Obsidian's War The Winter City
Chapter One

CHAPTER ONE

A biting wind drove flakes of snow across the landing field as Second Lieutenant Gellibrand Bosworth Baines Plymouth Obsidian of the Lighthold Sector Assault Infantry, stepped out of the orbital transfer craft. The newly minted officer, known as Gel to his friends, had just made the trip from the freighter in orbit to the surface of the planet known as Dimarch and was now taking in the unwelcoming sight of landing field tarmac and collection of huts that made up his new posting from just beside the craft’s loading ramp. He had been warned that the surface would be cold, but even wearing a standard-issue polar coat, with the lined hood drawn down and gloves, he shivered.

“Where is everyone?” said the pilot who walked up behind Gel. “Need to get my cargo unloaded.” Gel had been his only passenger.

“There’s a doorway with a light over there,” said Gel, picking up his pack. “I’ll ask for you.”

After a few paces, he drew the heavy cloth that went with the hood across his face and bowed his head against the wind. Outpost-3, where he had last served, had been a miserable, swampy, snake-ridden jungle where a mercenary outfit called The Destroyers had made serious efforts to kill him. No one was trying to kill him on Dimarch, at least not yet, but the jungle on Outpost-3 had been warm. In Dimarch the wind cut to the bone.

A series of distinct cracks made the Lieutenant raise his head sharply and stop. He was sure that the cracks were shots from the Assault Infantry’s now standard weapon, the AR30, which had considerably more penetrating power than the previous standard AR25, which Gel had found to be useless against the armor of the Destroyers on Outpost-3. This was followed by a short burst of automatic fire - a Storm Cannon. That weapon had also proved ineffectual against Destroyer armor but had been greatly improved by a change in the ammunition used. A few more shots were followed by a distinct Whump! Whump! of what Gel thought sounded like light artillery, then silence.

His comrades were defending the distant perimeter of the base, officially called Forward Base Alpha but dubbed Fort Apache by the Assault Infantry, or Salts as they called themselves, after some ancient earth film about such a fort. There was a Fort Bravo on the planet somewhere, Gel knew, but he had been posted to Fort Apache, and his first observation about his new posting was that there was a long line of transports in front of the one he had just left, all apparently waiting on the tarmac. But there was no visible movement in the open loading dock he could now see in the distance.

The door with the light he had seen from the transporter proved to be the entrance to a non-descript prefabricated hut, with a sign saying, ‘Port Admin’. Inside was a harassed female squad leader behind a desk speaking on a comms headset.

“I wish you wouldn’t yell at me, sir,” she said into the phone. She acknowledged Gel’s presence with an upraised hand and a half smile. “You are in the queue to be unloaded. The crews will get to you. Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

She pulled the headset onto her shoulders and smiled. “Yes, sir?”

Gel had yet to get used to being called ‘sir’ by others. Then he recalled Lieutenant Mihocek who had stood on his new dignity as an officer by refusing to listen to Gel’s advice to switch his helmet comms to protected mode, with the result that he had been targeted by a Destroyer missile. Lieutenant Mihocek’s remains had been returned to Lighthold for cremation.

“I’m Second Lieutenant Obsidian. I have orders to report to the base commander, Colonel Lee.”

“Yes, sir,” said the squad leader, whose name tag read Addison. The ‘Obsidian’ name plainly meant nothing to her. “The colonel’s office is down the corridor to the left.” She pointed to a door on the other side of the room. It’s a few minutes walk, all inside.”

“I’m glad of that,” said Gel. “Is it always so cold here?”

“Been a bit warmer of late, sir,” she said.

“I didn’t want to hear that – but what about the transports stuck out on the landing area? I heard you being given grief about unloading cargos. Is there a hold up?”

“The cargo crews are on a break, sir.”

“A break? But I saw plenty of other transports besides the one I came in lined up, and they’re on a break? This is a military base.”

“There are fifteen waiting to be unloaded, sir.”

“How long have they been on this break?”

“About an hour. Since the shift started, sir.”

