Collateral Duty

[Jane Hartman]

Collateral Duty

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__________The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
__________But I have promises to keep,
__________And miles to go before I sleep.
______________- Robert Frost, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

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Jackson National Forest, Planet Houston

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Autumn on Houston should have been beautiful. Pine trees flanked the dirt path in neat regimental rows that stretched towards the deep blue sky like dead men’s fingers, too neat to be anything but the work of human hands. The officer in her appreciated the order. The lance-corporal in her had found somewhere else to be the moment the word ‘regimental’ drifted across her mind.

The chirping of a dozen carefully cultivated bird species she couldn’t tell apart for the life of her but that the screens at the ranger station had insisted were vital to conserve some biosphere or another drifted through the empty air and, save for Hale following faithfully at her heels, Jane Hartman might have been the only soul on the Burwell Trail.

“Of course you are.” She shook her head, upped the pace until the familiar ache started bouncing up her recently-broken leg with each impact of boot heel on dirt. Crunch, pace. Crunch, pace. Hale’s features settled into an amicable doggy grin as the golden closed the distance.

It was midday on a Tuesday. Everyone with anything even slightly productive to do had somewhere better to be, but there she was, stalking trails in ten-year old boots at the tail end of nowhere. Seven hundred miles North East of New Richland, almost eight hundred miles from Houston OCS. Four hours flying, and she had carefully accounted for every minute. Eight hundred miles from where a class of officer candidates, her class of officer candidates were busy slugging their way through seven gruelling days of navigation exercise while she kicked her heels on ‘medical leave’. It was a joke. An insult to them and to her.

She upped the pace again; cursed the pain in her foot, her back, her nose, and shuffled into a lurching jog. Cursed the fleet that kept her from her job, cursed Davies and Lambert and Draper, and the whole braided-up, dumbed-down, politicking bullcrap that was naval brass.

Ahead of her, the path curved, a sinuous turn that lead to places that rarely felt the touch of a human foot, apart from its caretakers. Some governor had insisted that such trails be built and maintained, in a well-meaning but ultimately naive attempt to give back to the planet what humanity was taking from it. Lost in her own thoughts, Hartman barely noticed the solitary figure standing at the end of the turn. Little more than a humanoid form wrapped in a dark jacket at this distance, thin wisps of smoke trailed from the form.

Hale noticed the figure first. The fluffy canine stopped suddenly, sniffing at the air as his hackles rose in suspicion, a massive change from his cheerful docile lope just a moment ago. Hartman loped to a stop half a second later, one hand dropping to brush the golden’s neck as the other fell to the pistol slung at her side. The fleet had let her keep that much, at least.

She dropped to a crouch, breathing harder than she should have been for a jog that couldn’t have been more than a few hundred feet. Out of shape, Lieutenant Commander. Below standard. One of Hale’s ears twitched back at her presence, but the big dog didn’t otherwise acknowledge her. Eyes fixed on the figure, nose twitching.

Slowly, with what she would have said was caution, Hartman pushed the pain in her back out of her mind and stood. Burwell was about as remote as you got before you hit open ocean, a cultivated pine forest lining a four-mile strip of canyon that was all that was left of ancient mining operations. Access was restricted to atmo-capable ships. It wasn’t the sort of place you stumbled across strangers. Hartman clenched her fists and took a careful pace forward, one hand still on the holster.

Hale shifted under her hand, and shot towards the distant figure. Before she had time to call the dog, he was three quarters of the way there. Golden fur flashed in the midday sun, tiny puffs of dust rising beneath his paws. The stranger turned, a red ember dropping from an outstretched hand as he crouched, and a single word reached Hartman.

“Perrete!”

Hartman would have recognized the voice anywhere. Before she finished connecting the dots, the stranger had crouched and Hale had launched himself in to outstretched arms, barking happily. The dog wasn’t as tall as the crouched man, but she would have needed a ruler to tell the difference. He absorbed the shock of sixty pounds of joyous dog the way most people would have reacted to an ankle-high wave.

God, Hartman decided, had a terrible sense of timing. The tension faded from her shoulders as she closed the distance, but her scowl, and the hand atop her pistol, stayed resolutely in place. It was only paranoia if it was unjustified, and the next best thing to a lifetime of line duty was enough to leave her feeling pretty damned justified in trusting the figure tussling with her dog as far as she could throw him. Which, in her current state, would have been lucky to be a foot.

