The ships arrived at Gebo, and the crew looked relieved to see a real planet instead of a methane factory. From the readouts of the planet, the only downside to it is its large wobbling axis, which made summer and winter extremely long seasonally. Still, the metropolitan areas housed millions of people and the sort of high-end equipment that people in his line of work needed.
He docked the Void Terror into the shuttle bay, and stepped off into the surface. It was daytime, and he could see a large group of people standing around, looking at him hopefully. He didn’t know what for, but they seemed eager to talk to him. None of them made the move to do so, however.
He also saw groups of men in purple and black uniforms standing at a checking-in station that funneled people inward towards it. They had holstered pistols, rifles slung across their back, and communications gear to call in reinforcements as needed.
He waited for Captain Smith to park her ship so she could meet up with him. She’d have to walk or catch a ride to meet up with him, the distance between their two ships was about half a mile. She elected to walk, calmly walking around and surveying the area. The groups of disparate people standing around also turned the same hopeful looks on her. She saw them, but made no sign of acknowledgement. They walked together up to the uniformed guards.
As soon as they crossed a little red line that marked they were up for inspection, a bored older man with a brown and grey peppered beard motioned them forward.
“Welcome to Gebo,” he began, reciting what sounded like a rehearsed speech that he’d done so many times that the words flowed of their own accord, “Please look into the retinal scanner and state your name, business, and if you have any judicial or other bounties placed upon you at this time. We won’t turn you in if you do, but you should leave immediately if you do. If you cross this line, that makes it an official government problem and we will assist anyone who has a legal claim against you. Do you have anything to declare?”
He didn’t look at Mark the whole time that he recited his official warning, and looked at Mark’s official record. He sat up a bit straighter when he saw who Mark was.
“Shit,” the man said under his breath, “Are you here on official business? We weren’t notified that the IIO was sending anyone over, the governor will want to know immediately.”
“That’s ok,” Mark said, waving his hands in a placating manner, “We’re not here on official business. IIO allows officers a second job so long as it does not interfere with any ongoing investigations. We don’t have an ongoing investigation. What we do have is a bunch of fruit, meat, electronics parts, and other gear that we’re planning on selling in the market here. We’re also looking to recruit more members for our ships as we find ourselves understaffed at the current moment.”
The man and his buddies looked more relaxed after that statement, but he still seemed to be suspicious.
“Well, if any official business does come up, you make sure we’re notified of it. Otherwise, this could end up in a judicial clusterfuck if jurisdiction becomes an issue.”
“The IIO always has the jurisdiction if we claim it,” Mark replied, putting extra emphasis on the always. He didn’t want to get into a territorial pissing match if he could avoid it, but the IIO always superseded local authority. In practice, they didn’t use that particular cudgel as often as people believed, since they didn’t have the manpower to spread themselves too thinly across space. They preferred to let local investigations handle it, so long as the local investigation units weren’t completely incompetent. Since many systems didn’t have formal investigations training, taking over investigations sometimes turned into an unfortunate reality that left the locals very angry at the IIO.
“Nevertheless,” Mark continued, this time more placating, “In the event that we need to make an arrest or open an investigation into the activities of this planet, we will inform the local law enforcement.”
“Good to hear,” the older man said, adjusting his uniform and projecting an official sounding voice, “Glad we understand each other. The governor will still want to see you, for gossip as much as anything else. Can we get your data pad’s identifier?”
Mark showed them the identifier for his data pad that allowed them to send him direct messages, then he stepped through. The government agent printed out a card with Mark’s face and a tiny chip that held Mark’s bio information so it could be scanned if he tried going anywhere. Essentially, they put a tracker on him. While it was tempting to go drop it off in the nearest android trash receptacle, he knew that this wouldn’t earn him any brownie points with the local law enforcement.
While the older government agent repeated his spiel to Captain Smith, another agent started speaking to Mark. She was a young woman with short sandy brown hair and an upturned nose. Not pretty, but maybe cute to some people. Mark wasn’t going to ogle any women with Captain Smith a few feet away.
“If you’re looking to recruit, that’s what the gaggle over there is,” she said, pointing with her face at the clusters of groups waiting by the entrance. “Ship crews come in on temporary runs where they need a few extra hands, then drop them off when the run is done. Or sometimes a ship’s owner goes belly-up and he has to sell the ship, so the crew gets stranded while the debt is being worked out. Whatever happens, these are the people looking for work. There’s also people on the job boards, but this is a good first stop shop.”
