A year after the Sulaco met its end, its executive officer, Kara Walsh, was promoted to the rank of captain and assigned to the USS Almayer. Within the Space Force this was known to be a punishment role. Heavily underequipped and utilizing old technology, the Almayer was only assigned to the "dead ends" of space. And so it was that Walsh, who was disliked by the Admiralty for what was ostensibly her former CO's failures, was assigned to the Almayer.
On this bucket of junk was a foreign service model of synthetics. A Tomlin. Styled after the old Cold War-era spymasters who spoke English with a Russian accent and Russian with an English accent, Tomlins were understated masters of perception, but generally only used by the US Foreign Service as diplomatic attaches. Of course, given that the Almayer treads so close to (if unimportant) UPP territory, it would make sense that a Tomlin would be on-board. Walsh and the Tomlin never got along. Walsh never had any respect for politicians and their schemes, and Tomlin was a reminder of the bullshit which embeds that world.
Tomlin was straight out of the Cold War. Or at least, the Cold War as Walsh remembered from Space Force Postgraduate School, which admittedly isn't much. Tomlin shared little unless his input was asked for, and he only shared precisely what was asked for. But he watched. He had an uncanny ability to be where important people spoke. He was the Gray Man, the unseen in plain sight. It did not take long for Walsh to realize that High Command was receiving reports from Tomlin without her knowledge. She put a stop to that by ordering Tomlin otherwise. She didn't catch him sending any more reports, but she's always been leery about him since.
One fateful day, during a CLF insurgency on Andromeda K-104E-2, Walsh brought Tomlin to her office.
* * * * * * * *
"This doesn't ring true to me," said Walsh. "What do you think?"
"Their food intake is over twice what's needed to sustain their population," said Tomlin. "The colonists of Hubert's Retreat do not appear to be as well-fed as the inventory reports."
"I noticed as well. The young are skin and bones. The old doubly so. At least we know who eats first. Before we act, this stays in-house. Am I understood, synthetic? I don't want High Command breathing up my ass with micromanagement. We'll report AFTER all this is over."
"Perfectly."
"So. Here's evidence that the colonists've been lying to us." Walsh pursed her lips. "And here's what I need you to do. Watch Valley Mill and follow the vans that come in and out. A portion will go to known colony reserves for civilian use. These we know. But some will go places not marked on the inventory. They're unreported for a reason. I want to know why."
Tomlin nodded his assent.
"This is right up your alley, synthetic." Walsh tapped her index finger on her antique desk. "Mostly for the worse, but maybe this time for the better."
* * * * * * * *
"You trust this man?" said Sergeant Rennem. Victor Rennem, a specialist with Delta, was a scout. His heavy cloak fell like shadow around his shoulders. Rennem was one of Walsh's best. The kind of person needed for a mission like this.
Tomlin shrugged. "I trust him to be self-interested. Nothing more." Cradled in his arms was a suitcase.
Rennem raised an eyebrow. He was unconvinced, of course, but safety was never a major concern of his.
The Normandy shuddered as it descended, coming to a jarring stop against an uneven hilltop. Rennem, who'd been in hundreds of drops like this, compensated by natural instinct, bracing himself against the direction of the jolt. By contrast, Tomlin maintained his balance with an unnatural, mechanical correction, much like how a bicycle tends upright at high speeds.
Deployable sentry turrets rose from their hidden platforms with a hiss. The hatches slid open, and a fresh, humid breeze blew in. It was night in the jungle.
"Let's go," said Rennem. "Dawn's coming soon."
* * * * * * * *
Hiro Cooper stood with sweat beading around his forehead. The general store at night was deserted�clear of any customers or employees�and with the wide and empty colony grounds, it was unlikely that Rennem would've missed any voyeurs in the distance.
It was just Cooper in a raincoat, clutching a rolled up piece of parchment, Tomlin with his steady stare and a suitcase in one hand, and the cloaked Rennem standing at Tomlin's side. Rennem's M4RA was hanging loosely at his side, ready to be brought up at a moment's notice.
"You're super creepy, you know that, synthetic?" said Cooper. "Shit. When you walked up behind me while I was unloading my van yesterday, you damn near gave me a heart attack."
Rennem hid a smile.
Tomlin raised his hands in apology. "Let's not prolong this business. It puts us at unnecessary risk. Are you prepared to make the trade?"
"Here," said Cooper, "this map has all the unloading locations. You see these four? They're the colonies on this side of Hubert's Pass. This one to the northeast is the Retreat."
"So what are the rest?"
Cooper offered a smile. Half his teeth were missing. "Big dots are militia camps. CLF. Bomb 'em, sneak up at night with your freaky friends�" he glances at Rennem "�and kill 'em, I don't care what you do. Small dots are dead drops. These ones are just basic supplies, like the food that you were followin'. Perfect for ambushes. Of course, most of the drops are on another map, not this one. I got that one on a disk, but you can show me the money first."
Tomlin slid the suitcase on a table. He quickly tapped a combination on its keypad and opened it, at the same time disarming the explosive trap within.
"Hoo boy," said Cooper. "Now that's real cash. Here ya go." Cooper produced a disk from his cloak. "The real thing, my man. The full map's in this. You got a tablet, you can slot it."