“An hour, seriously! And you’ve told your officer.”

“I’ve told Captain Edge, he’s the port commander, sir.”

“I think I’ve met this Captain Edge. He has a female assistant and another gentleman that handles his personal security?”

“That’s right, sir,” said the squad leader, thinking that this officer was different to the others that had passed her desk and smiled. She was stout and round-faced but had a bright smile.

“I’ll mention the matter to the base commander,” said Gel, picking up his pack again. “Maybe that’ll shake something loose.”

“Wish you would, sir. I had thought about doing it myself but the chain of command and all that.”

“I understand, squad leader,” said Gel. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Despite her name, Colonel Lee’s face indicated an American plains Indian ancestry. Gel also thought he had heard somewhere that Colonel Lee was a practicing Muslim. But outside Earth, particularly on planets on the rim of the Empire like Lighthold, race, ethnicity, religious beliefs and names had become so jumbled that no one bothered to comment on any particular combination.

“You’re Second Lieutenant Obsidian,” said Colonel Lee, looking at the orders Gel had handed him. “I asked for someone to sort out a mess I have, and General McMahon recommended you.”

“I’m flattered the general should think of me, ma’am,” said Gel.

“You were suggested just a day or so ago while still en-route, so I haven’t had a chance to look at your record,” said the colonel tapping at the tablet in front of her, “so I’ll just look now and… Holy Cow! An Infantry Cross.” He looked up at Gel then down at the tablet again. “What did you get that for? A rescue under fire, it says here, and close combat with a bunch of Destroyers – that mercenary group?”

“Yes, ma’am. I got caught in a shoot out in a bar – the Easy Spice Bar and Grill.”

“I’ve heard of it – that was you?”

“And another, Private Feodor Turgenev who is somewhere in Fort Apache I’m told.”

“Says here your application for a wound medal was unsuccessful,” said the colonel.

“The Easy Spice barman took to me with a shotgun sir, and I got a couple of pellets in my arm. I thought that was worth a wound medal, but it didn’t count. They have strict criteria for awarding it.”

“I guess they do,” said the colonel. “Shotgun, eh? I’ll sure keep your record in mind for a combat job but here’s the thing, at the moment I really need a good deputy port commander.”

“Deputy to Captain Edge, ma’am?”

“You know Captain Edge?”

“I served under him briefly on Outpost-3, ma’am.”

As a mere second lieutenant, Gel could not comment on the ability of a captain, but he could leave out the traditional praise “it was my honour to serve under him”. Colonel Lee could not criticise a subordinate to a newly arrived officer, but she could choose her words carefully.

“Captain Edge needs someone to look after various aspects of the port’s performance,” said Colonel Lee. “There are mysterious hold ups at the port.”

“Such as now because the dock crew has been on a break since the start of their shift.”

Colonel Lee did a double take. “What?”

“The squad leader at the port office told me there are fifteen transports waiting to be unloaded but the operators were on a break.”

“Sort that out, immediately,” she said. “I see you have quite an ancestry. Your grandfather was a dynamo and your father a manager second to none. Get the port working. Any problems come and see me.”

“Yes, ma’am, I can do that.”

“Sorry it’s not a combat posting, but logistics is very important.”

Gel was a little disappointed he would not be put out on the perimeter, but he already had an Infantry Cross and the base was a lot warmer.

“Yes, ma’am– they talked a lot about logistics in officer training.”

***

“You may think this will an easy course,” sneered Major Kang, one of the chief instructors of the short-term officer training course. It was the first day of the officer training short course on Lighthold that Gel had been sent to by General McMahon. He was sitting with about twenty men and women being lectured by Kang, a whippet lean officer whose Asian features were set in a perpetual sneer. The officer candidates collectively quickly decided that Kang was a sarcastic, nasty piece of work, and never saw any reason to change their minds. All but Gel and one other of the candidates who had also been selected from the enlisted ranks, had been on a two month officers-basic course and knew each other but they did not know Gel. They eyed him curiously.

