COMMANDER

Thirty-five days into our new time reality we were in decent shape, all things considered. All reserves of raw materials were full, all fabricators were back online at 100 percent, and all food, water, oxygen, and nitrogen stores were topped off.

Ship sensors and weapons were back to 100 percent except for the main Grafnal cannon and two fabs were working on the last large generators and focal collimators for this massive weapon. The Grafnal was due back online in two days.

The damaged hangar bays had been repaired enough to launch fighters and two destroyed missile launchers had been replaced. Replacing ruined fighters and Landing Craft would take much longer. Anything having to be assembled took longer, and the more technical and bigger it was, the longer it took. The Rontar still carried the scorch marks and hull damage of her battle and wounding and many scars of repair, but she was back on nearly all burners.

The captain had shuffled his crew and they had gained both efficiencies and confidence from it. The main difference, though, had come from the armies of robots he had ordered created to help with refit and repair. The science squids were still collecting and analyzing data but had come to the conclusion plants and animals from our time would, by and large, suffer no permanent harm from the time dilation effect. Most of us had acclimated mentally to what degree we could. There had been several other violent attacks and some mental/emotional breakdowns, but treatment by the med teams was having successful effect. The hospital AI and Doc Annsbury were treating all cases as disorders caused by external forces.

With the fabs back online, we Marines had ordered replacement parts and been able to repair all the damaged vehicles. By the end of our second month, we should have suits for everyone, including me. Two more AVs had been ordered along with two large Landing Craft. We wouldn’t have any of those for at least six months. Our armory was nearly restocked and our ammunition caches overflowed. The only sore spot anywhere was with my officers.

The day after I had formed the team several weeks ago, I had spoken to the clan in the main hold and explained every detail of what we knew or suspected. I reminded them of their duty, I reminded them we now had to rely on one another more than ever because there was no evidence of any Fleet or Shaquaree activity here, and I reminded them we were all in this together. We would survive and flourish together.

They took it better than I had expected.

I had then assembled the officers in a smaller hold, locked the access doors, and proceeded to tell them what was on my mind.

“We, as officers, have become complacent. Several troopers, upon my invitation, have informed me their line officers do not perform the same PT they assign their troopers. These officers do not take part in the runs assigned. This practice will cease as of today.”

Yes, I already knew this from my own experience, but I felt it was best to address is as if it were a “new” phenomena.

“Whether corporal or sergeant, whether lieutenant, major, or commander, any officer who assigns PT will also lead the PT. They will perform every exercise and every rep they assign. The same goes for runs. Every step will be led by the officer who assigned the run.

“Furthermore, every officer will be required to attend advance training in at least two disciplines they currently lack. Wedge lieutenants will provide training rosters and recommended schedules to the Troop sergeants.

“As officers, it is our requirement, our duty, to be as well or better trained and physically qualified as any trooper we lead. If you are catching my drift, people, we are required by our positions to be leaders, not just officers who pass out orders and from a position of command. A leader, by definition, is in front. You cannot lead from the rear or the flanks.

“If Marine troopers are to respect their officers, and willingly follow them, the troopers must know the officer they follow is at least as well-trained and physically fit as the troopers. They must know it in their minds and in their hearts!

“As of this day, each officer is responsible for the troopers they lead, for their successes, and for their failures. Every officer in the chain of command will be held personally responsible for the troopers they lead. If they fail, it is because you failed. Ultimately, because I failed. If your Troop fails a rating or an exercise, then you fail, too. And you will suffer exactly the same discipline as the troopers in the Troop. As your commander, so will I.

“When we get back to our own time, our own space, we will be ready for the Shaquaree. We will be heads and shoulders better than any other full clan which exists. We will be what Marines are meant to be; the best trained, the best disciplined, the most efficient fighting force ever to wear boots or take up arms! Are we clear?”

The unison “Hoo-rah” was deafening in the small hold. I wondered if it was real, or if they were simply trying to appease me.

“Dismissed!”

In the following month, I did more PT and ran more 10Ks than I had in all the ten years I had spent in the Marines combined! At least it seemed like it. But I was as good as my word. It was probably a good thing we weren’t using live ammo on exercises because I may have been fragged. I certainly caught enough angry glares from out-of-shape line officers struggling to keep up with the troopers running or performing PT disciplines.

My face had healed and the scars were starting to fade slightly. Doc Hazel’s more aggressive nanos were certainly doing their job. I was famished constantly, ate like a hog, and had to hit the head a couple of times a day. My reflexes were noticeably quicker, my movements faster. I had always been big and fast, much to my detriment in school days, but now I was even bigger and startlingly quick.

