MGiS 6 - Proportional Response - Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Two years and three months of Terra-Sol-3’s allotted ten years of time to prepare for integration have passed.

In that time, I have had to deal with three attempted assaults on my person, half a dozen death threats, and one idiot who thought it was a good idea to try and kill me.

As an aside, to whoever sent the assassin, you are quite lucky that he was successful in taking his own life before I could interrogate him.

Over that timespan I’ve also interacted with over seventy percent of your world governments, which represent over ninety percent of the total population of Terrans.

Every one of you has been focused on getting a leg up on the others.

Every. Single. One.

Let me remind you that the ten years allocated by the Hegemony was intended for you to resolve your differences and present a united front. Not for you to get into a pissing match over trade rights between nations.

Stars and Suns, not even the Hyreh were slower to unite than you all, and they were literal warlords when the Hegemony found them.

~Katy Steelbender, Ambassador, addressing the United Nations.

“So tell me again, what is the ‘Horizon Patrol,’ and what’s expected of me?” Desmond asked, setting his spork and knife down on the plate and turning his attention to Captain Skytreader.

The big Uth’ra woman’s nose wrinkled in irritation, but she had apparently been expecting this, because she kept eating while explaining. The rumble of conversation at the captain’s table wasn’t any louder than normal, so it wasn’t difficult to hear her.

“It’s straightforward enough. Every ship holds one at varying intervals, depending on how hot their sector of space is and how serious their commanders are. But it’s a ceremony intended to recognize the ships that went out on patrol and never returned,” Skytreader explained between bites. “I would have thought they’d covered it on the academy ships.”

“They might have and I just missed it, or maybe it was one of those classes that was handled during our rotating deployments.”

“Fair. The odds that you managed to miss it on each of the ships is small but not improbable,” Skytreader said, stabbing a small blue tuber on her spork and stuffing it into her mouth.

While the captain chewed, Desmond thought over his time at the academy and onboard the various patrol ships. None of the events he’d been present for stood out as any sort of remarkable ceremony, maybe because some of the officer corps had treated dinner like some kind of ceremony.

“It’s a simple enough ceremony,” the captain said when she finished chewing and had swallowed. “Admiral Lo’Unath has us conduct it yearly, so it takes most of a day to do. We honor the ships that have been lost in service in our quadrant of space, in the Seventh, Third, and Ninth Border Fleets. Each ship takes its turn to honor those ships with the Horizon Patrol ceremony.”

“I think I remember reading about a similar ceremony they did back home. For submarines—ships that spent a great deal of time under the water of the planet’s oceans—specifically, since they were often lost with all hands and unrecoverable,” Desmond answered, picking up a piece of the flat gray bread and tearing off a strip to soak up some gravy.

While the meal in front of him didn’t taste quite like curry, it was still close enough to remind him of the dish, despite the iridescent colors of the vegetables and meat.

“Very similar. Since we have ships that vanish into the subspace foam and never come back, the similarities remain. I wanted to let you know because the crew votes for one person to carry out the ceremony in their names. It’s symbolic of the will of the ship itself to remember her kin.”

“And my name is apparently at the top of the list of people elected?” Desmond asked dryly, stuffing the gravy-soaked bread into his mouth and chewing carefully.

“By a wide margin. You got the message at breakfast with the rest of the ship, I’m sure. Voting closes at the same time tomorrow, but over seventy percent of the ship’s population has voted, and you are far enough at the lead that we already know it’ll fall to you,” Skytreader explained, taking a sip from her glass of what Desmond guessed was some kind of wine from the consistency, though it was a dark, algae-green rather than the red he was used to.

“It’s considered a great honor to conduct the ceremony, Desmond,” Bell explained from his other side.

The Gaur woman had swapped seats with Chloe for dinner at the horned woman’s request so she could advise Desmond. They’d only gotten a request from Skytreader to sit with her for dinner tonight because she had ‘official business’ to discuss with him.

Naturally, they’d all assumed that it was in response to him tapping one of her sergeants to fill out his squad, but the captain hadn’t cared. She’d complemented Bell on scoring the last spot and Desmond on his ‘wise choice to lock everything down.’

The pointed look the captain had given him after that told Desmond that she knew at least part of his motivation was to ensure that he didn’t get drafted into an imperial cover story again. Though Desmond was sure that if it was needed, a quester would be able to make it happen regardless. Such petty things like squad limits were nothing to someone who had the authority to condemn worlds if needed.

“Oh, I figured as much,” Desmond said, turning his attention to the winged woman. “It’s why I want as much information as possible so I can do it right.”

Bell had what looked like a fruit salad in front of her, since the Gaur metabolism ran chiefly on fruits and nuts, and was carefully picking through it for her favorite bits. The severe expression that the former guard sergeant normally wore was gone, replaced with a small smile and a proud glimmer to her eyes.

