Kraken Mare Read online

  Two months of my life gone as shrinks tried to crack me open so they could declare that I was insane and command could wash their hands of any responsibility for me and my team's work behind enemy lines. While we had done some troubling stuff while out in the field, none of it warranted the treatment I was getting. We hadn’t broken any of the Rules of Engagement we’d been given during our pre-mission brief, and they knew it. So they attacked. They pushed, doing whatever they could to ruin my dead comrades’ reputations in order to cover their own butts. I ground my teeth together at the memory of their accusations and my grip tightened on the spoon in hand. While I knew I wasn't insane, I would be the first to admit that I was extremely pissed off.

  I felt a pair of strange eyes upon me. It's a second nature thing one picks up after years of running around backwater hellholes, the sensation that you're being watched. I paused, looking up from my plate. A man who clearly thought highly of himself and his abilities stood across the table from me. It was obvious that he was trying not to stare, but it's hard when there was only one person at the table.

  Slightly older than I was, shaved head, with a muscular build obvious in his pin-striped overcoat. The suit beneath it looked expensive and he held a small PDA in his left hand. His right remained free, which confirmed for me that he was prior service. He carried himself well, though with a hint of haughty and arrogance that reminded me of Marines who had gone into the corporate world once their hitch was up. He definitely didn't look like any of the psychologists who had been nagging at me, in any case. I glanced around the crowded cafeteria but nobody else seemed to be staring. I looked back at the stranger in front of me and cocked an eyebrow.

  “Can I help you?” I asked, trying not to sound rude. I had a feeling that I was doing a poor job of it.

  “Are you Sergeant John Manning? The Marine sniper?”

  “Aw, shit,” I muttered in a low tone. I didn’t have the time or patience for any sort of investigative journalist right now. They were like leeches, sucking the blood out of unsuspecting creatures for their own benefit. Plus, no matter what you said, they’d spin it to make you sound like you had a bloodlust for killing babies or something. I gave him my best angry face. “You some kind of reporter? I have no comments to any actions that may or may not have occurred in the field.”

  “Huh? No, no reporter. Far from it actually.” The man gave me a smile that wasn't quite patronizing. No reporter could have managed that. Spook, my mind whispered in warning. The man continued to talk, unawares. “Mind if I join you for a few minutes?”

  I shrugged. “Sure, can't stop you. So long as you keep away from any reporter-type questions, I'll refrain from stabbing you with a spoon.”

  “I can do that,” he laughed politely, then grew somber. “You seem awfully bitter from someone who came back from the dead. One would think that after what you went through – excuse me, allegedly went through – you would be thrilled to be eating Navy-issue green mush again.”

  “Them's the breaks,” I said through another mouthful of horrid organic material. At least it was supposed to be loaded with protein and carbs, something I had sorely lacked while out in the field. No matter how much it tasted like rat shit. “At least I can get real beer again soon.”

  “Real beer? What, you leaving this fine establishment of culinary opus?”

  I chuckled darkly and decided that I liked this man, despite his probably being some sort of spy. I had heard that many intelligence agencies preferred us special op boys and oftentimes recruited them directly from active duty for clandestine operations. The pay was amazing but the travel was oftentimes sheer brutality. “Pretty much. I'm getting shipped home.”

  “Rotation's up?”

  “Medical.”

  “That's pretty shitty,” the man grunted. “Sorry. I know how crappy that can make a man feel.”

  “They say I’m medically unfit for active duty,” I couldn’t keep the anger out of my voice. “They say I failed the psyche eval after I took an unwanted field trip through hostile territory. They say I've got some sort of PTSD so they handed me my walking papers.” I shoveled another spoonful of food into my mouth, chewed and swallowed. “It's all bullshit but whatever. I'm processing out this week, and heading home. Wherever that is now.”

  “Do you?” the man asked. He waved his hand a little. The confusion must have been shown on my face. “PTSD, I mean. Do you have it?”

  His tone was curious and not accusing in any way. It was the only reason that I decided to answer.

  “Yes,” came my reply. “But what soldier doesn't?”

  “Do you think the PTSD affects your performance in the field?” the man pressed. I stopped eating and looked at him, a furrow creasing my brow. Something was definitely up.

  “You mean, will I curl up into a ball and start to cry if I get stuck out in some godforsaken forest again?”

  “Something like that,” the man nodded.

  “Hell no.”

  “You sound pretty sure of yourself.”

  “Of course I'm sure. I love my job,” I took a calming breath before I explained. “Loved. No, I was right the first time. Love it. It's hard to explain.”

  “Give it a whirl.”

  I pursed my lips thoughtfully as I framed the right response in my head. How does one explain the inner workings of the irrational, anyway? I took a breath and began.

  “You look at me and see just another weirdo with a gun, some kind of sociopath who gets off on killing people. That's not who I am, or what I do. I'm a professional soldier, defending my nation, following lawful orders, and when it all hits the fan, I do what I was trained to do. Whether it's from two miles or two feet, nothing changes the fact that my job means that I have to take lives at times. Why is it so fucking difficult for people to understand? An infantryman gets into a firefight and kills twenty poor schmucks during a pitched battle in door-to-door fighting and he's regarded as a hero. I kill the bastard who sent those poor schmucks into battle with a rifle from a mile away before the battle even begins and I'm a sociopath suffering from PTSD? Fuck that. I'm just more efficient at doing my job than the supposed hero.”

