Chapter Text
It was an ugly ship. Battered, overused, parts repaired that should have been replaced, too tough and valuable to scrap. Easier for its masters to upgrade it and modify it than build a new one. Its lines were awkward and its engines oversize. A mountain of metal and composites and ceramic, a floating scrap heap, weightless monument to war, it shouldered its way brutally through the mysterious region called hyperspace. Like its human cargo, it was purely functional. Its name was Sulaco.
Fourteen dreamers this trip. Eleven engaged in related morphean fantasies, simple and straightforward as the vessel that carried them through the void. Two others more individualistic. A last sleeping under sedation necessary to mute the effects of recurring nightmares. Fourteen dreamers and one for whom sleep was a superfluous abstraction.
Executive Officer Pacifica Northwest checked readouts and adjusted controls. The long wait was ended. An alarm sounded throughout the length of the massive military transport. Long dormant machinery, powered down to conserve energy, came back to life. So did long dormant humans as their hypersleep capsules were charged and popped open. Satisfied that her charges had survived their long hibernation, Pacifica set about the business of placing Sulaco in a low geo-stationary orbit around the colony world of Acheron.
Mabel was the first of the sleepers to awake. Not because she was any more adaptive than her fellow travelers or more used to the effects of hypersleep, but simply because her capsule was first in line for recharge. Sitting up in the enclosed bed, she rubbed briskly at her arms, then started to work on her legs. Gideon sat up in the capsule across from her, and the lieutenant, what was his name? Oh, yeah, Durland, beyond him.
The other capsules contained the Sulaco's military complement: eight men and three women. They were a select group in that they chose to put their lives at risk for the majority of the time they were awake: individuals used to long periods of hypersleep followed by brief, but intense, periods of wakefulness. The kind of people others made room for on a sidewalk or in a bar.
PFC Toby Determined was the dropship crew chief, the man responsible along with Pilot-Corporal Shandra Jimenez for safely conveying his colleagues to the surface of whichever world they happened to be visiting, and then taking them off again in one piece. In a hurry if necessary. He rubbed at his eyes and groaned as he blinked at the hypersleep chamber.
"I'm getting too old for this." No one paid any attention to this comment, since it was well known (or at least widely rumored) that Determined had enlisted when underage. However, nobody joked about his maturity or lack of it when they were plummeting toward the surface of a new world in the PFC-directed dropship.
Private Nate was rolling out of the capsule next to Determined's. He was a little younger than Determined and a but a lot easier on the eyes. In addition to sharing similarities in appearance with the Sulaco, likewise he was built a lot like the old transport. Nate was heavy-duty bad company, with arms like a legendary one-eyed sailor, a nose busted beyond repair by the cosmetic surgeons, and a nasty scar that curled one side of his mouth into a permanent sneer. The scar surgery could have fixed, but Nate hung on to it. It was one medal he was allowed to wear all the time. He wore a tight-fitting floppy cap, which no living soul dared refer to as 'cute'.'
Nate was a smartgun operator. He was also skilled in the use of rifles, handguns, grenades, assorted blades, and his teeth.
"They ain't payin' us enough for this," he mumbled.
"Not enough to have to wake up to your face, Nate." This from Corporal Tyler, who was arguably the prettiest of the group except when he opened his mouth.
"Suck vacuum," Nate told him. He eyed the occupant of another recently opened capsule. "Hey, Wendy, you look like I feel."
Wendy was the squad's senior corporal and second in command among the troops after Master Sergeant Blubs. She didn't talk much and always seemed to be in the right place at the potentially lethal time, a fact much appreciated by her fellow Marines. She kept her counsel to herself while the others spouted off. When she did speak, what she had to say was usually worth hearing.
Mabel was back on her feet, rubbing the circulation back into her legs and doing standing knee-bends to loosen up stiffened joints. She examined the troopers as they shuffled past her on their way to a bank of lockers. There were no supermen among them, no overly muscled archetypes, but every one of them was lean and hardened. She suspected that the least among them could run all day over the surface of a two-gee world carrying a full equipment pack, fight a running battle while doing so, and then spend the night breaking down and repairing complex computer instrumentation. Brawn and brains aplenty, even if they preferred to talk like common street toughs. The best the contemporary military had to offer. She felt a little safer, but only a little.
Master Sergeant Blubs was making his way up the centre aisle chatting briefly with each of his newly revived soldiers in turn. The sergeant looked as though he could take apart a medium-size truck with his bare hands. As he passed Comtech Corporal Robbie Valentino's pallet, the latter voiced a complaint.
"Man, this floor's freezing!"
"Well, so were you, ten minutes ago. I never seen such a bunch of old women. Want me to fetch your slippers, Robbie?"
The corporal batted his eyelashes at the sergeant. "Oh, gee. Would ya sir? I'd be ever so grateful." A few rough chuckles acknowledged Robbie's riposte.
