Spots the Space Marine: Defense of the Fiddler: Spots the Space Marine, #1

SPOTS THE SPACE MARINE:

Defense of the Fiddler

M. C. A. Hogarth

E-Book Edition

Copyright 2011 M.C.A. Hogarth. All rights reserved.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction

Part 1: Contact

Part 2: In Deep

Part 3: Endgame

INTRODUCTION

PART 1:

CONTACT

01. Meeting Spots

Barracks. Claws enters the room to find a stranger in it: a woman in her early thirties, storing a duffel in the closet two bunks down. She's 5'5" and relatively fit, but has a rounded belly and soft edges. Her skin's a bisque color with a golden farmer's tan, and her hair is in a dark braid coiled and taped around her head.

Claws is a young man in his early twenties, built hard but narrow. What hair he has is very short and sandy; his eyes are hazel, his skin a faded tan.

Claws. Well woah, hey-lo. You must be new.

Stranger. What gave me away? She smiles and extends a hand. Magda Guitart. Sergeant Holden told me I should bunk here.

Claws, shaking it. Pleased to meetcha. I'm Walker, Travis. But call me Claws, everyone else does.

Claws... no kidding?

Claws. Yeah, we all go by call-sign here. Sarge's Scythe if he ain't told you yet.

How come? I mean, that's a little strange, isn't it?

Claws. Bit. You know about the Void Angels?

Stranger. You mean the air support, right?

Claws. Them's the ones. We had some of them layover here when we first deployed and picked up the habit from them. Pilots, you know.

She resumes unpacking. Huh. I guess I need one, then, don't I.

Claws. Sure do. If you're one of Scythe's you're part of Team Kitty. You can guess the theme.

Stranger, pausing in putting away her clothes. Hmm. Is there a Spots yet?

Claws. Spots like a leopard or a cheetah? Huh, that'll work. We ain't got a Spots yet. He nods at her face. For the freckles, eh?

Spots, laughing. All seven of them. You have more than I do.

Claws. Can't see 'em as well, what with the skin bein' darker than yours. Where'd they send you from, space duty? You're pale as a china doll.

Spots. Believe it or not, I just got plucked from my house and shipped out here. She takes out a photo and carefully places it on the wall above her assigned bunk.

Claws. ****, when was the last time you saw duty?

Spots eyes him. Do you always talk like that?

Claws. Talk like what?

Spots, shaking her head. Never mind. The war started after I retired from duty. I've been at a desk a few weekends a year for over a decade, but that's about the size of it. I've never been out of the solar system until now.

Claws stares at her. Then past her at the photo. Your family?

Spots. Yes. Would you like to see?

He looks: a solid man in his thirties with short blond hair is standing with his hand on the shoulder of a boy who looks to be 7 or 8 years old. The boy is holding a young girl, perhaps 3 years old. Woah. Those yours?

Both of them, yes. And the man too, I'm proud to say. Spots grins. He's a miner, we spend half the year on an asteroid. She sets her last item on the half-desk next to her bunk: a rosary. Sergeant Holden—Scythe, I guess—says I need to go check my suit. Do you know the way to the armory?

Claws. Sure, I'll show you. Glances at her. Sure you're old enough to have two kids that size?

Spots, laughing. I can see I'm going to like you, Claws.

02. Spots is Dancing

Armory. Spots is checking the back of Claws's suit using a series of read-outs at the base of the back of the helmet. She's already in her own, so they're using suit-comm to communicate. The armor isn't overtly bulky and is a matte dark brown in color, almost black. Claws's suit has an additional series of marks down the back, mostly obscured by the power and ammo cells.

Spots. All lights green. Seal checks. Check mine.

Claws. All lights green. Seal checks. We're good to go. Control, this is Walkabout 1. You readin' me?

Control. Claws, this is Control. You're cleared for your walk. Remember to check in every fifteen, we could use the map updates. Otherwise, enjoy.

Claws. Copy that, Control. Thanks. After you, Spots.

They enter the airlock leading to the planet's exterior and pause for the chunky door to shut behind them.

Spots. Hey, Claws? Thank you for getting the okay for this from Scythe.

Claws. No problem. It's been a couple of weeks since you've been in armor, what with them havin' to pack you onto the ship and send you way out to the middle of nowhere. I reckoned you'd appreciate some gettin'-to-know-you time before one of our ***es is on the line.

