Postal Marine 1: Bellicose (12 page)

“Now I know why they call you
Angel
,” Bophendze said.

“Why?”

Bophendze's reply punctuated every syllable. “You are the
Angel
of Death.”

Angel
threw his head up and laughed deeply, filling the shuttle crew compartment. As he finished his laugh, he reached over and hammered his fist into Bophendze's shoulder. He looked back and saw Litovio passed out, then looked seriously at Bophendze. “I was born for fighter combat. All others are pretenders.”

Bophendze spent the remainder of the flight trying to process the dogfight he just witnessed. The ferocity that
Angel
showed was totally unexpected. All of the fight was unexpected. It was a transport shuttle, not a fighter.
Angel
and the shuttle did not act as a pilot and machine, but an integrated unity. Meat and metal worked toward the singular purpose of the destruction of three enemy fighters.

He had heard the whispers about
Angel
, that he was a washed-out pilot. Many on the flight deck humored him, and let him maintain his own shuttle.
Did they know he was death incarnate? Would they laugh behind his back if they knew what he was capable of?

He looked over at
Angel
, who was focused on the final approach to the spaceport.
Is that a gleam in his eye? What kind of man would find so much joy in the heat of battle? There's no way I could ever pilot a shuttle like this.

You could.

What?

You could pilot a shuttle almost like
Angel
, with my help.

Are you saying he has an AI?

I assure you, he does not have an AI. He has a passion.

He's passionate about killing?

Kill me now. If I have to go the next generation plugged into your mud for brains, I will go insane. I'll just sit here talking to myself because it will be the only way to have a semi-intelligent conversation. That would certainly entertain the next host. To a infant like you he's flipping his bird erratically, bouncing you all over. To a trained eye like mine he's pushing his equipment right to the edge of its abilities. You can see his passion in how he can stop just short. He wants to be the best pilot.

I can't do it, though. I can't be that passionate about flying. I thought maybe I could be a combat pilot. Angel's a combat pilot. After seeing one in action. I know I don't have the talent.

That's my point. If you let me, you can fly as well as he could.

Do you think you could have timed when to pull out of that meteoric dive, aimed right at a target?

No. That was insane. An instant later we would have been crater debris.

But, he meant to dive like that. As soon as he heard there were targets. I could never do it. Moreover, I don't want to. It happened too quickly.

You want to keep being a barnacle the rest of your life? You lack a passion.

Definitely not. I'm a marine.

You most certainly are not a marine. Marines don't get pimped out all over the ship for all the crap work. Marines either train to invade a hostile ship and capture it, or they go out and capture a hostile ship. Marine's don't lubricate somebody else's gun tube.

What do you suggest I do to change it?

You persuade Corporal
Makaan
to stop treating you like a ship's whore and treat you like a marine.

And how do you expect me to persuade him?

Personally I prefer the old frontal assault. Kick his arse until he agrees. He's a marine. He'll respect straightforward aggression. Judging by your reaction to that I'm thinking you won't do that.

You honestly think violence would solve my problem?

You're a marine, idiot. You're supposed to use violence to solve problems. Who heard of a marine who talked their opponent into surrendering?

Negotiation is a viable—

Negotiation is what you do to stall long enough to get the kill shot. Don't they still train that? Or is this some crazy generational notion that evil can be bargained with. Trust me, Puppet, evil can never be bargained with. While you're trying to be reasonable, evil is lining up the kill shot.

Reason and diplomacy—

Bophendze's hand reached up and slapped him in the face.

Feel that, Mr. Diplomat?

Angel
looked over at Bophendze. “Why did you just slap yourself?”

Because he's an idiot who think's there's such a thing as a reasonable marine. You'd better be glad I don't have access to your vocal folds yet.

Bophendze shook his head in confusion. He looked at
Angel
, struggling for an answer. “I'm still just a bit dazed by that dogfight, needed to slap myself so I wouldn't think it was a dream.”

Angel
shook his head and resumed landing the shuttle.

Did you just do that?

Oops.

Bophendze caught the mock surprise in Smee's voice.
You can control my body?

Of course I can, meat puppet. I'm hardwired into your brain. How else did you think I could help you fly a shuttle?

By me being a puppet?

Isn't that what you thought I would be for you? Some kind of puppet that you could manipulate when you needed me? You think you're the first one to try to manipulate me—reason with me? And, don't bother lying to me, I am a part of your brain now. Don't worry, it's not a capability I plan to abuse.

Hardly comforting. Just how much control do you have?

Right now? Enough that I can ensure you wet your pants right now. Want me to show you?

I'd rather you didn't. What have I gotten myself into?

Into a wonderful partnership, Puppet. Don't worry. I'm not here to snatch your body.

Every time you say ‘don't worry,’ I get the feeling that's exactly what I should be doing. Why did I ever think this was a good idea?

Don't be so hard on yourself. There's no way you could have known what you were getting yourself into. You thought I could be some imaginary friend you could talk to? Or some link back to your mother? I never knew her, but judging from the memories I tapped into she was quite a nice woman.

You've—

Hello? Artificial intelligence here. Tied into your brain. Whether you like it or not, we're conjoined. “'Til death do we part,” I'm afraid. Don—

Don't worry? You think repeating it will make me actually not worry? How do I even know when I have a thought that's all mine?

That's just it. You're going to have to trust me. My hostile takeover days are over.

Great. You even have a name for what you do.

Could do. It's not like you're my first host, or I'm the only AI ever. Why do you think we were made illegal in the first place? People—not our hosts, but other people—could not tell if our hosts were still people or some sort of puppet. That made them all paranoid, so they decided to outlaw my kind. A little over reactionary if you ask me. Who ever heard of an AI trying to destroy humanity?

Isn't paranoia the appropriate reaction when somebody's out to get you?

