I have two bags for clothing and equipment in my issued inventory. The larger one is a huge duffel bag with sewn-in polymer stiffeners. It’s big enough to hold most of the contents of my shipboard locker. The duffel is mostly used to haul gear around between duty stations. Mine is worn and frayed after five years of skipping from post to post, ship to ship. The smaller one is called the furlough bag, and it’s just big enough to hold enough clothes and a personal kit for a few days. The furlough bag is mostly used for going on leave, and mine is virtually pristine.
Since our trip back home takes a week, I have plenty of time to square away my gear and say my good-byes to my friends on the ship. By the time the Intrepid engages the docking collar at Gateway, I am ready to step off the ship and move on. I leave my heavy duffel on my rack for transfer pickup, and take my furlough bag to start my two weeks of leave. Against all my pessimistic expectations, CIC does not announce combat stations, and nobody whistles me back when I step past the security detachment at the main docking hatch to leave the ship for good. As I walk out into the hallway of Gateway Station beyond, I pat the last bulkhead frame of the ship in passing.
Farewell, NACS Intrepid CV-1941. May you die of old age in the decommissioning docks thirty years from now.
Gateway Station is the main hub for all military traffic from and to Earth and Luna. It’s an orbital base and spaceport rolled into one huge, hulking structure, perpetually suspended in high orbit. There’s a constant stream of people and material passing through this station, and it has been in need of an overhaul since well before I even joined the service.
It’s a long hike from the outer ring where the carriers dock to the main concourse where I can claim a seat on a Luna-bound personnel shuttle. I walk through the familiar narrow corridors toward the central part of the station, swimming with the crowds of people going in the same direction. Whenever a carrier docks, hundreds of people end up clogging the same narrow intersections on Gateway at the same time, and it takes forever to get anywhere.
The main concourse is as crowded as I’ve ever seen it. There are fleet crews and Spaceborne Infantry troopers everywhere, most of them in the Class A smocks that are required wear for transfers to a new duty station. I take a quick visual survey and notice that most of them are junior enlisted personnel, likely fresh out of Basic and heading for Fleet School or SI’s Infantry School. Many of them are wearing the same unsure expression I undoubtedly had on my face when I stepped off the shuttle and onto Gateway for the first time. As I pass through the crowd, I notice some of the new privates glancing at the modest collection of ribbons and badges on my Fleet Arm Class A smock and the scarlet beret on my head.
I elbow my way to the main row of Transportation Coordinator booths on the main concourse, where I stand in line behind half a platoon of SI troopers. When my turn comes, I step up to the booth and hand over my military ID for the desk specialist to scan.
“Where to, Sergeant?” the specialist asks, his gaze flicking from the screen of his terminal to the scarlet beret I have now stuffed underneath the left shoulder board of my uniform. The color is an ancient privilege—combat controllers are one of the few occupational specialties allowed a beret color other than the standard Homeworld Defense green, Fleet Arm black, or Spaceborne Infantry maroon. It’s a hard-earned badge of office, but it does tend to make one stick out in a crowd.
“I need to hop up to Luna for a few days,” I say. “Visiting an old friend in Fleet School.”
“Shuttles to Luna are fleet priority until Saturday,” the specialist says, not the least bit apologetic. “You want to go up there before then, you need to have valid orders for Luna.”
“Well, crap. That’s five days from now. Don’t make me waste half my leave in the TPU.”
“Sorry, Sarge. You can see that the place is popping at the rivets right now. All three recruit depots just let out a new batch of trainees this morning, and we’re hauling them up to Luna as fast as we can. Come back Saturday and I’ll get you on a shuttle, but right now every seat is fleet priority.”
“Can you get me down Earthside at least?”
“Down to Earth? Sure. I have twenty empty shuttles going back every hour to haul up new people. Where do you want to go?”
“Closest spaceport to Greater Boston, I guess.”
“That would be Cape Cod HDAS. Hang on, let me check what’s going down that way.”
He taps the screen of his terminal a few times while I swallow my disappointment at the delay of my reunion with Halley. I had planned to go up to Luna before visiting Mom, but now it looks like I have to flip my schedule around if I don’t want to be stuck here on Gateway for a few days.
“Ah, here we go. Shuttle FA-2992, 1700 hours. Check with the loadmaster at lock Alpha Three-Niner.”