The exterior door opens and the two of them trudge out. The alien world is a series of murky sludge-like dunes scattered with brownish clouds in a heavy atmosphere flailed by constant winds.

Spots. Just so. Ah, wow. It's such a beautiful planet, you know?

Claws. For somethin' with toxic soup for an atmosphere, sure.

Spots. Come on, Claws. Just look at that sunset!

Claws. Guess it is kinda pretty. If you don't look at the rest of it. Let's head north, looks like last night's sandstorm blew holes in our latest map. How's the armor feel?

Spots. Good. Really good. God, it's good to be back.

Claws. I can't imagine was much fun, shippin' out on such short notice. What were you up to when they plucked you up?

Spots, chagrined. "Believe it or not... driving a desk. Not even a very important one."

Claws, glancing at her though he can't see her through the atmosphere. Ah? You joshin' me?

Spots. Afraid not. I haven't seen active duty in this war yet.

Claws. ****, no kiddin'. Guess you're lucky you're out here, then... nothin' more strenuous than shootin' up your quota of crabs in the Warren and headin' back.

Spots. Is it really that easy?

Claws. Honest. Most you gotta worry about is gettin' a sore trigger finger.

Spots laughs. Guess that's not too bad, then.

Claws. You'll see. Sit tight, I gotta check in. Control, this is Walkabout 1.

Control. Walkabout 1, this is Control. Go ahead.

Claws. I got terrain data, ready for the pulse?

Control. Standing by.

Claws. All ri—

Control. Walkabout 1? Still waiting on that pulse?

Claws. I... uh...

Control. Walkabout 1, respond!

Claws. Spots is... well, just... look at the cam..

Control. What the hell is going—woah!

Out on the mire, beneath the thick clouds with the bright scarlet and magenta of the alien sunset reflecting off her helmet, Spots is dancing.

Claws. Ain't that the damned finest thing I ever seen. Whoooo-eee! Go, Spots, go!

In the Control room of the naval base, several of the staff crowd around to watch the cam footage. When Spots tires at last, Claws remembers the map data and sends the burst. They head back toward the base.

Claws. So, uh... you do that a lot? Dance in armor?

Spots with a grin. Not as much as I'd want to.

Claws. You serious?

Spots. Oh, Claws. Are you really wearing the same stuff I am? Have you noticed what it feels like? Like being alive, like being strong and alive. Who wouldn't dance?

Claws. Guess when you put it that way...

She just smiles and follows him in.

03. First Kill

The Warren. A series of maze-like corridors dug underground in the area around the naval base. Spots and Claws are currently patrolling their sector.

Claws, over the comm. "You doin' okay?"

Spots. Yeah. Where are the aliens, though? I thought you said it was like... well, target practice.

Claws. They're around here somewhere. Don't you fret, you'll get your chance.

Spots grimaces. Tell me why we have to split up again?

Claws. 'Cause there's not enough of us to go around. You'll be fine.

Spots is about to respond when a hulking creature whips around the corner. It is fully ten feet tall, jet-black, armored like a tank and looks like a cross between a crab, a spider and a praying mantis. Without thinking, she shoots it and it collapses.

Spots. ...

Spots. Does one shot really kill these things?

Claws. Met your first crab, eh? Yep.

Spots. How can it be this easy?

Claws. ****, Spots, don't complain.

Spots starts to say something and shakes her head. She continues her patrol, dispatching several more crabs with equal ease. Her HUD reports her partner's position and ammo/power levels, which are fluctuating as he too fills his quota.

A few hours later.

Claws, still a few corridors away. Not too bad for your first go, eh?

Spots. Not at all... didn't really see much, actually.

Claws. It's like this most of the time.

Spots. "Most of the--

Fifteen crabs abruptly lurch from a side corridor. Thirteen of them are bulky tanks... but two are thin, tall, like elongated wasps on stilts. They rush her, a wall of black chitin and scything limbs.

Backing away, Spots, shouting. "CLAWS! CLAWS, GET YOUR TAIL OVER HERE NOW!"

Claws. On my way, what's wrong!

Spots. Fifteen crabs, two Kings, HURRY!

Claws. ****! Almost there, Spots, hang tight!

The report of gunfire and the sound of scrabbling limbs...

