Chapter 43
Jim Vassilakos
I had my Public Affairs officer meet us at the airlock to give Canon Forklinbrass a tour of the ship. Regimath, of course, was mentally focused on the psi orb, which he strongly and correctly suspected was in Josefeen’s diplomatic case.
“We’ll meet for dinner,” I told him. “But there are pressing matters to which I must attend.” (FEEL FREE TO CHANGE)
“Of course, Captain.” He wanted to bring up the orb in some oblique way, but he didn’t know how to do so without being obvious and, to a certain degree, guilty of covetousness, even though all he wanted was to touch it, just to see what might happen. Likewise, he was a bit afraid, I realized as he walked away with Lieutenant Parish, as he’d heard rumors that the God’s Eye was a dangerous thing, the key to powers beyond human comprehension.
«How many of these things are there?» I asked Josefeen. But before she could answer, I already knew this topic was so classified that even she didn’t know.
«You’ve heard of stovepiping, sir? If there’s no need to know, there’s no need to know.» She was fine with not knowing. A master manipulator psion had drilled that into her, a mandatory part of every intel psion’s education.
Manipulators were the disciplinarians and, Josefeen had logically reasoned, the ultimate masters of psion society. That was why she’d been so surprised when I displayed this specific talent. But I was not just a maniputor. I was also a poly-sci. That was rare. All this made me both valuable and dangerous, and because of this, she was already feeling inferior, which was a feeling she found both annoying and unexpected.
(Gus’s reaction, mentally, verbally, and/or physically.)
As I headed toward my quarters, Hoskins began to follow.
(Gus’s reaction.)
I went to my quarters, changed out of my dress uniform into some work clothes, then looked at the time. It was nearly 14:30. Dinner was served on almost all Navy ships from 1600-1800, which left me only an hour and a half, although being the Captain, I could push mine to whenever I wanted. I was a little hungry already, although I’d long been of the opinion that a little bit of hunger was a good thing, both physically as well as mentally.
First things first. I hit the call button on my wristcom. “Bim Marshall.”
“Sir,” my scout liaison answered.
(Gus’s reaction.)
Conrad Rader
I had my Public Affairs officer meet us at the airlock to give Canon Forklinbrass a tour of the ship. Regimath, of course, was mentally focused on the psi orb, which he strongly and correctly suspected was in Josefeen’s diplomatic case.
“We’ll meet for dinner,” I told him. “But there are pressing matters to which I must attend.” (FEEL FREE TO CHANGE)
“Of course, Captain.” He wanted to bring up the orb in some oblique way, but he didn’t know how to do so without being obvious and, to a certain degree, guilty of covetousness, even though all he wanted was to touch it, just to see what might happen. Likewise, he was a bit afraid, I realized as he walked away with Lieutenant Parish, as he’d heard rumors that the God’s Eye was a dangerous thing, the key to powers beyond human comprehension.
«How many of these things are there?» I asked Josefeen. But before she could answer, I already knew this topic was so classified that even she didn’t know.
«You’ve heard of stovepiping, sir? If there’s no need to know, there’s no need to know.» She was fine with not knowing. A master manipulator psion had drilled that into her, a mandatory part of every intel psion’s education.
Manipulators were the disciplinarians and, Josefeen had logically reasoned, the ultimate masters of psion society. That was why she’d been so surprised when I displayed this specific talent. But I was not just a maniputor. I was also a poly-sci. That was rare. All this made me both valuable and dangerous, and because of this, she was already feeling inferior, which was a feeling she found both annoying and unexpected.
[[<<Yeah, well I am not very comfortable with the whole situation either.>>
"Lieutenant Abbonette, you are dismissed.]]
(Gus’s reaction, mentally, verbally, and/or physically.)
As I headed toward my quarters, Hoskins began to follow.
[["Corporal. Thank you for your service, you are dismissed from detached bodyguard duty with my compliments. Go get out of that armor and grab some rack time. Captain's orders."]]
(Gus’s reaction.)
I went to my quarters, changed out of my dress uniform into some work clothes, then looked at the time. It was nearly 14:30. Dinner was served on almost all Navy ships from 1600-1800, which left me only an hour and a half, although being the Captain, I could push mine to whenever I wanted. I changed my mind and started changing into workout clothes. I was a little hungry already, although I’d long been of the opinion that a little bit of hunger was a good thing, both physically as well as mentally. I was more in the mood to take out some frustrations that I had been keeping locked up
First things first. I hit the call button on my wristcom. “Bim Marshall.”
“Sir,” my scout liaison answered.
--
(Gus’s reaction.)
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Jim Vassilakos
Manipulators were the disciplinarians and, Josefeen had logically reasoned, the ultimate masters of psion society. That was why she’d been so surprised when I displayed this specific talent. But I was not just a manipulator. I was also a poly-sci. That was rare. All this made me both valuable and dangerous, and because of this, she was already feeling inferior, which was a feeling she found both annoying and unexpected.