“Just three months of being lectured,” said Kang, “and then you become officers and gentle people because the assault infantry needs more boots on the ground. It doesn’t work like that people. You will be officers responsible for the lives of the men under your command, and that means you will have to learn some common sense; yes, common sense people. That means learning to avoid basic, stupid mistakes.

“As an example of a string of stupid mistakes, I’ll show you an incident you’ll have heard about. The fight at the Easy Spice Bar & Grill.”

To Gel’s utter astonishment, the class was shown the security recordings from the bar shootout, on a large screen with the major using a laser pointer to point to various supposed errors he had made.

“Look at these idiots,” said Kang, voice dripping with sarcasm. “They walk into this bar without their combat helmets or main weapons, although they’re supposed to be looking for Destroyers.” The view was from Gel's right, just behind and above him – the camera had been high on the shelves behind the bar - so he was not recognisable. “We are not meant to get involved in shootouts. It’s not about standing opposite your opponent and reaching for your gun.” The class murmured. “It’s about reconnaissance – reconnoiter an area first and then move your forces in – and above all don’t move in as if you’re about to order a round of drinks. And the sergeant in charge probably wonders why one of his men was wounded. Don’t you agree Mr – um – Obsidian.”

Startled, Gel looked around. He had been studying the security recording intently - it was the first time he had seen it – and had not realised the major had come up beside his desk. Gel was a few years older than the rest of the class, which was why he was now being targeted by Kang.

The major consulted a tablet that contained the record of each person in the class. “You were a company commander!” he exclaimed. “How did a shit ranker like you get to be company commander?”

“I was senior squad leader when my company was ambushed while still in transports and everyone above me in the chain of command was killed,” said Gel evenly. “That’s how I came to be company commander, sir.”

The class murmured. Kang was momentarily at a loss for a sarcastic comment.

“The only reason anyone survived was because we were close to the jungle canopy when we got hit by the missile,” said Gel. “Our platoon lieutenant died in the crash. We got the sergeant out, but he died soon after.”

“Very well. Mr Company Commander,” Kang sneered, after a moment’s pause, “what do you make of these idiots walking into a bar without their combat helmets?”

“We were told not to wear our helmets in town or carry our main weapons,” said Gel. “We were also told by Command that there were no Destroyers in town.”

Kang looked at the screen and back at Gel. “What do you mean ‘we’ he said. Who’s ‘we’?”

“Sir, it’s the same campaign a few days later. That’s me on the right, and Theo, Private Feodor Turgenev, on the left. I thought you knew that.”

The class murmured again.

“Silence,” snapped Kang, surprised. He had not known Gel was one of those at the fight.

“We went in there looking for the guy who ran the settlement who turned out to be the bartender in league with the Destroyers and serving them drinks at the time. But we didn’t see the Destroyers until we were well into the bar and they weren’t expecting us.”

Kang looked to the screen and then back again at Gel.

“You didn’t open fire right then?”

“There were civilians still trying to get out of the bar, sir,” protested Gel, “and I was sorta hoping that the Destroyers might surrender.”

“Well officer candidate…” said Kang injecting venom into his words and looking at his pad again to check the name, “…Obsidian, I hope you start showing better leadership than you did on that day.”

Gel was not sure what he could have done differently, and Kang certainly hadn’t given him any indication of what else he might have done, but there was only one possible answer in the circumstances.

“Yes sir,” he said.

***

Gel thought briefly of major Kang as he stood outside the break hut. This was an unprepossessing pre-fab affair resembling two old fashioned shipping containers stuck together and put on blocks, set to one side of the wind swept loading dock. The main attraction of the hut, so squad leader Addison, whom Gel had collected from the shipping office had told him, was an excellent heating system. The squad leader was interested to see what would happen with this new officer who had become her boss. She thought little of Captain Edge, but the new lieutenant promised fireworks and just might make her life easier. On the walk to the port, she had received several increasingly strident calls from transport crews through her comms headphones demanding to know when unloading would start.

