by Richard Fox
“Yes, sir,” Hoffman said.
“Fair enough. Corporal Adams was transferred to Ulysses Tholis crater on Mars. Orders signed by the commandant himself.”
"Mars, sir? Can’t say I’m familiar with every last spot.”
“Let’s keep the ‘sir’ calling under control when away from troops and civilians,” Fallon said, exhaling smoke. “Speeds up talk. As for Tholis, I’d never heard of it either. I’m not a fan of not knowing, so I looked into it. Wish I hadn't—the intel boys slapped me on the pee-pee pretty hard."
"That's…odd,” Hoffman said, pondering the information. “We’re already cleared for black ops.”
"Intel weenies call it ‘sensitive compartmentalized information’ for a reason. Just because you’re cleared for one info stovepipe don’t mean you’re cleared for all of them. There's more."
Hoffman waited, hoping to learn more about this mission and why it was so important.
"There's been mass personnel transfer from across the military," Fallon said. "I'm pretty sure at least some of my problems on Syracuse came from that shit show. I've been in a long time, and I've seen my share of disorganization and suffered under the command of staff officers with no clue as to what type of personnel we need in the field. But this is different. The sheer scope of the transfers is stunning. No rhyme or reason. And they all went to that crater.”
Hoffman grappled with the new information but didn't have an explanation. He wasn't about to float his own conspiracy theories in front of the senior Marine.
Fallon continued. “I’ve got a contact on the Mars orbital watch. He sent me this." He reached into a pocket and pulled out a photograph. Hoffman took the picture, feeling like he was in a museum as he held the obsolete bit of technology, wondering why the colonel didn’t just use his tablet.
The picture showed a cracked dome fit over a crater on the red planet.
"It looks abandoned,” Hoffman said. “How recent is this?”
Fallon nodded. “Days old. That's all I've got."
"Then where’s Adams? Why ship people from all over the Union to this spot then abandon it?" Hoffman wasn’t sure if these revelations were better than having no information. The colonel’s demeanor wasn’t reassuring.
“Like I said, that's all I have. And getting that out of Mars was a feat in and of itself. Planet’s locked down tighter than proper ladies in a port when a ship pulls in for liberty. Adams is your Marine. I respect you trying to keep up on her, but I don't know what to tell you." He motioned them toward a ground car and waited for them to get in, then went to the driver’s side and got behind the wheel.
"We’re taking this car? It has a tailpipe. It’s not even electric. They drive antiques on Eridu?"
The colonel chewed on his cigar and started the vehicle. As the engine turned over and the pistons rumbled, Hoffman felt like he was in an old movie.
"Yep."
"Why?" Hoffman flinched at his familiar tone and added, “Sir.”
“I’ll let that one go, but control yourself. I work for a living. ‘Sir’ me again, I’ll cancel your block leave.”
“My team’s getting block leave?”
“No. Life is suffering, Hoffman. Ancient Buddhist saying.”
“Yes…uh, Colonel. Why are we taking this old ground car?”
"It beats walking," Fallon said, trying three times to get the car in gear.
“Is it supposed to make that grinding noise?” Steuben asked.
Fallon jammed the stick shift forward, flexing the muscles in his forearm, grunting in satisfaction as he finally rammed it home. “I’d never driven a stick before last week. Give me a break.”
He pulled shakily away from the curb, the vehicle lurching twice.
"Why start now?” Hoffman asked, grabbing the safety handle on the side door with one hand.
"I wouldn't have to do this myself if all the kids hadn’t been evacuated off world. They like driving these things. Eridu is red space…high chance of Kesaht attack. Most noncombatants are gone. The rest are still here because of what I'm about to show you.”
Hoffman shook his head. “Sir, what does that have to do with ground cars and unnecessary combat drops?”
“The Beast keeps us from using the city's auto-drive network. It generates an energy field around it that indiscriminately shuts down electronics. Flying over the city results in flying into the ground.”
“A beast does all this? It doesn’t seem like something an animal could manage—or would even be concerned about. You’re telling me this creature has somehow set out to strategically sabotage the auto-drive network?"
