TRNS EARHART, CHARON (120 KM)
POV: Carla Bauernschmidt, Terran Republic Navy (Rank: Captain)
Carla rubbed her eyes groggily as she picked up her ringing tablet from next to her. “This is Bauernschmidt on the line.”
“Hey Carla, glad I could catch you before you go to sleep!” exclaimed the admiral’s usual cheerful voice from her device.
Carla glanced at the corner of her screen.
0215 Atlas Standard.
The Puppers were sound asleep in their seats. One of them, Durnio, was alternating between light barking and waving one of his claws in the air, boxing with some imaginary opponent in his dreams. She barely resisted the sudden and overwhelming urge to pet him.
Nope, nope, nope. That’s some kind of harassment charge waiting to happen.
“Good… morning, Amelia,” Carla sighed. “Why are you still up at this hour?”
“Never mind that. Listen, there’s been some new— uh, there’s been some developments… do you still have the Pupper student officers?”
“Yeah, we’ve been stuck in orbit for two weeks, but word is we’re going to be allowed to land tomorrow… maybe,” Carla said, sitting up as she checked the shuttle status updates.
“Oh good. I was worried you guys would be turning around after the Senate cancelled the program funding.”
“Why? Did you manage to save the program?”
The admiral’s confused voice came from the other side. “What? Save it? No. That program’s toast. I just need you to hold onto them for a little while longer. I’m shuttling over to Charon while we work your transfers and a few things into the system.”
“My transfer?! Our transfers?” she asked, feeling the adrenaline coursing through her blood finally waking her up fully. “Where am I going?”
“How would you like to command your own ship?”
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TOMBAUGH SPACEPORT, CHARON
POV: Speinfoent, Malgeir Federation Navy (Rank: Beta Leader)
Speinfoent breathed in the slightly cooler air of the spaceport interior as he stepped out of the shuttle airlock. Politely ignoring the gawking of the ground crew, they proceeded to follow Carla down an elevator into the connecting hallways towards the interiors of the base.
The hallway stretched out, a long, straight corridor carved directly into the heart of the moon’s crust. It was well lit by lights embedded into the ceilings, and as they walked through, he noticed the walls were lined by black marble slabs, with rows and rows Terran writing carved into them. He struggled to read it with the little knowledge of it he had—
Before he could ask, Carla stopped and pointed to them.
“Here we honor the spacers we lost in the line of duty, defending Republic lives and territory. Every cadet and officer of the Navy walks past these walls before they serve. These are their names under the ships they served,” she read. There was a ship’s outline carved into the wall in chalk white. “Parasite carrier, TRNS Endurance. Nine hundred and fifty-four Republic spacers lost over Ganymede in a massed Resistance attack on the space station Galileo Eight. They burned to engage the enemy, four ships to twenty-eight, while the station evacuated its civilians to the surface.”
Carla pointed at the adjacent marble slabs. “The Stockholm, one hundred and thirty spacers. Stennis, eighty-four. And the station’s defense cutter Rattlesnake-Two, twenty-eight honorary spacers. All heroes. They saved twenty thousand civilian lives that day and paid the ultimate price in defense of the highest traditions of the Republic Navy.”
She led them a few steps further down the hallways. There was a larger ship. “TRNS Tokyo. Hit by a suicide attack over Mars. Eighteen spacers were KIA instantly. Another four, later, trapped in engineering when the ship had to vent the room to vacuum to put out the fires before they reached the reactor assembly. Their final moments rewrote the book on reactor safety and modern naval operations. Our regulations may not make sense to you today, but each one of them is written in blood, the blood of our people.”
As they proceeded down the hall, they learned the names of the more than two dozen ships lost in service of the Terran Republic: some to enemy fire and sabotage, others to accidents, including one to friendly fire in combat. Several were not military ships: defensive cutters like Rattlesnake-Two and even a civilian heavy cargo ship.
In between two marble slabs, they saw a glass display of a set of two heavily worn and damaged armored EVA suits, patches of the dark blue and green flag of the Terran Republic painted on their chests. One was slung on the shoulder of the other, who loosely held his service rifle in his other hand.
A handful of small rectangular medal plates hung from a display next to it by their chains. Speinfoent struggled to read the Terran inscription on the plaque:
The Atlas Eleven, Republic Navy spacers defending Atlas Interstellar Spaceport from a ground assault after a terrorist bombing in 2099.
Even the Marines officially claim the Eleven as their own, having earned in combat the Mark II armor they borrowed. In the words of Marine Commandant Sayavong… when their rifles ran dry, they used their knives; when their blades dulled, their suits; when their suits failed, they regrouped in hell.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
At the end of the slabs, on the final three slabs of marble, they saw one engraved with a familiar-looking silhouette: a Pointer-class cruiser.
Speinfoent gasped as he read the inscription, engraved in two languages, one of them Malgeirish.
“The Seuvommae.”
“Yes, MNS Seuvommae. And the names of the eight hundred and twelve Malgeir spacers, and the forty-eight KIA from its accompanying escorts. There was some controversy in Naval Command over this one. But despite— despite the circumstances of that battle, they died defending the Terran system of McMurdo. And they did this knowingly. We honor their sacrifice.”
She gingerly traced one of the carved names with a finger, then looked them in their eyes. “They were the first Malgeir names on here, but this will be a long war and they will not be the last. Every Republic officer who walks past this wall at some point in their service is reminded of one thing: you are here at Charon to be trained, not to ensure that there will be no more names on this wall; you are here to make sure that the ones that make it here, Terran or otherwise, have a damn good reason to be here.”