To be fair, I wasn’t comfortable with the whole situation either. I was particularly worried about the upper branches of Intel deciding I was too valuable/dangerous to be let loose with an independent cruiser command. All the more reason to expedite repairs and move along while I still could.
«You can run, but you can’t hide,» Josefeen’s voice echoed inside my skull. «And if you run away from the mission… well, frowns and demerits will be the least of your worries.»
(Gus’s response, if any.)
I keyed a personnel advisory to the crew to politely refuse any offers of drinks from our guest while he was onboard. I pointedly stared at Josafeen while I did so. Bloody intel officers are too resistant to command stares, especially when they know you are chuckling at the memory of her shared dreams while on the couch.
(You can amend this, if you like.)
“Lieutenant Abbonette, you are dismissed.”
“Aye aye, Captain Plankwell,” she said and then walked away.
As I headed toward my quarters, Hoskins began to follow.
“Corporal. Thank you for your service. You are dismissed from detached bodyguard duty with my compliments. Go get out of that armor and grab some rack time. Captain’s orders.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
As I walked to my quarters, I could sense Josefeen walking to hers, except she had to take the bus downtown, as she called it. The intel pod was all the way at the back, directly opposite the exploration pod, meaning that if the ship had turned the other way at Quar, it would have been her people rather than the scouts that got hit. Maybe Josefeen herself would have gotten sucked out into space, and then she never would have met this prodigy who the Imperium had held in reserve like an ace in the hole.
Why hadn’t they activated him during the war, she wondered.
(Gus’s reaction, if any.)
I reached my quarters, changed out of my dress uniform into some work clothes, then looked at the time. It was nearly 14:30. Dinner was served on almost all Navy ships from 1600-1800, which left me only an hour and a half, although being the Captain, I could push mine to whenever I wanted. I was a little hungry already, although I’d long been of the opinion that a little bit of hunger was a good thing, both physically as well as mentally.
I’d put off the gym for too long, I suddenly realized, so I changed out of the work clothes I’d just put on and into workout clothes.
I was more in the mood to take out some frustrations that I had been keeping locked up
First things first. I hit the call button on my wristcom. “Bim Marshall.”
“Sir,” my scout liaison answered.
“Report to the Marine gym in ten minutes prepared to report on the disposition of the scout module negotiations.”
“Sir, I can’t get there in ten minutes. I’m dirtside.”
(Gus’s response.)
Conrad Rader
Manipulators were the disciplinarians and, Josefeen had logically reasoned, the ultimate masters of psion society. That was why she’d been so surprised when I displayed this specific talent. But I was not just a manipulator. I was also a poly-sci. That was rare. All this made me both valuable and dangerous, and because of this, she was already feeling inferior, which was a feeling she found both annoying and unexpected.
To be fair, I wasn’t comfortable with the whole situation either. I was particularly worried about the upper branches of Intel deciding I was too valuable/dangerous to be let loose with an independent cruiser command. All the more reason to expedite repairs and move along while I still could.
«You can run, but you can’t hide,» Josefeen’s voice echoed inside my skull. «And if you run away from the mission… well, frowns and demerits will be the least of your worries.»
(Gus’s response, if any.)
I keyed a personnel advisory to the crew to politely refuse any offers of drinks from our guest while he was onboard. I pointedly stared at Josafeen while I did so. Bloody intel officers are too resistant to command stares, especially when they know you are chuckling at the memory of her shared dreams while on the couch.
(You can amend this, if you like.)
“Lieutenant Abbonette, you are dismissed.”
“Aye aye, Captain Plankwell,” she said and then walked away.
As I headed toward my quarters, Hoskins began to follow.
“Corporal. Thank you for your service. You are dismissed from detached bodyguard duty with my compliments. Go get out of that armor and grab some rack time. Captain’s orders.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
As I walked to my quarters, I could sense Josefeen walking to hers, except she had to take the bus downtown, as she called it. The intel pod was all the way at the back, directly opposite the exploration pod, meaning that if the ship had turned the other way at Quar, it would have been her people rather than the scouts that got hit. Maybe Josefeen herself would have gotten sucked out into space, and then she never would have met this prodigy who the Imperium had held in reserve like an ace in the hole.
Why hadn’t they activated him during the war, she wondered.
(Gus’s reaction, if any.)
I reached my quarters, changed out of my dress uniform into some work clothes, then looked at the time. It was nearly 14:30. Dinner was served on almost all Navy ships from 1600-1800, which left me only an hour and a half, although being the Captain, I could push mine to whenever I wanted. I was a little hungry already, although I’d long been of the opinion that a little bit of hunger was a good thing, both physically as well as mentally.
I’d put off the gym for too long, I suddenly realized, so I changed out of the work clothes I’d just put on and into workout clothes.