He looked at her badge. Corporal Christina Stubelick. The fact that she was alert and helpful out of the crowd of these Gebo agents meant that she’d be one to keep an eye on for future help. Sadly, her low rank meant that she didn’t have any pull, but she might be a person of interest for later on.
“For your cargo, you’ll have to get it officially registered before you can sell it. Requires you to pay for a permit and pay for all transactional taxes,” the first guard he’d spoken to called after him.
Mark wanted to see if he could waive the license agreement, but the look in the man’s eye told him he didn’t have a friend here. “Thank you,” he looked at the rank on the man’s arm, “Sergeant.” The man nodded. People in uniform like it when you respect their position.
“Do you have any weapons to declare?” the man asked.
Mark shrugged. “I’m authorized full weapon’s rights as a representative of Earth. Am I not?”
The man let out a gruff bark that sounded like, “Yeah”, but could have been anything. “Yes, but if you don’t declare them and there’s any firearm discharges in the immediate area, you and any other people who come aboard from your ship are going to be questioned. Save us both from having to push electrons around.”
“I see your predicament Sergeant, and I’ll have one of my privates bring you the information once we’re settled in.”
That seemed to placate the Sergeant. Luciana walked over to where Mark waited and she fell in step beside him.
“You really going to give him our weapon identifiers?” she asked in a low voice.
“Hell no,” Mark replied, “I’m going to give him the numbers of some of our squeaky clean weapons that have never been discharged in a live fire. We’re taking the weapons we confiscated from the pirate crew aboard the planet. If they try to pin anything on us, they will be looking for weapons that will have biometric proof that they’ve never been fired. They’ll look like idiots.”
Luciana gave him a little smirk. “You’re still the finest bullshitter I’ve ever met, sir.”
He tipped an imaginary hat to her. “Thank you, ma’am. The fine art of confabulation is not appreciated in most parts. I’m still a bit miffed that we couldn’t remain low-key for this operation, but this isn’t a backwater planet.”
“Improvise and adapt,” Luciana replied, laconic as ever.
They walked together and approached the mixed crowds of people that had been eyeing them. Luciana naturally acted as the tough in any situation they were in, which was ironic, given her stature. However, she managed the quiet menacing look quite effectively, and Mark was fairly sure that quiet and threatening were his least two favorite things.
The group of onlookers formed a loose semi-circle around them. They eagerly awaited to find out news from the two captains. Mark estimated that there were maybe twenty people crowding around them.
“Hello everyone,” Mark started. “I am Captain Mark Thomas, this is Captain Luciana Smith. We have two vessels which are currently at about half staff. The first and most important question is if you can get an interstellar security clearance to operate aboard a military vessel. If you were dishonorably discharged or given a bad conduct discharge, you may file out at this time.”
Five of them filed out. Mark waited for them to go. One man in maybe his thirties raised his hand timidly. Mark nodded at him. “Uh, sir, what if we were discharged under other than honorable?”
“That depends on the exact situation. Drop off your DD214 with the Captain and we’ll evaluate your record and call up your old company to see what they recall of your behavior. If it’s glowing enough, we may still decide to accept you.”
“Thank you sir,” the man replied meekly.
Mark continued. “Our ship has the following jobs available: One cook, two navigators, two sensor operators, four missile gunners who have at least some sensor operator experience, two engineers, two medics, four turret gunners who must have either engineering experience or experience as technicians, if you have both you’re in a premium slot, and four technician slots. If you do not have qualifications that match these specifications, fall out at this time.”
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Another five fell out, with ten remaining.
“For those of you remaining, this is a military ship. Even though we are currently operating in a civilian capacity, the military missions remain paramount. You will be expected to learn the rules of military conduct, and failure to follow those rules is punishable under the Uniform Code of Military Justice. This means you will not divulge any information to your closest relatives about the ship. You will report to any and all assigned locations at the exact time you are supposed to be there. You will engage in regular physical training, learn the specifics of your occupation specialty, and maintain a uniform and military appearance both in regards to your personal appearance and the appearance of any quarters you are given.”
