The Infinity Brigade 2: Stone Hard Page 2

  “We should visit the mess hall,” Duffy said after a moment’s reflection.

  I tapped my wrist to bring up the subdermal display embedded there. It showed 22:41. “The mess is closed,” I said as I continued to manipulate the screen in front of me.

  “Perfect,” Duffy said with a mischievous grin.

  I learned, a few minutes later, two very important lessons. First, I learned the insane depths to which Duffy was willing to go when faced with a challenge. Second, and perhaps equally important, I learned why Duffy and a peach should never be in the same room when he had been drinking beer.

  ***

  It turns out soldiers like to breathe when they eat. It also turns out that cooking generates a lot of volatile gases that, while they may smell good, aren’t all that good to breathe. On terra firma a kitchen would simply set up a chimney to vent said gases outside of the living structure… not so good a solution on an airless moon. Chimneys are frowned upon in domed cities like New Parris Island. The end result of all of these factors was that the mess hall had an extensive atmospheric-handling system designed to accommodate a high volume of smoke-filled air.

  Our plan, such as it was, was to access the ductwork for the air handling system and see if it might provide a means of accessing the dining facility covertly. The only way to tell was to actually try it. Now, I would love to say that it was the beer that emboldened the two of us to try this inane, insane, and whatever else starts with ‘in-’ that comes to mind plan… but, alas, those nanites that I spoke of earlier pretty much killed that excuse. The simple fact was, we were young, foolish, and motivated by a challenge. Changing clothes and grabbing headlamps we headed off to where saner men refused to go.

  Getting into the ductwork was not a problem. The ductwork was designed for human access so that recruits from Boot Camp could experience the joy and pleasure of cleaning said ductwork. To inspect the job the recruits did, a Drill Sergeant would follow after the recruits wearing dress whites. Few things disappoint and/or upset a Drill Sergeant more than dirty dress whites. It was surprising how meticulously clean the ductwork at New Parris Island remained.

  The sole exception to this was the ductwork near the kitchen facility. Smoke and grease from cooking made its way into the air handling system and coated everything with a thin layer of grime. Although these particular passages got cleaned more often than any other location in the facility, it only took one use of the kitchens to begin the whole process again.

  Of course, the kitchens were where we were headed. Fortunately, both Duffy and I had the forethought to wear our civilian clothes. This way when we got back to our quarters we could simply drop them in the auto-wash and they would be cleaned and folded for us within a few hours.

  “I smell BACON!” Duffy practically barked as he made his way towards the kitchen.

  “You are aware that this is meant to be a covert mission – yes?” I asked in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

  “Yeah, sorry AG. Bacon is just one of my passions… the real stuff, not that crap they grow in a test tube.”

  “Vat grown muscle and fat tissues have been shown to taste and digest in a manner indistinguishable from sacrificed animal products,” I said softly.

  “Yeah, just keep telling yourself that,” Duffy quipped.

  After several minutes of following the south-end of a north-bound Duffy through the ventilation shafts we finally arrived at our destination. The dining facility was currently closed and work in the kitchens would not begin again for another couple of hours. Again, I would like to say this was a result of our extensive and meticulous planning but the simple truth is we got lucky.

  Fortunately the ductwork expanded as it got very near the actual cooking grills. Again, I was thankful that the aforementioned grills were currently powered down. The heat that they would produce in normal operation would be uncomfortable to say the least.

  “OK, I see one problem right away,” Duffy said.

  “And that would be?”

  “If we try and come this way during normal hours of operation we are going to be joining the bacon in the skillet. As much as I like bacon, I don’t what to become the ‘other white meat’ if you know what I mean,” Duffy answered.

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” I answered. “About twenty meters after we entered the ductwork there was a control junction. Do you remember it?”

  “I do,” the big man answered. “As I recall it is an access-point for environmental. How does that help us?”

  I smiled. “What happens when the boys in environmental see a sharp drop in atmospheric pressure in the dome?”

  “They wet themselves looking for the source of an air leak.”

  “True,” I agreed. “But what is the exact protocol?”

  “How the hell would I know?”

  I gave Duffy as sharp look. “It was part of a reading assignment you had in week three.”

  Now it was Duffy’s turn to give me a questioning look. “You weren’t even here in week three…”

  I shrugged off his comment. I’d have several weeks to catch up on the reading. “Am I wrong?”

  “No,” he admitted. “I don’t remember what the protocol was although you are right I do remember reading something about it… something about preserving remaining pockets of atmosphere.”

  “Exactly,” I agreed. “The protocol calls for airtight doors to seal and everything that stresses environmental, aside from priority one activities, to shut down.”

  “That includes the grills in the kitchen,” Duffy said with a start. “That’s brilliant. We trigger a false alarm and then storm the kitchen when the grills cool down enough to let us in.”

  I shook my head. “As enticing as it might be for you and I to single-handedly take on two hundred prepared and heavily armed opponents… I might have a better way that offers a higher probability of success.”

  In the dim light of our headlamps Duffy looked disappointed. “Go on” he said softly.

