The Big Peat
Darth Buddha
- Joined
- Apr 9, 2016
- Messages
- 3,762
Hi people, I'm preparing for (what I hope is) a final attack on my book so I can try publishing it. That said, I'm putting this up here to try and get some fresh eyes and perspective on what I've written and whether it's any good. I only posted part of the first chapter as I didn't want to make people plough through the whole 3k. Uhm... thank you for any feedback!
---
It was long past midnight, and Mariner Station’s Entertainment District was in full party mode. Sam Gibson was one of the few exceptions. Instead of sampling the delights of the district and having a good time, the burly veteran of Mars’ war with the UN was walking at the back of a patrol from Mariner Security Detail, his bright blue eyes constantly ranging over the crowd. He’d only recently started his tour as Executive Officer for Mariner’s garrison company, but he’d already learned this was when the trouble started. Something flickered in the corner of his eye, and he looked up to see a garish neon holograph proclaiming “FUN! FUN! FUN!” as though it was some kind of warning.
Sam’s broad, open face split into a grin. It never failed to amuse him how, for all of humanity’s progress in the 22nd century, for all they’d colonised the Solar System and the nearer stars, people still reached back to the most horrific things. Like neon signs. The wilfully strange and out of place had always amused him, a useful survival trait in a peacetime military officer. If you couldn’t laugh, you cried. Then the thought vanished as Corporal Rossi signalled for them to halt. That meant orders, and based on how Rossi looked even more hangdog than usual, Sam could guess what they were.
Everyone would have been just as happy if there'd been no orders all night. Normally, most of the marines enjoyed the active side of the security detail, as it was the closest they got to using their training. That was before they’d all heard the rumours about the Triplanetary Fleet’s latest adventures, the discovery of lost human colonies out in the deep dark. Tasering belligerent drunks just didn’t stack up well against that. Tonight, everyone wanted to be swapping rumours and secretly plotting their transfer, Sam Gibson included.
“There’s been a complaint about disruptive behaviour at Heaven and Hell.”
Rossi’s voice reminded them that they weren’t free to daydream of possible glory. He turned the patrol around and led them back the way they came without another word, Sam waiting for everyone else to move past him. He couldn’t blame Rossi for maybe feeling a little short about the current situation. Most corporals would have been pretty unhappy if an officer had attached themselves at short notice, as Sam had. Still, he was new and needed to find out how things worked here somehow. When Lance-Corporal Lightfoot had come down with a twisted ankle, it had seemed the ideal opportunity to advance his education.
Major Bielski had been a little surprised when he'd first requested to join the patrol, but had agreed. He liked Dan Bielski, had always rated him as a good officer, but he seemed a little disinterested these days. Based on what he’d seen so far, Sam couldn’t blame him. This was a dull posting, and worse, the men realised that. Maybe he'd decide that days sat behind his desk and in the Operations room watching the sports channels would be better after all, just like Bielski had. Just another officer slowly fading away, watching his pension mount up and his waist spread out. He’d seen it before, but only now was understanding the appeal.
It certainly felt like a better idea than the patrol. Half the squad seemed to be resenting his presence, while the other half seemed to be in awe of him, or at least of the ribbons on his uniform. He'd tried to think of words to defuse the situation but couldn’t find any. At least he wasn’t wearing the ribbons now, in the comfort of combat fatigues, but that didn’t make him one of them. Sam knew that in his bones, knew he didn’t have the magic touch to fit in with the others. So he kept silent, and watched.
Heaven and Hell loomed above them, faux opulence with bronze-orange neon lettering running up and down the building. The doormen, shaven heads and cheap suits gleaming in the fluorescent haze, managed barely civil nods.
"What's happening in there?" Corporal Rossi asked.
Sam half-tuned out, preferring to read the intelligence logged about the venue on his wrist tactical display. If he'd had his way, they'd be doing this in full armour, so it came up on the helmet visor instead, but the brass insisted on standard uniform. Didn’t want to scare the locals.
"Bunch of guys in a private booth don’t wanna. Boss wants them out."
"Why aren't you handling this?"
"That’s what our taxes pay you for," the doorman shrugged, happy to be unhelpful.
Sam looked up, eyebrows nearly merging with his hair. It was unbelievable, and the doorman seemed to both know it and not care. His brief read of the file said this was not a place that welcomed the authorities. Yet here they were, stepping back to let the Security Detail in. Rossi's hangdog face looked nonplussed.
"Okay. How many?"
"About six. You can handle that, right?" The doorman’s sneer grew wider.
"Are they armed?" Rossi ignored the sarcasm.
"Probably not,” he replied.
Corporal Rossi just stood there staring at the man and Sam could practically hear him thinking. If they were armed, he'd need the whole squad, maybe back up. If they weren't, maybe he
could do it with just four men – and avoid involving Gibson.
"Want me to secure the alternate exits?" Sam offered, throwing him a lifeline.
"Good idea, sir. Secure the emergency exit and be ready to offer support. My team, we're going in after them. Let’s move out.”
Sam gestured for the section to fall in as he shuffled through the tactical data to find the blueprints.
"I know where it is sir," one of the grunts volunteered. Lindholm; that was it. tall, dark and pale. Like an extra from a horror movie.
"Lead on."
The fire exit was located in a side alley that had been liberally doused with eau de urine and worse, festooned with huge and overflowing steel bins. It was possibly the least pleasant place Sam had seen in some time – playing policeman, waiting with three bored and silent grunts, situated some ten thousand light-years west of his childhood dreams. He looked down at his wrist, scanning the blueprints of the place and wondered if this was a good call. Maybe they should have called in back-up; he hadn’t liked the doorman’s answer. It wasn’t his call though - he was just the observer. Unless it all went wrong, that was, then all of a sudden he’d be considered the officer commanding and the blame would fall on his own handsome head.