“Do you know where the power connection to the hut is by any chance?”

“Think that’s it there, sir,” said the squad leader, pointing to a black box to one side.

“So it is,” said Gel, he opened the box and flipped the main switch to be rewarded by a chorus of yells and groans from the hut. “Hold the door open, squad leader.”

Gel stepped up into the hut, switched on a mining-style lantern he had borrowed from the port office, and stuck it on a table by the door. By its light he could see a few men playing poker on one table, and a handful of others sprawled over mismatched sofas and easy chairs looking at their personal tablets.

“I am Second Lieutenant Obsidian, just appointed port deputy commander by Colonel Lee,” declared Gel. “Captain Edge is regrettably too busy to come himself, so I’m telling you the break is over. Get out and start unloading.”

“It's cold out there, arsehole,” said a private at the card table. “And we’re playing here.”

Instinct kicked in. Before the private finished speaking Gel grabbed the table with both hands and, replaceing it light, flipped it over their heads making them all duck. One of those who had been looking at screens had to dodge to avoid the falling table.

“Game’s over,” he said.

“I had money on that,” shrieked another private who rushed Gel. The lieutenant side stepped easily, grabbed the front of the man’s jacket, and ran with him to the door, giving him a final heave at the exit. The private sailed past Squad Leader Addison, who followed his flight with an air of detached curiosity until he landed with a thud and a yelp on the loading dock concrete.

“And stay there until I get to you,” yelled Gel. He turned back to the others, who had stood up to stare in alarm at the new officer. “The rest of you grab your coats and start unloading. We’ll organise breaks to warm up later. For now, get busy!”

A couple grabbed their coats and the rest started moving.

“Staff Sergeant Bradley?”

“Yes… sir.” The last word was said with particular venom. Bradley was a big man, a half head taller than Gel and broader. He had been sitting at the far end of the card table.

“You are to remain behind.”

Gel turned back to Addison.

“Put the cargoes from the first transports just on the concrete here until you run out of space,” said Gel. “Then start sending the containers to their proper bays. And don’t say anything about the unloading crews being on a break, at least to the flight crews. Just say system malfunction now fixed.”

“Gotit,” said Addison and vanished.

“At least give me my coat,” said the private Gel had thrown through the door, now upright, arms tightly wrapped around himself, and shivering. The lieutenant looked at the two coats remaining and tossed the smaller one to him.

“Now Staff Sergeant,” he said closing the door. Everyone else had gone. “What in all of Lighthold did you think you were playing at?”

“Sir?”

“Don’t ‘sir’ me. You know what I’m talking about. The shift hadn’t even started work and everyone was in here for a full hour. The rules only talk about reasonable breaks. You left reasonable behind a long time ago.”

“It's cold out, sir.”

“I know it's cold out, Staff Sergeant!” snapped Gel. “But in case you hadn’t noticed, this is a military base, and the cargos are needed. Our comrades are out in far worse cold and relying on the stuff we’re supposed to be shipping through here to keep going. Are you qualified for one of those exoskeletons?”

“I organise the shipments to the bays… sir?”

“I didn’t ask what you do, I asked if you’re qualified on exoskeletons.”

“I am, sir,” said Bradley after a pause.

“Good. Then don’t organise shipments for now, get on an exoskeleton and start piling the containers to one side. We’ll sort them out later. Get the first few transports unloaded at least. Colonel Lee was beginning to notice that there was a problem with the docks.”

“Yes, sir… when were you appointed deputy port commander?’

“About half an hour ago,” said Gel. “I came in one of the transports in the queue. And I’m already having fun. Who was the private I helped out the door?”

“Karimov, sir.”

“Very well. Now start unloading.”

Bradley left with a sneer leaving Gel to confront Private Karimov out in the cold.

An officer was not supposed to lay violent hands on other ranks, but then those other ranks were not supposed to charge at officers, making threats. Private Karimov, somewhat warmer now that he was wearing his polar-proof coat and gloves, was in no mood to analyse the legal aspects of his actions.

