Conversations on the Fortune’s Fist: Twelve

((Co-written with Silver Night))

Master Gunnery Sergeant Demen Jadat of the Utopian Ideal leaned on the catwalk railing and looked down at the deck of the drone bay of the Dominix-class battleship Fortune's Fist. Today, as for the last three days, it held no drones. Today, some thousand or so of the crew of the Fist wandered around the huge, echoing space, casually dressed in civilian clothes. Making their way through the crowd was a small knot of people, also casually dressed, but not wandering: one small woman deliberately chosen for her resemblance to Ciarente Roth, and six of the marines assigned to Pilot Roth's close personal protection detail. 

And somewhere in that crowd of a thousand were three or four of Demen's own people, also in civilian clothes. They were not there to add to the numbers of 'bystanders'.

They were assassins, or at least, pretending to be.  

'Ms Roth' and her guards had made it less than twenty feet into the room before Demen's trained eye had picked out the first two 'assassins', noting the tell-tales in their stance that said  concealed weapon, the hidden purpose to their apparently-aimless movement through the crowd. 

"Do you see them?" he asked the man beside him.  

Fisk Hurun nodded tightly.  

Demen didn't take his gaze from the crowd below, mentally dividing the deck into quarters and checking each one in turn, letting his subconscious sort out what was normal, what was usual, what was dangerous.  There's the third. At the same time, his peripheral vision showed Hurun's hands white-knuckled on the railing, muscle jumping on the back of one, and he registered the other man's breathing: short, rapid, strained. 

Checking the relative positions of the 'assassins' to 'Ms Roth', he casually moved a little further away from Hurun, giving himself a little clearance.  Just in case. 

Not for the first time since he and his people had arrived to give Ms Roth's security teams what Commander Invelen had described as 'a little extra training', Demen reflected that it was a good thing the standing orders on Ms Roth's ship's prohibited all but checkpoint from carrying sidearms as a matter of course.

Not a man who should have a gun handy, he thought with a glance at Fisk as the first 'assassin' worked his way through the crowd to less than thirty feet from 'Ms Roth'. 

The Commander had given him a heads-up on Ms Roth's CTO,  Recently shot. Newly wired. Jumpy. Three things that, put together, did not in Demen's experience bode well. 

And an instruction, along with the description.  Let me know what you think of him, Gunny. Whoever's running Cia's security has gotta be up to the job. I want you to treat this like you're training my protection detail, or Captain Night's.

A flurry of movement down below broke into his thoughts.  

Without the neural wiring Demen wouldn't have been able to sort out what happened, training or no - it was that fast.  

The first 'assassin' drew a 'pistol' - actually a laser-tag gun exactly like the kind Ms Roth's little sister played with - and aimed towards 'Ms Roth'. Even as Demen saw the movement, one of the marines guarding 'Ms Roth' was turning, her own weapon coming up. The 'assassin' didn't have time to aim before a bright splotch of light appeared on his chest.

Demen concentrated, opening a channel on his internal comm to the marines below.  

Who was that?

The marine who'd fired touched a finger to her ear-piece. "Alpassi, sir."

It didn't surprise Demen. Private Helmi Alpassi had been the stand-out since the day he'd arrived, having every procedure memorized before the others had even finished reading it, her speed and accuracy with her sidearm telling of many long hours practice, with a cool vigilance that would have been remarkable in someone with twice her training and four times her experience. What tipped you off? he asked. 

Alpassi's answer sounded abashed. "I don't know, sir."

Think about it, Demen said. At the end of the exercise you'll be telling your team-mates how it was that you saw the shooter before they did."

"Sir, yes si - "

'Assassin' number two took the opportunity of Alpassi's distraction to make her move. The knife that appeared in her hand as she dived between the marines at 'Ms Roth' was of course blunt.

So was the steel-capped toe of the boot that caught her in the solar plexus before she was anywhere near in range.  

Demen heard the  thud over Alpassi's open comm line and the Sorry! that followed it from the marine who'd dealt the kick. 

You okay, Tiroshi? he asked. 

She grunted, and it sounded vaguely affirmative. As Demen watched she rolled over and looked up at him, opening her shirt to show him her light body-armor cracked down the front.  