“I won’t lie,” Bell continued after a moment. “I half-expected you to be the one elected when we got the notice this morning.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Audra asked from Bell’s other side. “I know we were all confused when the prompt came up. All you told us was that we should pick someone who we’d be proud to represent the crew.”

“I meant to,” Bell explained, spearing what looked like a bright pink slice of pineapple. “But then we got distracted with the morning workout and I lost track of it.”

“Regardless,” Skytreader said, drawing their attention back to her. “Adept McLaughlin, unless the remaining crew all vote for the exact same person and a few change their votes before the deadline, you’ll be it.”

“How often are adepts chosen for this duty?” Desmond asked curiously, and it was Bell who actually answered this one for him.

“Not often. The adepts are seen as elite combatants, but most of the crew view them more like officers and they tend to be distant. Usually it’s a senior enlisted or an NCO like I was. I believe Chief Powell had the distinction of representing the crew last year.”

“That is correct,” added Skytreader. “Elle has done the duty twice, while I have been asked to several times as well over the course of my service. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

“Got it, Captain. So what are the expectations and how should I conduct myself? If this is a ceremony to represent the crew, should I have some kind of uniform? Back on Terra, I’d have a ‘dress’ uniform for stuff like this, but I’ve only been issued my regulars,” Desmond asked seriously, studying his commanding officer intensely.

Skytreader’s nose wrinkled again, and Desmond wasn’t sure if it was irritation, amusement, or something else that was the reason. But the older Uth’ra woman took only a few moments to collect her thoughts before she began to explain.

“First and foremost, this is a ceremony for military ships to honor the fallen…”

<><><>

“Are you sure that this is how you want to do it?” Chloe asked as the squad came to a stop just outside the shuttle bay. The Spine was entirely empty of other crewmembers, and the ship felt eerily silent.

“Yup,” Desmond answered firmly. “Skytreader said that we had several options for how to handle it. But I want to give this my own twist. Captain Skytreader approved it.”

“I don’t think the captain liked that she approved it, but she understood and respected the choice,” Bell added from the rear of the group’s formation.

“That’s an understatement,” Sasha murmured, her striped tail flicking back and forth in amusement. “But she’s signed off on it, and the ceremony starts in a few minutes. Are you ready, Chief?”

“Ready as I'll ever be,” Desmond answered her with a sharp nod, and the group started forward once more.

The door to the shuttle bay irised open and admitted them inside.

Larger than any other open space on the Fist of Defiance, the shuttle bays were normally hives of industry as the combat shuttles were maintained, refueled, repaired, or subjected to any number of tasks that needed open space. But for today, the port and starboard bays were more packed than ever before, and not with the whine of industry.

Rank upon rank of the ship’s crew stood at attention in blocks a hundred women deep, arranged by their departments. The entire population of the Fist of Defiance was present in one of the two shuttle bays, with only a skeleton crew on the bridge to ensure their heading was maintained.

As they entered the starboard shuttle bay, Desmond glanced over the crew present. He knew that there would be holograms of the ceremony into the port bay as well, and a recording made for the ship’s records. But with how still everyone was right now, they might as well have been holograms themselves.

Thousands of his shipmates, both crew and marines, stood at attention as if they’d been carved out of stone. Only a narrow pathway remained open from the door to the side-doors of the shuttle bay.

As they marched across the echoing space, Desmond let the somber attitude of the moment wash over him. This was not a ceremony for him, or for anyone aboard the ship for that matter.

This was for the fallen.

Arsenal crossed the several hundred feet of decking in what felt like mere moments, and Desmond’s guards fanned out to either side of him, leaving him standing alone.

“Crew, we now begin the Horizon Patrol.”

The captain’s words crackled over the intercom, and a thunderous rustling of movement ensued as the formerly still crew saluted and held their position.

Desmond squared his shoulders and pressed the button on the remote mic on his belt. The device vibrated under his fingers, telling him that it was now on and would transmit his words to the ship, and also into the void. A final transmission to the fallen.

“To those who sail the night sky forever more,” Desmond began, his voice firm as the shuttle-bay door gave a quiet thunk and began to slide open, “we salute your service. You who have taken up this task to walk the line forever more, we honor you.”

Desmond heard a bit of movement behind him, a telltale rustle of cloth from the observing crew, and the door continued to ease open. The thin green film of the atmospheric shield was all that kept them separate from the void outside. A void that rippled and flowed like a heat mirage as the ship cruised along just below the surface of reality, the Wake-Ripple drive carrying them forward.

Colors shifted and spun, nebulae and galaxies formed and dissolved, and reality here, beneath the subspace foam, boiled.