“I’ll sue,” he said as Gel approached him. He had a mark on his cheek where his face had hit the concrete.

“I’ll sue, SIR,” said Gel, “and stand up straight when talking to me.”

“I’ll sue, sir,” said Karimov, straightening himself, a surly note in his voice.

“Fine, but of course, there is the problem of the court martial for assaulting a superior officer, and the disciplinary hearings that will result for you and your friends when it emerges you were playing cards for real money while on shift.”

“Allowed to play cards,” he said. Then added “sir” when Gel stared at him.

“Off duty, no problem,” said Gel. “But not while on shift, and isn’t there some garrison rule limiting the pot size? I’ve only just arrived but I’d be surprised if your game met any of the garrison rules. Looked like decent money on the table.”

“I was winning… sir.”

“I shall take that money to Colonel Lee and tell her that it dropped on the break room floor and that no one came forward to claim ownership. There must be plenty of refugee charities that need the money. You will receive their thanks. You can complain, which means going down a deep, dark legal rabbit hole and get yourself and your comrades into trouble, or you can simply go and start unloading. Either way you don’t get the money back.”

Karimov thought this over and then muttered, “yes, sir”.

“Now start unloading.”

As he watched the private go, Gel heard a burst of small arms fire from the perimeter and wondered if anyone was going to concern themselves with his treatment of Private Karimov.

“I heard that someone got thrown through a door in the dock area,” said Colonel Lee when Gel reported back that the queue of transports had been cleared.

“I merely assisted one private on his way when he was ill-advised enough to rush at me,” said Gel. “The door happened to be there, ma’am.”

Colonel Lee laughed. “I can see why General McMahon recommended you, but is this going to come back at us?”

“That’s up to the private but I pointed out other legal issues that could be raised.”

Gel produced the money and explained where it had come from. Colonel Lee accepted the explanation and waved the money off to an assistant for counting and dispatch to a refugee charity.

“I want you to stay as deputy port commander for a time until we sort out a few issues,” she said.

“Issues, ma’am?”

“There is the problem of ensuring that the shifts actually do the work they are supposed to be doing. But there is a bigger question, such as where our rebels are getting arms. I’ve got a lengthy perimeter out there and the people covering it are having real trouble keeping from freezing to death. They don’t need the hassle of being shot at with our own arms.”

“Captured Assault Infantry arms, ma’am?”

“Not the ones we’re using now, but the ones we used to have. Your encounter with the Destroyers brought forward the purchase of the AR30s, and they’re really good weapons. The trouble is that no-one thought to check who they were selling the surplus AR25s to, and if you listen, you can hear them being fired at our people out there. They may be surplus but they’re still good enough for most encounters, especially as we don’t have the armor of the Destroyers you encountered. What’s worse someone is training the Hoodies so they’re a lot more effective than they used to be. We should be taking the fight to them in the city itself but we’re taking casualties just protecting our base.”

“Easy enough to sneak in shipments of arms, ma’am,” said Gel.

“The navy swears they have a lock on the planet and that no unauthorised transports could sneak through. Cargoes have been checked both at departure in Lighthold and here, as well as at Fort Bravo. Nothing. The authorities on Lighthold are sending out an investigator but I would like one of my own officers to look at this.”

“I’ll see what I can replace, ma’am.”

“I’m told you’ve had one or two mysteries in your life,” said Colonel Lee, looking at him quizzically.

“You could say that, ma’am.”

***

Gel had barely settled into his new apartment – a modest affair in the building he owned in the spaceport-water port-warehouse section of Green City – when there was a knock on the door. He hadn’t let anyone through the basic security at the front door, but he had set up a security camera in a wall ornament in the corridor which he checked on his phone.

The camera showed two men with pistols in their hands. One was dark and handsome, the other a tall, fair Nordic type. Gel knew them both, although the first and last time he had seen them had been in a fraught encounter where he discovered that the handsome man was one side of a triangle involving his now ex-fiancée.