After only thirty days, I could see a distinct difference not only in myself but the clan, as well. Troopers were in better condition, physiques were becoming much more defined, and attitudes were improving. I could also tell by the quality and creativity of the bitching. Instructors were complaining of swelled class sizes and too many questions. Evidence of where the clan had become complacent was everywhere.

Harlan Jenkins had struggled with the changes but was adapting. Gene Timmons was another story. Our personal friendship had suffered greatly, and he rarely spoke to me outside of necessary situations any more. Yeah, it hurt and I had regrets, but I wasn’t here to make friends or be popular, was I?

While clan Troops had been running 10Ks, Team Zulu was running marathons. Donner no longer puked down her shirt fronts. None of them did. Their bodies were hard and tight, those who were left, anyway. I had cut four in the first six days, and another one two days later on Donner’s recommendation. They simply did not have the drive necessary. They weren’t able to motivate themselves beyond the norm, nor accept such motivation from leaders.

Already, most of those remaining were as good as the instructors who trained them regardless of the subject matter. Some had become better, and were now requesting classes from the Navy instructors in the science and math based subjects.

Gunny Flynn approached me one afternoon with a heavy, purposeful stride, his boots banging on the hard poly deck plates and a tight, serious expression on his face.

“Sir! The sergeant requests a private meeting with the commander, sir!”

This could be interesting. I nodded, and led the way to my office.

“What is it, Gunny?” I asked as I closed the office door.

At parade rest, Flynn was all professional protocol. “Sir, this sergeant has some questions about the new regimen. Might we speak off the record, sir?”

My, oh my. This could be really interesting! “Free speech, Gunny.”

Flynn relaxed the tension from his stance and leaned forward a little, anger now evident in his face.

“Meaning no disrespect, sir, but, what the fuck have you been feeding your pets?!”

His face was nearly as dark red as the stubble of hair on his head.

“My pets?”

“Yeah! Donner and Bolton and Franko and the others. Everybody knows about ’em. And Donner! Holy shit, sir, what has she got against me? It’s like she has a fucking vendetta or something. Every class she seems to get meaner! It’s like the bitch is trying to kill me!”

“What’s the matter, Flynn? Are you afraid one of your students might actually improve? Is the Gunny getting bruises from his class? Or are you afraid one of them might take your class and status away from you?”

His expression became even more ugly and angry as he yelled back at me, “Fuck you, sir! Fuck you hard and raw with a red hot poker! I always want my students to improve! A blade is the last line of defense when it gets hairy, and I want those troops to come home alive!”

I had jumped up from where I was sitting behind the desk and stalked around to face Flynn. We were only a half meter apart and both so angry that spittle was flying out of our mouths.

“Bullshit, Flynn! That’s just bullshit! I watched one of your classes a month ago, and I saw the delight you took in kicking trooper ass. You weren’t trying to teach them! You were humiliating them, taunting them . . . and enjoying every second of it! So fuck you right back, Flynn!”

“I earned my position as Blademaster! I’ll just be damned if some snot-nosed cunt is going to try to take me down!”

We were roaring at each other now. It was a good thing the office was soundproofed. Anyone in the HQ lobby might hear muffled voices but they would not hear the words.

“You humiliated that trooper! And you beat her so badly she was barely able to walk for two days. You damn near put her in hospital! Why? Why was it necessary? To train her? That wasn’t training, it was a statement. It was a lesson that you alone are God in blade courses! It was FUCKING PRIDE!”

Flynn’s mouth was working and snot bubbles were coming from one nostril. His face was so red his eyes stood out like beacons and veins throbbed in his forehead. Without his nanos he would likely have gone into cardiac arrest. Unintelligible sounds came from his throat and his fists began to clench and unclench repeatedly. He began to blink rapidly and sweat beads suddenly popped out on his head.

I continued yelling after several long seconds of his internal struggle. “You, are a Blademaster! And a woefully rare Gunnery Sergeant! You may very well be the only one left alive! But I’ll tell you something, Gunny . . . if that trooper does have a vendetta, and if she does one day kick your ass and kick it hard, then I’d say you deserve every fucking bruise you get!” I roared at him, brutal and hard.

Flynn’s eyes flew open wider and he suddenly became as still as a statue. I thought for a moment maybe even his nanos had not been able to prevent a cardiac event. After a few seconds frozen, he suddenly relaxed. His head dropped and his shoulders slumped. When he finally spoke, his voice was subdued.

“Gods Above . . . I have become an elitist. A truly arrogant bastard,” he whispered in wonder and shock.

His demeanor changed abruptly. He stepped back and wiped the spittle from his mouth and chin and came to Attention with a snap.

“Sir! This sergeant has overstepped the bounds of his calling and become a detriment to the clan! This sergeant presents himself for discipline, sir!”