“Bolevara. Can’t even take a walk without running in to one of you people.” She folded one arm across her chest. “What happened? Don’t tell me. Have the Omicrons finally run out of tail for you to chase? Must have, because sure as I’m standing here, I know you ain’t much one for turning yourself in.”

The figure rose, rubbing Hale’s head one more time as the dog responded energetically, and then pointed one finger at the ground. Understanding the instruction, Hale promptly sat down, and Bolevara turned towards Hartman. In his worn out brown jacket and tough jeans, he looked more like someone’s severe uncle than a man capable of incredible amounts of violence. He snorted, feigning a hurt expression.

“I’d come to meet Hale, actually. He’s one of the few people who likes me for what I am, after all.”

“He likes you because you smuggled food in for him. Left me explaining it to the civies, too. Half an hour of room searches.” Hartman’s fingers drummed a beat on the steel. “Shame the rest of us ain’t so easily won over, or you’d be positively drowning in affection.”

“That reminds me.” Bolevara went through a jacket pocket, retrieving a rectangular biscuit. He tossed it, and Hale jumped into the air and snatched it, sitting down again and chewing away. “Dogs are actually pretty good judges of character.”

“I’ve got pretty compelling evidence that they ain’t.” Hartman nodded towards Bolevara, and then herself. “Exhibits A and B. Smart dog would’ve run a mile.”

The shorter man shrugged. “Someday you’ll believe it.” He paused. “Let’s carry on then, shall we? I’m sure we can find something to talk about on the trail.”

Hartman closed the remaining distance, and fell into step alongside Bolevara. Both of them walked with the steady, unconscious beat of lifelong soldiers. Dirt and pine needles crunched beneath two sets of boots. Hale trailed along happily ahead of them, stopping every few paces to claim another tree. Hartman had long since stopped wondering where it all came from.

“Like why your people tracked me out here? I’d be interested in that. Ain’t like I’m a high value target anymore.” She scowled, almost skipped a beat. “Hell, I’m not even much of a soldier anymore.”

Bolevara glanced at her, and his eyes held an undercurrent of deep amusement. “ The Order doesn’t follow you anymore, sweetie. I, however...have always been a bit of a loose cannon.” He shook his head, expression blank again. “Besides, our dealings have always worked out, haven’t they?”

“If, by dealings, you mean using the Navy as catspaws whenever Order intelligence happens to magic up something that needs a few expendable bodies than yes, they’ve worked out. Sweetie.” Hartman’s voice was flat as a lake before the storm. “What do you want Bolevara?”

“That’s a loaded question. What does Santos Bolevara want?” The man closed his eyes for a moment, inclining his head skyward. “Peace in the colonies. A nice job where I can tell people of the dangers of fucking up what they have, and maybe push them towards ensuring it never happens. A quiet home in a suburb. A loving wife and a bunch of little truants running about.” He opened his eyes, smiling faintly at the notion.

“Crap.” Hartman’s hand cut across the intervening air. “For thirty seconds, maybe. Then you’d get involved with some girl at the office, split up with the wife, and wind up paying child support from half a sector away so you can go haring off after whatever private project takes your fancy that week.”

Bolevara grinned, a genuine expression of amusement as it reached all the way to his eyes. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear, Jane.” He shrugged, accepting her words. “Maybe you’re right. But there has to be a light you can see at the end of the tunnel...or someday you’ll fall down and see no way out.”

“Don’t try philosophy on me, Bolevara. Heaven knows I get enough of it from Draper. Oncoming trains and headlights.” Hartman shrugged, stepped around a fallen branch without breaking step. “So happens I’m happy right here in my tunnel. Not all of us need a great cause to sing us off to sleep at night. So I’ll ask again. What do you want? And if you tell me you fancied a walk, I’ll have Hale chew your leg off.”

Bolevara rolled his eyes. “Looking for a quiet life is hardly a great cause. It’s what you navy types fight for, right? To keep things safe for other people. I’m just honest enough to wish that maybe I’ll get some quiet at the end.” He glanced with some amusement at Hale, who was cantering on some distance ahead. “I’m just checking in on you. You got some hard knocks back on Leeds, and from what I hear the Navy has put you on the bench for a bit.” He quirked an eyebrow at her. “I thought they’d put you back in the saddle right away, but someone up there didn’t agree. What gives?”