I was more in the mood to take out some frustrations that I had been keeping locked up
First things first. I hit the call button on my wristcom. “Bim Marshall.”
“Sir,” my scout liaison answered.
“Report to the Marine gym in ten minutes prepared to report on the disposition of the scout module negotiations.”
“Sir, I can’t get there in ten minutes. I’m dirtside.”
(Gus’s response.)
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Jim Vassilakos
«Nobody’s hiding. I know my duty, but until someone orders me otherwise, I am doing what I am doing. And the mission is the same, just where it’s happening is changing. I’ll speak to your boss tonight to get the lowdown on the fizzle at the event, and then we will see what we will see.»
I dictated a personnel advisory to the crew to politely refuse any offers of drinks from the Canon while he was onboard, pointedly staring at Josefeen while I did so. She simply stared back at me like I was a moldy piece of bread. Bloody intel officers. All too resistant to command stares, although I couldn’t help but chuckle inwardly at the memory of her psychedelic encounter with the universe.
She raised an eyebrow, wondering for how long she would remain a source of amusement.
“Lieutenant Abbonette, you are dismissed.”
“Aye aye, Captain Plankwell,” she said in a tired voice, then turned and walked away.
As I headed toward my quarters, Hoskins began to follow.
“Corporal, thank you for your service. You are dismissed from detached bodyguard duty with my compliments. Go get out of that armor and grab some rack time. Captain’s orders.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
As I walked to my quarters, I could sense Josefeen walking to hers, except she had to take the bus downtown, as she called it. The intel pod was all the way at the back, directly opposite the exploration pod, meaning that if the ship had turned the other way at Quar, it would have been her people rather than the scouts that got hit. Maybe Josefeen herself would have gotten sucked out into space, and then she never would have met this prodigy who the Imperium had held in reserve like an ace in the hole.
Why hadn’t they activated him during the war, she wondered.
I’d wondered that as well. I thought over my war service and didn’t think I'd been especially key. Maybe they worried about activating more psions in an environment where they could be suborned by close contact with the enemy. I frowned at that thought. I had been in close contact with Zhodani on a couple of occasions. Why hadn't they detected my potential? It probably wasn’t that easy. I shook my head. There was still so much I didn’t know. It was easier when Intel was a black box of instructions to be followed.
I reached my quarters as Josefeen entered a capsule and began heading aftward along the spinal transport tube. Was she still able to sense my presence as I was able to sense hers? I began changing out of my dress uniform into some work clothes, then looked at the time. It was nearly 14:30. Dinner was served on almost all Navy ships from 1600-1800, which left me only an hour and a half, although being the Captain, I could push my meals to whenever I wanted. I was a little hungry already, although I’d long been of the opinion that a little bit of hunger was a good thing, both physically as well as mentally.
I’d put off the gym for too long, I suddenly realized, so I stopped changing into work clothes and instead put on workout clothes, realizing I was more in the mood to take out some frustrations that I’d been keeping locked up. First things first, however. I hit the call button on my wristcom.
“Bim Marshall.”
“Sir,” my scout liaison answered.
“Report to the Marine gym in ten minutes prepared to report on the disposition of the scout module negotiations.”
“Sir, I can’t get there in ten minutes. I’m dirtside.”
“Get to a secure location and establish a secure connection, and ping me when it’s done.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Josefeen’s capsule reached the Intel pod, and the door opened. «You’ll need to get him right in front of you if you want to see what he’s thinking.» Then she entered the pod, and it was like she’d disappeared. I no longer had any sense of her presence.
«Are you still there?» No response. The Intel pod was psi-shielded. In a way it was a relief. I didn’t want her in my head while I was showering or vice versa.
I called up the Marine Gym and requested the floor officer to clear one of the combat bots for me. I then left my quarters and proceeded to the Marine Gym. I commed ahead to the officer of the deck, so they wouldn’t be too surprised when I showed up. Training bot or live sparring partner, it didn’t really matter. Although the ship’s combat master would need to verify my ranking. No doubt, I'd lapsed in some areas with my long voyage out of the Extents. I needed to make up for lost training, but I also wanted to make up for missing my previous appointment. The whole “Captain No-Show” nickname still grated on me, and I needed to dispel it before it stuck.
The ship was emptier than the last time I was walking around, given that I had released so many for the ceremony. I liked busy ships, but I also liked these times when I had a corridor to myself, and didn’t have to worry about correct courtesy or the eager ensign with a problem and solution. Hence, I wasn’t surprised when I got a capsule to myself, and as it headed aftward, my wristcom pinged. It was Bim.
Conrad Rader
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Jim Vassilakos
“General Products has scheduled the severing to begin tomorrow, and I’m told the new pod will be ready for installation shortly after they’ve taken the old one.”
