ARC10

Chapter 23

When I descend to Level 9, I'm floored by the childish behavior before me. Without them noticing my presence, the VIPERs play their asinine games.

Specialist Second Class Gordie Love, the oldest of the group, spars with Specialist Third Class Kasia Flatts. From over my VIPERs' shoulders, I catch his red, cropped hair circling around her. Flatts' bright-brown eyes zero-in on her combatant. The two of them wield their rods, lashing out to tap the other on the thigh with the buzzing weapon.

The group hollers, egging the two on. They are so engrossed in the match, they don't catch me slip the baton from Specialist Levi McCroy's holster and shift to the center of the circle. I swing the black stick on the two rods, slapping them out of the hands of the two combatants.

"You're lucky Reaper Boss saved your ass, Love." Flatts points at the taller boy who bends to retrieve his rod from the other end of the room. "Or you would have been shittin' sparks for weeks."

I hate it when they call me that. But, unfortunately, the callsign stuck the second they found out I was Topside militia.

"Enough. Get your asses in gear. We've got a ship to see." I cut through their circle and don't wait for them to fall in formation. I don't have to check to know they're sharp as needles pointing north.

"Hold onto your jiggly bits, boys and girls." I peer into the darkness of the cave. "It gets a little chilly."

The pad of their footfalls is one repetitive beat without a single nuance misplaced. I simmer in their rhythm and allow my mind to settle into the absence of distraction. The sound of boot-on-dirt is a new mantra, a continuous noise we make to remind us—forward. Forward. Keep marching forward.

After an hour, I quicken their steps. My fists tighten as we round the particular corner that leads us to the ARCs. I brace myself against the turmoil of seeing the unsmiling, stolid face of Moyra White.

When we curve around the bend, the door of ARC9 and ARC10 stands before us. A stumpy, middle-aged man greets us instead. We grip hands. The door slides open.

"Holy Heap," a whisper at my shoulder gasps as we descend upon the massive chunk of space metal.

I'm reminded how shitty ARC10 is in comparison to the rest. As a solitary image on a screen, it doesn't seem so ignoble. But here, in the underground cavern next to the sleek ARC9, it appears more like the grubby remains of scabs picked off a better ship and welded together.

"This," I say as I pivot to face them in front of the ship, "is ARC10." I take on the shortest, burliest VIPER in the group. "Gorbinski." A stumpy and feisty man beyond the scope of most human understanding, Adwin Gorbinski lowers his eyes. "What is the lining of the vessel made from?"

"An unidentifiable alien matter similar to Earth's corrugated beryllium, Commander," he shouts without hesitation.

"Correct. And what, Flatts, is holding the ship together?" I hurl the question at the wild-haired girl.

Flatts searches for the answer within a thousands of facts. "Unique, untested, orange bio-material that also composes the Xani biology, Commander."

While we tour the ship, I quiz them on pertinent facts about our craft. At one point, I assign them one hour to explore the crevices on their own.

As they drift around, I scan the shadows.

A flicker of light dances under the ship. My body stiffens. A sucker-punch to the gut grips me before I prepare for contact. I stop in my tracks, crouching low. The three behind me tense and kneel beside me.

My hand shoots up, palm out, telling them to stop where they are. Don't take another step. These monsters react faster than us—we'd be dead in an instant.

The shadow wavers again, and I flex to hide the flinch. The three trailing me detect my dread. Each one reaches for their rod holsters, ready at my command.

My fist closes, telling them to freeze—don't move one fucking muscle.

The darkness tilts under the ship.

A pair of boots stride into the light followed by a second pair. Ogden Grant's and Francis Umpire's low voices reach my ears. The towering men amble around the other side of the ship.

I close my eyes and force myself to take one, long, calming breath. Behind me, the VIPERs drop their tension.

We ascend into the new racks where rows upon rows of bunks line the walls, stacked like brickwork.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Joel Norbit and Anita Avant, my resident assholes, huddling together and muttering behind their hands. Curious, I stalk over. They sense my approach and stand to attention.

I have that gut feeling I've stumbled on something private.

"What is it you think you're doing?" I bark in their faces. I will not have secrets poison my team. I've seen it happen before—two or three form a rogue group, an exclusive set that finds little ways to make a CO's life a living hell if there's even one iota of discontent.

"Observing the deck, Reaper Boss," Norbit responds, staring straight ahead. These two, despite only having met months ago when they first began training with SOCOM, could have shared a uterus. They're identical. They tower over me. Their mousy brown hair and pointed features mark them as perpetually snide. Although I tail them for the rest of the tour, no other suspicious movement catches my attention.

When we meet at the front of the ship, I answer vagrant questions and call them to formation for retreat. Norbit and Avant stand shoulder-to-shoulder—proud, high, and strong. Eyes forward. They are as they should be.

I've never been taught how to deal with a situation as this. Nothing is obviously amiss, but somewhere, deep in my subtle understanding of human nature, I sense something's wrong.