“Politics.” Hartman spat the word as though it burnt her. Fifty feet ahead, Hale had darted into the pines, chasing some unfortunate wildlife. “Not the Order’s concern. Not like that’s done a thing to stop you prying in the past, so I’ll save you some time. The brass made a decision. Don’t agree with it, but I’ve got my orders, and I’m following them. See, that’s how a military works. We don’t go tearing off halfway across the sector to check up on people from the other side just because we happen to feel like it.”

Bolevara smirked. “You enjoy the attention though, I’m sure. But I’ll be frank with you...The Order would’ve really liked to see you back where you belong. Gallia worries us all after all. Especially that Xavier guy.” His expression clouded with distaste for a moment. “They’ve already lost you as a flag officer, and now Remus Sius has lost his mind.”

“Is this the part where you offer me my command back? Just sign the dotted line, and uncle Bolevara’ll make it all alright? No catch, maybe just a favour or two down the line, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble?” She shook her head. “No deal. Ain’t you, it’s me, et cetera. Try not to take it too hard. You can tell grandpa Golanski that you tried.”

Bolevara glanced at her incredulously, his eyes wide...and then he exploded in a fit of laughter. They were not half-hearted efforts, with each chuckle coming from the bottom of his stomach, until he found it difficult to breath. “You...innocent, naive…” He started laughing again, and it took a disciplined effort to contain his mirth, although amusement remained in his crinkled eyes. “If you think we can manipulate flag rank appointments, Jane, I’m flattered. But really, no.” His grin grew wider. “Your office is currently being run by one James Lambert, until they can find an officer to hand it over to.”

If looks could have killed, Houston would have had a forest fire on its hands. As it was, Hartman’s eyes narrowed by degrees.

“I am well aware of Admiral Lambert.” And his preoccupation with certain prohibited substances. Hartman forced the thought away before it started to breed. Addiction or not, Lambert was, in apparent defiance of every standard in the book, her superior officer. “And I make no judgements on what your people are capable of. Houston’s still running under blackout, and you don’t seem to have had any trouble getting here. I’m willing to bet you’re not parked at the L.Z.”

Bolevara glanced at her, surprise coloring his features. “You’re out of the loop, huh.” He shrugged, filing that information away for later. “War with Rheinland is pretty much indefinitely on hold. Hudson Crisis. They’re redeploying fleets to California even as we speak. I’m sure you know why.”

Hartman nodded. “I don’t need you to tell me about my- our fleet movements. Funnily enough the bars on my shoulder still count for something around here.” Even if they only counted for ten hours a week. “Tenth’s been reformed. Don’t know who’s sitting in the chair this time. Jones, maybe.”

Bolevara shrugged, indicating he did not know either. “Anyways, I’ll finally get to the point. Your Officer Corps are rapidly getting depleted, while Gallia’s generals are still alive. And Royal Flush failed.” His expression was sober now, lined with grim pain. “The Order doesn’t fancy your chances against the Royal Navy at present. We’re worried.”

“Than maybe the Order could find it in their hearts to return the dreadnought they stole.” Hartman stopped mid stride, rounded on the Cretan, anger underlining each carefully clipped syllable. “Don’t take that tone with me, Bolevara. The Order hasn’t committed one unit to Leeds, not one damned fighter. I spent three months out there, and the only things on our side were wearing Bretonian insignias. So don’t get all sympathetic. Don’t pretend to care. If the Order’s so worried, maybe they can put some of their people on the line instead of hiding behind our dead, because that pile’s already three foot too high for my liking. You want what you always want. I will not be the Order’s pawn. Not in this.”

Bolevara’s fist curled as his expression darkened with anger, but his voice was still flat. “If we had the strength to take on even a picket of the Royal Navy and take it apart, we would have. As it stands, we can only contribute in small ways.” He raised an open palm, counting off its fingers. “Count Tilly was assassinated by the Maquis in July.” He lowered his index finger. “A shipment of hull panels was lost with all hands in a gravitational anomaly. Their bearing was the erstwhile Battleship Oubli.” He lowered his hand, and his voice sharpened with anger. “Just because you can’t see does not mean we are not acting. And nothing you say invalidates the point I made. Do you have an answer to the Royal Navy’s LeBlancs, the Xaviers, the Franche-Comtes?” He glared at her. “I know for a fact that Xavier took you and your fleet apart with insulting casualness. Do not insult offered help when you cannot stand up to what’s against you.”