  “Remember what we discussed in class a few days ago. Knowledge can be a force multiplier. We know more about this facility than our opponents. If we tweak the environmental control junction to report a slow air leak in the mess hall, the air handlers will reverse in order to compensate from the drop in pressure and protect the personnel in the dining facility from asphyxiation.”

  “And that helps us how?” Duffy asked.

  “Think about it,” I said. “If we go in ‘pointers blazing’ we have to shoot one hundred bad guys each before they shoot us. Dude, I’ve seen you shoot. You’d be lucky to shoot one hundred times before hitting yourself.”

  “Thanks,” Duffy said dryly.

  “We need a weapon that takes out multiple combatants at once.”

  “We need grenades!” Duffy said with a renewed sense of vigor.

  I felt bad but I knew that explosives were not the answer. “Actually my bloodthirsty friend, we need sandmen… probably three or four.”

  Sandmen were gas canisters that could be deployed for certain types of crowd control where you wanted to knock an opposing force down quickly but not permanently. It was basically a form of universal knockout gas that greatly suppressed neurochemical reactions in the brain and spinal cords of most species within the GCP.

  “The reversal of the airflow in response to the unexpected report in pressure will carry the gas into the dining facility for us. The gas will take out our two hundred guests and we can then head in and mop up,” I added.

  “So no frontal assault… you and me against the world… let’s attack,” Duffy said glumly.

  I shook my head in the dim light.

  “Too bad,” he said. “It would have been glorious!”

  I tapped my wrist and looked at the time. It was 23:31. “OK, well I think we have learned what we needed to know. We ought to have just enough time to get back and write up our plan and still get four or five hours of shut-eye before our morning 10K.”

  As I was speaking, Duffy was busy kicking out the grate above the kitchen grill.

  “WHAT are you doing?” I begged… although in my soul of souls I knew it was too late for reason to prevail.

  “I’m hungry,” Duffy said. “It seems a shame to come all this way and not get a snack.” He lowered himself down to the grill and then to the floor.

  In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought to myself and followed my new friend into what I was sure was going to be trouble.

  We did a quick reconnaissance of the kitchen and ultimately found our way to the walk-in refrigerator.

  “Oh look,” Duffy said excitedly. “They have peaches!”

  This was how I learned why Duffy had trouble keeping roommates and why he had acquired the particular nickname that he had. Did I mention the unfortunate result of combining a love of beer with peaches? I also learned another unfortunate reality. Ductwork is similar to ships in space. Once the air is fouled, there is no escaping it short of donning an evac suit. Tragically, evac suits were few and far between in the ventilation shafts.

  ***

  Our report to the class the next day was only one of two that was deemed likely to have worked. The other solution, offered by Mary Andrews and Sid Jensen, involved the use of debilitating ultrasound over the dining facilities loud speakers. In this particular case the opponents were disoriented enough that the two marines were able to take them out with only a twenty-five percent chance that one or both of them would be wounded or killed.

  The solution that Duffy and I offered was considered the overall winning solution. Once again I had defeated the supposed no-win scenario. What I failed to appreciate at the time was that this failure to fail… engendered within me a belief that I could always avoid failure. When it ultimately did come years later, I would be to
tally unprepared for it.

  As a reward for having the winning solutions, Duffy, myself, Mary and Sid were served lunch by the rest of the cadet class. The chief cook came out to watch us being served. He directed the individual trays to the officer candidates he wanted them to go to.

  We dined on custom grilled steak, cooked to order. Baked potatoes and supposedly fresh fruit. On my tray and Duffy’s the fruit was replaced with peach pits. When I looked up at the warrant officer that was the chief chef he smiled and saluted. The message was clear… Don’t mess with the mess.

  Chapter 3: Etiquette …

  Let me state for the record, whoever invented the concept of the Full Dress White uniform was a sadistic son of a… - well, I think you get my thought process here. To say… I hate wearing Full Dress Whites… is tantamount to saying rain is wet. It is simply an established and universally accepted fact of life.

  The universe, and Marine OTS specifically, seemed to be aware of this utter distain on my part and so in one of those cruel little jokes that life seems to like to visit upon us on occasion, we were required to wear Full Dress Whites on a weekly basis. It was all part of an aspect of military training I had never fully appreciated or anticipated – etiquette.

  Now having just spent ‘quality’ time in New Parris Island’s ductwork with Duffy, the concept of proper military etiquette was an especially poignant one for me.

  Within the GCP there actually was an entire organization dedicated to military protocol and etiquette. In the course of our training, one day a week would be spent learning about said protocols and etiquette. Of course, in the Marine Corps, learning is doing… ergo the need to subject oneself to the cruel and unusual punishment that is the Marine Full Dress White uniform.

  I pulled at the collar to try in vain to loosen it. I swear these things were designed to restrict blood flow to the brain. “I hate these damned things,” I mumbled.

  “Ah, but you look so distinguished there Sir!”

  Duffy only deigned to refer to me as ‘Sir’ on Fridays as this was our designated ‘snow’ day… that one day a week where we were required to wear our Dress Whites. The difference between Dress Whites for an E7 and an O1 came down to ornaments.