...then silence...

...then the plangent noise of ichor, slowly dripping. Claws flies around the corridor behind Spots and comes to an abrupt halt at the sight of the bodies. Spots is standing very still, a death grip on her leveled weapon.

Claws, approaching cautiously. "****, Spots! Isn't almost dyin a good enough reason to cuss? What's it take?"

Spots, prim and twitchy still. Hush, Claws. You kiss your mother with that mouth.

Claws, frowning at the group. I don't get it. They never bunch up like—woah, Spots, what's wrong?

Spots, who has abruptly listed to one side. Adrenaline just gave out.

Claws, grasping her arm. Control, this is Team Kitty.

Control. Team Kitty, this is Control, go ahead.

Claws. We're about up, time-wise. What's our sector lookin' like?

Control. Looking good.

Claws. We got a weird bunchin' up here, you might want to give a heads-up to everyone. Fifteen buggers, two of 'em Kings, rushin' as a group. Spots handled it.

Control. We'll review the cam footage. You're clear to come in.

Claws. Understood, Kitty out. To Spots, Come on, let's hoof it. Time to turn in.

Spots, with a shudder. Thank God.

Claws, grinning. Now, now, Spots... takin' the name of the lord in vain?

Spots starts trudging after him. That was a prayer, Claws, not an oath.

He nudges her. "Hey, not bad for your first outin'. How you feelin'?"

Spots. Like I want a shower. And a rack. And chocolate.

Claws. Think you kinda got that backward there.

Spots, grim. Trust me, if you've seen what passes for chocolate on-base, you'd know that the only way I'd be getting it is in my dreams.

04. Fang

Gym. There aren't many people in here. Probably because there aren't many people left. Spots and Claws have the equipment to themselves.

Claws. Can you gimme another rep? Just another fifteen.

Spots. ...think so.

Claws. All right, let's see it.

The bar clanks against the sockets with a rattle.

Claws. Good job. You might be able to benchpress a bunny soon.

Spots. C-claws!

Claws. Sorry, Spots. You're doin' good, seriously.

Spots. Thanks. I'm trying.

###

Spots joins another member of Team Kitty in the showers, a younger woman with a lithe, hard body and dark skin. This woman's hair is shorn close to her scalp; she has tattoos on her arms and over her shoulder-blades: this is Fang. She glances once at Spots when she disrobes and then ignores her... until Spots peels her hair off the strip on her head.

Fang. ****ing A!

Spots. Pardon me?

Fang. What the hell is that, a rope? How'd they let you in with that much ****ing hair?

Spots. I guess they didn't care what I looked like, just that I showed up.

Fang. You want to get us all killed with that?

Spots. It's usually under a helmet, Fang. The atmosphere is toxic, after all. A pause. A sigh. Look, this is the first time you've noticed it, isn't it?

Fang. Well, since you keep it in that damned braid on your head, yeah.

Spots. That braid is sealed on my head and I wear it that way all the time except once a week in this shower, when I wash it. Even when I sleep. I have less trouble getting my helmet on than Hairball does.

Fang, disdainful. Whatever you say.

Spots looks a little mournful as the younger woman steps out of the shower.

###

Later, in the Barracks.

Spots, sitting on the edge of her bunk as she unlaces her boots. Hey, Claws?

Claws, reading something on a tablet. Yeah, what is it?

Spots. I don't think Fang likes me.

Claws. Don't worry 'bout it. Fang don't like no one.

Spots. Why is that?

Claws. She got assigned here when Dragon Team got destroyed. They were the best, they got the hardest assignment, and they died for it. Now she's here with us ****-ups.

Spots makes a face, though whether it's at his comment or the state of her foot once she peels her sock off is debatable. We're not screw-ups, Claws.

Claws. Can't say I disagree. But by her standards, we're a step down. Waaaaay down.

Spots. But... hasn't she been with you a while? Surely she's gotten... well, used to it?

Claws. Hell, no. A laugh. No one likes her attitude. That's why Fang-Two changed his name, just to **** her off. Now Scythe calls her Fang-One, it drives her ****ing insane.

Spots grimaces. That wasn't very nice.

Claws. No. But she had it comin'.

Spots. Claws... we have to work together, you know. If we don't like one another—

Claws. We don't have to like each other. We just have to do our jobs.

Spots. If you say so.