Sgt orlan hero of man, p.1
Sgt Orlan: Hero of Man, page 1
Contents
SGT ORLAN
Copyright © 2016 Scott Moon
Dedication
A MAN APART
A MAN ON A MISSION
A BOY AND HIS FATHER
THE RESONANCE OF IMPERFECTION
SGT ORLAN
Hero of Man
Scott Moon
Copyright © 2016 Scott Moon
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
This story is for those courageous enough to come in out of the cold.
A MAN APART
SERGEANT Jack Washington Orlan faced an officer who could intimidate any sentient life form in the galaxy — except the Hero of Man, a title Orlan had earned with blood.
Scars burned and itched. Phantom wounds throbbed from bones regrown after amputation.
“You are required to answer truthfully and completely,” the officer said.
Am I? Orlan thought.
Lieutenant Jamison Cavanaugh stared across the interrogation table, face as hard as any Planetary Assault Forces veteran with his missing left eye and line of angry pink flesh from left ear to right jawline. The corner of his mouth didn’t close due to excessive scar tissue on both the inside and outside of his mouth. Nicotine-stained teeth — a canine and two molars — peeked out resentfully. His eyes had been blue, but the one that remained was smoky grey like the air in the interrogation room.
Orlan furrowed his brow as he cataloged the lieutenant’s visible wounds. Was the man proud of them — intent on showing the record of his pain? Had the Fleet refused gene therapy? Orlan guessed that it was less painful to die than regrow a limb, but troopers did it all the time; right up to the last ten percent of their enlistment, after which it wasn’t a cost-effective investment for the Fleet.
“So it was about justice?” Cavanaugh asked, voice grinding the words through damaged vocal cords. Clearing his throat, he coughed, leaned to one side, and tapped a blinking icon on the chipped and faded table screen. “Time is 0415, Earth Standard Time. I am Judge Advocate Investigator Lieutenant Jamison Cavanaugh. With me in the room is Sergeant Jack Washington Orlan, Planetary Assault Forces, First Fleet, Second Division, currently on a thirty-day Earned Liberty Assignment or ELA per the Eighteenth Non-commissioned Officer’s Bill of Rights. Please state your name for the record.”
“I’m still hungry,” Orlan said.
“Your constitutionally guaranteed break is concluded. For the record, you have eaten two meals provided for you by the JAG Corps. Say your name.”
“Jack Orlan.”
“Your full name.”
“You already said it.”
Cavanaugh stared. He didn’t blink. He didn’t move or give the slightest indication he was alive behind the grim light in his eyes. “Tell your full name. For the record.”
Orlan waited. In moments, the man would lose his cool and come across the table like the officer prick he was. Daydreams of slamming the man’s messed-up face on the table caused Orlan’s heart to hammer with anticipation.
“For the record,” Cavanaugh said, “the subject of this interview is hostile to interrogation.”
Orlan laughed louder than he had for years.
* * *
ORLAN stood at the top of the deployment ramp and stared at the bustling military spaceport. Red Ender was a troop transport, unarmed against space attacks. A real creeper.
On the way to the most recent planetary assault, if it could be called that, Orlan and his squad had occupied quarters on the Blue Savage, a state-of-the-art armored transport with big guns and powerful engines — not that any of that had kept it from getting blown to hell along with boys and girls he had pretended to like as he led them into Earth Fleet’s latest slaughter house. He didn’t miss his squad or the ship that floated in pieces near Mars XI. Blue Savage, Red Ender; ships didn’t matter any more than lives or credits or forgiveness.
Something about the Ender put him in one of his moods — darker than his normal talk-to-me-and-get-punched-in-the-face moods. Why he was thinking of the ship as he disembarked was a good question, but he had stopped second-guessing himself a long time ago.
He always survived. He was always right. He would always be alone.
After Hellsbreach, there wasn’t much left in the universe to terrify or interest him. The half-empty ship that had been his home for several months was on his mind despite the chaotic scene before him. He savored the washed-out, back-to-full gravity moment until he breathed the greasy metallic stench of machines on the loading docks. He tasted air with less body odor than Red Ender’s asshole ventilation system provided. Not fresh; there was no fresh air beyond Earth VI, but near enough to improve his mood.
He grunted in the back of his throat. Borderline homicidal was better than suicidal. Hoorah, trooper. Enjoy it while it lasts.
Taking his time, he didn’t yield as impatient troopers and members of the ship’s crew moved around him to get down the ramp. Despite the crowded walkway and urgency of the crowd, no one touched him. Connie Dentin, a one-eyed medic from Sergeant Barker’s squad, glared at him. He focused his gaze on her until she ducked her head, turned away, and stomped after the others.
“Don’t act like you weren’t drunk too,” he said.
Her husband, Gable Dentin, avoided Orlan. He enjoyed breathing and wanted his head to remain attached to his shoulders. The man was a warrant officer and could have pulled rank or used his connections to keep Orlan out of his wife’s quarters, but he was afraid.