A million stars blinked into existence, and half a million burnt out in a spinning scarf of light, where only half of them were real stars, and the others were distant memories the galaxy retained of its birthright. A realm only trod in dreams.

“The Horizon Patrol is not a task taken lightly. But to those who have stepped beyond that line, who move beyond time and space into eternity, you know the cost of duty, and none can challenge that.” Desmond continued to speak, his eyes aching as he looked upon the chaos of subspace with only the glass-like barrier of the atmospheric shield as protection.

Reaching into the pouch at his side, Desmond produced a simple metal bowl. As large as his cupped hands, it was a polished hunk of steel that shimmered in the bright light of the shuttle bay. Squatting down, he set the bowl in front of his feet, a few feet from the door leading out into space.

Desmond rose once more and unbuttoned his right sleeve as he stared unblinkingly at the view of space outside and began rolling it up to expose his forearm. He’d thought long and hard about this. The ceremony itself was to honor the dead, and it had forced him to think about his own mortality. The fact that, despite all of his training, it would only take a single mistake to rupture the ship they were on and kill them all. An event that had, would, and did claim lives regularly.

So it was with a somber heart, and the glimmer of tears in his eyes, Desmond continued with a voice as hard as iron. His voice took up the ringing note of command that he had unintentionally picked up from Maya Throneblood, and it made every member of the crew stiffen, their wills united behind their chosen representative.

“Stand by to receive your final orders, and a salute from your fellows! The Fist of Defiance mourns your losses, celebrates your victories, and bleeds to remember you!”

In a smooth motion, Desmond yanked the wickedly sharp, curved knife from where it sat on his belt and slashed his forearm with it.

Blood immediately welled up and he fought to restrain his natural regeneration. Desmond tilted his hand to let his blood run down his forearm to drip into the steel bowl at his feet.

As that first glimmering ruby droplet fell to splash down in the bowl, he spoke once more, naming off the ships as they were issued their final orders, sending them on the Horizon Patrol.

“Advancing Wrath.”

Drip.

“Shield of the Lost.”

Drip.

“Dauntless Will.”

Drip.

This continued on for minutes. Seven more times, Desmond sliced the blade of his knife across his arm to reopen the wound his natural healing ability was working to seal shut. Each slice would release a fresh gush of blood before the cut closed again.

Not once did he flinch, though he knew his guards were grimacing as he continued to cut himself each time. They’d not been happy with Desmond’s choice of how he wanted to put his stamp on the ceremony. But none of them could deny the visceral emotions they felt watching their representative shed his own blood to mark the passage of those who would never return home. An emotion that was echoed throughout the entire observing crew.

Desmond hadn’t shown up in the finery of an officer. He stood there as the crew did, in his regular uniform with clean lines and a straight back. This wasn’t duty, the high and mighty idea bandied about in throne rooms or command offices. This was duty in its day-to-day guise, the duty that kept fans turning, ships maintained, and the ship’s galley’s running. The duty that stood watch against those that threatened everyday life.

The final drop of blood fell from Desmond’s arm to splash down into the shallow pool formed in the steel bowl. Some eighty-three names, a lot at first glance but a minuscule fraction compared to the millions of ships in the Hegemony navy.

“Light of Dawn,” Desmond intoned and let his arm fall to the side once more while sheathing his knife. “Know that, by this blood, we of the Fist of Defiance will remember you.”

While Conjuration was not Desmond’s specialty, he still had more than enough strength for what he planned next. Pushing his will into the words as he spoke them, Desmond let mana spool out of his cache.

A figure made of energy, looking like it had been shaped of glowing green glass, shimmered into view. It was an exact copy of Desmond, down to the bloody marks on the back of his right forearm.

The phantom turned and saluted the room before bending and picking up the bowl of blood. Straightening, the phantom strode forward and through the thin atmospheric shield that fizzed and parted for it. Then the phantom pushed off from the lip of the shuttle bay and dove into the rippling energy of subspace, carrying the bowl of blood and the promise of the Fist of Defiance into the shimmering night sky.

“Crew. Stand by for salute,” came the order from Skytreader over the intercom.

A quiet rustle of movement, and everyone who had shifted during the ceremony quickly resumed their positions once more. The stiff postures of attention had faded as, one and all, the crew craned their necks to see what Desmond was doing during the previous part of the ceremony.

“Salute!”

The crew as one snapped off their salutes, fists meeting chests with a solid thump that was drowned out by the humming sound of every weapon aboard the Fist of Defiance firing at once, sending glowing beams of light, ravening missiles, and hardened slugs into the void in a double broadside.

As the lightshow continued, Desmond watched the phantom construct of himself fade into nothing as the mana he’d invested into it ran out. While the bowl with his promise to remember, sealed in blood, tumbled on through the void of space.