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The hallways were primarily maintenance corridors for cavernous holds now filled with ammunition, spare parts, tanks, rations and the myriad other things civilized man takes to war. Normally they contained machinery, tools, food, seeds, na
For the past month the corridors had rung to the sound of plasteel on plasteel as Mike ran, jumped, dodged, shot and maneuvered units in full Virtual Reality mode under gravities ranging from none to two. When the door opened, he was refining one of the VR scenarios: "The Asheville Pass."
America found itself in a situation unprecedented in its history. The last significant conflict in the contiguous U.S. was the Civil War and, with a few notable exceptions, neither side in that conflict had had any interest in causing civilian casualties. The Posleen had every interest in causing casualties; they saw the population as a mobile larder. There would be times, especially for ACS forces, when an un-American concept, the desperate last stand, would be required. Given that fact, it was a situation to be trained for like any other.
The Asheville scenario required an ACS unit to hold a pass against a superior Posleen force to buy time for the city to be evacuated. It tailored the Posleen force to the defending unit and its supports, but in every case they were outnumbered at least a thousand to one. In the original scenario at a certain point another unit broke and the Posleen advanced through that pass and the city driving the refugees into the rear of the defending unit with devastating results.
Originally designed as a no-win scenario, Mike was changing it so that one time in ten, if the defending unit did everything right, they would "win." In the new scenario the other force held, permitting the evacuation to proceed until the destruction of the attacking force.
Mike was considering a memo for record that the assault force needed to be increased or statistically enhanced. Despite the fact that it was designed as a "no-win" scenario, using the standard battalion task force Mike had started to defeat the Posleen two times out of three, other force breaking or not. This should not have been possible with seven hundred troops defending against 1.5 million Posleen; a ratio of more than two thousand to one. It turned out to be a matter of artillery employment more than anything. Admittedly the battalion ended up as a short platoon and it required the battalion commander to survive and rally the troops to the end. But still.
When the door opened he was down to a reinforced company, he had "scratched his back," called fire on his own position, three times and was getting that detached feeling just before the rope tightens in a hanging. He was, therefore, badly disoriented when his glasses automatically cleared and the visions of Posleen, violet fire, blood and shattered combat suits cleared to reveal a mild-looking medium-height captain with short cropped blond hair standing in his doorway. Behind the captain, virtually towering over him, was a skeletally thin, extremely tall staff sergeant.
Mike yanked off his shades and tried to come to attention but the VR effect caused a sudden wave of dizziness and nausea as he stumbled sideways into the bulkhead.
The captain's eyes sharpened. "Have you been using drugs or something?"
"No, sir!" gasped Mike, dropping glasses and ceremony as he pawed for a drop sickness bag. "VRrrr sick, hnuff, hnuff, put, pah, shit! 'Scuse me, sir." He dumped the bag in the disposer slot, kicked up the ventilation, pulled a Pepsi out of a cooler and pawed through his desk until he found two ampoules. He pressed them each in turn against the inside of his forearm, right through the clothing.
"Now I'm doing drugs, but they're fully authorized, sir. Sudden cessation of VR training systems, such as when you're killed or when a senior officer walks into your room, causes such severe physiological reactions that we rammed two GalTech meds through the authorization process. One is a really super analgesic that is stopping the blazing headache I would otherwise have right now and the other is an anti-nauseate I didn't get to in time. This concludes lecture number one hundred fifty-seven: side effects of sudden VR termination, Chapter 32-5 of the Armored Combat Suit Field Manual."
The captain began to clap as the NCO behind him shook his head. "Bravo, bravo. Really wonderful, considering you started it in the middle of a regurgitative event. Are questions now accepted?"
"Certainly." Mike responded with a wince, the analgesic was fighting the incipient migraine but it was down to best two falls out of three. "Questions, comments, concerns?"
"Why not just lock the damn door?" asked the captain.
"You can't, sir, it's an Indowy ship. Hadn't you noticed?" Mike answered.
"Mine damn well locks."
"Then you haven't had a personal visit from Colonel Youngman or Major Pauley." Mike smiled solemnly. The NCO behind the captain winked.
"No, I haven't." There was something in that bald statement that set off an alarm in Mike's head.
"Would you like to come in, sir?" asked Mike, stepping back into the small space. The ventilation had washed away the residual smells of ejecta, but the cramped "room" was the size of a walk-in closet. The bed Mike had been sitting on helpfully retracted into the wall then reformatted as a set of small station chairs, while a tabletop extruded from the farther wall. Even with the well-designed locations of the furniture it would be cramped for three, especially with someone of Mike's breadth and the NCO's height. Nonetheless, the captain immediately stepped into the room, with the sergeant following. The captain took a chair and, at that sign, Mike and the sergeant followed suit. The NCO ended up with his knees pulled nearly to his chest.
"I suppose Major Norton could open your door also, sir," Mike said, continuing the conversation. "The Indowy are extremely hierarchical. Any higher caste Indowy can walk in una
"Huh. I've been on this tub a month and didn't know that," mused the captain. "What else don't I know?"
"Well, I would guess that your company has not been doing VR training and I know I'm the only human who has found lebensraum on this ship. Any other rhetorical questions, sir?" Mike ended bitterly.
"You know," said the captain, with a slight smile, "you really need to learn to control that tongue of yours."
"Yes, sir, no excuse, sir."
"No, you have an excuse. You've been treated like a pariah and not allowed to do your job. Nonetheless, learn to keep a lid on."
"Yes, sir."
"Now, I've come here because I am on the horns of a dilemma. By the way, I'm Captain Brandon of Bravo company."
"Yes, sir." Mike nodded. "I recognize you."
"I was under the impression you hadn't been allowed to communicate with anyone in the battalion," said the commander, cryptically.
"I haven't, sir. I brought up the information on my AID."
"You're pretty good with these AIDs, aren't you?" asked the commander.
"I would hope so, sir."
"And you are suit expert."
"I am a suit master, sir," said O'Neal, with a slight smile.
"Well," said the commander, with a smile in return, "that's good because we need some help."
"Sir," said Mike, uncomfortably. "I've been given certain orders . . ."
"Lieutenant," said the captain, sternly. "I realize the importance of orders. I'm a professional officer on my second hitch in command of a company. I truly recognize that violation of an order is not something to be taken lightly. So, I don't think that you should violate your orders."