Fallon bounced the car off a curb, then overcorrected. It was a slight movement, but compared to auto-drive maneuvers, it seemed like they were on a roller coaster. "You'll see."
"If we get there alive," Steuben said.
Colonel Fallon drove along hastily constructed fences topped with razor wire that looked like prison walls. The heavy-duty chain link and coils of sharpened death on top of it gleamed in the dying sunset.
"Those won’t hold back the Kesaht,” Hoffman said. He was surprised the colonel who had fought the Kesaht so fiercely on Syracuse would tolerate such poor defenses.
"That's not for them; that's for the Beast. Quick fix. Hasn’t been tested yet but makes people feel better.”
Chapter 10
Gunney King respected quartermasters. That didn’t mean he liked them or enjoyed their company.
“Say again?” he asked, his right hand on the verge of forming a knife shape.
The quartermaster stood like an oak tree, hands clasped behind his back. "Is this what Strike Marines do these days? Question orders? Let me see if I expressed the wishes of Colonel Fallon accurately.” He looked at a clipboard. “Yep, that's what I thought I said. You must remove all Mark 9 power armor and pack it in these crates. The same with gauss weapons and all other gear."
"I'm not a big fan of fighting naked. The lieutenant can pull off a leather thong, but the rest of us are mere mortals," Garrison said. “Just because I’m a powerlifter doesn’t mean my muscles are bulletproof.”
“You’re a dork,” Booker muttered.
“Hostile work environment,” Garrison shot back.
One of the quartermaster's assistants rolled in a table stacked with neatly folded combat fatigues. Boots lined the lower rack and backpacks, belts, and gloves were assembled in the assigned gear in a grayish-tan camouflage pattern.
King resisted the powerful urge to go toe-to-toe with the quartermaster. They were equivalent rank, but the man had the home-court advantage and the legitimacy of being right. Orders were orders.
“You heard the man. Let’s get it done, team.” He removed his armor and catalogued every piece of gear down to the contents of the last utility pouch, then did the same with his weapons, packing each neatly into the crates. It felt like he was going on a long trip or perhaps retiring from service.
“Please use the insulation and cushioning layer,” the quartermaster said. “They’re prefabricated but can be modified to fit the small idiosyncrasies of your individual load-outs. I don’t want your stuff getting banged up if we have to ship it through the pneumatic tube network.”
“The pneumonia what?” Garrison asked. “Speak English. I don’t have my language translator anymore.”
“An embarrassing, stupid dork,” Booker said. “Please stop talking.”
The quartermaster, unfazed by the exchange, stepped toward a wall and aimed a knife hand at a thick network of insulated pipes on the ceiling. “Weird tech from the first colonists. They brought it from some alien planet. It works. We don’t complain.”
“I bet Gor’al would fit in one,” Garrison said.
“I am—how do Marines say it—game. Down with it. Good to go. Opal, lift me into the tube,” the Dotari said.
“That’s enough,” King said. “Don’t put him in there.”
The quartermaster, his face growing redder by the second, locked his hands behind h
is back and stood at modified parade rest. “Some junior Marines tried it and lived. Though after the colonel got wind of the stunt, they wished they’d suffocated.”
Garrison patted the quartermaster on the shoulder. “But we’re Strike Marines. We’d turn it into a rollercoaster of fun.”
The quartermaster looked at Garrison like he’d grown three heads.
King knew he should dress the breacher down but decided to let it pass.
“So…” Garrison said to the quartermaster, “we getting new stuff? Maybe some special, cutting-edge prototypes that make armor look old school? I’d really like a jet pack and a laser gauntlet if you have one.”
The quartermaster removed Garrison’s hand and stepped back. “You will all be issued new equipment. No jet packs or other toys. Strictly analog.”
Two corporals wheeled in racks full of weapons—simple assault rifles with iron sights and none of the bells and whistles of their gauss rifles. The quartermaster and his crew assigned each of them an assault rifle and a similarly low-tech sidearm.
