From Darkness

[Manticore]

STEVEN

The shuttle quivered almost imperceptibly as it was released from the tractors holding it, dropping through the airlock and into open space. Lieutenant Steven Falkland sat alone inside the passenger compartment. He was distinctly glad for this, for he had cultivated a strong dislike of his fellow officers over the course of his blessedly brief time in the Liberty Navy.

He looked forward to spending the next few short minutes in some genuine silence, for once. These people did not respect the power of silence, rather they reveled in the loud and obnoxious lifestyle that they polluted the rest of the galaxy with. Even their military depots were a constant barrage of deafening sound. All the better, for Steven Falkland’s job would have been immeasurably more difficult if everyone else remained as quiet as he.

He glanced out the viewport across from him, watching the Battleship James disappear into the admittedly beautiful background of the highly-secure Virginia system. So much power was manifested here, and so much secrecy. The Libertonians hid much here, far out of the public eye, and it was his job to uncover it.

He allowed himself a small smile. His work thus far had been… exceptional. He was Lieutenant Steven Falkland, originally of the Bretonian Armed Forces, reassigned to the Liberty Navy in order to train their pilots in the use of the Templar Very Heavy Fighter. As far as anyone here in Liberty knew, he was a three-year veteran of the Gallic war, and had fought in the Kusari war before that.

It had not been easy. He had spent weeks immersing himself in the enemy culture, memorizing sayings, euphemisms, and even jokes. He had questioned a captive for days until he had perfected the tones of the Leeds accent. The records had all been inserted ahead of time, and he had slid into the role as effortlessly as putting on a new set of clothes. Now, today, he finally began the final phase of his preparations by assuming his first command.

The deck shuddered beneath his feet as the shuttle settled into the docking bay of Richmond Military Academy. He stood, carefully smoothing his uniform and straightening the accursed necktie. Damned things were hundreds of years out of date, but for some reason the Liberty Navy insisted on them for most formal uniforms. His service blue uniform was rather sparse– lacking any distinctive ornamentation by design. He was meant not to draw any unnecessary attention, after all. Hat tucked under his arm, he ducked out the hatch, striding confidently across the massive hanger bay.

His new command was a Buffalo-class Heavy Assault Ship, the Mesa Verde. It had been refitted from the hull of a Bison-class supertransport to support two full companies of Liberty Marines along with a pair of Kodiak-class Assault Freighters for rapid insertion. The Kodiaks had been offloaded into the hanger, where several squads of Marines milled about, busy loading equipment and checking over suits of battle armor.

Falkland walked through them, headed for the docking tube that connected to the Mesa Verde itself, moored right outside. Several heads turned as Marines noticed his Navy uniform and perhaps began to put the pieces together.

He arrived at the tube and handed his ID card to the Marine standing on duty. Despite having been in this role for months without hiccup, he still could not avoid feeling a slight twinge of nerves as the Marine dutifully took the card, ran it through his handheld scanner, and scrutinized it.

Steven Alexander Falkland. Lieutenant, Liberty Navy Primary Fleet. Service Number 897-14624.

He repeated his mantra in his head over and over while he frowned at the Marine seemingly taking an eternity to confirm his identity. Finally, the man nodded and handed the card back to Falkland, saluting. He sharply returned the salute and entered the tube.

After a short zero-gee swim across the tube, he stepped through the other side and onto his ship for the first time. Liberty did not keep to the same anachronistic formalities that the Bretonians did, so there were no side parties or bosun’s pipes. Instead, only a single man awaited him, wearing a blue service uniform just like his. Falkland stepped up to the man, who immediately saluted.

Before returning the salute, Falkland looked over the man’s uniform with a practiced glance, taking in all the details in the blink of an eye. He noted the single stripe of an ensign on the man’s cuffs, as well as telltale marks that indicated there had once been a second stripe there too. A swath of color across his chest, with ribbons and stars for bravery, combat action, and even a POW stripe, was sharp contrast to Falkland’s own nearly-empty chest. This was the most decorated ensign he’d ever seen.

He looked this tall ensign in the eye and returned his salute.

“Welcome aboard the Mesa Verde, sir. I’m Ensign Lambert, and I will be serving as your exec for this tour.”

Falkland nodded. “Command had informed me that I would be receiving a Naval exec for this vessel, but they were unable to give me more detail at the time.”

“Well, sir, I have a history with this ship. She’s a good one, and these marines are the best in the Corps, I can assure you.”

Falkland suppressed the urge to sneer, already angered by this ensign’s casual tone. This could prove to be a very long tour of duty indeed. Instead, he nodded brusquely.

“Should we head to the bridge? I’m sure the men would like to hear from their new skipper, sir.” The ensign’s voice rose expectantly, and he smiled confidently.

“I suppose that would be best…” Falkland said quietly, while mentally lamenting the fact that he needed this brief command on his record in order to become eligible for the true prize…

“Lead the way, Ensign.”

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