“In the event of a military operation, you may be asked to carry arms and help engage in the mission. Any honorably discharged veterans will be reassigned their rank for the duration of our operation. Anyone who was not honorably discharged,” he looked at the man who had spoken earlier, “Will have the ability to show me through their hard work and dedication why I should ask for them to have their discharge type changed. For those of you without rank, you will be beneath the most green private aboard our vessels. If you do find yourself longing for the steady pay, career path progression, and physical orderliness of a soldier, I am authorized to enlist you provided you can pass all physical, mental, and occupational tests required for your mission occupation specialty.”
“So if you wish to keep your putrid civilian body, have a moral or religious objection to military conflict, find it difficult to follow orders, prefer not to engage in appropriate physical hygiene and maintain the appearance of your personal space, or prefer to show up to places when you good and well feel like it, this is your time to fall out.”
Six fell out this time. The under other than honorable dischargee was still amongst those remaining.
“The four of you,” Mark said, waving at the group, “put your biometric information into Captain Smith’s data pad and if you are a match, we will put out a notification via the job posting of this planet. If you do not respond, we will assume that you have changed your mind.”
The remaining members were three men and one woman. They each let the retinal and face scanner process before rejoining the rest of the job seekers that had dispersed after hearing the Captain’s speech.
“Four out of twenty-one jobs? That’s not much to get us mission ready. Plus, civilians.” She said the last word with notable distaste.
Mark nodded as he walked back to his ship. “Yeah, but that only took a few minutes. Even the ones who didn’t accept might have someone on the line who would be right for us, so a pretty good investment for such a low amount of effort.”
He opened his data pad and sent out a secure message to the ship’s personnel detailing their weapons load out and that they were to begin unpacking all cargo for inspection and taxation.
“Come on Captain, we have another special recruit to meet.”
Their “special recruit” was holed up at a bar, the “Hot Birds” Bar, to be exact. The place was a jumble of interactive 3d projections and virtual gear, an outdoor area with most of the same, people who line-danced on the second floor, and a series of women dancing in cages with feather accoutrements. If you paid for the VR visors, you could see the women as cat-women, dragon ladies, anime characters, and other fanciful characters.
The man they were interested in was Vidal Roger, a former First Sergeant Space Marine who was discharged under other than honorable conditions. Mark knew why the man had been discharged from reading this file, but wanted to meet the man to see if his private unit was what the team needed.
The former 1SG wasn’t hard to find. He sat at the table with a pair of visors, watching the spectacle of fantasy characters dancing in cages or on the floor. The man was built like a square mountain. His gigantic palms held a shot glass gingerly, a series of tattoos and scars made a topographical map across his forearms. He wore a short-sleeved button-down shirt that went three buttons lower than Mark would ever wear his shirt, designed to reveal his muscular, tattooed chest. His face was stubbly and his skin the pale white of people who spent large amounts of time aboard fleet vessels.
He turned his goggles towards Mark and Luciana, noticeably looking at Luciana longer than he did Mark. Mark thought that Vidal Roger had a contemptuous look towards him, which wasn’t uncommon amongst the space marines, who typically didn’t like reporting to non-combat officers.
“So, you’re the guy with the contract?” Vidal said, as way of greeting. Straight to business then.
“Yes, I am. The offer is simple. Pay plus the chance for a conversion to an honorable discharge.”
“Got some juice then do you?”
“Yes, I have some juice. But what I have on you is simply a transcript of your military records. Nothing about the incident that is in question.”
“You want to know about the FUBAR situation on Cuturn,” he replied briskly.
“Yes, I want to know about Cuturn.”
Vidal let out a breath like he’d told this story a hundred times, and he probably had.
“There’s not really that much to tell that isn’t in the personnel file. We find out that there’s a major drug facility running on a no-name jumper planet called Cuturn. We think we’re busting some small operation, maybe a few chem labs and some tweaked out geeks cooking up some nose powder and eye crystals. They’d piss themselves as soon as we breached and start crying when the cuffs came on. Come in at 9, leave by 930. But that’s not what we find.”
“Their operation is fucking flawless. Inbound missiles as soon as we switch to low-orbit transport. They take out one unit, the others have to break up formation to make their combat landings. We’re all spread out a few miles from our initial dropzone, and they send out their own teams to track us. Cyber-dogs the size of men that move three times as fast come at us. Combat droids in the back to shoot at us while the dogs make quick attacks at us and flank us.”
