Orphan Brigade

by Henry V. O'Neil

  “That was Captain Follett, the battalion supply officer.” Major Hatton sighed loudly. “He worries a lot.”

  “Yeah, but he always comes through. Remember when the Sims had us surrounded at Airhead Juno?” The adjutant was obviously trying to lighten the conversation, and turned his eyes to Mortas. “No normal resupply could come in, so Follett packs a company-­sized personnel ring with everything you could think of and has them drop this narrow-­beam cofferdam right in the center of the airhead.”

  Cofferdams were miles-­long high-­energy cylinders directed from orbiting ships straight to a planet’s surface. They were used to deliver troops and equipment directly to the ground, and personnel coasted down the cofferdam in giant wheel-­shaped carriers that hugged the sides of the vast tunnel. Because of their vulnerability, cofferdams were not generally used where they could be fired on.

  Another of the staff officers joined in. “That was so crazy. The Sims shot the shit outta that thing. Directed every piece of ordnance they had at this giant doughnut as it slid down. That’s what the men called it: the Doughnut Resupply.”

  Hatton was laughing out loud. “You don’t know the half of it. I was waiting for the thing to land, so all the debris was raining down on me and the breakdown party. Giant chunks of metal, crates of rations, you name it, most of it on fire. Never knew I could run that fast while looking straight up at the sky.”

  The adjutant recovered some of his composure. “But here’s the good part: the Sims saw that it was a company-­sized ring and figured it was an emergency attempt to put reinforcements into the airhead. Now we’d been hookin’ and jabbin’ with them for days, but really hadn’t taken major casualties. The Sims thought we must be really hurting for bodies, so they attacked all along the perimeter.

  “It was incredible. We were mowing them down with direct fire, and the ASSLs brought in everything from orbital rockets to drone gunships.” Mortas recognized the acronym for Aerial Support Systems Liaison, members of the Force air wing who traveled with the infantry and coordinated supporting fires. “We slaughtered them, then Colonel Watt comes up on the radio and just says, ‘Stretch your legs, guys’ and the whole perimeter jumps up and goes after the Sims. We chased them for miles, then new cofferdams came down with two mech brigades, and we got relieved.”

  Hatton shook his head at the memory. “Follett comes down with them, and I’m standing there wrapping a bandage around Martin’s head—­you guys remember Martin—­because he got clocked by a can of peaches or something. And Follett’s asking me how the resupply went.”

  Late in the afternoon, Mortas got to watch his platoon come back from the rifle range. His head spinning from all the ­people he’d met and the different advice and requirements they’d laid out for him, he’d gone back out onto the athletic fields behind the barracks. A row of chest-­high wooden platforms dotted the far side of the open area, and he’d climbed up on one of them. Normally used by instructors directing physical training, the stands were a common fixture on Force bases and he’d found them comfortable places for thinking in the past.

  The air was still warm, but life around the brigade area had picked up speed while he’d been in-­processing at B Company. A long column of armored troops carrying various weapons had tramped into view a short time earlier. They were now spread out on the grass near A Company’s barracks, cleaning their weapons. Ground mats had been laid out so that the men could sit together in loose groups, and various company leaders could be seen circulating among them.

  In the distance, a flight of shuttles slid across the reddening sky. Here and there, pairs and trios of soldiers would come into sight from behind different buildings, headed for the barracks at what was presumably the end of their duty day.

  Mortas folded his long legs and rested his wrists on his knees, palm up, in a relaxation pose he’d learned in a meditation course at university. He’d signed up for the class because it was reputed to have a high percentage of female attendees, and although that had been true, he’d been surprised to have learned something useful. Straightening his back and relaxing his shoulders, he looked out from under the bill of his soft cap, taking it all in.

  He’d finally met his boss, Captain Noonan, after signing in at B Company’s orderly room. Noonan had seemed distant in their meeting, and Mortas came away from the interview wondering if the man’s coolness arose from concern over his lack of combat experience or his father’s high position.

  The company’s most senior NCO, First Sergeant Ettleman, had been friendlier. Bald and heavyset, he had the air of a man without a care in the world. Following his in-­briefing with Captain Noonan, Mortas had been treated to a cup of coffee in the first sergeant’s office. Ettleman had gently explained that the commanding officer was still establishing himself with the Orphans and that Mortas shouldn’t attach any significance to his demeanor. He’d then gone on to praise the platoon sergeant that Mortas would be inheriting, a senior sergeant named Berland who’d been in charge of B Company’s First Platoon since the wounding of its last platoon leader.