  “Interesting.”

  “So would you mind telling me what this is all about?” My heart rate was up and my breathing was a little ragged. Anger is not always a good thing, but sometimes you just need to get it out of your system. “You didn't pick me out at random, and you’ve probably guessed that I don't swing that way. I'm pretty sure you're not a reporter, since you're not preening at.

  “Yes,” he said, “I was looking for you. No, I don't swing that way either. And you're right, not a reporter. What I really wanted to know is... how would you like a job?”

  “Huh?” I asked.

  “I'd like to offer you a job.”

  I stared at the man, earlier suspicions confirmed. He was a spook, all right.

  “Who are you?”

  “My name is Piotr Mierzejewski, and I'm a recruiter from Xanadu Securities,” the man said, sticking out his hand. I shook it warily. “A buddy of mine-- who may or may not work in out-processing--talked to my boss a few weeks ago. Mentioned that you were getting shafted for being a bloody hero in a politically difficult war. We’re looking for young talent with combat experience, with a good head on their shoulders. Our firm specializes in contractual work for the government – more specifically, the Navy. There are some things that they can't do but need done, so they hire us. We provide our services…for a price.”

  “Great. Mercenaries,” I said, shaking my head.

  I had been wrong. Not a spook, but a soldier of fortune. I'd heard good and bad things about mercenaries, most of it bad. Piotr brought his hands up defensively.

  “Completely the opposite, in fact,” the recruiter said. “We're closer to security contractors. Quite frankly, we don't work for just anybody. Our security clearances and contractual obligations dictate what jobs we can take. And, since we're at the top of the heap, so to speak, we only work
for one nation. In return, we get the best contracts, the juiciest ones that make everyone else green with envy. We protect diplomats who have to go into hellhole on third worlds and try to negotiate a peace.” He leaned in, lowering his voice slightly. “We protect... more interesting stuff as well.”

  “My mistake. Not hookers. More like high-class call girls.”

  “I like that better than mercenaries,” Piotr admitted with a wry smile. “We don't want just dumb grunts. We want specialists, operators like you who can think on their feet and react to anything and everything. Our company used to deal less with veterans, but our CEO has seen the error of his ways and is now looking to find the brightest of the Armed Forces. Quite frankly, you surviving in that hellish forest after four weeks of almost no food and in the midst of a civil war is remarkable. The fact that you completed your mission is simply amazing. You should be getting the Navy Cross for your actions at the very least, not drummed out of the Corps. Let me put it this way: our standard recruiting method is sending a message via public comms. My boss sent me to talk face to face. You made that much of an impression on him.” He sat back, studying my face, before continuing, “We'd like to bring you in and interview you more fully, one of those meet and greet kind of things, and probably offer you a job.”

  “Huh,” I grunted. He pressed onward, undeterred.

  “Think about it. A six-figure job standing around, babysitting some functionary, and with company provided tools. You like the .50 cal as a round? A bit old fashioned, but doable. How'd you like a bullpup version of it with a thirty-round magazine that weighs less than what the Marines forced you to drag around while in the field? We work closely with a certain firearms manufacturer’s R&D department…all I can really say is wow. Plus, it's a hell of a lot of money. Good money. Easy money.”

  “There's no such thing as easy money,” I pointed out, though my heart wasn’t really into it. Easier money was definitely possible, especially given my current situation. Plus, I had to admit that I was more than a little curious. I mulled over my future for a moment. A medical discharge killed any retirement I would get, and if I was lucky, I might qualify for some VA benefits one day – after jumping through sixteen million hoops. Plus, I'd become a bit of an adrenaline junky. Going home to do…what? Yeah, I really wanted to see my family again, but knew that I would never really fit back into that the social order of things back home. I'd seen too much, experienced more, and there were too many memories. Memories I had spent the past ten years trying to forget. If I was going to be honest with myself, I also knew that being back home would suck the life out of me, no matter how much I missed my parents.

  The ghosts of our past haunt us all, and some things should remain a memory.

  I thought it over for a few more seconds before I began to nod, decision made. “Oh, what the hell. Why not? I'll go in for an interview. Where's it at?”

  Piotr grinned and pulled out a PDA. He tapped the screen a few times and it chimed in response. His smile grew wider. “I just bought you a first class ticket back to Earth. Chicago, actually. You leave Friday at 1700 local.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that. We don't waste time when it comes to talent.”

  “That's a nice change of pace.” I hoped that out-processing would be done just as easily, though past experience in dealing with the military suggested otherwise. Still, one could hope.

  ঠ

  Despite what I had expected, out-processing was done in an efficient and timely manner. I found myself boarding the lift to the orbital station precisely on time, which was a rare thing indeed. From there it would be a two-week trip back to Earth for my job interview. It would be a very tedious fourteen days, but I had downloaded a few books to my PDA and planned on reading almost the entire trip. Either that, or sleeping.