I regarded him carefully. The tears trickling down his cheeks and the raggedness of his voice spoke the truth. He had had an epiphany and was truly ashamed. And, Gods Above, he had not apologized or groveled. He stepped up, took responsibility, and was ready to make it right whatever the consequences. In an instant in time, everything had changed! This was my kind of trooper, and I was now proud of him! I didn’t want to, but I had to give him what he needed to pay for his sins.

“Two marathons within two days, confinement to quarters for ten days aside from normal duty, followed by ten days garbage duty.”

Gods Above! How humiliating would it be for Clan Blademaster Gunnery Sergeant Flynn to be seen on garbage duty?

“Sir!” Flynn called and performed a perfect about-face and headed for the door. He paused for a moment and said, “Thank you, Commander,” and exited.

His head was high and his shoulders back, walking tall as he strode through the lobby. There would be no need to enter any of this into the record or assign any follow-up. Flynn would give the clan everything he owed, and I would be right there beside him, step for step.

“Commander,” said the Combat AI through my office speakers.

“Yes?” I responded.

“This was an interesting incident to me, sir. I have never witnessed anything like this before. Will there be more incidents like this, sir?”

“Possibly, AI. I hope not, but possibly.”

“Shall I log this incident for future reference, sir?”

“No, AI. I assume you recorded it because it was so unusual but I want it to be used for no other purpose than historical reference and AI learning of human behavior.”

“Understood, Commander. I must say, your tenure should be an interesting one if this is any indication of things to come.”

“That is an excellent approximation of humor, AI. Good for you!”

“Actually, sir, it was not meant as humor, at all.”

Oh, well.

Bridge Briefing Room, 0900, forty-five days from system entry.

“Captain, I really need to get my troopers back to work on external exercises,” I insisted. “They are getting stale and need to get out.”

“I am not convinced we are ready for any maneuvering which might reveal our presence,” Lewellyn responded. “We simply do not know enough about this time reality to be tempting fate unnecessarily. We are not just marking time, Commander. The science department is still trying to ascertain if, or how, we might be able to return to our own time.”

“Again, Captain, I do understand. However, to be properly prepared to face any threats which might appear, both our crews should be practicing battle exercises.”

The captain was getting irritated. “You know as well as I do we lost most of our fighter pilots in the last battle with the Shaquaree. I do not have enough crew to reassign or retrain any I have left.”

“Then train some of mine! I have made this offer before, Captain. In our situation, we must combine forces to share duties and maximize effectiveness!”

“I appreciate how you have shared your people to help with some of the ship’s duties up to this point but . . . troopers piloting Navy ships? What would the Fleet say?”

It was the same tired argument. I decided to press the issue. Damn the missiles and full thrust.

“What Fleet, Captain? What Fleet? WE are the Fleet here, as far as we know, and we cannot afford to sit on our backsides out here at the edge of the system and hope for the best!”

The other officers were clearly getting nervous at the brewing argument. The captain was doing his best to remain calm and in control. Let the Marine come undone in front of everyone.

“Commander, it is my responsibility to bring this ship and all aboard her home to our own time, safely,” he stated serenely.

“With all due respect, Captain, it is our responsibility! Yours, and mine, and the doctor’s!”

His eyes blazing, he responded, “Don’t you lecture me in my own boardroom, Commander! I am, apparently, far more aware of our respective jurisdictions and responsibilities than you believe. We are done here!”

With that, he rose and exited the room, his officers following. Dotes gave me a sour look as he passed through the door. I sighed and motioned to my lieutenants to follow and headed for Marine country. As soon as we passed the hospital and through the hatch marking our assigned areas, Timmons was on me.

“Commander, could you help me to understand what value there was in antagonizing the captain that way?” he asked, respect and concern dripping from his voice.

I whipped around to face him there in the passageway.

“Do you agree with his position, Lieutenant?”

“Sir, I am just trying to understand . . .”

“No! You are not, Lt. Timmons. You are questioning my position.”

“Sir, I am only trying to counsel a more politically expedient . . .”

“I have not asked for your counsel, Lt. Timmons,” I interrupted him, “and we are not here to play fucking politics!”

“Lt. Jenkins,” I continued, “you are witness. I am chastising Lt. Timmons for indirect insubordination and conduct unbecoming an officer to the detriment of the clan. Lieutenant Timmons, you are relieved of duty and confined to quarters for five days.”

Timmons’ expression turned angry and ugly. “Aye, aye . . . sir,” he said in a carefully neutral tone.

Then he turned and strode quickly away, his anger palpable.

Two hours later, my desk comm buzzed and Captain Lewellyn said, “Commander, would you join me immediately in the Ready Room, as soon as possible? There has been a development.