Sample From Chapter 2 "The Burden of Command"

The Might of Fortitude, famed hunter-killer Wolverine class vessel under the command of Captain Josiah “the fixer” Trenchard, hung in a low orbit above Cairn. Inside the wardroom, Captain Trenchard was unaware of the trouble in the Trenches below. He would probably have welcomed the distraction. He was currently bent forwards over the long, oak table, with his pants around his ankles, trying to think pleasant thoughts. Doctor Paxton appeared from behind Trenchard and straightened up, pulling the blue nitrile medical glove off from his right hand with a loud snap.

‘Right then,’ Paxton announced chirpily, ‘that’s the prostate exam done. You can put your pants back on now, Captain.’

Trenchard grumpily straightened up and began to pull up his boxer shorts and trousers. As he fastened his belt and winced, he tried not to think about how big Paxton’s hands were.

‘Well, Doc. What’s the prognosis?’

Paxton was tapping at a hologram that was being projected from his bracelet cuff-link device as he filled in the paperwork for Trenchard’s yearly medical. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was an antique, clockwork device. For some obscure reason, the Scottish Paxton had a fondness for antiquated time pieces.

‘Generally, you’re in good health, Captain. Your prostate is slightly enlarged, but nothing to worry about. It’s just your age.’ Paxton took his attention off the screen for a moment to look Trenchard up and down. ‘You could lose a little weight.’

‘Couldn’t we all,’ Trenchard replied, as he settled into his seat at the head of the table.

‘The most concerning thing is your liver.’

Trenchard raised an eyebrow. He’d heard this all before. He was going to get “the lecture”.

‘You’re going to tell me to cut down on the booze again, aren’t you?’

Paxton nodded severely.

‘You have fatty deposits and your liver is slightly enlarged. Cutting down on the rum is the healthiest way to stay fit.’

‘Just give me the damn pills,’ Trenchard growled.

Paxton huffed and then reached into his pocket. He pulled out a small bottle of pills with the Proteus Pharmaceuticals logo on the side.

‘This medication shouldn’t be used regularly. There could be side effects with prolonged use.’

‘Will they remove the fat in my liver and put things back to normal?’

Paxton said a tight lipped, ‘Yes, Sir. But I wouldn’t recommend…’

‘Then that’s all I need to know. Thank-you, Doctor,’ Trenchard quickly interrupted.

Trenchard grabbed the bottle, popped the top and took one straight away. As he chewed on the pill he asked, ‘How’s my arm?’

‘Your severed left arm has healed completely at the amputation point,’ Paxton said. ‘It’s about as good as it’s ever going to get. Any problems with the prosthetic?’

Trenchard shook his head as he flexed the artificial limb that Nakamura’s company had made for him. His arm had been cut off on the last mission by his Warfare Officer, Yasui, to stop a spreading infection from a prototype bio-weapon.

‘Not at all,’ Trenchard replied. ‘I was surprised how easily I got the hang of it. Sometimes, I don’t even notice that it isn’t my original arm. There’s just the occasional ghost pain in my fingers, or rather, where my fingers should be.’

‘Good,’ Paxton said brusquely as he gathered his things and snapped his doctor’s bag shut. ‘I’ll see you same time next year. Try to cut down on the alcohol, Sir. You’re becoming close to being a functioning alcoholic. I know that’s practically the norm for the Space Navy, but there’s no reason for you to fall in with the crowd. You should set a good example to the crew, not a bad one.’

‘Tell that to half the sailors in the navy, Doc,’ Trenchard said with a tight smile. ‘That’s how we survive. Fight hard, play harder.’

Paxton glanced at his watch again.

‘I must go. I’m late for another exam.’

Trenchard eyed the wristwatch.

‘That’s a nice watch. Antique?’

Paxton nodded curtly.

‘One of my little quirks. I collect old timepieces. They remind me that if you take care of something, it can last an awfully long time.’

Paxton made as if to leave, then paused by the door.

‘Food for thought, Captain. Do try to take care of yourself. You’re one of the best we’ve got.’

Then Paxton gave a stiff smile and exited through the hatch. Trenchard watched Paxton leave the compartment. As soon as the hatch had shut, Trenchard reached into a drawer underneath the table and took out a shot glass and a bottle of “Black Void” rum. He poured himself a stiff measure and took a swig. As he swilled the dark spirit around his mouth, he activated the table-top holograph and logged into his personal access point.

‘Guardian,’ he announced. ‘Connect me to Lieutenant Oswald, Admiral Fife’s office.’

The monotone Guardian software confirmed, ‘Connecting,’ and a dial up graphic appeared on the screen.

After a moment, Oswald appeared. He saw Trenchard and glanced furtively about him.

‘Captain Trenchard, Sir! What can I do for you?’

‘I need to see Fife,’ Trenchard said bluntly.

‘I’m sorry, Sir, but you know that’s impossible. He’s restricted to the brig and under twenty-four-hour armed guard, awaiting his court-martial. I’m not even supposed to be talking to you, Sir. Admiral Mahmood was very clear on that point.’

Trenchard’s face registered what he thought about this. His mouth followed suit.

‘Mahmood can go fuck herself with a bayonet!’

There was a shocked silence from Oswald for a moment as his face paled.

‘I’m sorry, Sir. I can’t help you,’ Oswald apologised and then abruptly broke the connection.

Trenchard drummed his fingers on the table for a moment in deep frustration. He was deeply worried about his boss and mentor, Admiral Fife. A flashing message icon grabbed his attention. He dragged the icon centre screen and the message opened up. It was from a funeral director on Earth. Trenchard just had time to read “…must inform you of the death of your Father. We’re sorry for your loss…” when an audible tone interrupted his train of thought. Trenchard swiped the message closed and tapped on the “answer” icon. The face of his communications watch-stander, Petty Officer Hall, filled the screen.

‘Yes, Hall. What is it?’

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Captain, but there’s been an incident down on the surface.’

Trenchard sighed heavily. This sort of thing was becoming all too common these days.

‘Another fight?’

Hall nodded.

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Who is it this time?’

‘Lieutenant McGagh, Sir.’

Trenchard sighed heavily.

‘Again?’

‘Yes, Sir. Apparently, this time he punched a superior officer.’

‘You’re joking? Please tell me this is a wind-up.’

‘I’m afraid not, Sir. He’s being held in one of the temporary brigs of the naval police in the Trenches. They’re requesting you attend.’

Trenchard sighed heavily and necked the remains of his rum.

‘Tell them I’m on my way.’