From Darkness

[Manticore]

LAMBERT

The padded fist connected with his head, sending James Lambert reeling backwards two steps. He brought his gloved hands up in an instinctive guard, and realized his mistake a moment before his opponent’s other fist ended up in his stomach.

He doubled over, lungs suddenly devoid of all air. Realizing he was finished, he raised his right hand, signaling the end of the bout.

It took a long moment before he could breathe well enough to speak again. “Nice move there, Gunny. I didn’t see that one coming,” he said, breathily.

The gruff voice of his opponent, Gunnery Sergeant Conor Brack, responded in a chiding tone. “You never see anything coming, Lieutenant. Maybe one day we’ll get your soft Navy rear in shape enough to prove a small challenge to a greenhorn Marine! We’ll see.”

The gunny laughed, a booming, raucous sound that echoed through the noise of the military gym. The man, several inches shorter than Lambert but built with all the lean strength and ferocity of a jaguar, stepped over and lazily clapped him on the back. “You did better that time, though. I think I actually broke a sweat before taking you down.”

He laughed again, but this time Lambert detected a hint of respect in the man’s voice. For someone with the advanced training and combat record of Gunny Brack, that was praise enough. At least it was a small victory, something to remember fondly as he dealt with this week’s round of bruises.

He and the Gunny stepped out of the circular boxing ring, and Lambert calmly removed his gloves and left them for the next combatants. Unsurprisingly, another pair of the Mesa Verde’s marines stepped up right away. The pair of boxing rings in this small gym were hot commodities among these marines, and it was still a wonder to Lambert that he was even tolerated in the gym during peak hours. Not only was he tolerated, he was treated with respect. Considering the long-standing animosity between the ever-shrinking Marine Corps and the ever-growing Navy, such a state of affairs was highly unusual, to say the least.

Lambert grabbed a towel, wiping the sweat off his bare chest as he walked towards the locker room. “Same time next week, Gunny?” he asked as Brack stepped over to a rack of weights.

“Damn straight, El-Tee,” the sergeant replied. “Keep practicing that feint I showed you!”

Lambert nodded wryly and stepped into the locker room.

* * *

Just under an hour later, he was back in uniform and politely pretending to listen to Admiral Danforth, CO of Washington Shipyard, brief him and Lieutenant Falkland on the enhancements the yard was currently almost finished building into their ship.

It might have been an interesting briefing, aside from two small things. First, Admiral Danforth, the fat, balding career officer who had been put well out of the way in this esteemed but meaningless posting, was perhaps the dullest man Lambert had ever met. He spoke in flat monotones, without inflection or any sign of interest in what he was talking about. Lambert suppressed the urge to smile as he realized the admiral likely felt the same way as he did about this unnecessary meeting.

The Book, in its infinite wisdom, dictated that every command staff must be briefed in person about any changes or alterations done on their ship, despite the fact that by this point, any command staff worth a posting would be well up to date on the plans and proceeding work, thanks to the daily progress reports from the yard. So the admiral was essentially required to re-hash information he and Falkland had known for weeks now.

Lambert glanced over at Lieutenant Falkland. The man, as usual, hid behind his impeccable poker face. He was attentively focused on the admiral, nodding at all the proper times. Yet by now, Lambert saw the signs that Falkland too was on autopilot. The eyes were what gave it away – the rapt focus the man usually possessed was now replaced with a mere attentive gaze. It was a subtle distinction, but Lambert had learned that Lieutenant Falkland was nothing if not subtle. The man, to Lambert’s constant frustration, was never rattled or bothered by anything. He was, ultimately, passive – like a hawk floating far above, observing everything but acting on nothing.

The admiral launched into another dull explanation of the added armor plating that was currently being installed on the ship. Lambert reviewed his mental checklist of all the changes, smiling to himself as he realized that this was one of the last ones to go over. Hopefully they’d be able to quickly cover the extra hanger bay, and then he’d be free to…

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the hatch hissing open behind him. He turned to see a naval rating step into the room, quietly waiting for the admiral to pause before proffering a small physical envelope.

“Sorry to interrupt, sirs. This transmission just came in for Lieutenant Falkland, and it’s marked top priority.”

Falkland reached out, snatching it from the rating’s hand with an air of distrust. Admiral Danforth only smiled paternally at the young rating, gesturing for him to leave.

Lambert pointedly did not look over at Falkland as he heard the antique sound of ripping paper as the envelope was opened. Only a few sorts of dispatches were still delivered to an officer in the form of physical letters, and none of them were the type to take lightly.

He waited an appropriate amount of time for the man to read through the dispatch, then turned to face him. “Anything I should be aware of, sir?”

Falkland glanced up, having been furtively reading the paper. His face remained masklike, but there was a spark of angry fire in his blue eyes as he glared at Lambert.

A long moment passed, and then Falkland turned to the admiral. “I’m sorry, Admiral Danforth. We’ll need to cut this meeting short. I must be back to my ship.”

“What’s going on, Lieutenant?” the admiral asked with only a hint of idle curiosity.

Falkland glanced at Lambert, then back to the admiral. “We’ve been activated, sir. Our orders are to head to the Rheinland border as soon as the alterations are finished.”

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