Tranquility Lost

Chapter 7: Back in Black

There I stood, crisp and clean in a black security uniform with captain pips and my name gleaming from a plaque, Max a stolid presence beside me. My new commanding officer, a Captain Hawthorne, paced back and forth as he relayed an unending stream of minutia. He wasn't impressed with my record, or so he said, but his speechifying was so wooden and by-the-book that the words began drifting in and out after the first five minutes.

"Which brings me to the current campaign," Hawthorne said, graciously arriving at the point. I relaxed slightly while he tapped at his tablet. "A reconquest of the Port Thruster Control Room, to be timed in coordination with a strike against the Starboard Thruster Control Room. The traitor Charles Reznor has brought an unknown number of mutineers up from AgSec and carved out an independent realm for himself. They're scavengers and looters, trading any sort of useful equipment for stockpiles of food. They are well-supplied, and we do not have the time to indulge a blockade—they must be rooted out like the rats that they are, and the controls repaired. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly."

"All personnel in penal detachments are fitted with collars that have remote controlled spikes. Should they prove recalcitrant, the spike can be activated to impale their throat. Thus ensuring compliance." He adjusted his pair of horn-rimmed glasses. "Steel yourself for the very real possibility that you may need to make an example of someone. It does tend to encourage the others." A distracted expression spread across his features as he glanced at his datapad. "Technical Sergeant Singh will fill you in on the details," he concluded, marching away at a brisk pace.

A slim man with a pitch-black beard and teal turban bearing the emblem of Bridge Security stepped forward. "Sir. As the ranking NCO, I've been tasked with bringing you up to speed on Penal Company Three. We are currently understrength, as is nearly every Bridge Security unit, totaling eighty-six in number. Our unit is built from seventy-two conscripts assigned to punishment detail. This includes billionaires, convicts, soldiers found guilty of substantial crimes by military police, and several janitors. They—"

"Janitors?" I broke in, unable to help myself.

Sergeant Singh nodded. "Yes. They all wear punishment collars, orange jumpsuits, and melee weapons ranging from crowbars to batons. I am also in charge of the blocking detachment of twelve military police. Should the collars prove insufficient, we are tasked with keeping the conscripts in line and are pre-authorized to carry out summary executions if need be."

I scratched at my chin, where a bit of stubble had sprung up. It seemed I'd need to requisition some shaving gear, but that was far from the top of my list of worries. Back on Earth I'd had to grow up quickly, and youthful ideas about being among the "good guys" had soon given way to a more pragmatic mindset. When the Feds had pulled out we'd been fought over by criminal organizations, somewhere between cartel and military, gangs that had swelled up until they'd grown into little governments. My family and I had done their best to avoid them, which hadn't been enough in the end. Still, I'd gotten the necessary certificates to win myself a berth on a generation ship courtesy of the New Terra Project. Fighting back against raiders had been personally satisfying. Doing so on behalf of the thousand most connected families that had superheated the planet so much that we'd gotten into this mess... had been less so.

Still, I could make a moral argument for it. Overseeing a group of convicts assigned to suicide missions? That wasn't exactly what I'd signed up for.

"Do we have an estimate of the enemy forces involved?"

"We don't know shit."

He looked at me with a blank face. I looked right back. He stayed quiet; I stayed quiet. Finally he cracked.