Conrad Rader
“General Products has scheduled the severing to begin tomorrow, and I’m told the new pod will be ready for installation shortly after they’ve taken the old one.”
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Jim Vassilakos
The capsule’s door opened, and a marine lieutenant saluted, having apparently caught wind of my impending arrival.
“Captain, the Combat Master is ready for you. Please follow me, sir.”
I nodded my assent, and he led me down the corridor, pretty much all the way to the end and then to the left.
The Snuka Model 518 grappling drone was there in what looked like a little doghouse — its charging and maintenance station — and an old man, fit but too far on in years to be a serious threat on the mat, was dressed in wrestling gear.
“Sir, CPO Kar Davidson,” he said with a brisk salute. “There’s your gear, and let me know if you need a locker.” Kar was the number ten in Vilani, which meant either he was the tenth child in his family or he was named ten as symbolic of ten-out-of-ten for perfection. “Sir, may I assess your skill level?” It was the former. Like Josefeen, he grew up in a polycule, and also like her, he’d been genetically enhanced while still in a petri dish, such were the joys of Navy-sponsored human breeding programs.
(Gus’s response. By the way, I’m assuming a chief petty officer can be a combat master, but if you think this is an error or that the Marine Pod would have a commissioned officer in this role, let me know.)
“Now, sir, with all due respect, I’m going to kick your ass, so please don’t take it personally.”
Option 1: “I’ll fight the Snuka. I don’t want to hurt you.”
Option 2: “I’m looking forward to seeing you try, CPO.”
Option 3: “Call me Gus.”
Option 4: “???”
So there I was, basically getting my ass kicked by an old man. He was quick, whereas in strength we were evenly matched. (Describe some combat that is not going as well as Gus would like.) He was definitely quicker than I expected. (Describe some combat where Gus gets the upper-hand and pins the Combat Master.)
We got up from the mat. I was surprised someone of his obvious skill left me any openings, and I didn’t need to read his mind to sense he was feeling like an idiot, especially since the lieutenant was there watching along with three others, all of whom who trying, only semi-successfully I might add, to maintain a completely neutral expression.
“Okay, he got me,” Kar admitted, “but that’s because I was over-confident. Never underestimate your foe, or you’re going to get what I just got: owned. Okay, let’s do this again,” he said to me, squaring off.
(Describe some combat where Gus gets the upper hand, but then the CM works his way out and gets the upper hand on Gus, and then works Gus into a position of complete submission, where the CM could rip off Gus’s balls if he wanted to.)
Option 1: “Now it’s time for the Snuka.”
Option 2: “Two out of three?”
Option 3: “???”
A woman was now there among the men, and she was in a Navy uniform, not Marine. According to (describe something about the uniform), she was the ship’s legal representative. No doubt, her presence had something to do with the HPSS and the interdiction. I decided it was time to take a break.
I walked over to her, getting a closer look. She was of moderate height, and seemed to be trembling just slightly as I approached. (Feel free to suggest some more description, if you like.)
“Sir,” she said. “Captain….” Captain Plankwell! Oh, great. She was one of those Plankwell groupies, the Olav Admiration Society. I made that up, but it honestly wouldn’t have surprised me if an organization by that name actually existed. “Happy Birthday,” she said. “I mean, Happy Tomorrow Birthday. Happy Birthday tomorrow.” She wanted to smack herself.
(Gus’s response mentally/verbally/physically.)
“Sir, I’m Lt. Francine Sidara.”
“Nice to meet you, Lieutenant.” (Feel free to change Gus’s response.)
“Sir, is there somewhere we can talk when you have a minute?”
(Gus’s response.)
One problem for Navy lawyers, and it was a huge problem, was that every world in the Imperium had its own legal code, and, indeed, every different magisterial court had its own procedures and precedents. Cases tried in a High Court could be appealed, but the grounds for appeal diminished as one ascended the legal ladder, although they did so in different ways depending on the laws and procedures of the specific Appellate Court in question. It was all a rather complex network of courts and laws, the result being a legal system so fractured that a ship’s lawyer, even for ships that had them, typically had to employ the services of a local attorney when representing their ship or crew in a local court. Likewise, they’d need a magisterial attorney for matters under the jurisdiction of a magisterial court, and these attorneys were even more expensive than the regular ones. And this was essentially what she wanted to discuss.
“I’m sorry about the Happy Birthday, sir.” Shut-up already about the Happy Birthday, you idiot! Oh, Dear Cleon. She was borderline schizophrenic. “Sir, as I’m sure you know, due to the variety of different laws and court procedures in different jurisdictions, we rely heavily on local representation, so I contacted the JAG division at Plankwell Naval Base,” — I can’t believe I’m talking to an actual Plankwell! — “and they referred me to a local attorney, who…” — who’s pessimistic about our chances — “who’s willing to meet with us to discuss the case.”
(Gus's response.)