Duke received an old-style, bolt-action sniper rifle with a lensed scope fixed to it.
"Wow, that's impressive. I haven't seen one of these for a while." Duke picked it up and examined it after doing a series of safety checks, his expert’s touch clear to everyone. "I've always wanted to have one of these old relics for my personal arsenal."
"Wouldn't everyone," the quartermaster said dryly, putting more distance between himself and Garrison. "When you're done with the mission, I’ll have a series of forms you can complete. Should it be approved, it can be shipped to your base of operation."
Duke looked at him. “Why the sour look?"
"You're making a lot of work for me," the quartermaster said.
"That's what we do," Duke said with a big smile.
The quartermaster reached for Ice Claw, Duke's sniper rifle he had carried since Koen, the winter world.
Duke snatched up the weapon and retreated a step, holding it close to his body with his right hand and fending off the quartermaster with his left. "Hold on there, dude. That's a good way to get throat-punched. What makes you think you can touch Ice Claw?"
"I can touch it because you didn't follow instructions. The instructions were to pack it into the crate. If you won’t pack it, then I’ll pack it. Are these orders unclear? Am I speaking a foreign language?” The quartermaster went on without waiting for an answer. "There will be no active electronics on this planet. None on your weapon, none on your communications device, no electronics. Is that one hundred percent clear?"
"Whoa!" Garrison exclaimed. "I'm a breacher! You can’t take ignition boxes. It’s not safe. What about my decryption software? Doors don’t open themselves.”
Max pushed ahead of him. “How exactly do I run comms without electronic hardware? We’re not getting stuck on this godforsaken planet with no way to phone home. You going to issue me a carrier pigeon?”
“Not yet. They’re being trained,” one of the quartermasters said.
Booker looked as though she also had a list of arguments, but she only shook her head and clenched her teeth.
"Listen up, Hammers,” King shouted. “You have your orders. Do I need to reinforce them? We know Colonel Fallon doesn’t play games. Quit gold-bricking and get it together. Improvise. Adapt. Overcome.”
“Oorah,” the team responded grudgingly.
The quartermaster glared at King. “Colonel Fallon saved this colony from anarchy soon as he got on the ground. He knows what the hell he’s doing.”
“Saw him do the same thing on Syracuse,” King said. “But just what we’re supposed to do here with our Karigole friend and gear that looks like it came out of the jungles of Vietnam to help the colonel is still a bit nebulous.”
A tense moment passed. “They didn’t tell you about the Beast?” the quartermaster said in a half whisper.
“The details are fuzzy,” King said.
“I suggest you and your Devil Dogs get familiar with your equipment before nightfall. That’s when the Beast comes for us.” The man looked out the window to the late afternoon sky and swallowed hard.
“Fair enough.” King and the quartermaster nodded unofficial salutes and parted. “Bring it in,” King said to his team.
Sensing his mood, the team gathered around him, new uniforms and rifles clutched in their arms.
"Get your gear on,” King said. “You’re all Strike Marines and you had to earn your power armor by busting your ass in fatigues just like you’ve got now. We’re going to the range to qualify on these weapons.”
“No floating dot optics,” Max said, “no laser designators, no onboard ballistic computers…” He looked over at Duke. “Some of us will struggle.”
“You want to make a bet on that one, sparky?” Duke spat dip into a plastic bottle.
Garrison pulled the bolt back on his new rifle and peered into the breach. "I'm still not sold on this idea—no disrespect, Gunney," Garrison said. “Do these things require actual lubricant?”
“Gun oil,” Booker said. “You make it sound dirty.”
“Like Duke’s girlfriends,” Max said.
“Duke has a girlfriend with dirty oil?” Gor’al asked.
“Hard to explain, Gor. I’ll take you to the Chrome Pole when we get back to Phoenix. It’ll be life-changing,” Duke said, caressing the old sniper rifle.
“I know the colonists here are from some sort of Akkadian background,” Booker said. “But this feels like we’re going to fight a war against the Society of Creative Anachronism.”
