Wild Space Pt. 02

"Do you think we'll step off tonight?" Jules asked Magdalena during some downtime.

"No. No, I don't think we should." She told him. "Unfamiliar terrain, green sailors, trying to escape in the middle of the night? It's just asking to be picked off."

"Might be better to move than sit here. You said if nothing happened we'd leave."

"One more night. We can leave tomorrow."

**

The attack came in the night.

Jules had drawn the short straw and had just gotten to bed after standing watch for his hour. He was dreaming of Esmond, his lover was waiting for him and smiling, telling him how good he looked in his uniform, his arms opening...

Calls came in, jolting him awake, far worse of an adrenaline spike and panic than morning wake up from the petty officers. They were under fire.

Within a handful of seconds Jules was on his feet, rifle at the ready. Bodies decorated the dirt around him. More recruits had jumped from their holes and been taken out.

He felt a cold, stabbing pain in his chest. After a few heartbeats, it came again. Automatically, he searched ahead for movement. A form was skittering at the bare edges of his vision. He rose his rifle and fired. From far away came a thunk of a body hitting the cold, unforgiving dirt of Bulwark.

"Haptics," Jules said quietly. "Enemies, coming in fast. One downed."

"Good kill, Jules. Lay down fire where we are making the breakout," He could hear Magdalena yelling. "First and third, we're covering the others."

The next few minutes were spent in calm, detached combat for him. He'd taken a life. He didn't have time to think about he felt about it. The notion of analyzing it was uninteresting. Boots and figures ran past him, his comrades making their retreat. That was interesting. It deserved his attention. Jules laid down a heavy barrage of energy bolts, his mind blank and clear. He saw no reason to spend the last moments of his life feeling guilt or contemplating or self loathing or exalting in pointless macho triumph.

"We aren't making it past this firepower, boss," Mikella said to them all.

"We weren't supposed to," Jules replied. "We aren't making it out."

"Jules!" Magdalena said.

"They all know it already, Mags." He told her tiredly. "Our suits are wearing down. I only have a few minutes of power left."

"They'll charge the last few meters," Garl said. "Save it for then."

"Your country ass is right for once," Magdalena told him lightly. "Let them come. We've saved the lives of all the others. Now let's take some more from these bastards."

Jules's suit haptics were stabbing him in the chest hard enough to silence his own breathing. A lot of them out there. He set his X1 to continuous fire, getting ready.

They came in a great wave, crawling on their elbows and knees, following continuous streaks of blue energy. Garl was downed, shot neatly in his helmet. When Mikella turned to check on him she took a bolt right to the back.

Each recruit was on rapid fire, and someone was rapid fire cursing as the enemy stood and charged at them. None of first and third squad's bolts were having any effect, and soon each weapon sputtered silent.

Magdalena got a live one on top of her, the enemy having leapt into her foxhole. Jules was rolling over the brim of his own when a great pair of suited arms wrapped around his waist and wrestled him around to glare through their visors, glass on glass

"Surprised to see me, Pretty Boy?" Senior Petty Officer Brill wanted to know.

**

"Don't mind telling you two what a damn fine job you did out there," Lieutenant Kay was telling them. "Seaman Magdalena, you coordinated the defense of your division after taking command and showed extraordinary altitude for leadership. Just extraordinary. And Seaman Recruit Jules, you managed to score the only hypothetical kill scored by a recruit on an instructor this year. Both of you, well done."

Frankly, Jules couldn't give a shit. He hurt, from his hair on down. But Kay was his commanding officer, and connected to nobility to boot. So he paid attention.

"I hear Petty Officer Linch was quite upset that you were able to down her, son." Kay said with a chuckle.

That had been an understatement. When they had been told their weapons were firing only enough energy to fry a suit's systems and stun the wearer, they'd been relieved. None of their comrades were killed. But Linch's fury at being so bested was fierce, and so was her reaction to her fellow petty officer's teasing. She'd tried to drop Jules right then and there, but Brill wasn't having any of that.

"Pretty Boy took you out temporarily once, but I'll do it permanent if you act the fool." The big man had warned.

"Petty Officer Linch's reaction was very good natured, sir." Jules told the lieutenant.

"Good. Now, you two have officially graduated from recruit training. You'll be given liberty, two days worth, to go into town. What do you plan on doing? Got family coming by?"