Sorry for the slight delay, but I wanted to take my time with this one. Also, by the way, I never saw your Chapter 42 edits. Did you take a look at it? If not, see: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1x6qwhU_iAkdpVfi5xZj0UqWzhbptRixg/edit?usp=sharing&ouid=113687616933633107445&rtpof=true&sd=true
And PLEASE REMEMBER to change "EDITING" to "SUGGESTING" (near the upper right-hand corner) before doing any edits.
Conrad Rader
The capsule’s door opened, and a marine lieutenant saluted, having apparently caught wind of my impending arrival.
“Captain, the Combat Master is ready for you. Please follow me, sir.”
I nodded my assent, and he led me down the corridor, pretty much all the way to the end and then to the left.
The Snuka Model 518 grappling drone was there in what looked like a little doghouse — its charging and maintenance station — and an old man, fit but too far on in years to be a serious threat on the mat, was dressed in wrestling gear.
“Sir, CPO Kar Davidson,” he said with a brisk salute. “There’s your gear, and let me know if you need a locker.” Kar was the number ten in Vilani, which meant either he was the tenth child in his family or he was named ten as symbolic of ten-out-of-ten for perfection. “Sir, may I assess your skill level?” It was the former. Like Josefeen, he grew up in a polycule, and also like her, he’d been genetically enhanced while still in a petri dish, such were the joys of Navy-sponsored human breeding programs.
(Gus’s response. By the way, I’m assuming a chief petty officer can be a combat master, but if you think this is an error or that the Marine Pod would have a commissioned officer in this role, let me know.)
“Now, sir, with all due respect, I’m going to kick your ass, so please don’t take it personally.”
Option 1: “I’ll fight the Snuka. I don’t want to hurt you.”
Option 2: “I’m looking forward to seeing you try, CPO.”
Option 3: “Call me Gus.”
Option 4: “???”
So there I was, basically getting my ass kicked by an old man. He was quick, whereas in strength we were evenly matched. (Describe some combat that is not going as well as Gus would like.) He was definitely quicker than I expected. (Describe some combat where Gus gets the upper-hand and pins the Combat Master.)
We got up from the mat. I was surprised someone of his obvious skill left me any openings, and I didn’t need to read his mind to sense he was feeling like an idiot, especially since the lieutenant was there watching along with three others, all of whom who trying, only semi-successfully I might add, to maintain a completely neutral expression.“Okay, he got me,” Kar admitted, “but that’s because I was over-confident. Never underestimate your foe, or you’re going to get what I just got: owned. Okay, let’s do this again,” he said to me, squaring off.
(Describe some combat where Gus gets the upper hand, but then the CM works his way out and gets the upper hand on Gus, and then works Gus into a position of complete submission, where the CM could rip off Gus’s balls if he wanted to.)
Option 1: “Now it’s time for the Snuka.”
Option 2: “Two out of three?”
Option 3: “???”
A woman was now there among the men, and she was in a Navy uniform, not Marine. According to [[the two starbursts and the throne insigina on her collar]] , she was the ship’s legal representative. No doubt, her presence had something to do with the HPSS and the interdiction. I decided it was time to take a break.
I walked over to her, getting a closer look. She was of moderate height, and seemed to be trembling just slightly as I approached. (Feel free to suggest some more description, if you like.)
“Sir,” she said. “Captain….” Captain Plankwell! Oh, great. She was one of those Plankwell groupies, the Olav Admiration Society. I made that up, but it honestly wouldn’t have surprised me if an organization by that name actually existed. “Happy Birthday,” she said. “I mean, Happy Tomorrow Birthday. Happy Birthday tomorrow.” She wanted to smack herself.
(Gus’s response mentally/verbally/physically.)
“Sir, I’m Lt. Francine Sidara.”
“Yes?"
“Sir, is there somewhere we can talk when you have a minute?”
[["Is this something urgent or is there an issue with making an appointment through the regular channels?"]]
One problem for Navy lawyers, and it was a huge problem, was that every world in the Imperium had its own legal code, and, indeed, every different magisterial court had its own procedures and precedents. Cases tried in a High Court could be appealed, but the grounds for appeal diminished as one ascended the legal ladder, although they did so in different ways depending on the laws and procedures of the specific Appellate Court in question. It was all a rather complex network of courts and laws, the result being a legal system so fractured that a ship’s lawyer, even for ships that had them, typically had to employ the services of a local attorney when representing their ship or crew in a local court. Likewise, they’d need a magisterial attorney for matters under the jurisdiction of a magisterial court, and these attorneys were even more expensive than the regular ones. And this was essentially what she wanted to discuss.
“I’m sorry about the Happy Birthday, sir.” Shut-up already about the Happy Birthday, you idiot! Oh, Dear Cleon. She was borderline schizophrenic. “Sir, as I’m sure you know, due to the variety of different laws and court procedures in different jurisdictions, we rely heavily on local representation, so I contacted the JAG division at Plankwell Naval Base,” — I can’t believe I’m talking to an actual Plankwell! — “and they referred me to a local attorney, who…” — who’s pessimistic about our chances — “who’s willing to meet with us to discuss the case.”
