Free Postal Marine 1: Bellicose by Ben Wilson Page A

from the grease. For once he was thankful to be coated in grease.
    Stars filled the darkness as somebody punched him in the face. Then again. And again. He tried to move, only to realize somebody had wrapped binders around his legs. The binders tightened, taking away his ability to balance. He collapsed to the deck.
    He turned to his side, only to feel boots kicking into his abdomen. Another kick in his legs. In his back. To his head. He lost track of where the kicks landed as his nervous system gave up trying to report each new offense. He clung to consciousness as the beating continued.
    “Stop.”
    Bophendze tried to recognize the voice. It had come from one of his assailants. The pain reached a point where his entire body was starting to go numb. He could feel throbbing all over his body. He hoped nothing had been broken, but could not be sure. He struggled to breath as his diaphragm refused to respond.
    “You need to get the hell off this ship. If you don't leave on your own, we're going to throw you out of an airlock.”
    The voice was right near his ear. Bophendze recognized it immediately: Corporal Makaan . He tried to respond, but managed only a few slurred syllables and spitting up. The metallic taste of blood in his mouth reminded him of the kicks to his face. He knew he had to have a broken nose.
    “Let's go.”
    As Bophendze lapsed out of consciousness, he was able to make out four different voices talking and laughing as they moved away.
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Litovio - Sabanoi
    The wind gently beat the curtains. The erratic but regular pulse from the curtains slapping the window frame coaxed Litovio awake. The sunlight beamed onto his bed, several inches down his chest away from his face. Litovio calmly stretched his arms, his fists helping force the sedentary blood back toward his heart. The open window let in the song of morning birds, a species Livotio had never paid attention to before.
I could get used to this kind of life again.
    His stretch complete, Litovio relaxed and sank back into the mattress. He contemplated another day of leave as he scratched his chest hair—four days left to go. Sufficiently bored he inhaled deeply and blew out a raspberry.
    A beat later the familiar shriek of a shuttle blew out the bird songs. The curtains violently thrashed the frame and debris blew in from the courtyard outside. The sudden change left Litovio ducking for cover, away from the window. Just as he put the bed between him and the window, the other window that flanked his bed crashed open. Litovio grabbed his comforter and twisted it into a protective cocoon around his otherwise bare body. “Somebody is going to pay for this.”
    He bolted up and over to his wardrobe. As he did, a servant from outside quickly scurried into Litovio's bedroom. He opened the wardrobe with haste and grace. “The morning greeting robe,” Litovio said.
    The servant instead picked Litovio's Postal Marine uniform from its hook.
    “You fool! I said the morning robe. Can't you hear me over the engines?”
    The servant merely nodded and pointed outside. The engine outside started to whine down, indicating that the shuttle had landed. Litovio walked to the open window. To retain his dignity, he started to close the window—slowly. It gave him time to study the shuttle. It was a Postal Marine shuttle.
How long did the servant know the shuttle was coming?
Litovio latched the floor-to-ceiling window shut and drew the curtains out of mock decency. The curtain closed, he walked his naked body back to the wardrobe.
    “On second thought, I think I'll wear my uniform today.”
    “A wise choice, Master Lieutenant.”
    Litovio was perfectly capable of putting on his own uniform. He could not have survived the Naval Academy if he was not self-sufficient. He chose to let the servant dress him with a surgeon's precision. It let the servant retain his dignity.
    Several beats later, Litovio was dressed in his perfectly tailored uniform. Postal regulations prohibited