Rick Partlow - Honor Bound

Vinnie and Jock were in the room already, along with the other men and women of their Alpha Team, all looking quite relaxed and deadly in their black combat utility uniforms. Also present, though making a point of sitting apart from the special operations squad, were the platoon leaders and platoon sergeants of the Fleet Marine Reaction Force units on board. Even though Vinnie, Jock and McKay himself were all former Marines, the Fleet Marines had developed a resentment of the new Special Operations units.

They were still waiting for the Fleet personnel—the only one present was the flight commander of the assault shuttles, a tall, slender woman with high cheekbones and a face that hinted at Asian ancestry. She was typing something into a small notepad, her expression all business, ignoring the others around her.

Finally, after another ten minutes of waiting, Captain Minishimi strode into the room with her executive officer in tow.

“Captain on deck!” McKay barked, bringing everyone to their feet.

“As you were,” Minishimi waved a hand, leaning against a table near the center of the room. “We don’t have a lot of time, so I’ll get right to the point. We are heading to Loki to pick up a passenger, then we’re going straight for the inner frontier. There was an observation post there until a few months ago. It was destroyed and looted, the troops manning it either taken or killed and their bodies taken. Evidence found on the scene suggests that the culprits are our old friends, the remnants of the Russian Protectorate.” A chorus of murmurs went through the assembled officers and NCOs, some of them glancing at McKay.

“At ease,” Minishimi’s XO barked and the talking ceased.

“We have been tasked to aid Colonel McKay in his investigation of this incident. I will turn the briefing over to him.”

McKay stood, nodding to the Captain, then touched a control on the wall and a star map was projected near the ceiling. “We’re heading here,” he said. “The system doesn’t have an official name, but the Scouts have been calling the habitable there ‘Peboan.’ It means…”

“Winter spirit,” the ground support shuttle flight leader spoke up, her contralto voice clear and piercing. “From the Chippewa myth.”

“Yes,” McKay nodded, raising an eyebrow. “The planet’s a bit on the cold side most of its year. Our surveys have indicated that Peboan is rich in petroleum, fissionables and other resources, as are a couple other habitable worlds in close proximity. We are working on the theory that Antonov doesn’t have enough ships to do extensive space-based mining, so he will choose to get his resources onplanet where possible.

“The only reason for Antonov to attack the outpost is that they had either already spotted his activities or he thought they were about to and wanted to buy some time. So, we probably won’t find him anywhere in the immediate area, but I am hoping we can find a lead as to where he’s going and what he’s up to. We are prepared in case we do run into his forces, however, as you can see by looking around you.” He surveyed their faces, seeing total attention in every one. “I do have to tell you, there is the possibility that we could be out here more than a year, depending on how far the search takes us. I’m sorry you weren’t allowed to send out messages to your loved ones indicating this, but I have direct orders from the president not to let news of this get out until we get confirmation as to whether this is Antonov’s work and what his next move might be.” He paused. “Any questions?”

“What evidence do we have that this is Antonov or his people?” The question came from one of the Marine platoon leaders, a sharp-edged young man with cafe aux lait skin and dark hair that was little more than stubble on his head. The name Dodd was stenciled on his shirt.

“We found brass rifle casings in the wreckage of the destroyed base, Lieutenant Dodd,” McKay answered. He hit a control and a video of the Marines holding up the brass casings played for them.

“That’s all we got?” asked his platoon sergeant, her puffy, schoolteacher’s face screwed up in a frown. “Ain’t that a little thin, sir?”

“If you can tell me another solution more likely, Gunny Dzvonik,” McKay shrugged, “I’m all ears. We have to postulate an enemy that has star travel independent of the established cargo and passenger runs, that has a motive to attack one of our remote observation posts and loot everything not nailed down and that uses gunpowder weapons firing from brass-cased cartridges marked with Cyrillic writing.”

“Yeah, guess you got a point, sir,” she admitted.

“I have a question,” the shuttle commander raised a finger.

“Yes, Commander…?”

“Villanueva, sir,” she told him. “As I understand it, the Protectorates use some sort of artificial wormhole gateways to travel FTL… so why are you concerned about the planets in the systems around Peboan? Couldn’t they be just as easily jumping somewhere dozens of light years away?”

“They could,” McKay admitted. “But we know they’ve pirated some of our Eysselink drive ships… it’s possible they make use of them. And frankly,” he sighed, “it’s all we got. If we can’t find them this way, we’re basically going to have to sit on our ass until they decide to attack us.”

“Understood, sir,” Villanueva nodded.

“All right, if there’s nothing else…” No one spoke up, so McKay nodded to Captain Minishimi.

“Thank you, Colonel McKay,” she stepped back into the center of the conference room. “All right, ladies and gentlemen… get yourselves and your people squared away for g-sleep.” She grinned tightly. “See you in a month.”

Vinnie hung back as the rest filed out of the room, seeing McKay’s frown.

“What’s wrong, sir?” he asked.

“It’s times like these I wish we had access to those wormholes, Vinnie,” McKay said. “I don’t like the idea of spending weeks asleep. God knows what’s going to have happened by the time we wake up…”

Ariel Shamir didn’t recognize himself in the mirror. The face he was used to was that of a young, clean-shaven, hawk-faced Israeli of European Jewish heritage, with short, black hair, dark brown eyes and a light olive skin. The one that stared back at him now was darker-complexioned, the nose broader and slightly more hooked, the eyelids heavier, the hair thicker and the face adorned with a neatly trimmed full beard. Good thing the cosmetic implants weren’t permanent… there were a few girls back in Tel Aviv that wouldn’t approve of the changes..

He nodded with satisfaction and checked the fit of his uniform—the two-piece, precisely tailored grays of the Colonial Guard rather than the black Fleet Intelligence utilities he was used to. It felt odd wearing a uniform that was cut more like a business suit than a set of fatigues, but that was the CeeGees for you.

Smoothing down his tunic once more, he turned, shouldered his duffle bag, and left the solitude of the empty bathroom to re-enter the buzzing chaos of the Buenos Aires Transportation Hub. Throngs of people moved through the huge complex of buildings, dragging luggage behind them, embarking and disembarking from suborbital transports, boarding subways and maglev trains, renting flyers or being picked up by groundcars or buses. In the center of the giant auditorium that was the hub of the Hub was a huge statue worked from a single piece of granite, twenty meters tall. It was a copy of the city’s iconic Obelisk and the wave of humanity seemed to break upon it, spreading into streams and rivulets to one of the many exits.

He knew exactly where his ride was waiting… he headed out one of the Hub’s north-facing exits, leaving the cool, conditioned air of the building for the broiler of a South American February afternoon. Ari began sweating almost immediately, but ignored it as he took in the view of the city.