“Armor are the ones with the swords, not Strike Marines,” Max said.
“I thought those were ceremonial,” Gor’al said, “then I saw my own people’s armor fighting the Kesaht.” His quills bristled slightly. “I would rather be shot than stabbed. I attribute this to a genetic fear of being eaten.”
“Guess humans and Dotari aren’t all that different,” Duke said.
"Yeah, might as well be throwing rocks.” Garrison shook his head woefully. "I mean, iron sights, really?"
“It's funny you mention that. Everyone get ready for some range time. We’ll start qualifications like you’re raw recruits—just to be sure we don’t have any hidden deficiencies,” King said.
Duke held up a bullet and sniffed it. "This has a chemical propellant. We’re living history now.”
Gor’al was even more mystified than the Strike Marines. “At least you have had basic familiarization training with these crude things.” He locked back the slide to his assault rifle and snapped his finger in the breach. "I am not understanding how this works."
“We’ll walk you through it," King said. “Maybe they’ve got equipment for dime and washer drills.”
****
Hoffman and Steuben followed Colonel Fallon into the command center. The entrance was framed by a blast door. Farther inside were another set of doors to underground bunkers.
“Are we expecting an air raid?" Hoffman asked, doing a double take as a man with an intricately braided beard that hung down to the center of his chest walked past them.
Fallon shook his head. “No, it’s worse than that. We started moving into the bunkers a few days ago. Takes time. A lot of our gear wasn’t made to be moved and a lot of people are resisting the idea of locking themselves underground. Every time the Beast rips up a building, the locals see more wisdom in my plan, but it’s a work in progress. We’ll keep operations above ground for now.”
Fallon led them through a hallway to the main room, returning salutes as he passed guards and other military personnel.
In the center of the command room was a scale model of the city. Although the detail was impressive, it seemed clunky compared to holographic briefing tables and high-resolution flat screens Hoffman was accustomed to.
“What’s that smell? It’s masking every other scent,” Steuben asked, tilting his head back and flaring his nostrils.
“Lavender candles. Yarrow’s wife and a few of the othe
r women claim it has a calming effect.” Fallon shrugged. “And we need the light. Torches build up too much smoke.”
As they walked, Steuben leaned close to Hoffman and said, "Despite the lavender abomination, I can still smell the fear in the room."
Hoffman nodded in agreement.
Fallon spoke with several of his personnel and then aimed a knife hand at a man facing away from them. "This is Yarrow, my second-in-command. His predecessor…died unexpectedly.”
“I think you have the chain of command backward. I’m the colony chief now, remember?” the man said as he turned around. He had medical corps insignia on his shoulders and a nonregulation goatee with beads worked into it. A wry smile spread across his face and he pointed at the Karigole.
Hoffman frowned as he studied the doctor. Something about him was familiar.
The doctor spread his arms out wide and came toward the alien. “Steuben!”
“Yarrow? Did you glue that mass of human crotch-growth to your face?” The Karigole’s eyes went wide as the colony chief gave him a big hug, trying to avoid smashing his face into Steuben’s but failing. They drew back and awkwardly patted each other on the back.
“Same old Steuben,” Yarrow said.
Suddenly, Hoffman realized where he’d seen Yarrow before—the Ember War–era propaganda film, Last Stand on Takeni. This was the same Yarrow that served with Hale on the Breitenfeld.
“You have progressed well beyond adolescence,” Steuben growled pleasantly. “How old are you now? Twelve?”
Yarrow stepped back, stroking his goatee. “I feel my age in my knees and hips. You know how long it took me to grow this? I got sick of my wife’s people thinking I was a woman the first time they met me.”
Hoffman observed the soldiers and civilians in the room, noting their distinctive facial hair. While Yarrow, a man Steuben apparently knew, had a reasonable goatee, the rest of the local personnel had epic braided beards that often ran high onto their cheekbones. No delineation between sideburns and beards existed. He'd seen something like the style in history books but couldn't remember where exactly. His guess was this was a historical or traditional style of Akkadians, the heritage the people of Eridu identified with.
