Warp Marine Corps- The Complete Series

by C. J. Carella

  Lisbeth knew precious little about diplomacy, but a wild party that appeared to be in the process of becoming an orgy – a couple of the locals had already gotten started, discarding their costumes and going at it on the edges of the party – surely wasn’t the kind of situation the diplo-rats had prepared for.

  And if someone screws up, I hope it ain’t me.

  * * *

  “My current persona is Henry the Eighth,” the Tah-Leen who’d paired off with Fromm said. He had a fringed beard and was wearing an outlandish outfit that a quick Woogle search identified as the garment of some old British king. “My Core identity is the Unpleasantness Prevention Coordinator, but I am a mere student of history at the moment.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Fromm replied in a neutral tone, sipping from a glass of alleged orange juice. According to his medical implants, it was chemically identical to the real thing, and it had no alcohol or mind-altering substances. All of which assumed the Tah-Leen hadn’t added something that his imp couldn’t detect, of course.

  “We like to reinvent ourselves,” ‘Henry’ went on. “Species, gender, shape, name, they are transitory, fluid things, easily altered by the likes of us. Why remain stuck on a single identity when one can be anything one desires? Or even be many different things at once?”

  “I can see why some would like that,” Fromm said. Sounds like a fucking mess to me, he thought. Being anybody was dangerously close to being nobody, as far as he was concerned.

  “My Core is dedicated to many things. I, one of its many extensions, study all things martial and warlike. I followed your adventures in Kirosha most closely. That must have been glorious, to slay dumb primitives by the thousands while they feebly tried to strike at you!”

  You may be able to switch species and identities at will, pal, but you are and always will be an asshole. Fromm kept the thought to himself, of course.

  Out loud: “No, it wasn’t glorious. It was ugly and brutal. Butchery. Its only redeeming quality was that it was necessary. They wanted to kill us, and there was only one way to stop them.”

  “Such modesty,” Henry said, his eyes gleaming, a nasty smile pasted on his flesh-and-blood mask. “Surely one cannot be that good at dealing death without enjoying the act.”

  A perceptive asshole.

  The off-hand comment forced Fromm to think about things he didn’t care to dwell upon. There’d been moments of savage joy in every fight he’d been in. He didn’t like what that said about himself, but he didn’t waste a lot of time wallowing in it, either. His job was important; he’d seen firsthand what happened to innocent people – to his people – when he didn’t do it. And to have some alien who clearly hadn’t had a hard day in his life try to get a rise out of him made him want to rip that grinning face right off its skull. He contented himself with shrugging and drinking some more fruit juice.

  “I may have inadvertently offended you, I see,” the Tah-Leen said. “For that, I apologize. You are brave and strong, qualities I admire. It is a pity you have subsumed your individuality in the name of duty, but I supposed that can’t be helped. I would love to see you in action.”

  “That’s up to my superiors,” Fromm said. He was sure Sec-State would make his company jump through hoops if it helped cinch the deal. Maybe he could run a few simulations somewhere in this oversized space station and impress the local yokels. The decadent, clearly bored and jaded local yokels.

  “That would be delightful. Humans are particularly intriguing. Most species who reach Starfarer status do so as the clients or, in many cases the slaves of an older civilization. Over time, the younger polity may, if it is fortunate enough, inherit some of its master’s possessions and learn its technology before it is destroyed or moves on. That should have been your relationship with your Hrauwah benefactors, except your so-called ‘Puppy’ friends found themselves unable to extend their full protection over you. Left mainly to your own devices, you had to strive for survival. Your struggles have been most impressive. The current one in particular.”

  “I’m sure you’ve seen large-scale wars before.”

  “Oh, having a few of the Great Powers decide that some upstart needs to be stamped out is hardly a rare occurrence. What is rare is that upstart not merely surviving, but inflicting several devastating defeats on said Powers.”

  “We do what we have to,” Fromm said.

