“Hello,” the man in the hardskin said, his voice booming through external speakers. “My name is Hiram Feek. I’m looking forward to providing you with instruction on how to operate a Procyon Industries 230-series hardskin, otherwise known as Thunderstrike armor. The unit I’m wearing today is a CMC-230-XF, sometimes referred to as a firebat, due to its unique capabilities.”
That was when a whirring sound was heard as the CMC-230’s helmet was removed and the suit cycled open to reveal the man inside. Harnack let out an audible gasp. Feek was only about four feet tall and stood on special risers. He had a shaved head and a generously proportioned mustache that bobbed up and down as he addressed the men.
“As is the case with any new weapons system, the 230-series suits will require some fine-tuning before thay are put into service. So please keep me informed regarding any operational issues that you run into over the next few weeks. Your feedback will help Procyon Industries to perfect this new generation of hardskins.”
And with that the suit cycled closed and the helmet clicked on. Feek raised an arm, pointed it over their heads, and shot a gout of flame into the air.
“That’s beautiful!” Harnack said reverently. “Can I have one?”
“Yes,” Lieutenant Quigby answered indulgently, “you can.”
Fleet Petty Officer Third Class Lisa Cassidy had been confined to Fort Howe’s brig for two days. Not all that long a period of time for most brig rats, but Cassidy was addicted to a drug called crab, a powerfully intoxicating depressant. And two intervals was a long time to go without a hit. So she was grumpy, twitchy, and a bit paranoid as a series of clangs were heard outside of her cell and two female MPs came to collect her.
Enlisted people had a tendency to stick together, so when a corporal opened the door to Cassidy’s cell, there was something akin to sympathy in her eyes. “Time to come out, Cassidy. You got a visitor.”
Cassidy frowned. “If it’s the chaplain, or the morale officer, tell them to go flick themselves. Or each other.”
The MPs laughed. “No, it ain’t either one of them,” the corporal responded. “Colonel Vanderspool wants to talk to you.”
“What’d you do, girl?” the other MP inquired. “Get up in some general’s face?”
“Not that I remember,” Cassidy replied, as she stood. “Are you going to shackle me?”
“Sorry,” the corporal replied apologetically. “Them’s the rules.”
Cassidy held her wrists out, felt cold metal tighten around them, and heard the usual click. With that formality out of the way she was ordered to precede the MPs down a gleaming corridor to a checkpoint, and from there through a maze of hallways to a room labeled visitor2.
Once the shackles were removed, she was ordered to enter. The room was empty except for two chairs and a table, all of which were bolted to the floor. So she sat on the table and looked around. It didn’t take long to spot the spy eye mounted up in a corner. She gave the camera a one-fingered salute, felt a wave of nausea, and knew her stomach was already empty. The cramps would start soon and she wondered if she’d be able to get through the meeting first.
Vanderspool, who was watching a monitor in a surveillance room, smiled grimly as the young woman flipped him off. “So this is the one?”
Captain Marvin Ling was in charge of both the brig and base security. He’d been wounded while trying to defend the main gate and still had a bandage wrapped around his head. Ling’s eyes shifted from the monitor to Vanderspool. “Yes, sir. She fits the description. Petty Officer Cassidy is intelligent, good at what she does, and addicted to crab. And, according to an evaluation performed six months ago, she may be addicted to the adrenaline rush associated with combat as well.”
Ling’s hand went up to touch the bandage that was wrapped around his head. “She was in the thick of it the other night, gave aid to at least a dozen swabbies, and shot a Kel-Morian Air Wolf in the face.”
Vanderspool eyed the woman on the monitor. She was clutching herself as a series of tremors ran through her body. “And then?”
Ling shrugged. “And then she went to her stash, got binked, and passed out. Some of my people found Cassidy unconscious in a lavatory and brought her in. According to her personnel file this is the third time she’s been in the brig for a drug-related offense, and that makes her a prime candidate for a work camp.”
“Or maybe she can find redemption in some other way,” Vanderspool replied as he got up to leave. “I’ll find out. And Captain Ling …”
“Sir?”
“Have someone turn off the camera and audio pickup in that room. The matter that Petty Officer Cassidy and I are about to discuss is classified.”
Ling nodded. The motion made his head hurt. “Yes, sir.”
An MP escorted Vanderspool down a corridor, through a checkpoint, and from there to the door labeled visitor2.
Having unlocked the door, the MP pulled it open, allowed Vanderspool to pass through, and returned to the hall. There was an audible click as the door closed. Cassidy stood and was about to come to attention when Vanderspool waved the courtesy off. “There’s no need for that, Petty Officer Cassidy. I’m Colonel Vanderspool. Please have a seat.”
Now that he could see Cassidy more clearly, Vanderspool realized that the medic was quite pretty. Something that could be advantageous, given what he had in mind for her. Cassidy had short, brown hair worn in a shaggy cut that might have made her appear boyish except for the fact she had a very feminine face. The look in her large, luminous eyes was worldly and vulnerable at the same time. A combination that exerted a definite pull on Vanderspool and would probably appeal to other men as well. Like those in Findlay’s squad. There was no way to be certain, but the odds were pretty good. “So, my dear,” Vanderspool said, adopting an avuncular tone. “I hear you are a crab addict.”
***
Doc had been in the Colonial Fleet long enough to know that something unusual was taking place. Colonels didn’t come to visit lowly medics unless there was a reason. Vanderspool wanted something from her, but what? Sex? Yes, she could tell he was attracted to her, but figured there was something else in play too—something he wanted and she had the power to give. And, being an expert at getting what she wanted, Doc knew how to play it. If she could fight off the withdrawal symptoms long enough to take advantage of the opportunity. “Yes, sir.”
Vanderspool nodded. “Good. I’m glad you chose to admit it. Had you said anything else I would have left you to your fate. You’ll be happy to know that I’m not here to lecture you about the evils of crab or to threaten you with punishment. Word is, crab has become increasingly hard to find these days. So I’m here to offer you a continued opportunity to ply your skills as a medic, and access to a reasonable amount of crab, in return for regular reports on a certain group of soldiers. Soldiers who may or may not be engaged in illegal activities. Would you be interested in such a role?”
Something shifted deep inside Cassidy’s brooding eyes. “And if I say no?”
“Then you’ll be sent to a work camp. Not as a punishment for saying ‘No,’ but because that’s where you were headed before this conversation took place.”
“Then my answer is yes.”
“Excellent,” Vanderspool replied. “You won’t be sorry.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Three members of the UNN reporting staff were apprehended by Confederate officials today under charges of sedition related to last week’s unauthorized airing of war footage. UNN president Preston Shale released a statement condemning the reporters for acting against the interests of the Universal News Network and Confederate citizens across the sector. He also thanked the new staff member responsible for blowing the whistle, a journalist named Handy Anderson. We’ll be interviewing Anderson tonight for his insights into the case as well as the road that led him from the battlefield to the news desk.”