It was green, indicating members of the guild with eyes-only clearance. “Open,” he ordered.
Smoothly, the door slid aside to reveal the smallish form of N’gel S’nza P’ntal’ne standing beside the meatier frame of Quirc Taranis.
“All work and no play leads to the drakhhouse, Miex,” Quirc said with a half smile as he and N’gel approached the Commander’s desk.
“Someone needs to keep track of the amount of ordinance you two clowns go through,” MiexonBionic retorted. “You’re not beautiful women, and you aren’t carrying booze, so get to the point and get out of my office so I can go back to crying over expended mines. And it better be good.”
“I think you’ll like it,” N’gel said, pulling a datachip from the pocket of his flightsuit. “This is a recording of the B-11 skirmish four cycles ago. It hasn’t been declassed yet, so it’s still rated eyes-only.”
Miex raised an eyebrow. He leaned forward and placed his thumb on the reader next to his terminal. In seconds the computer recorded his porepattern and thermal signature, cross referenced it with its database, and determined that he was cleared to continue. A green light next to the reader blinked once. He waited while the other two logged into the system in the same manner, and then toggled a switch, sealing the room from unwanted eyes and ears with a low-grade electromagnetic pulse that would scramble listening and recording devices.
“All right,” he said when the scrambler was active. “What the clot is going on?”
Without a word N’gel handed him the chip. Eyebrow still cocked, Miex took it and slid it into a reader. “What am I looking at?”
“This is the flight recorder from my ship during the last part of the altercation in B-11.” N’gel told him. The time stamp is marked.”
There was silence for a few minutes as Miex ran the scanner. Suddenly he leaned forward. “*Holy drakh!*”
Quirc’s face split in a grin. “I thought you’d say something like that.”
“Is your mass scanner in calibration?” Miex asked N’gel.
It was the scarfaced pilot’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “I’ll choose to pretend you *didn’t* just ask me if I perform proper maintenance on my ship.”
“Um. Sorry.”
“Accepted.”
“Also on the chip is an OpOrder I took the liberty of drawing up for you.” Quirc interjected while Miex zoomed the recorder to its highest resolution.
“An OpOrder? For what?” Miex seemed mesmerized by the twinkling jewel on the screen.
“For what? Hark at the man,” Quirc nudged N’gel with an elbow. “The first wormhole discovered in a hundred and fifty-three years and he wants to know what the OpOrder is for. We’re req’ing 5000 liters of marmalade, a metric butt-ton of Tor’Dhar ale, and a trampoline, whatever that is. What do you *think* the OpOrder is for?” He leaned forward over his commander’s desk. “We want to explore it.”
That got Miex’s attention. “*What?* Absolutely not! I’m not going to punt both my seconds out into uncharted space to examine a potential wormhole that potentially could lead anywhere, including potential death and, in your cases, definite damnation!”
As usual, N’gel shifted to parade rest and relaxed in preparation for the spirited discussion that would follow.
“Look, Boss,” Quirc said, “You’re right, it could be dangerous, and as a result you’re going to need your executive command in position to make split second judgments. Anything could be on the other side of that hole. An entire alien fleet could be staging there in preparation for invading grayspace.”
“And you want to face it with,” Miex’s eyes skimmed over the text on his screen, “Four snubbies, two assaults and a freighter?” He looked up, confusion momentarily derailing his tirade. “What the clot are you taking a freighter for?”
“Support. We figure we can slip into the wormhole and poke around, see what there is to see, maybe stick the Phoenix Alliance banner on some uncharted planet somewhere, name it ‘Miex’s World,’ and come back. Odds are we won’t need much in the way of ordinance and equipment, but I’d rather have it and not need it…”
“Okay, you’ve done *some* thinking, but what makes you think I’m going to let both of you go? Especially when *I’m* going to be sitting here worrying. You know how I get when I check on you at night and your racks haven’t been slept in.”
“For all his clotting around, Quirc is right,” N’gel broke in. “Yes, we could get killed. We could slip and fall in the ‘fresher, too. I could buy it on a basic rat patrol. Quirc could eat an asteroid while mining. That doesn’t matter. You’re going to need someone available on the spot that can make a command decision no matter what is on the other side of that thing. Quirc needs to be there because no one else can fly a freighter into the stupid situations he can and come out untouched, and I need to be there to yank him out of the drakh when he’s forcibly reminded that a Moth is not the same as an Itani Valkyrie.”
“Yeah—*hey!*”
There was a long moment when the three pilots looked at one another. Miex broke it first. “This is against my better judgment,” he muttered, reaching for the reader to scan his thumb to sign the OpOrder.
“You always say that,” Quirc told him.
“And I’ve yet to be wrong.” Miex ejected the chip and handed it to N’gel. “Come back alive. That’s all I ask.”
“Boss, how would we come back dead?” Quirc asked. “The alien fleet has vaporizers.”
***
As always, comments and constructive criticism welcome at Coach_Wade@Hotmail.com .
~D.
"Nigel"
Christopher R. Bunch
December 22, 1943 – July 4, 2005
*Long live the Eternal Emperor!*
(Note, italics and notative text do not post properly. Italics will be designated with asterisks before and after the italicized phrase, *like this*, and notatives will be designated with parenthesis, like this: 5.41 x 10(5th). I hope this keeps things readable. For the original manuscript in PDF format, contact Coach_wade@hotmail.com.)