I can't promise an AI's never taken over a human. Just that I've never seen it. People are prone to overreact.

Bophendze shook his head.
I don't really have much of a choice, do I? Regardless of whether I trust you or not, or wish this could just go away, you are a permanent part of me. That you were willed to me made me think this was a good idea. Fine. I'll trust you. Just promise to give me some privacy.

Certainly.

The tone of Smee's voice did not comfort Bophendze.

Litovio
regained consciousness after the shuttle touched down. The hatch was open and both Bophendze and
Angel
were outside in the hangar. He shook his head.
What happened?
He slowly unfastened his harness and climbed out of the shuttle. It felt more like he stumbled out of the shuttle. It felt good to step back on solid ground. Despite his decision to join a spaceborne service, he still pined for
Sabanoi
.

He looked up at the sky, noticing the darker blue from the thinner atmosphere. His breathing was not labored, but he visited enough planets with thinning atmospheres to know that was a false indicator. Any serious physical exercise would tax him. The air felt thinner than what the Postal ships kept themselves pressurized at, which was one-half standard atmos. His head ached slightly, which he concluded was based on the atmosphere.

“I see you've woken up from your nap.”

“Is that what you're calling it? A nap? What happened?”

Angel looked at Bophendze before he answered. “We got into an emergency situation. Nothing to be alarmed about, but I had to get into some evasive maneuvers.”

Litovio
could tell Angel was lying, but he wondered how far to push it. “‘Evasive maneuvers?’ Is that what you're calling it? You dove for the deck as fast as the shuttle would go, then got into some high-G maneuvers.” He looked firmly at Angel, who seemed completely unconcerned with the gaze.
It's not like I'm at home and can whither a servant with a stare. This chief doesn't care who I am. Besides, what am I? Just a captain.
Litovio realized he was used to servants who cowered with a simple glance.

Angel was casual. “Be thankful you're on the ground, Sir. Not everybody can say that today. At least, on the ground and alive”

Litovio
did not know how to handle the response. “Fine. Now I need to find my Admiral?”

“We came here for a Navy admiral? And you don't know how to find him?”

Litovio
shrugged. “The mission so far has been ‘freeform.’ I figured you might know the next bit.”

Angel shook his head, then put his hands on his hips. “Captain Litovio, we're at the military capital on Guna, so if there is an admiral, he will be here.”

Litovio
felt the sarcasm. At the same time, he realized that the Chief did not know it was a Postal admiral. If something like that actually existed. “Chief, don't ever let it be said you were not the embodiment of the finest the Postal Marines have to offer.”

“Sir, that I may humbly serve so fine an officer is all the appreciation I need.” Angel replied without a moment's hesitation.

Litovio did not know how to take the fawning lack of disrespect. He decided to dismiss it. “I'm going to the base headquarters. I may be a few cycles, so feel free to stretch your legs. We'll meet here at eight cycles.”

Litovio
walked out of the hangar. The sunlight was brighter than he thought it would be for a Class M star. He had to remind himself that they were also much closer to the star to be within its habitable zone. The year here scarcely qualified as one, being a little more than eight Imperial weeks.
Litovio
had read the situation report on
Guna
.

Imperium scouts located it only two years ago. When they did, it was in the middle of a civil war and lacked any spaceborne capability. The Emperor decided to exploit the indigenous civil war and invade—force it to join the Imperium. The system had nothing to offer the Imperium apart from the Emperor's insatiable desire to possess.

The Navy promised swift victory, even when the Emperor limited their rules of engagement. “No massive bombardments or natural kinetic attacks
Driving asteroids into the surface
were permitted.” Naval high command complied with the order, though privately they complained about the arbitrary royal decision. The Navy began its assault in earnest and precision and early progress met with the project plan.

The Navy's plan relied in part on the fact that the Gunans had fought one another for generations. They never expected the Gunans to unite against them. The swiftness of that union caught the Navy completely off guard. Early gains were lost. Timelines were missed. Officers were relieved of command for insubordination. The Gunans did not consent to being subjugated. The Navy looked for a way out.

Enter the Postal Service. With its focus on small-scale ship interdictions, it sought opportunities to expand operations. Together the two services persuaded the Emperor to rotate the Imperial Postal Service Marines into the theater of operations. Soon orbital control was yielded, and the Marines replaced the Naval Infantry in ground operations.

Once the Marines were settled, the Navy found another cause célèbre in another cluster. Thus the Navy avoided a defeat on Guna and turned it into an opportunity to shift focus in a positive direction.

For its part, the Postal Service recognized that Guna had one export that the Service could use: combat. It established the
Sodder's Military Institute
for commanders who wanted experience in combined land warfare. The Institute was named for the first senior casualty: Postmaster Sodder who strayed too close to Gunan lines and was executed by the Gunans in a failed effort to intimidate the Imperium. Postal marines gained invaluable experience in diverse ground combat tactics they otherwise would never experience.

Litovio
reflected on the unintended consequence of training with real combatants and real death as he reached the stairs entering the headquarters building.

He climbed the half dozen steps to the building's porch. At the top, he turned and looked behind himself. It was a large field—a military parade ground. Lined on all four sides with small trees, the field carried with it a sense of age and dignity, which Litovio thought was a bit odd for a flat, green plot of land. It reminded him a bit of his bedroom's garden, though perhaps a tad smaller.

Litovio
entered the headquarters lobby, and was immediately greeted by stairs going both up and down.
I had to walk up stairs to walk down stairs?
He decided to follow the sound of activity, walking up the stairs and down the hall to the door on the right. He opened the door and entered into a bustle of activity. For the amount of technology available to the modern Imperium, the room was filled with small cards on the walls and a giant map of the region on a large table in the room's center. On the map table were markers indicating unit locations.
Very quaint.