"No, sir." They both answered.

"Well, I'm sure some of your shipmates will be gracious enough to invite you somewhere with theirs. Enjoy it, you've earned it. Dismissed."

***

Jules caught the public trans to Bulwark's tiny seaside town, a place that existed solely for graduates to go with their families. His own was too poor to make the long journey. It was too naive to think he would be posted with them, back on Centralia, but a man could hope.

For a while, he simply stretched his legs and walked at his own leisurely pace on the boardwalk. There was something indescribably wonderful and scary about it. No one was yelling at him to gear up and march, or to make his bed, or to clean out his storage locker or put on his uniform. He was free to do whatever he wanted.

When he grew tired and anxious, Jules stopped in the first establishment he came across, to get away from the smell of the sea and the crowds. The bar was dim, and he queued up to order something.

"Pretty Boy," A voice said, thick with alcohol, and a meaty paw manhandled his shoulder. "Lemme buy you a drink, boy."

Jules didn't know who it was, but he shrugged. A chipped mug was placed before him. He sniffed its contents and nearly retched.

"To the men and women of the latest graduating class of the Bulwark training facility!" The recruit said, and clinked mugs with Jules so hard some of the booze sloshed out. He upended his mug into his mouth.

Jules took a perfunctory sip, set the mug down on the bar, and left, back into the too clean and fresh smelling ocean air. It was a rich and salty scent that was wholly unfamiliar to him. As was the taste of alcohol on his breath, and the people passing him by, none of them in formation or uniform. It took a bit of getting used to.

He found an outdoor garden, walled off by tall plants, that was attached to a small cafe. A waiter brought him some weak yellow beer in a fairly clean glass. It was quiet, and Jules could appreciate that. Careful not to muss or stain his uniform, he sat on the ground and drank and listened.

The sea smell wasn't so overwhelming here and no one bothered him.He thought that it was a place Leara, the botanist with the mysterious accent, would have liked. Unfortunately, when that particular recruit had been hit by "enemy" fire, her suit had glitched, activating every tourniquet knob at once. She'd been suffocated, crushed, and dismembered in an instant. The investigation was still ongoing, but last Jules had heard, it was to be declared an accident. Equipment malfunction. Still, out of 90 of them, 89 had graduated, a rate that even surprised Senior Petty Officer Brill:

"I don't think we were tough enough," The big blond man had said as he forcefully pinned a medal of Ana the Sea Lioness on each of their uniforms. "The dregs slipped by. I guess that's how it goes nowadays. Not like when I was a recruit..."

Jules had tuned him out. Ever since their field training exercise, the petty officers had treated them with a great deal more respect. More joking, more stories, and even their insults could be laughed at. One didn't have to keep a straight face around them any longer or be afraid. More things to get used to.

The beer flowed as the sun drooped and drooped, draping the small garden in shadows. Eventually, the waiter announced that they had to close. Jules paid his tab and only a little shakily got to his feet, He asked where a hotel was and the waiter sighed, got the nearest flophouse on the horn, carefully and honestly paid for the room from Jules's ID card and got him a public trans, made sure he'd get to the right place with a handsome tip.

There were men and women for hire, right out in front of the hotel. Jules waited until the trans driver had left and approached one of them.

"New boot?" The man asked. Despite the cold, he was shirtless. His hair was black and his torso was smooth. He wore tight black pants and a silver belt that had seen better days, but still had plenty of sparkle to it.

"I got money and I'm swilling to spend," Jules said. "What does my footwear matter?"

The prostitute smiled, not getting the joke but appreciating the directness of the approach. He was short, stocky in shape, but still reasonably fit for someone who lived on the street. He had golden skin, sharp features, and a dusting of black stubble on his chin, cheeks and throat that looked sharp and raspy. His hair was spiky and his eyes were almond shaped and brown, but black in the dim light. Jules felt his cock stir at the sight of him.

"Got a room?"

"The place I was just at paid."

"Ok, then, kid. I'm Ebon. Let's do it."

There was a single bed which duly reminded Jules of a Navy rack, but was somehow more beat up. It creaked alarmingly under their weight. They were both naked, and he felt a momentary flutter of panic. His uniform was balled up and thrown in a corner, what if he should get a spot on it, Brill would...

"Relax, honey. Damn, you're tense. Should I massage you?"