  “Precisely! You would be surprised how many entities lack the fortitude to carry on in the face of adversity. Or to keep pushing forward, even after it seems pointless, hopeless, or both. My people once had that drive. Even to the unfortunate point where our individual desires were set aside for the ‘greater good,’ one of those nebulous concepts that usually mean whatever serves the interests of the few at the expense of the many. But I have to admit, we accomplished a great deal before we embraced the joys of personal fulfilment.”

  “We used to be like that,” Fromm said. “Before First Contact, a lot of places had reached a point where you could stop caring about anything but yourself. After half our people were slaughtered, that sort of attitude sort of fell by the wayside.”

  “Yes. All of you had to make sacrifices. But perhaps you will learn something from us during your stay, something about the true value – or lack thereof – of such sacrifices.”

  “Maybe we will.”

  Fromm noticed a few of the Tah-Leen had stripped off and were going at it like so many farm animals in heat. Fromm didn’t think of himself as a prude, but the sight pissed him off. Their ‘hosts’ were playing at being human, and screwing in public felt like mockery.

  “Do you wish to partake? I’m sure many of us would be honored to become intimate with you.”

  “Regardless of which version of me you prefer,” said a scantily-clad woman who joined the conversation. Long blonde hair, Asian features and complexion, wearing about six squares inches of leather and lace, strategically arranged. “You can call me Henrietta,” she said. “I am another extension of…”

  “… myself,” Henry finished for her. “Why stick to a single body, or identity, at a time, when you can transcend such limitations? You could say I contain multitudes. And they all would love to know you better.” Both Henrys smiled promisingly at him.

  This was getting downright fucked up.

  “I’m sorry, but I have orders,” he said. “We are not allowed to fraternize.”

  “Yet another needless sacrifice,” Henrietta said. “Perhaps we will be able to change your minds later.”

  He shrugged again. The damn aliens weren’t interested in doing business. This was all some sort of game to them. And he was sure the game was just beginning.

  * * *

  “Still happy you’re not an officer, Gramps?” Gonzo asked. “Being a grunt means getting stuck on duty while the bosses get to go out and party.”

  “Don’t think they’re having much fun over there,” ‘Grampa’ Gorski said. “The Snowflakes are acting weird, and weird usually means bad, doesn’t it?”

  “Usually does, when it comes to Echo Tangos,” Russell agreed. “You never know what’s going to set them off. And we’re right smack inside their turf. Betcha those ’rats, remfies and bosses are all walking on eggshells.”

  “Looks like a good time,” Gonzo said.

  They were watching the feed from the Security Detail, which the Marines could access in case something came up and they had to invade the starbase. Bit of a tall order for a company of Devil Dogs, but you went where they sent you.

  “The tangos wearing human skins look like they’re having a good time, sure. Don’t mean nothing, though. They’re Eets. Just ‘cause they’re playing at being humans don’t mean they are enjoying themselves.”

  “Why do it, then?” That was Grampa, who’d spent all his life on Earth; everything he knew about aliens was second-hand. “What’s the point of any of that stuff? If they can build something this big, and change bodies like we change socks, they don’t need anything from us.”


  “No idea. You’re thinking like a human, though. Like a normal human at that. What makes sense to them may be shithouse-rat crazy to us. Word is lots of ships go missing around this warp junction. Maybe the Snowflakes like eating other Eets. Which means we’re next in the menu.”

  Gonzo chuckled. “Eets for eats.”

  “You busy, fuggheads?” Sergeant Fuller’s voice came through the squad’s channel.

  “Just standing watch as ordered, Sergeant.”

  “Good. Watch the main door. We’re opening it to let a passenger out.”

  “Copy that.”

  “Guess somebody missed the party,” Gonzo said through the private channel. The fireteam was on watch right by the dock’s entrance, just in case the tangos decided to play pirate. Waste of time, but you could say that about most everything you did in the Corps when you weren’t busy shooting stuff or training to shoot stuff.