Just like the rest of them.
And Connie came to Orlan’s bunk half the time. Probably not anymore. He should have said something to her when she asked what would happen when the Red Ender reached port. He understood why women didn’t appreciate being ignored, but he didn’t care.
A tough sergeant from the port put his toes next to the lip of the ramp, planted his fists on his hips, and yelled upward, “You’re holding up the show. Get-a-move-on-it-sergeant.”
Orlan drew out the moment. “I don’t hear anyone complaining.”
“I am complaining,” the port sergeant said.
Orlan adjusted the gear bag on his shoulder and walked past the man. “Then you’re gonna be unhappy. That’s no way to live. Join the PAF and die like the rest of us.”
“Damned troopers.” The port sergeant abandoned his argument with Orlan to harass a cart operator with an over-large load.
Orlan chose his pace, not fast enough to be a man in a hurry, but steady and strong so that men, women, and machines moved out of his way. The area just beyond the loading and unloading zones was full of street vendors and performers. The powerful lights of the cavernous hangar made him feel like he was on a space station ten times bigger than it had any right to be.
Only one man-made structure in the system was larger, the Iron Box. After Hellsbreach, Orlan had met Tabitha there. He would have bowed to her. She was a glorious creature he could have worshiped forever.
He thought of the stories she had told about the Box. She would never need to return to the place, despite her profession. She had new clients with more money than Orlan would ever see in his lifetime, barring another miracle like Hellsbreach.
The likelihood of earning a second Hero of Man medal and the wealth that followed was slim.
“Fighting Jack Orlan,” a voice in the crowd yelled. “You son-of-a-bitch.”
Orlan swept his gaze over the mass of jumpsuit uniforms and pushed-aside safety goggles until he spotted Gunnery Sergeant Lance Lane parting the crowd. “There is only one man stupid enough to talk like that.”
Lance threw his arms wide, performed a dramatic pause worthy of the stage, then attacked with a hug. Men and women stopped to stare. Orlan was a minor celebrity in many ports. A good bookie knew the odds on the Hero of Man injuring someone on any given night. Lance’s bravado was boosting his own reputation second by second.
“Orlan,” he said. “It is fine to see you!”
They walked side by side, parting the crowd like bulls in a paddock full of cows and calves. They stood tall as kings and swaggered like duelists in their prime. Orlan smiled.
“Praise God and the Fleet!” Lance exclaimed. “That is the second time I have seen you smile.”
Orlan snorted. “Only because your sister gives good head.”
“I’ve got superstar credentials now. Who else can say they’ve seen you crack that ugly fucking grin even one damned time!” Lance spread his hands and raised them high to emphasize his point.
“Let’s visit your mother and make it three,” Orlan said. Happiness glowed in his mind’s eye like a fairy from a story and he wanted to hold it, protect it, feel the shining gold warmth of it.
“Hey, boundaries, buddy. Leave my mom out of it,” Lance said, pushing his palms forward and exaggerating the wideness of his eyes. “Got to have boundaries.”
Orlan shrugged. “Got to die. That’s all.” He had been drinking with Lance and getting in fights when Tabitha showed herself back on the Iron Box. Her seduction had rea
“You are so much fun. I should have stayed at the Yellow Sun Dream.”
Orlan stopped walking. A group of officer candidates on leave bumped into him. He backhanded the first two in one swing without looking at them. The rest scattered, trying to decide what they were supposed to do in the event a veteran trooper humiliated them in public.
“What were you doing at the YSD?” Orlan tried not to remember Tabitha in that place. The night tattooed his memory in too many places. He hated and cherished the memory at the same time. Lance had tried to shift his attention to a redhead — kept saying how redheads were Orlan’s type. The drunken conversation had been stupid even then because all the employees of the Yellow Sun Dream were shapeshifters and their hair color mattered about as much as good intentions on a battlefield.
Lance lowered his voice. “Trying to find a friend.” He faced Orlan without sarcastic banter.
Something was wrong.
Anger like Orlan had never experienced, not even when Reapers were dragging him into a pit and sticking claws everywhere, overcame him. He didn’t understand what was wrong. He couldn’t understand why his best friend — his only friend — was acting like a stranger.
“Why did you go to the YSD, Lance? And you better not say it was to find Tabitha,” Orlan said, clenching both fists at his side.
“You didn’t marry her.”
Orlan bit down hard and brought his fists slowly together as he flexed every muscle in his body. Sound struggled to escape from his closed face, horribly distorted and an octave too low to be intelligible. Color drained from Lance’s skin, but he held his ground.
Running would have caused Orlan to chase him down and beat him to death. Cursing would have resulted in Orlan snatching his friend by the throat and squeezing until his neck broke. Saying Tabitha’s name aloud would have caused a sun to go supernova. There was no believable way that Lance didn’t understand these facts of the universe.
Combat breathing techniques brought Orlan's blood pressure and heart rate under control. He spoke in a low, damaged voice, measuring each word.
“Have you seen her?”