“In short, a complete shit show. I’m down an entire platoon and we haven’t even breached yet. One of the other units landed closer and they breached, but were shuttled into a choke point and neutralized. Not killed though, just captured. One of the captured marines is a Senator’s son back on Earth, worth a fortune in ransom. The order comes down from the Major to fallback and plan for negotiation. I tell him to fuck off with that order. They killed Marines, and we don’t abandon our own. Not ever.”
“So my team and I follow through, using the other companies tactical reports to make sure we don’t get corralled the same way. The facilities are massive and expensive. This isn’t some group of tweakers or nature freaks trying to make a commune, this was a premium grade facility with corresponding protection. We get hit by automated turrets, laser traps, the whole nine yards. We blow up everything that’s standing and start clearing our own path through the area.
My men are getting cut down and I’m down to one last platoon. Started with a hundred and twenty personnel, ended with thirty-five. By the time I finally get to the humans running the place, there’s no time for drawing up the rules of engagement, it’s just a slaughterhouse.”
“We kill the bad guys, rescue the other company, and think it’s ‘Hoorah’ for the night. But hang on. It turns out the facility was letting drugs slip into the inner planets and back onto Earth, but they were also a full-blown medical research facility. Hush, hush, they’re worried about patents getting stolen by rival companies, and they’re protected by one of the outer World federations. This is now a diplomatic crisis, we’ve killed a bunch of civilians and destroyed a medical research lab.”
“So, who’s the guy that did all of this? Who disobeyed a direct order? Well, that’s this dumb jackass right here. So the big brass boot comes down on me. I’ve got eighteen years of solid service for the government, and I call in every favor I can to keep it from a dishonorable discharge. In the end though, that’s not enough. I’m out with my dick in the wind.”
“Anyway,” he says, holding his glass out for the bartender to refill it with another shot. “The men didn’t forget that I charged in to help them, and I formed my own private Marine escort service to the outer planets. Can’t get a job in any of the inner planets, goddamn prima donnas everywhere won’t let someone with my service record get a job. Several of the men who leave service get a notice about my crew, and they join up. I’m not the brightest bulb, but if you need a guy who can stomp a mud hole in someone’s ass, I’m the guy you call.”
This confirmed what Mark had read in the personnel file. In general, Marines came in one of two types. They were either smart, or they were strong. This one was strong.
“Well, your record in and out of service speaks as a testament. But if I give an order, you follow it immediately. I can’t have a renegade aboard my crew.”
The bulky man lets out a mirthless laugh. “Yeah, I know. The military always tells us, ‘Don’t go doggone thinking for yourself,’ and I went and did it. Paid the price. I learned my lesson. I’m here to follow orders and complete the mission, if the service will have this old dog back in again. But the offer you gave me applies to my men as well. Any discharged for other than honorable reasons need to receive a reversal to that decision. Don’t worry, I don’t accept shit bags, anyone on my team is solid, but the military gears grind people up and spit them out. Most that washout aren’t worth a drop of piss, but occasionally, the big bureaucracy fucks up royally. You good with that?”
Mark nodded. He respected the man for thinking about his men first, an admirable trait for a military leader, but a fatal one if it lead to insubordination. Still, he wasn’t likely to find two squadrons of Marines lying around somewhere else, and he wouldn’t have this big a carrot to dangle over their heads. Besides being a point of honor, honorably discharged service members received a slew of benefits ranging from their burial services to medical costs to discounted loans for starting up their own business.
“Well 1SG, effective immediately, you are reinstated for duty. Get your men together and report at shuttle bay Indigo for briefing and training.”
“Uh sir,” the newly minted Marine said, slightly embarrassed, “It’s illegal to report for duty while intoxicated. Permission to postpone that order until military fitness of unit can be assessed?”
Mark laughed. “Yes, you have 24 hour leave to get your personnel into a state of readiness.”
“Out-fucking-standing,” the man replied. He looked over to Captain Smith. “Ma’am, pleasure making your acquaintance. I assure you I’ll be dress-right-dress next time you see me.” Mark left the gyrating dance floor and headed back to his ship, when a ping alert went off on his data pad.
The alert told him that one of the cargo containers he’d dropped off was sitting on this very planet.