“ You weren’t there.” Hartman was perfectly still, a statue forged in iron. Somewhere behind her, a series of gruff barks split the air. She wanted to tell him where he could shove his help. Where had the Order’s famous intelligence been when Brighton burned under a half dozen torpedoes in Leed’s debris fields? What chance had their strikes given the rest of the fleet, what openings had they created? None. Zero.

The Order were secretive, manipulative, and played their cards so close that they might as well have been out of the game altogether. She wanted to yell, to scream it at him. To pound the truth into Bolevara with her voice, with her fists, if need be. Instead, she exhaled, forced the anger from her voice and the tension from her knuckles. “The Order does nothing out of charity. Don’t expect me to believe you’re starting now. What do you want from me?”

“I want to put you back into the game.” Bolevara’s voice was quiet. “The Royal Navy’s commanders have made a mockery of your invasion, that’s for sure. That being said, they also rely on said commanders more than is healthy.” He cocked his head at her. “If we put them out of the game, it’ll even the playing field. Surely you want to ensure that another bloodbath like Royal Flush does not happen?”

Shuttles burning across the sky. Guns roaring their bloody protests across the smog-choked ruins. Shattered ships and cadavers alike drifting dead in space, escape pods scorched under the thrusters of the survivors, and a single heavy transport, its crew half-buried in the chaos. “No. I don’t want another Royal Flush.”

She turned from Bolevara, started walking again. Slow. Deliberate. “I’m not an assassin.”

Bolevara chuckled dryly. “I wouldn’t nominate you for that role. But we do need your help.”

“Why? You just said the Order doesn’t do straight-up combat.” A ghost of a smile drifted across her face. “And don’t tell me you need a logistician.”

“Taking out the nerve centre of the Royal Navy would require some combat. Call it an educated guess. And when we get around to it, it needs to be decisive. That’s where you would come in.” Bolevara’s voice was intent now, sensing that he was making headway.

“A tactician.” The idea had a certain appeal. A chance to retaliate for what had happened to the Tenth. A chance to fight again. It would be more good than she was doing training greenhorns to fight a war that could be over by the time they finished flight school. “And what then, after the Gallics are taken care of? The Order just waves goodbye and I go back home?”

Bolevara nodded. “More or less. I cannot really go into specifics, because this operation isn’t exactly my idea.”

“Who, then?” Hartman didn’t particularly like Bolevara, but at least she knew him. Secretive as he was, apparently he was what passed for dangerously liberal among the Order. The idea of working with the organisation proper wasn’t exactly one that filled her with enthusiasm. No-one just went home afterwards. Hartman was surprised to realise that she didn’t care. If it gave her a chance to keep the Gallics away from her people, it was worth it.

Bolevara’s lips curled in a smile. “Not somebody you’d know. She’s a real b---h though. You’ll get along.” He raised a hand to ward off a retort. “And Hale respected her opinion, so you might be able to work with her.” His smirk grew wider. “Not the dog.”

“Which means a lot, where women are concerned.” Hartman’s voice dripped sarcasm. After a long moment, she continued. “Reservist be damned, I’m still a naval officer. Ain’t like I can pick up and go. I need a name, Bolevara. You want me to work with these people, you can at least tell me that much.”

Bolevara shrugged, conceding the point. “She doesn’t really have a name, unfortunately. Her usual codename is Taweret. And if you still don’t trust me-” He put his hand over his heart in a mock expression of hurt. “I’m sure you can still ring Hale to get a confirmation. You’ll have more than a month to think it over regardless.Trips from the Omicrons take a while. I’ll tell her to drop by.”

He faced her. “Sound good?”

“Excuse me, Fleet Admiral Hale, Sir? Yes, it’s Hartman here. Would you mind telling me about your association with a terrorist organisation?” Hartman scowled. “If you want to torpedo what’s left of my career that badly, might as well use real explosives.” She sighed, shook her head. “It ain’t good, but it’s better than the time you got me locked up by the LPI. I’ll think about it.”

Bolevara shrugged. “That’s about all I can ask. And David Hale is a lot better at disassembling than you are, so a talk would help.” He looked at the sun, and snorted. “Longer conversation than I expected. Are we married?”

“When hell freezes over, I’ll forge you a ring from the ice.” Hartman flicked a wrist towards the forest. “Get off my planet, Bolevara.”

“One more thing.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a packet of the same biscuits he’d given Hale earlier. “My parting present. Try not to eat them yourself.” He nodded at her. “And with that, Adios.”

He waved and started making his way down the trail, leaving Hartman alone. It was past dark by the time her shuttle touched down in New Richland.

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