"Is there any particular reason you're walking around my starship with unsecured weapons?" the CMC growled.
The first thing that came to mind when Dresden saw the Master Chief Petty officer bearing down on him was
bulldog. He was short and squat, with impossibly skinny legs and a narrow waist supporting a barrel chest, thick, meaty neck, and jowls. The man's iron grey high and tight had lines that could be used to calibrate a laser, his coveralls were both spotless and had creases sharp enough to cut that impossible fade, and his mustache was the picture of regulation perfection.
In other words, probably an nerf herder.
"Classified," Dresden replied in a merry sing-song voice.
By contrast, he looked a hot mess. His cargo pants were wrinkled and baggy, and his combat boots hadn't seen polish since they left the factory. His haircut was at least within shouting distance of being in regulation, but he hadn't shaved in over a week, except on his neck, and the thick stubble was quickly approaching beard territory. The OD green T-shirt he wore was standard Marine issue, but it was stained with gun oil and powder residue, and stank like ozone and burning metal. To make matters worse, he was armed, and heavily. His civilian-model plate carrier was top of the line, but the camouflage pattern
was decidedly nonregulation. So was his weapon, a
heavily modded ER-1 battle rifle. The chopped barrel improved handling characteristics at the expense of muzzle velocity, both of which were considered a plus on a metal coffin floating around in the vacuum of space. Hull breaches were unlikely even with the full length barrel, but better safe than sorry. The giant slugthrower pistol on his hip was another nonstandard addition.
"Classified my ass," the CMC spat, quite literally. The man seemed incapable of speaking without showering the local airspace with flecks of spittle. "This is
my ship, and if anyone is going to walk around like they're some kind of commando, I need to know why."
Dresden turned to glower at the little fireplug of a man. His temper had been oddly short as of late, and this "mission" was wearing on his already frazzled nerves. The agent knew the regulations about shipboard weaponry, but he didn't care. He existed so thoroughly outside of the regular naval chain of command, even the Skipper could only make polite suggestions outside of active ship to ship engagements. Granted, Dresden couldn't tell
her what to do either, but that wasn't the point. As far as the Security Bureau was concerned, compliance with military regulations was only mandatory in extremis.
As a groundpounder by trade, the lanky agent wasn't overly fond of all the weird crap the vac breathers got up to on the best of days.
"First of all," he said, his voice suddenly low and threatening, "say it, don't spray it. I swear to kark, if you can't run your cock holster without infecting everyone around you with what I can only assume is virulently contagious stupidity, keep it shut. Secondly, when I say 'classified,' what I mean is, the reason I'm here in the first place is so black, I could have you renditioned off to some deep, dark hole in the Unknown Regions just for asking about it. Lucky for you, I've got better things to do than have someone pack your peehole full of glitter and confetti to turn your pecker into a party popper the next time you take a piss. Having said that, I'm willing to reconsider that position if you don't turn around and walk away right. The kark. Now."
The Master Chief opened his mouth as if to reply. Fortunately for him, before Dresden could plug it with the muzzle of his rifle, a Lieutenant (SG) happened to walk around the corner, took one look at the brewing confrontation, and decided to be the hero his senior NCO needed.
"Hey Chief, Skipper says she needs you on the bridge," he said quickly. "Something about some anomalous hull readings."
The CMC looked mad enough to chew through the bulkhead, but he knew better than to argue with an officer that had enough rank to make things difficult for him. He turned on his heel and stormed off without a word, his face so red that Dresden idly hoped he might be on his way to a coronary.
"Sorry about that," the Senior Grade said, once the Chief was out of earshot. "I'm guessing he wasn't happy about the guns?"
Dresden grunted in affirmation. He was still in an abominable mood, but he could recognize that the young officer was trying to do the right thing for everyone.
"I wouldn't worry too much. I'll call the Skipper and let her know what happened. Won't happen again, sir."
"Thanks," the agent said, trying to sound more courteous than he felt. "What's this about anomalous hull readings?"
The LT shrugged.
"No clue. I overheard her saying something about weird pings on the hull and figured it would make a good excuse. I'm just her admin gopher," he explained.
Dresden looked the man up and down. He was remarkably fit for a desk jockey. Probably a serious fitness buff in his off time, hoping for the chance to test out into commando school. It was a common enough fantasy for bored junior officers, but this guy was quick on his feet, and in functional shape rather than just swole.
"Could be nothing, could be trouble," he said thoughtfully. "Tell you what, LT. Contact the FOSB liaison, tell them D sent you, then tell them what you told me. I'm gonna go see if I can't take a look outside."
The officer's eyes widened at the acronym. FOSB, technically, didn't exist anymore, not in any real organizational sense. The nebulous remnants of the agency still used the old title for administrative purposes, especially when working with the military, however, and throwing it around was almost always a brown pants moment for the rank and file. No one wanted to end up on the wrong side of that bunch of tame killers, the fact that most of them were nothing of the sort notwithstanding.
"Aye aye, sir."
The LT broke into a jog and headed towards the CIC, where Dresden's notional boss for this mission was located. They tended to keep the chain of command extremely informal, but someone had to draw the short straw and fill out the paperwork. He was just glad it wasn't his turn.