“Well, whadda you know,” he said into the phone. He could see the men looking around for the speaker. “My two favourite people, Leo and Dwight. How’s the leg, Leo? I heard I managed to fracture it.”

“Fine – how’s yours?” snapped Leo.

“Three stitches, thanks for asking. Now that the pleasantries are over what can I do for you gentlemen?”

“You need to come with us,” said Dwight.

“I regret I have plans this evening.” Gel snuck up to his front door and wedged a chair under the lock. “Some other time perhaps, although the handguns do not strike the right, friendly note, I feel.”

The two men had been standing so that the guns would not be visible from the old-fashioned observation porthole in the door, which they assumed Gel would be using.

“We can kick the door in,” said Dwight.

“It’s a bit heavy to easily kick in unless you have one of those rams the police use. I’d have time to call the police, who will want to know about the hardware – Glocks aren’t they? Good choice, although the locally made Stahl-Cross 5.7 millimeter is probably better. The lightweight polymer frame is rugged enough for the weapon to operate well in the different environments we get on Lighthold.”

“We know about our weapons, shithead,” snapped Leo.

“Now that wasn’t very friendly,” said Gel. “Why would I want to come with you gentlemen?”

“Your mother wants to see you,” said Dwight.

“She does?” Gel was astonished. “We spoke just a few days ago, and now she’s sending armed low-lifes to collect me for a meeting?”

“Low-lifes huh,” said Leo.

“If she wishes to speak to me, she can always call and arrange a pleasant lunch like last time. Since she’s sending thugs with guns to issue invitations, I would want the lunch to be somewhere public and crowded.”

“She won’t be happy,” said Dwight.

“These days my mother is rarely happy where I’m concerned,” said Gel through his phone. “Come to think of it, at that meeting I mentioned both your names and my mother had never heard of either of you. Is she really asking for me, or is it my uncle reacting to the fact that I called him a low-rent thug at the meeting?”

“Alison moaned when I gave it to her,” said Dwight, sneering. “Said I gave her real pleasure.” Alison had been Gel’s fiancée.

“I wouldn’t take it personally,” said Gel. “She moaned with me too, and I realised later she was faking.”

“She wasn’t faking it with me,” said Dwight.

“Okay,” said Gel. He had been through too much since discovering Alison with Dwight to care about what they might have done together. “Then I’m sure you have other women to call on. Don’t let me keep you.”

He saw Dwight whisper to Leo then the two men moved out of sight of the camera, but without holstering their weapons. Gel did not have a camera with an overview of the corridor, but he thought it likely that his callers had moved just out of sight and were waiting for him to look out into the corridor to see if they had gone. They would be disappointed. After waiting for a few minutes sitting beside the bookcase he had been assembling, it occurred to Gel that he could wait out on his balcony which overlooked the front entrance, and see if they came out there.

After a few minutes, he thought he heard faint sounds from the door. As if one of his would-be abductors was trying to pick it although he could not see anything on his door camera.

“Please leave my lock alone, gentlemen,” said Gel into his phone. “In any case the door is bolted on my side.” (It wasn’t, but a bolt would soon be installed.) “I’m getting tired of this. Time for you to leave or I will call the police.”

“Shithead,” said one of them. He sounded like Dwight. Ten minutes later Gel was rewarded by the sight of the backs of Leo and Dwight leaving the building.

Gel was to take Athena to dinner and dancing later – she had managed to arrange a night off from her job as a top-drawer sex worker – but he stayed on the balcony a while longer puzzling over this new development. Leo and Dwight had almost certainly killed his father’s friend, Arvind Olsen, a director of his family’s company Obsidian Holdings. Dwight had tried to frame Gel for the murder, but the frame had been a rush job that had fallen apart in the subsequent police interview. Gel was also certain that, whatever his other faults, his uncle had known nothing about the murder or the clumsy frame attempt. That still left the question of just why Dwight and Leo were working for his uncle, or why they had killed Olsen. Where was the motive? There were mysteries in his life.