---
It was long past midnight, and Mariner Station’s Entertainment District was in full party mode. Sam Gibson was one of the few exceptions. Instead of sampling the delights of the district and having a good time, the burly veteran of Mars’ war with the UN was walking at the back of a patrol from Mariner Security Detail, his bright blue eyes constantly ranging over the crowd. He’d only recently started his tour as Executive Officer for Mariner’s garrison company, but he’d already learned this was when the trouble started. Something flickered in the corner of his eye, and he looked up to see a garish neon holograph proclaiming “FUN! FUN! FUN!” as though it was some kind of warning.
Sam’s broad, open face split into a grin. It never failed to amuse him how, for all of humanity’s progress in the 22nd century, for all they’d colonised the Solar System and the nearer stars, people still reached back to the most horrific things. Like neon signs. The wilfully strange and out of place had always amused him, a useful survival trait in a peacetime military officer. If you couldn’t laugh, you cried. Then the thought vanished as Corporal Rossi signalled for them to halt. That meant orders, and based on how Rossi looked even more hangdog than usual, Sam could guess what they were.
Everyone would have been just as happy if there'd been no orders all night. Normally, most of the marines enjoyed the active side of the security detail, as it was the closest they got to using their training. That was before they’d all heard the rumours about the Triplanetary Fleet’s latest adventures, the discovery of lost human colonies out in the deep dark. Tasering belligerent drunks just didn’t stack up well against that. Tonight, everyone wanted to be swapping rumours and secretly plotting their transfer, Sam Gibson included.
“There’s been a complaint about disruptive behaviour at Heaven and Hell.”
Rossi’s voice reminded them that they weren’t free to daydream of possible glory. He turned the patrol around and led them back the way they came without another word, Sam waiting for everyone else to move past him. He couldn’t blame Rossi for maybe feeling a little short about the current situation. Most corporals would have been pretty unhappy if an officer had attached themselves at short notice, as Sam had. Still, he was new and needed to find out how things worked here somehow. When Lance-Corporal Lightfoot had come down with a twisted ankle, it had seemed the ideal opportunity to advance his education.
Major Bielski had been a little surprised when he'd first requested to join the patrol, but had agreed. He liked Dan Bielski, had always rated him as a good officer, but he seemed a little disinterested these days. Based on what he’d seen so far, Sam couldn’t blame him. This was a dull posting, and worse, the men realised that. Maybe he'd decide that days sat behind his desk and in the Operations room watching the sports channels would be better after all, just like Bielski had. Just another officer slowly fading away, watching his pension mount up and his waist spread out. He’d seen it before, but only now was understanding the appeal.
It certainly felt like a better idea than the patrol. Half the squad seemed to be resenting his presence, while the other half seemed to be in awe of him, or at least of the ribbons on his uniform. He'd tried to think of words to defuse the situation but couldn’t find any. At least he wasn’t wearing the ribbons now, in the comfort of combat fatigues, but that didn’t make him one of them. Sam knew that in his bones, knew he didn’t have the magic touch to fit in with the others. So he kept silent, and watched.
Heaven and Hell loomed above them, faux opulence with bronze-orange neon lettering running up and down the building. The doormen, shaven heads and cheap suits gleaming in the fluorescent haze, managed barely civil nods.
"What's happening in there?" Corporal Rossi asked.
Sam half-tuned out, preferring to read the intelligence logged about the venue on his wrist tactical display. If he'd had his way, they'd be doing this in full armour, so it came up on the helmet visor instead, but the brass insisted on standard uniform. Didn’t want to scare the locals.
"Bunch of guys in a private booth don’t wanna. Boss wants them out."
"Why aren't you handling this?"
"That’s what our taxes pay you for," the doorman shrugged, happy to be unhelpful.
Sam looked up, eyebrows nearly merging with his hair. It was unbelievable, and the doorman seemed to both know it and not care. His brief read of the file said this was not a place that welcomed the authorities. Yet here they were, stepping back to let the Security Detail in. Rossi's hangdog face looked nonplussed.
"Okay. How many?"
"About six. You can handle that, right?" The doorman’s sneer grew wider.
"Are they armed?" Rossi ignored the sarcasm.
"Probably not,” he replied.
Corporal Rossi just stood there staring at the man and Sam could practically hear him thinking. If they were armed, he'd need the whole squad, maybe back up. If they weren't, maybe he
could do it with just four men – and avoid involving Gibson.
"Want me to secure the alternate exits?" Sam offered, throwing him a lifeline.
"Good idea, sir. Secure the emergency exit and be ready to offer support. My team, we're going in after them. Let’s move out.”
Sam gestured for the section to fall in as he shuffled through the tactical data to find the blueprints.
"I know where it is sir," one of the grunts volunteered. Lindholm; that was it. tall, dark and pale. Like an extra from a horror movie.
"Lead on."
The fire exit was located in a side alley that had been liberally doused with eau de urine and worse, festooned with huge and overflowing steel bins. It was possibly the least pleasant place Sam had seen in some time – playing policeman, waiting with three bored and silent grunts, situated some ten thousand light-years west of his childhood dreams. He looked down at his wrist, scanning the blueprints of the place and wondered if this was a good call. Maybe they should have called in back-up; he hadn’t liked the doorman’s answer. It wasn’t his call though - he was just the observer. Unless it all went wrong, that was, then all of a sudden he’d be considered the officer commanding and the blame would fall on his own handsome head.