(Gus's response.)
Sorry for the slight delay, but I wanted to take my time with this one. Also, by the way, I never saw your Chapter 42 edits. Did you take a look at it? If not, see: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1x6qwhU_iAkdpVfi5xZj0UqWzhbptRixg/edit?usp=sharing&ouid=113687616933633107445&rtpof=true&sd=true
And PLEASE REMEMBER to change "EDITING" to "SUGGESTING" (near the upper right-hand corner) before doing any edits.
--
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Jim Vassilakos
“Ah. I suspected as much. Well, Lieutenant, I would be happy to meet with you to discuss what you see as our legal strategies and retaining local representation. Please submit a request into the scheduling queue, and I will be sure to give it a high priority. Now, if you will excuse me, the Chief is evaluating my combat effectiveness, and he is looking extremely gleeful about the combat stick he is holding. I appreciate your birthday wishes and will be sure to give your concern the appropriate attention at the appropriate time. Dismissed.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Dejected and feeling like even more of an idiot, she saluted and quickly made her exit.
(What does Gus want to do now?)
Jim Vassilakos
As always, the first thing to hit me was the smell: sweat, blood, exertion pheromones. I relished it. The sounds were next, muffled grunting and thumping, the thud of bodies hitting and the occasional shout of focused aggression. Navy combat gyms had many of the same amenities but never seemed quite as serious.
Resistance trainers lined the front and back walls. Free weights were situated along the sides. In the center were four squares, each with variable gravity controls. The Snuka Model 518 grappling drone was there in its charging and maintenance kennel, and an old man, fit but too far on in years to be a serious threat on the mat, was dressed in wrestling gear.
“Sir, CPO Kar Davidson,” he said with a brisk salute. “There’s your gear, and let me know if you need a locker.” Kar was the number ten in Vilani, which meant either he was the tenth child in his family or he was named ten as symbolic of ten-out-of-ten for perfection. “Sir, may I assess your skill level?” It was the former. Like Josefeen, he grew up in a polycule, and also like her, he’d been genetically enhanced while still in a petri dish, such were the joys of Navy-sponsored human breeding programs.
The gear he indicated was a standard training outfit for hand-to-hand combat. Most marines fought in combat armor or battle dress, and the training outfits simulated the fit and constraints of the armor to make sure that was taken into account. They also provided some light padding to help take the blows. I was already wearing the standard workout undersuit, so I began to pull on the pieces. I knew I was being evaluated the moment my foot had passed through the door. Time to let them know I knew what I was doing.
“I appreciate you fitting me into the schedule, Chief. I’ve had a hectic couple of days and am starting to feel the edge come off.”
The trousers went on first, then the jacket, secured by a webbing belt. Formal martial arts indicated rank by any number of indicators, but among the marines, it was based on who you were able to beat. To be a combat master required a very high ranking. This guy was on the edge of retirement, but looks could be deceiving. He was, after all, still the master in this detachment.
Once I was kitted up, CPO Davidson indicated the combat square with a questioning grin. I grinned back.
“Good try, Chief, but I need to get warmed up first. Fifteen minutes should do it.”
I was rewarded with a gracious nod and some hand motions to clear one one the other squares for me. I knew he was going to observe my form and wondered if he belonged to the school of notes or the school of correction. The sharp swap of a stick on my shoulder gave me my answer. Corrections. I focused on my breathing and my form as I ran through a full body warm-up, getting my blood pumping and waking up underused muscles. I collected two more swaps and called it fair.
I entered the combat square and shook myself out to get a feeling on the fit of the sparring suit. CPO Davidson entered the opposite side and activated the scoring computer. Sensors would monitor the combat and call out of bounds and score the moves. Combat bouts were scored on exchanges, pins, throws and holds. Other sensors monitored our vital signs and the force of blows being used. Standard training fights were to be conducted at three-quarters strength. Marines were among the most efficient hand to hand killers in service, and the Imperium did not pay them to thin their own ranks. Attention to form, consistency and strategy were the name of this game.
“Now, sir, with all due respect, I’m going to kick your ass, so please don’t take it personally.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing you try, CPO.”
We each dropped into our opening stance, and the computer started the match with the word “Fight.”
He was not wrong, I soon realized, as I looked up at the ceiling of the gym from my position on my back. Davidson had exploded into motion, feinting left and dropping me with a heel hook from the right as he spun like a top on one hand. The computer awarded him a full point. He had already returned to his starting location as I rolled to my feet.
There was no shame in losing to an unknown quantity, but the challenge was staying alive long enough to learn from the experience. As I dropped back into the opening stance, my mind started to race, I was opening my senses to combat, and as soon as the computer again said “Fight,” I leapt into motion.