It did not take long for Tomlin to verify the intelligence. "Alright," said the synthetic, stashing his electronic pad, "it's time to go."
"Not so fast, my man," said Cooper, "you paid me fair and square, and I appreciate that, but someone else also paid me good money too. And now that the case's open and mine..."
Tomlin shook his head. "That was a mistake, Cooper. I can't hurt you, but this marine can."
Cooper's eyes narrowed, and he shouted, "GUYS?!?"
Rennem's M4RA came to the ready. In an instant, a few things happened. A wooden door�previously thought to be storage�slid open and two masked men with MAR-30 carbines jumped through. From within two cabinets behind Rennem a further two masked men wielding respectively a CZ-81 and a sawn-off burst forth. Cooper drew a desert eagle from under the folds of his clothes�one Tomlin and Rennem had both spotted a while ago, but had expected it was more for personal protection than for an ambush to come.
Two immediate suppressed shots from Rennem put the two with the MAR-30s on the floor. Tomlin dashed forwards in a split second and instantly had the one with the CZ-81 on the ground and bleeding profusely from his head. The one with the sawn-off fired at Tomlin, point-blank. Tomlin was knocked back and onto the floor, his left leg a mangled mess of electronics and white semi-organic fluids.
Rennem spun and fired off a burst. The holder of the sawn-off collapsed in a heap.
A resonating BANG sounded throughout the confines of the store. A round from Cooper's desert eagle embedded in Rennem's shoulder, causing him to drop his gun as blood gushed from his new wound. Tomlin swiped the fallen CZ-81 and threw it directly at Cooper's head, striking metal against skull with a loud THUD. Without missing a beat, Rennem spun and his good hand went to his 88 Mod 4 and filled the disoriented Cooper with a burst of lead.
Silence reigned once again. Once-hostiles lay in heaps on the floor. But in the distance there was shouting. People were coming. And they wouldn't be friendly.
"Come on," rasped Rennem as he grabbed Tomlin with his good hand. "I'll drag you. Yell if you see anyone."
* * * * * * * *
"And then you got dragged through a mile of jungle before you repaired yourself and patched Victor up?" said Walsh.
Tomlin only nodded in confirmation.
Walsh raised an eyebrow. "If Rennem's report is accurate, you also engaged a contingent of CLF on the way."
"I could not fight due to my programming," said Tomlin. "Rennem engaged them at an extreme distance with his scoped weapon, to clear the path from us to the pickup. Wasn't much of a fight."
With a shrug, Walsh picked up a folder of papers on her desk. "This intel. We acted quickly and managed to raid a large number of CLF training grounds and dead drops. Rennem earned himself a medal with your help. I hope you're proud of yourself."
Tomlin replicated Walsh's shrug.
"Don't do that," said Walsh, "you're being weird. Stop that. What was I saying? Oh right, a promotion. Fuck this ship. I'm being considered for O-7. Do you know why?"
"I can hardly guess," said Tomlin dryly.
"HVT. We nabbed Naomi Hill." Walsh cracked a rare smile.
* * * * * * * *
When Walsh left, it was to command a flotilla at the edge of the Laniakea Supercluster. Overall an improvement. While boring, it was an important occupation role, and the Admiralty�of which Walsh was now a part of�looked favorably upon good service in this role.
In the meantime, while the Almayer was docked at Luna Spaceport, Tomlin announced his presence around the ship with violin. This was shore leave for the Almayer. Various solo segments from Bach and Mozart concertos played at unreasonable hours of the day. Marines, of course, were barely bothered. They slept over explosions. Violin was nothing.
Walsh, like all the former captains of the Almayer, left without so much a parting word. Such was the way of officers of the Almayer.
The newest captain, Balto Dreg, raised alarm among the personnel of the Almayer when they realized they couldn't understand him through his accent. He acted tough, but it would take more than tough to have the Almayer get its shit together.
Of course, Balto and Tomlin clashed instantly. When they first met, Balto greeted Tomlin with a gruff, "Aye. It's the robot."
Tomlin merely nodded in response.
"What," said Balto sharply, "cat got yer tongue?"
"I have little to say," said Tomlin.
Not long after there would be an incident where Balto discovered that Tomlin was writing reports to High Command behind Balto's back, mirroring Walsh's experience. While the tipping point would come many years later, where Balto would transfer off the Almayer and onto the USS Dreggornaut, the captain would always report this single moment as the one where, "That damned synth showed his true colors he did."
* * * * * * * *
The last and current captain of the ill-fated Almayer is Chen Westinton, who was transferred from the USS Galveston to the Almayer in a final attempt by the Admiralty to make the Almayer a first-rate ship. Unlike his predecessors, he immediately got along with Tomlin, who when he caught the synthetic attempting to send a report to High Command regarding his performance as captain, he said slyly, "You're a bit of a damned sneak, aren't you? Well, I have uses for you. Just never, ever go behind my back again."
And uses Tomlin did have, both for collecting CLF intel and for dealing with internal Almayer politics. Tomlin would eventually become distrusted among the marines for being "the Captain's scab." Rennem would be the lone dissenter. "Tomlin? He ain't that bad. Just a bit quiet, and definitely big on being tricky."