Persis
entered through the holographic doors that swung inward at
her approach into the saloon. Dripping from the rain, she
paused long enough for the rivulets to run off the brim of
her scruffy, battered leather hat as she shook her browncoat
free from excessive water. She stepped to the side to the
boot scraper. There were a lot of horses out today, and with
the mud, it made a ruin of her boots.
She went past wood tables, to the scarred and nicked bar,
leaning against the rail. The bartender sidled up, wearing
a bowler hat and small handlebar moustaches. He set down two
glasses. “Here’s your beer, ma’am, with
your whiskey chaser.”
She was momentarily surprised. “I ain’t ever been
here before. How’d you know that?”
Cap smiles beatifically. “It’s a gift of mine.”
Persis grunted, eyeing him oddly. She briefly entertained
the notion he was a Reader, but figured that was something
out of science fiction. “Quiet night?”
“Yes ‘em. You picked a mighty poor night for being
social. Not many here, tonight.”
She surveyed the room. Two men played pool on the holographic
table under the benevolent gaze of a Buddha that’d seen
a better day. One guy, with a shiny pate, wore some red and
black pajamas that her mother would die of embarrassment to
see. The other…well, by the ridges all over his forehead,
she figured he’d survived a Reaver. Could explain the
scowl. Then again, he was losing badly. “Well, we’re
all where we’re supposed to be, even if we don’t
like it much.”
Cap slid a warm beer towards her. “Seems like you’ve
travelled a bit of the ‘verse, then. How’d you
end up here, on the Rim?”
Persis took a sip. No one was near. Not that it mattered.
Anyone hearing the story wouldn’t really believe it
of her. She was so very different from what she’d been
ten years ago. Even her crew would most likely dismiss it.
“It had indeed been a twisty kind of journey. I’m
not much for what-might-have-been, but sometimes the mood
catches me. Our last job was worse than weak tea. More ambitious,
and better-armed marauders had hit the town. All they had
to pay was food that wasn’t even fit to feed the Alliance.
If worse came to worst, I could use the century-old ration
bars for plating on the hull.”
“I’d had a decent life. A good job, plenty of
money. It’s amazing how much people would pay for a
decent freelance journalist and professor. I even had me a
husband. We had a nice ‘stead on Londinium and were
talking about having a child. Not that I ever figured to be
the motherly type, but we were talking about it.”
“Then came the war.” Persis takes a deep draft,
eyes going back to yesteryear.
“I was one of the few who got the chance to cover aspects
of the war. I’d been impressed with the pristine, well-lit
halls of the Alliance vessel, Invincible, even if some weren’t
too pleased at my presence. I went nary a day without seeing
strict protocols followed, orders given, discipline enforced
and rewarded. They ate well and regularly, and I knew there
were many of the Independents that couldn’t say the
same.
Outside the Border worlds, they were patrolling the area near
Boros. Scuttlebutt said that the Independents were going to
try for a breach to the Alliance shipyards on Ares, Boros’
one lonely moon. The captain didn’t hold much to the
rumour, but he had his orders. Captain Hawthorne sat in his
chair, uniform crisp as the day it was created, issuing orders
for the radar sweep.
Long hours passed and Boros lazed towards the near Ort cloud,
which started to play merry, merry havoc with telemetry. Unconcerned,
the Alliance fleet of fifty ships, under the command of Admiral
Sturges, blithely followed orders.
Sun-side, from the glare came the Independents. For just a
moment, it seemed that no one was aware that they were approaching.
Then the rail guns began peppering the hull as the Independent
Space Brigade made significant hits. Three Alliance ships
beacons faltered and disappeared from the flight radar.
Hawthorne swept his unit around, keeping half his ships in
reserve. The half that was deployed sent out short-range skiffs
to gnaw away at the Independents’ defensive line.
Dozens of small enemy blips began to show up. Everyone on
the bridge tensed, waiting for the weapon fire they all expected.
But, the incoming pilots pulled out of their steep approaches,
daring their inertial dampeners to fail. In fact, a few lost
controls as systems fizzled from the effects of the ort cloud.
The navigational officer called out, “Coming up on IP,
sir!” Hawthorne leaned forward, “Arm! Arm and
Fire at will!” The command was chanted down the ranks
as a larger Independent strike force came up on their blindside—from
the planet.
The Invincible launched the skiffs bearing quad-mounted fifty-centimetre
rockets with two-thousand-kilo warheads, just as the first
wave hit the flagship. I went white as the Invincible trembled
from the thunder that rippled across the stern near the bridge.
Lights flickered as the Invincible’s bow-mounted canons
raked its defense.
Dust sifted
down over the controls as they returned six hits for the one
they’d received.
It seemed there was time for suns to form and die though the
battle took scarce time. The Alliance razed the area, returning
each death with hundreds. Bits of the shattered crafts spun
wildly around them, flickering into the hull before ricocheting
out into the black. It reminded her of rain falling on the
roof of her bedroom.
I bit back protests; they’d ignored my pleas during
the interminable battle. Calls for surrender were dismissed,
as the captains seemed to want to exact extreme revenge for
the temerity to question the righteous path of the Alliance.
They were here, to do what was best, after all.
“Sir, we have fifty, no sixty ships leaving Boros.”
“Track
them. Confirm IFF.”
Was that
a hesitation from the tactic’s officer? “Civilian
identifications.”
Hawthorne
scowled. “They’ve used that tactic before. Open
fire.”
Yes, the
hesitation was now true and real. Hawthorne turned to glare,
daring the officer to challenge his order. The silence was
palpable. I did my damnest to will the man for compassion…decency…honor.
“Aye,
sir. 5th squadron, coming about.”
Weeks later, I was back to a home that wasn’t. They’d
torn the Independent fleet apart and then picked away at the
bones, searching. It was three days before I caught wind of
what they were looking for: money. They’d had a tip
that the Independents were moving their private reserves to
a more secure location. I’d cried and then laughed bitterly.
They’d hidden it under the noses of the Alliance and
moved it—they never found it.
The graveyard of ships was still there. But where was the
honor? It’d taken me weeks to realize that the honor
of the Alliance was air. It was spoken but it drifted away,
like so much vapor. Meaningless unless it’s breathed
right to the soul.
I couldn’t write the truth; no one would publish it.
My world fragmented, like the too-fragile ships.
So I’d changed sides. I learned to shoot a pistol and
ride a horse. Diction gave way to conviction. I was assigned
dirt duty, mostly ‘cause I wasn’t yet any good
on a ship. I managed to pick up enough though, for later years.
The war was brutal. Like any, I met the best and the worst
of people. I kept the former, killed the latter. In the end,
conviction meant less for some than I would have liked.
True, we’d lost the war, but I don’t regret none
of it. The air I breathe feels just fine, right down to my
soul.