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After all the anticipation, Speinfoent noted to himself that the College was not a structurally or architecturally impressive campus. Dozens of indoor habitats and rooms connected by long hallways, it boasted none of the impressive construction of Malgeirgam, nor of pictures of the majestic buildings he’d seen of some Terran cities. It felt more like a series of connected conference rooms than a traditional school.
The three Malgeir officers filed into one of the conference rooms behind Carla, where a quartet of Terrans sat in four of its black office chairs.
Speinfoent recognized one of them. “Amelia! I mean… Admiral.”
She smiled warmly back at them. “Welcome to the Staff College, my Malgeir friends. Unfortunately, there has been a… change in our government’s budgetary position. The Allied Officer pilot program has been cancelled as of last week.”
Speinfoent frowned and spoke up. “Cancelled? So… we just go home now?”
Amelia’s eyes twinkled. “Not exactly, as part of the preparation for the Republic’s latest Red Zone campaign, additional funds have been allocated to train new Navy officers for it. And there are no rules against using them on non-Terran students at the Staff College, not yet at least. The three of you have been nominated to be the first Malgeir students at the College. Please… sit down and allow me to explain.”
She narrated to them the history of the Republic and its perennial conflicts in the Red Zone. The Republic was not perfect, she admitted, but its enemies that sought its destruction were terrible people. She explained how this conflict was now a major barrier to Terran assistance to the Malgeir, and that it must be dealt with first before the Terran people would allow additional involvement in the war against the Znosians. Amelia then described her plan that necessitated their help in destroying the Resistance first.
Uintrei looked at the Terran admiral with skepticism. “I thought we were here to learn about how to fight the Grass Eaters in—”
“No, actually,” Durnio cut in, shrugging. “You thought we were here to build houses for rich Home Fleet patrons.”
Before she could reply, Amelia jumped in. “That’s a valid concern. But a lot of what you’ll learn here are skills that will translate to the greater war. When your government and ours agreed to an alliance, that cut both ways. We’ll help you with your war, and so far we’ve held up our end of the bargain… it’s not unreasonable that we’re now requesting your help in dealing with our problems.”
“But what about the Marines? You said your plan requires tens or hundreds of thousands of Marines. Has Malgeiru agreed to that?”
Amelia smiled. “They have, after some persuading. Apparently, they don’t value your Marines very much compared to your Navy officers. They’re shipping your people over next week in exchange for some supply shipments to Gruccud. The question here is for you, individually: will you help us in our war?”
Without much hesitation, Speinfoent nodded. “I trust your people. You helped us retake our systems, our planets, and you gave us real hope for the first time in a long time that we can still win. I will do what you require.”
Following his lead, Durnio and Uintrei nodded as well.
“Very well,” Amelia said, tilting her head.
She then gestured toward the three Terrans sitting next to her… young ones from the looks of it.
Speinfoent could tell they were trying their best to hold in their excitement to varying degrees of success.
Amelia introduced them, pointing to each one as she pronounced their names. “These are other students of the Staff College: Maurice, Bethan, and Kaja. They will assist you in acclimating to Terran culture. They are your wingmates, or as our Marines say, your battle buddies. With the exceptions of illness, class, and a few approved activities, you will not travel anywhere on this installation without your wingmate. I’ll let them introduce themselves.”
“Hi, nice to meet you all. I am Maurice. Maurice Durand. Lieutenant Jr in the Marines. I’m twenty-five years old, from Districts 22 and 32… Well, my parents were from District 32, but I’ve only been there twice since our family moved.” Maurice held out his large hand, and Speinfoent gingerly shook it with his paw as he’d learned to from his time in Sixth Fleet. Uintrei and Durnio hesitantly followed his example, each mimicking the Terran ritual, clasping Maurice’s hand in their paws.
He looked between the three of them, squinting as he did. Maurice apologized, “Sorry, I am not good at your faces yet. Which one of you is my new wingmate, Durnio?”
“That’s me,” Durnio said, raising his paw.
“Ah, excellent. I hope I pronounced your name right.”
Durnio smiled genuinely at the effort. “It’s close enough.”
“No, there is no close enough when it comes to names,” Maurice shook his head emphatically. Looking at the other two waiting to introduce themselves, he lightly clapped Durnio on the shoulder apologetically, “I will learn to pronounce your name right in time… but for now, I will let the others introduce themselves first.”
“Bethan Woods,” the middle woman said as she shook their paws. “You can call me Beth. Lieutenant, twenty-eight years old. I’m from District 21, recently transferred from my district’s terrestrial Navy: the one with real boats, in water.” She smiled, then looked at Uintrei. “I’m guessing you are my wingmate?”
Uintrei smiled in return, “Ah good, you should be easy to remember.”
“How’s that?” Bethan asked.
“Your head fur is red,” she noted. “That seems to be a rarity among Terrans. I haven’t seen any others like you. Is it artificially dyed?”
“No, it’s natural,” Bethan said, smiling as she pulled on a strand of her tied back bun. “There are a couple other gingers at the College, but not a bad identification technique I guess.”
She looked at the last Terran of the group. “You turn, Kaja.”
Kaja said shyly, “I am Navy Lieutenant Kaja Kowalczyk, twenty-seven years old, from District 38.”
“Nice to meet you, Kaja,” Speinfoent shook her hand. “I guess we’ll be spending some time together for the next year.”
Kaja nodded.
Amelia added, “You will have plenty of time to get to know your wingmates, but for now, let’s go grab some lunch from the mess before it fills up. I saw at the spaceport that the latest supply shipment just came in with us, and it doesn’t take long for news to spread on base.”
“Do they have ice cream?” the three new Malgeir students asked simultaneously.