  The inner airlock doors, which were big enough to pass a truck, slid open, revealing one civilian flanked by two bubblehead masters at arms. The civvie looked like shit, despite the expensive suit he was wearing. For one, his real age was showing, and he must be about as old as Grampa. Wrinkles, sparse white hair, eyes sunken into his skull; from the way skin hung loosely from his bones, guy had been on short rations for a while. It took Russell a while to recognize him while he and his team let the bubbleheads and their charge through.

  “Holy shit,” he subvocalized via imp. “That’s the Ambassador. What’s left of him.”

  “What Ambassador?” Grampa asked.

  “Jasper-Five. The remfie that almost left us hanging.”

  “What did they do to him? I’ve seen three-day old corpses that looked better than that.”

  “Forced labor on Venus.”

  “That’s rough.”

  The outer doors opened. An alien in human form was waiting for the former ambassador. She – it – looked like a hot chick. Russell wondered if they’d get any liberty at this port. These tangos were hot to trot, and unlike other Eets Russell had been with, they looked mighty fine. Not to say all aliens were repulsive, but the old saw that there were always five things wrong with every other species you met, one for every sense, was true more often than not. That had never stopped him before, of course. Any docking slot’s good when you’re horny, that was his motto. But it’d be nice to make it with an alien that looked just like a human, and a human supermodel at that.

  The remfie and the alien walked off and the bubbleheads came back aboard. The airlock doors closed behind them.

  “That’s one lucky bastard,” Gonzo said.

  “Count no man lucky until he’s dead,” Grampa replied.

  * * *

  Javier Fitzpatrick Llewellyn had too many grievances to count. But perhaps Providence had found a way for him to repay some old debts.

  “Please come with me, Ambassador,” the gorgeous extraterrestrial said, her welcoming smile the first friendly expression Javier had seen in many months.

  Ever since his undeserved fall from grace, the only grins he’d seen had been in the faces of people about to do something despicable to him. Like the first time he’d spoken to his shift supervisor at the tunneling operation in Venus. All he’d done was offer his skills as an engineer, for God’s sake! Granted, he’d never been much of an engineer, but he’d made it through school, even if he’d needed a bit of help along the way. He still had his certifications. If he was to spend any time in that unbearable hellhole, he should at least do it in the relative comfort that someone with his accomplishments deserved.

  At first, he’d thought the foreman’s smile had been friendly. He’d only found out just how wrong he’d been after his second straight shift without a break, sweating copiously inside a hardsuit with its life support settings locked in at the bare minimum that would keep him alive. That had been his first day on the job. First of five hundred and seventy-nine, each a little worse than the last.

  The woman reached out to place a soft hand on his shoulder, but stopped when Javier involuntarily cringed before she touched him. Getting beaten up regularly had a way of doing that to a man.

  “You poor thing!” she said, and the sympathetic tone in her voice almost made him burst into tears. “What did they do to you?”

  “Scapegoat,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion. “They needed a scapegoat for their failures. I only did what was best under the circumstances.” It was as if a dam had burst inside him. “They lied about me! First those filthy primitives in Kirosha made me watch… horrible… gruesome, barbaric things, and I did what any red-blooded American would, I told them in no uncertain terms those things were unacceptable. I… I…”

  She stopped and took him in her arms. The woman was taller, and for a moment he felt like a child, held by one of his many nannies – Mother had usually been too busy – and thus safe. Safe for the first time in what felt like an eternity. Javier couldn’t hold back the tears.

  “Hush, darling,” the woman said, stroking his hair. “I am the Priestess, and I will tend to your needs. And eventually, you will tend to mine. Yes, go ahead, let it all out.”