"Yes," Jules said uncertainty. Besides the bit he'd gotten from the Comfort Battalion people so long ago, he wasn't in the swing of things. And he was drunk, which he had seldom been before.

He stretched out on his stomach, and Ebon laid his hands on the back of his ankles, rubbing the tendon there. After six weeks of marching and punishing his body, the massage felt wonderful. The other man worked his way up to his calves, behind his knees and thighs, spending a particular amount of time wringing the stress out of the big muscles there. Ebon then cupped his cheeks and rubbed between them, lingering his finger over the tiny, puckered asshole before going on.

Jules gave himself over to the massage as Ebon rubbed his back with skilled, strong hands. By the time he was told to turn over, he was half asleep, but definitely relaxed.

The massage started again now that he was on his back, but thankfully Ebon had his eyes on the prize. In under a minute the bigger man was kneeling between his legs, mouth brushing lightly over Jules's genitals. He felt the prickly sensation of Ebon's stubble and shuddered. It reminded him of suit haptics.

"Can you just suck it?" Jules wanted to know.

"Its your coin, junior. Wanted to make it last for you." But Ebon was a pro and did as he was asked. He kissed the head of Jules's hard cock and then sucked on the head, teasing the younger man. He drew in the other man as deep as he could, slowly, and then slid back up to the top. Having drawn out the sensation, Ebon plunged his mouth up and down the other man's shaft, the bed creaking beneath him with his vigor.

Jules had been aroused since he'd first set eyes on the stocky man outside of the hotel, but the blowjob sealed the deal. He soon had a hard on that was demanding more than a mouth for satisfaction. An animalistic desire to make love arose in him, as if his sexuality had been dormant for the past six weeks. He needed to cum, now.

"Sit on it," He told the other man breathlessly, who had been waiting for the word. Ebon laughed softly and said that he hoped they didn't break the bed.

The older man stood, stripped down from his pants and shoes, revealing that his cock was also as hard as his patron's. Ebon carefully straddled Jules's narrow hips, and eased the other man's throbbing dick into his asshole with a practiced ease. Both of them gasped as the union was made and Jules was fully sheathed.

It didn't take much riding for Jules to cum hard, driving his hips up, the quickness and strength of it causing Ebon to laugh and nearly topple over. He then clenched his knees around Jules's sides and ground himself down, determined to draw out the most of the other man's precious fluid that he could.

Later, the men lay side by side. Ebon was scratching his tiny nails against Jules's back, annoying him, as he was trying to sleep.

"You got someone back home?" Ebon wanted to know.

"No." Jules said shortly. It seemed that performing the act had sobered him up quite a bit. He needed to be alone again. "You've got your money, do you think you could..."

"Sure," Ebon said with a shrug and rolled off the bed and began to dress.

Jules was relieved. The long day, the physical exertion and the emotional toil, the alcohol, came to him all at once. He felt his eyes slide shot.

He awoke to the tinkle of metal. Jules catapulted himself from his bunk, searching for the line, wondering how the barracks had gotten so small and quiet.

But he wasn't in the barracks, with 90 people, being screamed at, he was in a flophouse with a prostitute holding up his pants, hand in his back pocket.

"Hey, listen, man, I'm sorry." Ebon was saying.

"What?" Jules asked. He thought that the other man was giving him back his uniform.

"I'll put it back. Look? See." Ebon took out a bill fold. "I'll just leave."

"Were you fucking robbing me, you hood rat?!" Jules cried out in a rage, the same words that had been used against him coming out as an attack.

"Hey, fuck you, dude!" The other man said. "You think just because you just gotta boot you're better than me? I was in boot once, too, you know. Didn't make it and now I'm here. You ain't no better than me. I knew you was trouble, moment I saw you I knew it."

"Get the fuck out of here. Put my pants down." Jules said. He was blocking the exit and planned on doing so until his property was returned.

"I got a better idea. I'm taking your card with me. It's got, what, your last six weeks pay on it?" Ebon asked. He removed an ID card from the pocket. "Scumbag tax. For thinking you're any better than me."

His ID card was his access to the base. Jules envisioned the unholy shitstorm that would happen if a hooker stole his pay and identification. He rose his hands in supplication.

"Ebon...!"

The prostitute took the word as a challenge. With a yell, the larger man threw the wadded up uniform pants and dashed for the door.