Davidson had gone for a direct attack, and I countered by grabbing his arm as I sidestepped the abdomen thrust. I pivoted on my heel and was pulling him into a throw when he added to his speed by jumping into the throw and rolled out. I managed to slip my arm away from his grab that would have turned into a counter-throw. I took a gamble and shot out my leg backwards in a hard kick, but he had already gained his balance and blocked the kick with a sweeping hand. He came at me again while I was recovering, grabbing me around the waist and pushing me down into a pin. Now I was looking at the floor while this wiry old man got off me.
“Point: red. Reset.”
The computer was programmed to penalize you if you did not recover and reset in good form, so I once again pushed myself off the mat and got into opening stance. I was pleased to see Davidson breathing a little more quickly.
“Fight.”
Once more we flew towards each other. He’d already gone for a pin and a throw, so now he was going to pummel me. I ducked the first punch, a straight jab to my head, and blocked the reverse roundhouse as he spun in place to change his momentum. He was strong and quick, but as I felt the block, I thought I might be a little stronger. From the block, I launched an elbow into his abdomen that connected, but he was already moving back to lessen the impact. I continued my movement, dropping into a roll and aiming a hard kick at his knee from the deck. He reacted like I had hoped and shifted his knee. I finished my roll into a crouch and launched my entire body at him. He was off center from having to protect his knee and so took the body blow and was knocked out of bounds.
“Point: blue. Reset.”
I was grinning a little more than professionalism called for as Davidson hauled himself up and back into the square. It was not the most stylish of moves, but I would take what points I could get. I could see him re-evaluating me as he dropped into his opening stance. He might let me get in another shot, but I doubted he would make it easy.
“Fight.”
He started some footwork and moved about the square, hands held loosely in front, always in motion. He was giving me the attack, and I responded by starting to mirror him. He wanted me to attack, so I wanted to deny him his plan. We danced like this for about ten seconds before the computer buzzed us; engage or lose points. He had been waiting for the buzzer and moved in with some punch combinations. I was moved back, blocking and dodging, but I took a couple of hits to my arms and shoulders. I was good enough to counter most of his punches, but the uppercut-bodyblow combo made it through, and once again I was on my back looking at the ceiling.
“Point: red. Warning, excess force use noted. Quarter-point deduction. Reset.”
So that was something. He took me down, but had to go a little harder than sparring regs to do it. Being knocked out of bounds must not happen to him very often. I could use that.
“Fight.”
I repeated my opening move from when I had pushed him out of bounds. It was a little different because he wasn’t swinging at me this time, but I closed the distance and got a hold on an arm, preparing for a throw. I think he let me get a hold because as I moved into the throw, I felt him grabbing me, and trying to counter throw. We rolled together, each keeping our grip on the other. I focused my grip, squeezing hard and hoping to trigger a pain point to force a release, but it didn’t work. We were on our knees, straining for domination, and then he did something like folding into the clinch and ended up on his back, which was typically a pin, but in this case he had me in a leg lock, and his other arm was at my throat as I lay on top of him.
“Half point: red. Quarter point: blue. Match concluded.”
We both got out of the hold and stood and faced each other. I nodded my head and stuck out my hand. “Good match, Chief.”
I was rewarded with an impish grin and he caught my hand in his very firm grip. “Aye aye, sir. It’s been a few jumps since I got bumped out. Now that I got your measure, get back in there with the Snuka, and show me what you can handle at level eight.”
There was a brief murmur from the crowd that had gathered to watch. Level eight was challenging, but if the ship Combat Master gave it to the me after one bout, well, the rest of them were now more interested. I nodded and got back in the square as the Snuka powered up and unfolded from its kennel.
Over the next few minutes, I scored twice on the Snuka but was also given a rather furious drubbing. As I picked myself up off the deck, I noticed a woman was now there among the men, and she was in a Navy uniform, not Marine. According to the two starbursts and the throne insignia on her collar, she was the ship’s legal representative. No doubt, her presence had something to do with the HPSS and the interdiction. I decided it was time to take a break.
I walked over to her, getting a closer look. She was of moderate height, and seemed to be trembling just slightly as I approached.
“Sir,” she said. “Captain….” Captain Plankwell! Oh, great. She was one of those Plankwell groupies, the Olav Admiration Society. I made that up, but it honestly wouldn’t have surprised me if an organization by that name actually existed. “Happy Birthday,” she said. “I mean, Happy Tomorrow Birthday. Happy Birthday tomorrow.” She wanted to smack herself. This was embarrassing, and not just for her.
“Thank you Lieutenant.” I kept my answer brief, and focused on her, hoping she would come to the point. I also reached out telepathically, hoping to get an inkling of what was going on behind the hero worship routine.
“Sir, I’m Lt. Francine Sidara.”