  He sobbed like a child. “Then, then, I tried to save everyone’s lives. Everyone! Except for a few war criminals. That’s all the Kirosha wanted, a few war criminals to punish. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

  “From our perspective, most of your people are criminals,” the Priestess said. “Killers and exploiters without pity. They take what doesn’t belong to them. Worst of all, they didn’t value your uniqueness, did they? They couldn’t stand that you didn’t want to measure up to their toxic, violent impulses. They rejected your individuality.”

  “Yes.” A sudden thought occurred to him. “I want to ask for asylum. I am a political refugee!”

  Most Starfarers didn’t even have a word for political asylum, and refugees were welcome only if they could pay for the privilege or were useful in some other way; otherwise they would be lucky to be enslaved instead of being killed out of hand. But an ancient civilization like this would surely be more enlightened and merciful. And hopefully they would not blame him for the sins of his morally-wretched country and species.

  “My dear Javier, do not worry about such things,” the Priestess said. Her smile became positively dazzling. “You will never have to worry about your fellow Americans again.”

  “Thank you. Thank you so much.” He almost started crying again.

  “I will take you somewhere nice and quiet, and we’ll talk. I want to know everything. Especially about the people who were at Kirosha with you, the Marines most of all.”

  “Of course. Anything you want.”

  There was a glint in her eyes that would have been a little disquieting if he’d been more alert. He just was glad he could make her look so happy.

  Seven

  Heather McClintock was beginning to believe you could be literally bored to death.

  “Your entertainment productions are truly wonderful, by the way,” said the Snowflake who’d been glued to her side for nearly an hour. This would be the third subject he’d explored well past any desire she had to pursue it.

  “They have a vitality and a delight in simple melodrama that most cultures in the galaxy find too pedestrian for their tastes,” the alien added. “The arts among most civilizations are meant to be savored only by those who are learned enough to appreciate their nuances. This has the unfortunate side effect of making them incomprehensible to outsiders and even most of their working classes, and an absolute bore even if you can understand what is going on. Movies like 33 Days in Kirosha have a simple directness, a natural savagery if you will, that us decadents have sadly lost. They remind us of the basic joys of survival, or fighting for one’s life, joys we have all but forgotten.”

  “It’s not all that joyful when you do it in real life,” she said.

  “I suppose not. You didn’t play a large role in said struggle, if I remember correctly. I’m sure it was a terrifying ordeal, being surrounded by barbar
ians and knowing that any moment they might break through and murder you, perhaps after defiling your still living body!”

  And I can see that the mere mention of defiling someone has gotten you worked up. Or rather, even more worked up than you already were.

  In between the interminable speeches, the alien – dressed like an Egyptian pharaoh – had made no less than three passes at her, with decreasing subtlety each time. At that rate, his next move would be to hump her leg with his ornate mini-skirt-covered crotch.

  “Ramses, listen…” she began to say when her imp ringtone went off.

  Unknown Caller.

  Her imp should have been able to provide her with the source of any incoming message, unless it came from a highly-secure system, the kind only a heavy-duty spook would have, and as far she knew there were only two of those in the diplomatic party. The Unknown Caller must be one of their alien hosts.

  She answered it while pretended to listen to Ramses. Luckily another Tah-Leen joined in, this one wearing a pink feathered boa over a Waffen SS uniform. The uniform looked fairly accurate except for the high-heeled ruby slippers on the Snowflake’s feet. The two aliens started an animated conversation about the Kirosha movie, and Heather figured they would be happy enough if she merely smiled and nodded while she answered the call.

  The male face that appeared on the visual display was also human, and rather ordinary-looking. He was dressed in a conservative business suit, in sharp contrast to the outlandish outfits all the other Tah-Leen were wearing.

  “Heather McClintock,” the man said. “First of all, let me assure you that this call is completely secure, both from your people and my own. In fact, no records of it will remain in your system. Security is of paramount importance in this matter.”

  “I see,” Heather subvocalized through her vacuous smile. Holding two conversations at once was going to be a chore, even if one of them consisted mostly of pretending to listen and politely keeping two aliens from groping her.