  My uniform sported hard shoulder boards. Officers had them while enlisted did not. This meant I looked different than most of the other officer candidates. In point of fact, my uniform looked more like that of our instructors. I even was authorized to wear two additional decorations on my uniform. I had been awarded the Soldier's Medal for saving the life of a recruit in Boot Camp. In addition, since I graduated at the top of my Boot Camp class, I was presented with the Military Excellence Award. Finally, having completed the crucible I, like all Marines, was awarded the Marine badge… the Eagle, Globe, Anchor and Starship emblem. However, because I was functioning as an officer already, my Marine Badge was silver and gold as opposed to the bronze of enlisted Marines.

  On ‘snow’ days officer candidates were expected to salute the senior-most officer as they passed them in the halls or entered a room. This meant that unless an instructor was next to me or already in the room I was receiving and returning a number of salutes.

  What I had not appreciated was that Duffy had conspired with the other members of my class to space themselves out along the path to our first lecture at exactly the right interval to force me to receive and return salutes from each and every one of them.

  The entire time Duffy walked next to me with an ever widening grin pasted on his face. I knew exactly what was happening and was powerless to stop it.

  “Duffy,” I said at one point.

  “Sir?”

  “Have you ever heard of a fictional character named Khan Noonien Singh?”

  “No Sir. I have not,” he answered after a moment’s thought.

  “He once said, ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold—and it is very cold in space’.”

  “Fascinating Sir. I’ll have to remember that,” Duffy answered with a straight face.

  “You be sure to do that,” I said as I returned yet another salute on the way to class.

  ***

  Commander Marita Gonzales was our Protocol Instructor for OTS. She had spent several years on both the Hupenstanii and D'lralu home worlds.

  The Hupenstanii looked like feathered kangaroos… minus about four feet of proper kangaroo tail. They stood about as tall as humans and had a keen intellect. They were natural linguists and often served in that capacity within the GCP… especially when meeting new races for whom the universal translators embedded into our comm-links had not yet been programmed. The Hupenstanii could be ruthless when forced but I had never heard of one getting angry. It did not seem to be a part of their psychological makeup.

  The D’lralu on the other hand where six legged creatures that resembled dogs. They could and would walk on either four or two legs depending on how many hands they needed free at any given time. They functioned as a pack with a leader called the First of the First. They were the race that had attacked and killed so many humans during the war that led to the creation of the Galactic Coalition. They themselves were victims operating under the threat of annihilation when they attacked Earth. It was only with their help that Earth was able to turn the tide and secure a tenuous hold on galactic peace.

  Both the Hupenstanii and the D’lralu were founding members, with humanity, of the Galactic Coalition of Planets.

  Commander Gonzales’ job was to make sure none of us screwed the coalition up because we acted disrespectfully to a member of one of the other cultures that represented the GCP member worlds.

  The Commander was a very petit older woman with a perpetual scowl on her face. In an earlier life I’m sure she was a nun who smacked kid’s fingers with a ruler when they misbehaved. Because I like my fingers just the way they are, I went to great lengths to make sure she never had any cause to whack mine. This was not always easy because lectures on etiquette and protocol were… what is the word I’m looking for? ... boring … yes that was the word.

  I’ll be honest, given the path my career would eventually take, listening to and learning from these lectures on etiquette might have ultimately saved me a lot of grief; but I am the man I am today because of my misspent youth. I can’t and won’t cry over spilled beer.

  That said, Commander Gonzales’ tutelage provided me with some of my roughest and, truth be told, most exciting moments as a cadet. Given that I would be caught in the middle of a series of explosions, an attempted assassination and responsible for the loss of an Admiral’s pet beagle… that was saying something.

  The Commander’s lectures distilled down to a few basic tenants. First, protocol was the combination of good manners and common sense. When dealing with other humans, protocol often came down to understanding the needs of the other party. Protocols are never static. In human culture protocol used to be deeply entwined with pomp and circumstance. Over the years much of this has disappeared.

  Protocol between species is orders of magnitude more difficult. Human on human interactions can be conducted with, at least, a modicum of common expectations. Humans, by-in-large, with the possible exception of JJ Hammond and Sergeant Duffy, think alike. Aliens… not so much.

  The irony here is that this makes following protocol all that much more important while at the same time making it that much more difficult. For a human being, smelling somebody’s anal orifice is disgusting. This is why I make it my mission in life to keep beer and peaches out of the same room as Duffy. For the D’lralu, smelling someone’s anal orifice is just a normal part of casual greeting.

  The second basic tenant to understand with regard to protocol and etiquette is that it is not artificial. It is a practical set of rules that, when learned and applied correctly for a given situation, can and will save time and energy. To this end, the Office of Interspecies Relations develops and maintains a comprehensive database of current etiquette and protocols for interacting with members of other species. All Marines are expected to be familiar with this database and proficient at querying it for specifics on how to interact with the various member worlds within the GCP.

  Commander Gonzales made it quite clear that failure by even one Marine to do this could, in a worst case scenario, cost thousands… if not tens of thousands… of lives.