“Yes?”
“Sir, is there somewhere we can talk when you have a minute?”
“Is this something urgent or is there an issue with making an appointment through the regular channels?”
She’d debated with herself whether to seek me out or simply schedule an appointment, but when she heard through the bridge that I intended to postpone the ship’s repairs and leave Jewell in three days, she decided on the direct approach. After all, if we were only going to be in port a few more days, time was of the essence.
One problem for Navy lawyers, however, was that every world in the Imperium had its own legal code, and, indeed, every different magisterial court had its own procedures and precedents. Cases tried in a High Court could be appealed, but the grounds for appeal diminished as one ascended the legal ladder, although they did so in different ways depending on the laws and procedures of the specific Appellate Court in question. It was all a rather complex network of courts and laws, the result being a legal system so fractured that a ship’s lawyer, even for ships that had them, typically had to employ the services of a local attorney when representing their ship or crew in a local court. Likewise, they’d need a magisterial attorney for matters under the jurisdiction of a magisterial court, and these attorneys were even more expensive than the regular ones. And this was essentially what she wanted to discuss.
“I’m sorry, Sir, but it is pressing if we are to go into the Magisterial Court, and I’m sorry about the Happy Birthday, sir.” Shut-up already about the Happy Birthday, you idiot! Oh, Dear Cleon. She was borderline schizophrenic. “Sir, as I’m sure you know, due to the variety of different laws and court procedures in different jurisdictions, we rely heavily on local representation, so I contacted the JAG division at Plankwell Naval Base,” — I can’t believe my Captain is an actual Plankwell! — “and they referred me to a local attorney, who…” — who’s pessimistic about our chances — “who’s willing to meet with us to discuss the case.”
Conrad Rader
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Jim Vassilakos
Dejected and feeling like even more of an idiot, she saluted and began to leave.
“Lieutenant.”
She stopped and turned back.
“It was a good call to come check with me in person given the chaos of the past couple of days and our impending departure plans. I meant what I said. I will be happy to fit you in at a high priority. Thank you for alerting me to the situation, and be sure you get the schedule request on the roster. As you were, unless you’d like to see me pummeled some more.”
Her cheeks flushed as she struggled to think of a witty retort, but nothing came to mind. The truth was, she didn’t understand why I was in a gym training for physical combat when, in her assessment, the upcoming battle wouldn’t be physical but rather legal and possibly political. On top of that, she desperately needed to brush up on magisterial court procedure, just in case.
“I need to get to work, sir. I’ll make the request.”
There was a sharp noise behind me, metal tapping against metal, and I turned to look. Davidson was tapping the deck with an ARM-01XE Combat Baton, also called a shock baton or stunstick, since it could be electrified with a twist of the grip. I knew from past experience that this particular model could also be extended or retracted, making it a concealable weapon.
The Marines, of course, were perfectly comfortable using their gauss rifles as cudgels, or anything else for that matter, but stunsticks were generally the preferred weapon for non-lethal, close quarters combat, at least against unarmored opponents. And they were known to come in fairly handy in dark alleys as well as the occasional barroom brawl.
[Sorry about the heavy editing on this one, but I didn’t see there being much value to variable hardness. I’m thinking that while variable hardness would be a neat thing to have (it would disperse the force of impact over a larger area, thus effectively blunting the blow), it would be nearly as effective to simply pull one’s punches, aim judiciously, or employ electric shock when trying to incapacitate without injury. Furthermore, I didn’t find any mention of variable hardness batons on the TravellerWiki, although I did find mention of Shock Batons (https://wiki.travellerrpg.com/Electroshock_Weapon). If you’re aware of any references to variable-hardness batons in the Traveller literature, please let me know. In any case, in lieu of the variable hardness, I decided to make them retractable and thus concealable, which I think is a fair trade, although given Jewell’s law level, they’d be banned in public places under civilian control.]
As I donned some additional armor, I couldn’t help but reflect on how rusty my baton fighting had become. The Navy tended to use stunsticks for boarding actions when high value targets were to be taken alive. Most of the ships I’d served on, however, used marines as their boarding parties, so while a lot of Navy personnel were competent, particularly boarding officers, it was the Marines who were the true professionals.
Davidson scaled down his attacks to my skill level as soon as he saw me struggling. I was a boxer and a brawler, so using a stunstick was a little taxing. It wasn't like flying a fighter where I could program the inputs to match my natural reflexes. I had to move the stick as well as my body, blocking, swinging, jabbing and deflecting, all while taking hits. After my third fall, Davidson suggested I take a break.
“Next up are your physical stress and endurance assessments, but only if you have the time.”
Conrad Rader
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Jim Vassilakos
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1RgG0oEzY_gCB8AgSl5SYQ0Van0B1II8A/edit?usp=sharing&ouid=113687616933633107445&rtpof=true&sd=true