"Valentino," Blubs flipped him the bird and pointed to his eye, "get a good look into my eyes." Blubs smiled to himself as he resumed his walk, chiding his people and urging them to speed it up.
Mabel stayed out of their way as they trudged past. They were a tightly knit bunch, a single fighting organism with eleven heads, and she wasn't a part of their group. She stood outside isolated. A couple of them nodded to her as they strode past and there were one or two cursory hellos. That was all she had any right to expect, but it didn't make her feel any more relaxed in their company.
PFC Tambry DiCicco just stared as she walked past. Mabel had received warmer inspections from robots. The other smartgun operator didn't blink, didn't smile. Purple hair, blacker eyes, thin lips. Attractive if she'd make half an effort.
It required a special talent; a unique combination of strength mental ability, and reflexes, to operate a smartgun. Mabel waited for the woman to say something. She didn't open her mouth as she passed by. Every one of the troopers looked tough Nate and Tambry looked tough and mean.
Her counterpart called out to her as she came abreast of his locker. "Hey, Tambers, you ever been mistaken for a man?"
"No. " Tambry turned to the man, the tiniest of expectant grins ready. "Have you?"
"Damn, Tam. You bad." Nate proffered an open palm. She slapped it, and his fingers immediately clenched right around her smaller fingers. The pressure increased on both sides, a silent, painful greeting. Both were glad to be out from under hypersleep and alive again.
Finally she whacked him across the face and their hands parted. They laughed, young Dobermans at play. Nate was the stronger but Tambry was faster, Mabel decided as she watched them. If they had to go down, she resolved to try to keep them on either side of her. It would be the safest place.
Pacifica was moving quietly among the group, helping with massages and a bottle of special postsleep fluid, acting more like a valet than a ship's officer. She appeared younger than any of the troopers. As she passed close to Mabel she noticed the alphanumeric code tattooed across the back of her left hand. She stiffened in recognition but said nothing.
"Hey," Private Thompson said to someone out of Mabel's view, "did you take my towel?" Thompson was as young as Robbie but better-looking, or so he would insist to anyone who would waste time listening. When it came time for bragging, the two younger troopers usually came out about even. Robbie tended to rely on volume while Thompson hunted for the right words.
Toby Determined was up near the head of the line and still complaining. "I need some slack, man. How come they send us straight back out like this? It ain't fair. We got some slack comin', man."
Wendy murmured softly. "You just got three weeks. You want to spend your whole life on slack time?"
"I mean breathing, not this frozen stuff. Three weeks in the freezer ain't real off-time."
"Yeah, Top, what about it?" Tyler wanted to know.
"You know it ain't up to me." Blubs raised his voice above the griping. "Awright, let's knock off the jawing. First assembly's in fifteen. I want everybody looking like human beings by then, most of you will have to fake it. Let's shag it."
Hypersleep wear was stripped off and tossed into the disposal unit. Easier to cremate the remains and provide fresh new attire for the return journey than to try to recycle shorts and tops that had clung to a body for several weeks. The line of lean, naked bodies moved into the shower. High-pressure water jets blasted away accumulated sweat and grime, set nerve endings tingling beneath scoured skin. Through the swirling steam Robbie, Tambry, and Shandra watched Mabel dry off.
"Who's the freshmeat again?" Tambry asked the question as she washed cleanser out of her hair.
"She's supposed to be some kinda consultant. Don't know much about her." The diminutive Shandra wiped at her belly which was as flat and muscular as a steel plate, and exaggerated her expression and tone. "She saw an alien once. Or so the skipchat says."
"Well whoopdee-fuckin'-doo!" Robbie made a face. "I'm impressed."
Blubs yelled back at them. He was already out in the drying room, toweling off his shoulders. They were as devoid of fat as those of troopers twenty years younger.
"Let's go, let's go. Buncha lazybutts'll run the recyclers dry! C'mon, cycle through. You got to get dirty before you can get clean."
Informal segregation was the order of the day in the mess room. It was automatic. There was no need for whispered words or little nameplates next to the glasses. Blubs and his troopers requisitioned the large table while Mabel, Durland, Gideon, and Pacifica sat at the other. Everyone nursed coffee tea, spritz, or water while they waited for the ship's autochef to deal out eggs and ersatz bacon, toast and hash, condiments and vitamin supplements.
You could identify each trooper by his or her uniform. No two were exactly alike. This was the result not of specialized identification insignia, but of individual taste. The Sulaco was no barracks and Acheron no parade ground. Occasionally Blubs would have to chew someone out for a particularly egregious addition, like the time Lee had showed up with a portrait of his latest girlfriend computer-stenciled across the back of his armour. But for the most part he let the troopers decorate their outfits as they liked.
Wendy was sitting on the right side of Private Gabe Benson. The corporal glanced up briefly, then looked back to her plate. "Looks like that new lieutenant's too good to eat with us lowly grunts. Kissing up to the Company rep."
Gabe stared past the corporal, not caring if anyone should happen to notice the direction of his gaze. "Yeah."