"I'm sorry, sir," the marine said over the comm. "I didn't have time to pull it or - "

That's why she's wearing armor, marine, Demen said. So you won't learn the bad habit of pulling your punches.

The marine nodded, and Demen saw him bend to help Specialist Tiroshi to her feet, made a note to mention it at the end of the exercise.  Sloppy. Loss of focus, when 'Ms Roth' is still in an open, unsecured space.

"Pay attention, Legeen!" Alpassi snapped. Demen pursed his lips a little. Legeen was  Sergeant Legeen, and Private Alpassi shouldn't be using that tone to him, regardless of the legitimacy of her rebuke. 

He caught enough of Legeen's response, combined with the body language Demen could see from his vantage point, to know that Legeen was making just that same point.  

Focus. Demen thought of reminding them, but that would have defeated the purpose of this particular exercise. They're not going to have a Gunny hovering like God above them when it's the real deal. 

He saw the movement. Saw the rifle coming into view, saw Alpassi see it too,  felt Hurun lock up beside him like a clenched fist. Demen did the geometry in a half-a-heartbeat, the clear line of fire for the 'assassin', the people obstructing Alpassi's own shot, the rest of the bodyguards-in- training seeing the same thing now, but too late. 

Alpassi dropped her gun and dived as the 'assassin' pulled the trigger. The marine hit 'Ms Roth' hard and slammed her to the ground, her own body between her and the 'assassin'. Legeen and the other marines returned fire, belatedly. The 'assassin' lit up in four different colors, telling Demen that at least one of the five who'd fired needed more range time. 

"No, no, no - " Alpassi said, her voice breaking. "Oh, no, no..." She pushed herself to a sitting position and the movement let Demen see 'Ms Roth', her forehead lit with the trace of a laser-tag that told the world that Alpassi had been a split-second slow.

Looks like we still have a bit of work to do, Demen told them all. Briefing room, five minutes.

He watched as Legeen helped 'Ms Roth' and then Alpassi to their feet. The young private seemed shaken, but she regained her composure as the general announcement of the end of the exercise began to send the crew-members playing the crowd on their way.  

"Work to do still," Demen said. "But we're making real progress."

Hurun didn't answer.  

Demen turned and saw the other man standing rigid, the railing buckling beneath his grip, tremors running through him. One leg twitched, then a shoulder, augmentations trying to respond to chaotic neural instructions.  

"Hurun," he said. " Fisk."

The face that turned to him was blank and white, eyes wide with desperation. "Sh-sh-sh ...  out." Hurun said. "G-g-g..."

"Take it easy, man," Demen said quietly. "You've got to calm down. You're full of hardware that you can hurt yourself with if you don't. Can you hear me?"

"N-n-n  safe," Hurun blurted. "N-n-n ... h-have to g-g-g ... back."

Demen tried to open a connection to Hurun's internal comm, got a blast of static that made his head ring. "Your Pilot's safe, Fisk," he said. "She's down-planet. There's a security net around her that  I couldn't get through. Calm down, and you can call her and talk to her and see for yourself. Calm down, now. Breathe in and out. Calm down, marine."

He kept talking, the same reassurances, waiting for a sign Hurun had heard him, waiting for a sign the potentially lethal panic was easing. Long minutes, until the twitching and the shuddering stopped, until Hurun's gaze focused on him, until finally the other man gave a short nod and released his death grip on the railing.  

"I think maybe you need to take a break, Sergeant Hurun," Demen said, phrasing it as a suggestion rather than the order it would have been on the  Utopian Ideal because this wasn't his ship and Hurun wasn't his man. A suggestion - but his tone said it was the kind of suggestion that a senior NCO might give to a fresh Lieutenant right before they walked into an ambush.

Hurun shook his head. "N-n," he said. "P-p ...  Roth's. S-safety. M-m ... job."

He turned abruptly and began to make his way towards the stairs at the end of the catwalk, still a little unsteady on his feet.  

Demen watched him go. He couldn't order the CTO of another crew to stand down or have him removed from active duty.  

All I can do is report to Commander Invelen, he thought. 

And I'd better make that a priority.

Because Pilot Roth's safety might be Fisk Hurun's job ... but right now, from where Demen Jadat was standing, the biggest threat to that safety might be Fisk Hurun himself.