The instant he grappled with the man, Jules knew he would win the fight. Ebon was bigger and probably stronger, but whatever training he had undergone was long in the past. Jules had just undergone rigorous schooling in both unarmed and armed combat, along with a daily exercise regimen that was second to none. He easily manhandled the other man, trying to wrestle him to the ground.

Jules had grown in the last few weeks, put on weight, and gotten much stronger. He was so accustomed to being weak all his life that he didn't believe how Ebon staggered and was so easily thrown. The prostitute's head hit the metal edge of the flophouse bed with a ringing *thunk*.

He couldn't find his card. He needed to get into his uniform, find his card and get out of here. Jules hurriedly got into his socks, then the crumpled pants, and his boots. Made sure his uniform blouse was somewhat straight, but it was dark. Jules was so accustomed to carrying a rifle that it took him a few panicked seconds of searching to realize he wasn't armed. Now, the card.

Jules turned the flophouse upside down, a process which took less than a minute. Besides the bed and a three legged chair there was no furniture. It could only be in one place.

"Ebon. Ebon!" Jules tapped the man's foot with his boot. "Get up, man. I need my card. Keep the room for all I care. Hey!"

The prone form on the ground wasn't moving. Something glinted off of the bedpost in the dim light. Jules touched it and when his fingers came away wet he nearly automatically wiped them on his uniform blouse. That would not do. Instead, he cleaned them on Ebon's pant leg, prompting no movement from the other man at all. He braced for Ebon to jump and went through his pockets, finding the ID card and clasping it protectively in his hand.

"Dammit!" Jules cursed loudly. He was in trouble. He kicked Ebon's leg again, hard, willing the man to wake up.

When nothing happened, he sat on the bed, heavily. The poor piece of furniture had taken a beating and collapsed under his weight.

"Hey! Quiet down in there! You can beat up on your whores somewhere else!" Someone was pounding on the door.

Jules had to leave, now. The flophouse had a window, but he was on the second floor. Below him was the ocean, a brackish wedge of water sandwiched between two strips of gravelly land. He had no idea how deep the water was.

More pounding. He turned and saw that blood, a great deal of it, had oozed from Ebon's head, towards the door. Whoever it was, the owner probably, was getting ready to force his way inside.

The flophouse door, once operated electronically, had long ago been broken and converted to manual. All it would take was a few more kicks or fists or the thing to shoot off the hinges, that was if...

A clanking of heavy metal keys, the kind the owner kept handcuffed onto his own wrist so no one could break into his hotel. There was a faint electronic whine from behind the door. Whoever it was had a weapon.

Jules jumped.

****

Ten weeks later, he was assigned to his first ship. The Empress's Saber was an attack frigate, posted on a patrol route that consisted of the far off Barrens and looped back to the small planet, moon really, it was based on. The Navy base there was a facility of barely 100 sailors, support staff for the the various ships that called it home. Most of the others he had graduated Specialty School with were dismayed. But like everything else Jules had observed in the Navy, it was safe, and there was food. What more did one need?

Jules's brand new Seaman Apprentice uniform had two crossed bars on the sleeve. On the right breast, under his name, was a rifle with a wave motif emblem, the symbol of Capital Naval Militia, of which he was now a part. With his arrival on the Saber, he was now entitled to do as he wished outside of duty hours. The fact that duty hours could take place at any time did not stop him from enjoying his newfound freedom.

His orders were presented to a salty old sea bird of a sailor, skinny, tan skinned and grizzled, with a wild gray beard, wearing a stripped down and casually draped version of a Navy working uniform.

"Just graduate SS?"

"Yes, petty officer."

"When did you get off Bulwark?"

"About ten weeks ago."

"Eh, we've got another from around then, I think. The political officer. Anyway, welcome to the Saber. Bunk number 316, with the other grunts."

**********

The Saber, without much ceremony, launched soon after. Though the ship was named for the empress, she nor any emperor had ever visited the vessel, or the small planetoid base it called home. It was a stretched out diamond shape, and its communication spire made it look like a shark slicing through the water. Stubby weapons were mounted on each corner, and its surface was pebbled with sensors, escaped pods, heat sinks and exhaust vents. On its bow was a faded decal of an ancient naval saber, long picked away at by paint jobs, meteorites and atmosphere after too many landings. It had a crew of 49, 34 enlisted sailors divided amongst 15 officers.