Lance looked away, and that was all that Orlan needed to know.
* * *
“You were angry at Gunnery Sergeant Lance Lane,” Cavanaugh said.
Orlan looked up at the ceiling, then emptied his lungs.
“Were you angry at Gunnery Sergeant Lance Lane?” Cavanaugh asked.
Orlan swallowed.
“For the record, the subject refuses to answer question 193.” Cavanaugh slowed his breath — Orlan watched him use the technique — and stared across the table.
* * *
“She talked about you,” Lance said. He edged away from Orlan, presenting an image of furtive guilt. “You never sent either of us a message. After a while, she needed to get back to work.”
“The difference is I won’t feel bad for killing her other clients.”
“I wasn’t her client.”
Orlan turned away and staggered toward a railing that separated bidirectional pedestrian traffic. He leaned on the paint-chipped metal railing with both hands. That’s worse, you asshole. Don’t look at me like her feelings for you make this right. He started to shake his head side to side.
Lance approached, both hands forward to soften his words. “She didn’t work for almost a year.”
“Because I paid her my entire reward from Hellsbreach!” Orlan stood and whirled on his friend, who flinched but refused to retreat.
Lance took a breath and glanced around — probably to determine if there were military police forces near enough to save his life — when things went from bad to holy shit. He stepped closer, well inside the looming shadow of Orlan. “You never sent her a single message. Normal people communicate with each other.”
“I should have let you die on Earth VIII,” Orlan said. He clenched and unclenched his fists, wanting to calm down but only seeing pulses of red in his vision.
“She’s not dead,” Lance said. “You might have a chance with her.”
“She’s with you!” Orlan roared the words. “Why would she want to be with me? Why didn’t she send me a message? Did you ever wonder about that? Why do I have to be the one to reach out?”
“Orlan,” Lance said, one hand touching his arm.
“No, she wouldn’t be corresponding with big, stupid Orlan. She was too busy fucking his friend.”
“I never understood how you felt about Tabitha,” Lance said. “How many times did we talk about partying at someplace like the TSD?”
“You’re a liar.”
“Orlan, please.”
“I ought to kill you right here.”
Lance snapped a swear word and hammered his thigh with one fist. “Don’t push me, you over-sized freak. I fought right beside you on Earth VIII. I’ve got my own battle scars. Remember that.”
“I kept you alive,” Orlan said. “Now I’m wondering why I bothered.” He slapped Lance across the face, knocking him to the ground like the grown man was a child. Pedestrians cleared the area as Lance struggled to his feet.
“You remember when I twisted that Sixer’s head off?”
“Just so you could say you did it before Dog Rolston tried the same trick,” Lance said. “I remember.”
Orlan grunted, not sure what he was thinking or feeling but unable to control either. “You stayed after I did it. Everyone else avoided me. But I did it and can still do the same thing to a friend. Never doubt it.”
A glass-eyed expression took control of Lance’s face. He shook loose his hands and shoulders, blinking several times and then moved his feet to prepare for the fight.
“Where is she?” Orlan asked as he circled his friend.
Lance stood, abandoning his fighting stance, and laughed. “She’s not with me. Do you think I held on to her any longer than you did?” He laughed again, without humor but with bitter frustration. “She’s a dream, Orlan. We both knew that from the beginning.”
“You were my friend,” Orlan said. “Only friend I ever had.”
“I still am.”
Orlan grunted. “Yeah? Maybe, but I hate you.”
“Don’t hate me; hate the woman who gave up your son to the Iron Death Gangsters,” Lance said.
There was no way to respond to Lance’s words. Orlan felt like he had been attacked — overwhelmed and overrun by an enemy force stronger than the engine of time. A son?
Several long moments passed as soldiers, sailors, and dockworkers continued with their lives. Music played from an eating establishment not far away, unnoticed until now. Machine noises of the port clashed with the entertainment district. A tractor engine belched diesel fumes beside a power lift humming with a Randolph Micro-fusion battery. Farther from Orlan and Lance, there was a line of men passing heavy packages hand-to-hand like a work crew from ancient, pre-space Earth. They sang to keep rhythm.
“We were in battles with less banging and thumping,” Lance said.
Orlan laughed without humor. “New question. Where is my son?”
Leaning on the railing, Lance looked at his feet and chewed his lip. “Where do you think?”
Orlan stared straight ahead. “Where can I find a fast transport ship?”
A MAN ON A MISSION
CAVANAUGH slammed the palm of his hand on the interrogation table. “Stop lying!”
* * *
FOOD, four hours of sleep in a rented cubbyhole, and half the night looking for a private pilot occupied Orlan until Dawn Standard. Time remained bland inside of the military port. Computers all across Earth Fleet controlled space changed lighting according to an agreed upon schedule. None of it made Orlan feel human. Military ports were always enclosed in armor to provide the illusion of security.
He walked through the morning gloom, imagining Lance and Tabitha and wondering if they had a son together. Had they talked about Orlan? Laughed at him? Plotted against him?