***
The door chimed. MiexonBionic ran a hand over his eyes, blurred from staring at datapad screens and deciphering reports, and glanced at the sensorpad next to the passage. It was green, indicating members of the guild with eyes-only clearance. “Open,” he ordered.
Smoothly, the door slid aside to reveal the smallish form of N’gel S’nza P’ntal’ne standing beside the meatier frame of Quirc Taranis.
“All work and no play leads to the drakhhouse, Miex,” Quirc said with a half smile as he and N’gel approached the Commander’s desk.
“Someone needs to keep track of the amount of ordinance you two clowns go through,” MiexonBionic retorted. “You’re not beautiful women, and you aren’t carrying booze, so get to the point and get out of my office so I can go back to crying over expended mines. And it better be good.”
“I think you’ll like it,” N’gel said, pulling a datachip from the pocket of his flightsuit. “This is a recording of the B-11 skirmish four cycles ago. It hasn’t been declassed yet, so it’s still rated eyes-only.”
Miex raised an eyebrow. He leaned forward and placed his thumb on the reader next to his terminal. In seconds the computer recorded his porepattern and thermal signature, cross referenced it with its database, and determined that he was cleared to continue. A green light next to the reader blinked once. He waited while the other two logged into the system in the same manner, and then toggled a switch, sealing the room from unwanted eyes and ears with a low-grade electromagnetic pulse that would scramble listening and recording devices.
“All right,” he said when the scrambler was active. “What the clot is going on?”
Without a word N’gel handed him the chip. Eyebrow still cocked, Miex took it and slid it into a reader. “What am I looking at?”
“This is the flight recorder from my ship during the last part of the altercation in B-11.” N’gel told him. The time stamp is marked.”
There was silence for a few minutes as Miex ran the scanner. Suddenly he leaned forward. “*Holy drakh!*”
Quirc’s face split in a grin. “I thought you’d say something like that.”
“Is your mass scanner in calibration?” Miex asked N’gel.
It was the scarfaced pilot’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “I’ll choose to pretend you *didn’t* just ask me if I perform proper maintenance on my ship.”
“Um. Sorry.”
“Accepted.”
“Also on the chip is an OpOrder I took the liberty of drawing up for you.” Quirc interjected while Miex zoomed the recorder to its highest resolution.
“An OpOrder? For what?” Miex seemed mesmerized by the twinkling jewel on the screen.
“For what? Hark at the man,” Quirc nudged N’gel with an elbow. “The first wormhole discovered in a hundred and fifty-three years and he wants to know what the OpOrder is for. We’re req’ing 5000 liters of marmalade, a metric butt-ton of Tor’Dhar ale, and a trampoline, whatever that is. What do you *think* the OpOrder is for?” He leaned forward over his commander’s desk. “We want to explore it.”
That got Miex’s attention. “*What?* Absolutely not! I’m not going to punt both my seconds out into uncharted space to examine a potential wormhole that potentially could lead anywhere, including potential death and, in your cases, definite damnation!”
As usual, N’gel shifted to parade rest and relaxed in preparation for the spirited discussion that would follow.
“Look, Boss,” Quirc said, “You’re right, it could be dangerous, and as a result you’re going to need your executive command in position to make split second judgments. Anything could be on the other side of that hole. An entire alien fleet could be staging there in preparation for invading grayspace.”
“And you want to face it with,” Miex’s eyes skimmed over the text on his screen, “Four snubbies, two assaults and a freighter?” He looked up, confusion momentarily derailing his tirade. “What the clot are you taking a freighter for?”
“Support. We figure we can slip into the wormhole and poke around, see what there is to see, maybe stick the Phoenix Alliance banner on some uncharted planet somewhere, name it ‘Miex’s World,’ and come back. Odds are we won’t need much in the way of ordinance and equipment, but I’d rather have it and not need it…”
“Okay, you’ve done *some* thinking, but what makes you think I’m going to let both of you go? Especially when *I’m* going to be sitting here worrying. You know how I get when I check on you at night and your racks haven’t been slept in.”
“For all his clotting around, Quirc is right,” N’gel broke in. “Yes, we could get killed. We could slip and fall in the ‘fresher, too. I could buy it on a basic rat patrol. Quirc could eat an asteroid while mining. That doesn’t matter. You’re going to need someone available on the spot that can make a command decision no matter what is on the other side of that thing. Quirc needs to be there because no one else can fly a freighter into the stupid situations he can and come out untouched, and I need to be there to yank him out of the drakh when he’s forcibly reminded that a Moth is not the same as an Itani Valkyrie.”
“Yeah—*hey!*”
There was a long moment when the three pilots looked at one another. Miex broke it first. “This is against my better judgment,” he muttered, reaching for the reader to scan his thumb to sign the OpOrder.
“You always say that,” Quirc told him.
“And I’ve yet to be wrong.” Miex ejected the chip and handed it to N’gel. “Come back alive. That’s all I ask.”
“Boss, how would we come back dead?” Quirc asked. “The alien fleet has vaporizers.”
***
As always, comments and constructive criticism welcome at Coach_Wade@Hotmail.com .
~D.
"Nigel"