Duty, Honor, Planet

And now, McKay reflected ruefully, it was being used as a tour bus for some Senator’s spoiled daughter. What a world.

Settling back in his restraint web, Jason relaxed and watched the MacArthur grow ever larger on the viewscreen as the shuttle approached one of the score of docking collars that lined its right flank. He felt a series of sharp jolts as the maneuvering thrusters kicked the transfer vehicle around to match its airlock to the docking umbilical, and saw the view swing around to show the expanse of MacAuliffe Station. McKay was jerked slightly in his restraints as the shuttle mated with the ship and came to rest in its docking collar.

“We have docked with the MacArthur,” a disembodied voice announced over the cabin’s speakers. “Disembark to your left when the green light comes on and the airlock door opens. Don’t forget to take all carry-on items with you, and to pick up checked luggage at the cargo dock.”

Jason shrugged free of his restraints, popped open the overhead compartment and pulled out the duffle and shoulder bags he had packed for his journey. Threading arms through their straps, he waited impatiently for the other military passengers ahead of him to make their way out of the airlock, then kicked off from his seat and floated gracefully through the open hatchway.

Braking himself against a bulkhead with an outstretched foot, McKay took a moment to orient himself to the “up” and “down” of the docking bay, using the zero-g maneuvering techniques he had received as part of his training. He found an information terminal in a corner, pushed himself over to it and punched up an accommodation listing, searching for his cabin. He discovered that he was billeted in the guest officers’ quarters, a first for him: on the Bradley, he had been quartered with the other Marines, a situation he had preferred.

The layout of the Mac was much like the layout of any other Fleet cruiser he had been on, and he found the lift station with no problem. Officers’ Country was only sparsely inhabited, and McKay guessed that most of them were busy with preparations for departure. He managed to find his way to his cabin without help, keyed the door open and floated inside.

The one-room cabin wasn’t the Hilton, but it was a vast improvement on the shipboard accommodations he was used to. He threw his luggage into a locker, searched out a comstation and punched up the bridge. The image of the junior communications officer came up on the screen, looking somewhat harried.

“Bridge,” the young man said tersely.

“This is Lieutenant McKay reporting on board,” Jason informed him. “Does the Captain want me to report to him in person?”

“Wait one.” The Ensign blacked out the screen, but was back in a heartbeat. “That’s a negative, Lieutenant McKay,” he said, shaking his head. “Captain Bertrand is tied up with preflight prep right now. I do have two messages for you, though. The rest of your team is on board and Colonel Mellanby has directed you to meet with them in Situation Room Six at…” His eyes flickered back to the readout offcamera. “…1500 hours. The other one says that the Marine Reaction Force attached to you has reported and that Gunnery Sergeant Lambert would like to meet with you at your earliest convenience.”

“Thanks,” McKay said. “Have Ms. O’Keefe and her party boarded?”

“Not yet. They’re scheduled to board at 1600 hours.”

“Thanks. See you ’round, Ensign.”

“Pleasant voyage, Lieutenant.” The screen went dark.

With a deep sigh, McKay punched a query for the location of Situation Room Six into the terminal. It wouldn’t do to be late for his first meeting with his new command.

* * *

McKay found the meeting room without much difficulty and began looking it over, trying to find a dramatically effective place to position himself. He discovered, however, that zero gravity did not easily lend itself to dramatic poses.

He tried the desks first. They were supposedly engineered for use in null gravity, but McKay quickly came to the conclusion that they were designed by a sadist for use by masochists: the restraining bar built to hold him in the desk had this habit of jabbing him sharply in the groin whenever he shifted positions.

For the benefit of future generations of McKays, Jason abandoned the desk and contented himself with floating beside the holoprojection table, one hand attached to the edge of the projector to keep himself in place.

He didn’t have long to wait—it wasn’t five minutes before he heard voices approaching in the outer corridor.

“Naw, you’ve got it all wrong, Jock,” said a thick New England accent. “The Arm of Allah’s all washed up. All their leadership’s on Loki, freezing their asses off. The ones we have to worry about are the NeoMarxists.”

“I still say you’re completely off, Vinnie,” an Australian voice argued. “Just because they got one batch doesn’t mean the whole organization’s wiped out.”

The owners of the accents rounded the corner and came through the door abreast. One was a thin, wiry Tech-Sergeant in his early twenties, with close-cropped brown hair and a pale, freckled face. His uniform was perfectly pressed and spotless, and he had the aware look about him of someone who knew his abilities.

The other had that same look of awareness, but not the same eye for detail: McKay could spot at least one gig on his uniform for which a Marine D.I. would’ve torn him a new rectum. Not that Jason particularly cared; he wasn’t a nitpicker for such details as long as a troop did his job. And this man looked like he could handle that. At least a meter-nine, he towered a good eight centimeters over his companion and outweighed him by at least twenty kilos—a lot of iron had pumped its way into those muscles.

Yet, even with the weight and height advantage, and even though he shared the same rank as his companion, Jason somehow knew that the smaller man was the leader. There was something in his eyes that spoke of native intelligence and heads-up good sense. The big one, though his gunmetal grey eyes were clear and watchful, had the look of a follower.

The men halted inside the room, came to as much of attention as was possible in zero-g, and saluted.

“Sergeants Vincent Mahoney and James Gregory reporting, sir,” the wiry New Englander announced.

“At ease.” McKay returned their salutes, trying not to lose his grip on the holoprojector. “We’ll save the introductions till…”

A voice sounded from the hall.

“Mister, you will belay that kind of talk right now, or I will throw your ass so far into the brig that they’ll have to feed you with a mass driver!”

“I was just trying to be friendly, ma’am,” a smooth, unperturbed male voice responded. “Even officers need a little companionship now and then.”

“My needs are not your concern!”

The exchange came to an abrupt halt as the two rounded the bend and came face-to-face with Lieutenant McKay.

“…the rest of the team gets here,” McKay finished his thought with a deep sigh.

“Uh… Lieutenant Shannon Stark,” the female officer told him, thrusting out a hand, charging through her obvious embarrassment. Jason judged her to be in her mid-twenties, with the immaculate uniform and well-toned athletic form of an officer who took her job seriously. Cut regulation-short, her red-gold hair still retained a subtly- styled femininity, complimenting her high cheekbones and strong chin in a way that made Jason’s breath come a bit shorter.

“Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant.” Jason shook her hand and shook off the unexpected feeling, then looked over to the Tech-2 who had walked in with her.

“Technician Second-Class Tom Crossman reporting, sir.” The wavy-haired enlisted man threw him a sloppy salute. Everything about the man seemed manifestly unmilitary, from the barely-regulation haircut and mustache, to the way he wore the top fastener of his uniform undone, to the loose way he carried himself. McKay wondered what Colonel Mellanby had been thinking.

“At ease,” Jason returned ironically, not bothering to answer the salute. “I’m Lieutenant McKay, your new CO. I assume you all know that our assignment is to safeguard Ms. O’Keefe on her tour of the colony worlds. We will carry out this assignment despite what any of us may think of her involvement in the EJA, or her father’s politics, and despite her feelings toward us. We will be supported by a Marine Reaction Force, and we’ve been provided with a variety of special weapons. I assume all of you have been checked out with unconventional