  Flying first class on someone else's dime meant all of my meals would be free, even the booze. While I wasn't a heavy drinker by the standards of your average marine, I did enjoy the occasional bourbon, a habit I'd picked up while serving with a guy from Kentucky. And this flight, I guessed, would have top-shelf bourbon. I'd been eager to try some of the more refined stuff since my first sip. First class business did offer some amazing perks.

  As I settled into my seat and tried to get comfortable, the attendant came by to take my meal order. Since it would be four hours until they could serve anything due to the need for constant acceleration to break free of Soma's gravitational pull, I was a little confused by their promptness. The attendant glanced over at me and immediately recognized the look on my face. She explained.

  “During that boost time, it's difficult for some fliers to adjust to the sudden loss of gravity and the artificial gravity coming online. You never know who suffers from severe space adaptation syndrome and they'll usually not want to eat or drink. But because they run the risk of dehydration, and we like to use IV lines as a last resort, we take their orders now and gently remind them to continue ingesting fluids while lifting until they become acclimated to the change of pressure and loss of true gravity.”

  “So no booze?” I asked, just to make certain.

  “Oh, after the initial burn, you can order an alcoholic drink, sir,” she stated. “For the time being, may I recommend a mineral-infused bottle of water?”

  “Sounds good,” I nodded. The attendant smiled and moved on to the seats behind me. My eyes followed her posterior for a moment before I looked away, mildly embarrassed. It had been awhile since I had received anything more than passionate disinterest from a female and, even though the attendant was merely doing her job, it was nice to have the attention.

  Once I was fully situated and strapped in for liftoff, I pulled out my personal digital assistant from my jacket pocket and began searching for something to read. After a moment, I found something I hadn't read since I was a kid. I pulled it up and tapped the screen to go to the first chapter.

  I'm a bookworm at heart, and love nothing more than going back into a book I had already read once or twice before and discovering more in it.

  “This flight is going to be fuller than expected. Glad I bought the seat next to yours,” a familiar voice interrupted from near my elbow.

  “Oh, hey.” I looked up from my PDA at Piotr.

  “You didn't think I'd let you fly to Earth all by yourself now, did you?” the recruiter asked as he sat down. He smoothed his tie before strapping himself in. “That would have been rude of me.” He jabbed a finger at my PDA. “What're you reading?”

  “Beowulf Ascending,” I replied. Seeing Piotr's confusion, I added, “It’s a science fiction novel. Written a long time ago.”

  “Oh! I didn't know anyone published those anymore,” Piotr admitted. “I just read a lot of thrash fic myself. And famous ships, you know?”

  “There are a few publishers out there still, putting out this kind of stuff. Picked the habit up when I was a kid,” I said after marking my place on the PDA. “It's about a boy who is the reincarnation of Beowulf, a legendary king and hero, stuck in the middle of an alien invasion. It's pretty good, actually.”

  “Aliens, huh,” Piotr nodded thoughtfully and pulled out his own PDA. He tapped a few commands into it. “You comfortable with the idea of aliens?”

  “We've found them already,” I said. “Soma has creatures that are like nothing we've ever seen before and they're on an alien planet. So, aliens.”

  “I meant aliens that are, well, like aliens from your book,” Piotr amended.

  “Uh… I guess I'd be okay with them,” I nodded thoughtfully. “If we ever found any who were smart.”

  While it was true that humanity had discovered alien life ten times over as it had begun traversing the stars, none of the beings found had been any more intelligent than a loyal family dog. We had not found any gleaming cities of diamond on rogue worlds, nor had they made contact with peaceful, enlightened races. Initially, humanity had been depressed at the idea that it was truly alone in their corner of the universe. T
hen it sank in that unlimited colonization meant staving off an all-consuming “final war,” and the idea quickly gained in popularity. At the end of the day, it wasn’t just the granola crunchers that wanted to save the earth, but guys like me, too. Just different ideas on how to do it.

  However, on a few worlds such as Soma, aliens were few and far between. There was an argument amongst scientists as to why this was. Some believe that the odd atmospheric combination on Soma – which was not harmful to humans, though it took a little getting used to – inhibited the development of life on the planet somehow. The more popular belief was that Earth's sun and water combination had led to life emerging faster than the rest of the universe. This asked more questions than answered, however. The general consensus in the scientific community was that humanity was alone – for now.

  It still didn't stop people from dreaming about a real First Contact and all that humanity could learn from it.

  “Aliens.” Piotr's face had the barest hint of a smile on it. “No qualms. Ever wanted one as a pet?”

  “God no,” I said, chuckling. “The base's PAO tried to keep one of those little somacats as a pet. Had it for about a week. The demonic little thing shit acid and chewed holes through his housing wall. Ended up getting the captain docked two months at half-pay and restricted to base. He got off easy, too, in my opinion. No thanks.”

  We shared a laugh at the idea of some unsuspecting public affairs officer having a demonic alien pet from Hell. It was karmic justice, really.

  “We'll be slowly transferring from Soma's atmosphere to Earth's on our trip back home,” Piotr said, “You know that Soma's oxygen content is different from Earth's, right?”