"Doesn't matter if he knows his job," said Lee.
"The magic word." Thompson hacked at his eggs. "We'll find out."
The blond woman passed by Robbie, enjoying a plate of entirely unappealing eggs and cornbread. With a flick of his head he noticed the woman passing. "Pacifica!" Robbie called out, drawing attention to him as he lifted the knife upwards, holding it to her. "Do that thing you do!"
Cheers from his comrades drowned out Pacifica's sigh as she rolled her eyes, turning to face him.
"Seriously? Again?" Pacifica asked, cocking an eyebrow up as she looked to the knife. "C'mon guys."
"Do it!" The chorus grew stronger and more spirited as the blond stepped to the batters plate.
"What's going on?" Mabel asked quietly, peering from her seat to the dark haired soldier sitting nearby the standing blond woman.
"You ever hear of five-finger-fillet?" Gideon asked as he turned in his seat to follow her gaze, smiling despite himself.
Pacifica grabbed the knife and gave it a curt spin against her skin, displaying a quiet and humble expertise with a tool of that type. She took to the table, and landed her hand on the surface, her fingers spread out.
"Nah," Nate appeared behind Robbie, holding an arm to his neck and grabbing the surprised private first-class by his hand and dragging it to Pacificas. "Here you go," Nate told her with a smart grin.
"Hey man!" Robbie tried struggling, pulling on Nate's grip, but found his position a comprimised one. He wasn't moving anywhere. "Cut it out man! Pacifica! Hold up."
"Do it!" Nate grinned at the blond, who shrugged. She placed her hand atop of Robbies.
"W-wait!" Robbie's eyes grew wide as he realized that sharp steak knife was pointed right for the middle of his hand. "Wait dude!"
"Seriously," Pacifica looked to him breifly, calm and almost bored looking, "trust me."
Then there was the thud of a knife striking the table. It had been slammed into the space between their thumbs and their index finger. Then she stabbed again. Between the index and the middle. Back to the thumb. Between the middle and ring. Thumb. Ring and pinky.
Faster and faster the knife hit into the table, and higher and higher Robbie Valentino's voice rose. His yell of fear grew louder and louder as he watched the woman's hand become a blur of light, whipping a knife fully capable of stabbing into his hand or cutting off a finger thrust around him into the table like a machine gun. The others watching laughed in excitement.
As quickly as it had begun, it abruptly ended. Pacifica lifted her hand as Nate relented his iron grip on Robbie, who's face was frozen in terror. As the final waves of merriment died away, Robbie looked up from his hand. "Wasn't funny man!"
As they ate and muttered and stared, Pacifica took the empty seat next to Mabel. She rose pointedly and moved to the far side of the table. The ExO looked wounded.
"I'm sorry you feel that way about synthetics, Miss Pines."
She ignored her as she glared down at Gideon, her tone accusing. "You never said anything about there being an android on board! Why not?" "Don't lie to me, either, Gideon. I saw her tattoo outside the showers."
Gideon appeared nonplussed. "Well, it didn't occur to me. I don't know why you're so upset. It's been Company policy for years to have a synthetic on board every transport. They don't need hypersleep, and it's a lot cheaper than hiring a human pilot to oversee the interstellar jumps. They won't go crazy working a long haul solo. Nothing special about it."
"I prefer the term "artificial person" myself," Pacifica interjected softly. "Is there a problem? Maybe it's something I can help with. I can be pretty helpful."
"I honestly don't think so." Gideon wiped egg from his lips. "A synthetic malfunctioned on her last trip out. Some casualties were involved." Mabel scoffed at this indignant watering down of the truth, but she said nothing. Several eyes were already on her from the table behind her back.
"Wow. I'm shocked. Was it long ago?" Pacifica inquired, confusion driving her need for answer.
"Quite a while, in fact." Gideon made the statement without going into specifics, for which Mabel was grateful.
"Must've been an older model, then."
"Hyperdine Systems 120-A/2."
Bending over backward to be conciliatory, Pacifica turned to make. "Well, that explains it. The old A/2s were always a bit twitchy. You know, that could never happen now, not with the new implanted behavioral inhibitors. It's impossible for me to harm or by omission of action, allow to be harmed a human being. The inhibitors are factory-installed, along with the rest of my cerebral functions. No one can tamper with them. So you see I'm quite harmless. At least to you." She offered her a plate piled high with yellow rectangles to the brunette. "More corn bread?"
The plate did not shatter when it struck the far wall as Mabel smacked it out of her hand. Corn bread crumbled as the plate settled to the floor. The artificial person had flinched, just as a human would have.
"Just... stay away from me, Pacifica. You got that straight? You just keep away from me." Mabel's words did not go unaffected. Pacifica looked to the others at her table, and stood evenly, possibly uncertain if her actions would incite another violent episode.
Robbie observed this byplay in silence, then shrugged and turned back to his food. "I guess she didn't like the corn bread either."