Donovan.”
“On?”
“What it is you think I can do for you, and how willing you are to convince me that I can.”
“Okay, I’ll get right to the point then…”
“Man after my own heart!”
“Right, well, my ships been through hell and we have a long way to go still before we get paid. We were wondering…”
“We?”
“The Captain and I.”
“Right, go on.”
“We were wondering if there was some way to get what we need without using up all of our credits.”
“What is it you’re suggesting?”
“Come on. I’m ex-military. I know roughly how this is supposed to work, I just need to see the right people, offer the right incentives. I could use some help.”
“That’s some hefty gong you’re wearing there. Where’d you serve?”
“I got that the last time I passed through here, the Push. Served with the PSMC, 2 nd Division.”
He whistled through his teeth, “Phew! That’s some heavy time. What ship did you fly with?”
There it was. The test. If you walk around saying you were somewhere and did something, there was always the chance that you were bullshitting. There was always the odd ex-serving member whose career in the military did not quite take them to the stars. They might have had a bad run, no deployments or operations. Some just chose the wrong line of work in the military and ended up serving chow at the servery lines on backwater Jump Stations or depots. Some pissed off the wrong person and ended up in shitty postings, while others still had connected parents who did not want to see their kid get killed on an ill-fated venture. For some, the fact that they served was enough. To others, they were shamed by their lack of physical awards. They told tall tales about their time in the military, or fabricated lies about their adventures, or worse yet, acquired medals that they were not awarded.
To the service member, especially one currently on a high-risk deployment such as the Gossamer System, these kinds of people were anathema to their way of life. Pretenders were looked upon with poor opinion.
Chief Markum clearly knew his history, questioning my authenticity.
“Sardonis Mist, until she was crippled during the second wave. Shuttled over to the Emerald Fist for insertion. Served under Captain DeLacy and Commander Fortescue the 9 th . Major Karas was our CO during the deployment. Lost him when his assault boat took a missile hit when we were boarding Ambrose Station. Captain Vargas took the rest of the Division that survived until he was killed during the withdrawal.”
“Who was the last ship to get back to waypoint Ferris?”
“Don’t know, I didn’t make it either.”
“What do you mean? Everyone who got out had to RV with the Fleet at waypoint Ferris.”
“No sir, they did not.”
“Bullshit.”
“I got left behind, took me nearly three months to stow away on a raider ship hitting the blockade, I jumped ship then and got picked up. They gave me this gong as compensation for missing my boat.”
He looked at me with his eyes half closed, trying to decide if I was trying to pull the wool over his eyes.
Eventually, he seemed to come to a decision, “A marine, huh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t call me sir. I work for a living. That’s one hell of a story you got there. I was a Petty Officer on the Tyrillian Star. Spent most of my time during the Push doing damage control and pulling dead bodies out of burning star ships.”
“She make it out?”
“Sure did. Decommissioned her a few months later, though. Got the name plaque over in my office, actually. Want to see it?”
“Yeah, okay. Always good to hear another’s perspective of the Push.”
“This way.” He led me through the compartment to a small office in the rear. It was stuffy, and the single desk was strewn with piles of paper work, oily components and several tablets. The entire rear wall was lined with crates of what could only be described as loot . Sure enough, mounted on the right
“On?”
“What it is you think I can do for you, and how willing you are to convince me that I can.”
“Okay, I’ll get right to the point then…”
“Man after my own heart!”
“Right, well, my ships been through hell and we have a long way to go still before we get paid. We were wondering…”
“We?”
“The Captain and I.”
“Right, go on.”
“We were wondering if there was some way to get what we need without using up all of our credits.”
“What is it you’re suggesting?”
“Come on. I’m ex-military. I know roughly how this is supposed to work, I just need to see the right people, offer the right incentives. I could use some help.”
“That’s some hefty gong you’re wearing there. Where’d you serve?”
“I got that the last time I passed through here, the Push. Served with the PSMC, 2 nd Division.”
He whistled through his teeth, “Phew! That’s some heavy time. What ship did you fly with?”
There it was. The test. If you walk around saying you were somewhere and did something, there was always the chance that you were bullshitting. There was always the odd ex-serving member whose career in the military did not quite take them to the stars. They might have had a bad run, no deployments or operations. Some just chose the wrong line of work in the military and ended up serving chow at the servery lines on backwater Jump Stations or depots. Some pissed off the wrong person and ended up in shitty postings, while others still had connected parents who did not want to see their kid get killed on an ill-fated venture. For some, the fact that they served was enough. To others, they were shamed by their lack of physical awards. They told tall tales about their time in the military, or fabricated lies about their adventures, or worse yet, acquired medals that they were not awarded.
To the service member, especially one currently on a high-risk deployment such as the Gossamer System, these kinds of people were anathema to their way of life. Pretenders were looked upon with poor opinion.
Chief Markum clearly knew his history, questioning my authenticity.
“Sardonis Mist, until she was crippled during the second wave. Shuttled over to the Emerald Fist for insertion. Served under Captain DeLacy and Commander Fortescue the 9 th . Major Karas was our CO during the deployment. Lost him when his assault boat took a missile hit when we were boarding Ambrose Station. Captain Vargas took the rest of the Division that survived until he was killed during the withdrawal.”
“Who was the last ship to get back to waypoint Ferris?”
“Don’t know, I didn’t make it either.”
“What do you mean? Everyone who got out had to RV with the Fleet at waypoint Ferris.”
“No sir, they did not.”
“Bullshit.”
“I got left behind, took me nearly three months to stow away on a raider ship hitting the blockade, I jumped ship then and got picked up. They gave me this gong as compensation for missing my boat.”
He looked at me with his eyes half closed, trying to decide if I was trying to pull the wool over his eyes.
Eventually, he seemed to come to a decision, “A marine, huh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t call me sir. I work for a living. That’s one hell of a story you got there. I was a Petty Officer on the Tyrillian Star. Spent most of my time during the Push doing damage control and pulling dead bodies out of burning star ships.”
“She make it out?”
“Sure did. Decommissioned her a few months later, though. Got the name plaque over in my office, actually. Want to see it?”
“Yeah, okay. Always good to hear another’s perspective of the Push.”
“This way.” He led me through the compartment to a small office in the rear. It was stuffy, and the single desk was strewn with piles of paper work, oily components and several tablets. The entire rear wall was lined with crates of what could only be described as loot . Sure enough, mounted on the right
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