  Like most of the platoons in the brigade, First Platoon had been understrength when they’d deployed to their latest mission, the search-­and-­destroy Major Hatton had described. They’d suffered their share of casualties, and some of the veterans had yet to return from various hospitals. First Platoon had recently received six replacements, of whom four were brand-­new to the war zone, and so Sergeant Berland had taken the platoon to the rifle range that morning.

  Having been informed of the direction from which his troops would return, Mortas became aware of them when they were still far away. A double column of men, bent under the weight of heavy rucksacks, had appeared at a break in the far wood line and slowly moved closer. Soon he was able to distinguish the camouflage fatigues, helmets, head-­and-­shoulder armor, and all the weapons of a standard platoon. He observed the slight bounce of the walking infantry, the easy stride that chewed up the miles, and noted with approval that the troops were spread out with good spacing between them. The long Scorpion rifles were held at the ready, here and there he detected the larger silhouettes of the platoon’s machine guns, and finally he saw the large-­bored rocket launchers that the gunners carried across their shoulders.

  Obviously his platoon sergeant was conditioning the unit to move on foot with all its equipment, even those items that hadn’t been fired that day. Mortas couldn’t determine which of the platoon NCOs was Berland, but he did identify the internal leadership as they moved up and down the truncated column, giving corrections or encouragement.

  The platoon turned up the road that ran alongside the playing fields, allowing him to see them in profile. Some were hunched over under the loads and some stood tall. Some were hustling along at an almost feverish clip while others were sauntering as if they could go forever. Watching them, Mortas felt a twinge in his stomach, a feeling he didn’t quite understand. For an instant he saw a different column, a long double file of the enemy, trudging along as they walked toward the Sim base where he and the others had stolen the spacecraft that had finally gotten them off of Roanum.

  Roanum. How odd, to be thinking of the unnamed planet by its new name. The name of one of the ­people who’d been with him on that march, pretending to be Sims. The name of a dead man. That thought helped Mortas to identify the twinge, and he recognized it as doubt. Not doubt of his own abilities or his genuine desire to lead his troops well, but the ugly concern about events that were beyond his control. Events like the ones that had killed Cranther, Gorman, and even the alien pretending to be Trent. He’d been powerless to stop them, and he alone had been spared.

  The platoon turned onto the grass in front of the row of barracks, and he wondered how his new troops felt about his having survived. He’d been marooned with three Forcemembers, yet he was the only one still living. Apparently his report (or, rather, the slightly doctored version where he was the hero) had been rea
d by just about everyone in the brigade, and so hopefully these men would be able to see that he’d done his best. That he and the three strangers had become a solid unit and that they had all risked their lives for each other at different times.

  Mortas saw the first sergeant’s wide form emerging from B Company’s barracks, and he watched the man approach the platoon. The troops were easing their burdens to the grass, and some had begun to shake out ground coverings like the ones being used by the nearby A Company men. First Sergeant Ettleman conferred with one of the soldiers, and Mortas decided this was his platoon sergeant. He’d just unfolded his legs and hopped down from the platform when Ettleman pointed in his direction, and the other man started walking toward him.

  The NCO had already shed his armor and helmet, and now shook out a soft cap which he adjusted as he approached. Just under average height but barrel-­chested, his fatigues were so faded that the greens, blacks, and browns of its camouflage pattern all seemed to blend together. Mortas walked toward him, and the NCO saluted when he was a few yards away.

  “Good afternoon, sir. I’m Sergeant Berland. I’ll be your platoon sergeant.” Mortas had already returned the salute, and the older man shook his hand. He was indeed older; his black hair showed gray in front of his ears, and his forehead was creased with wrinkles. His eyes were green, but it was hard to tell because they seemed permanently set into slits.

  “It’s good to meet you.” Like most new infantry lieutenants, Mortas had imagined this meeting many times. The first interaction with the seasoned NCO who was to be his mentor while also serving as his subordinate. Words failed him, and he lamely asked, “How’d it go at the range?”

  Berland turned to look at the platoon, where the men had settled into cleaning the weapons. Most of them had positioned themselves to be able to see their new platoon leader, which brought back Mortas’s concerns about how they’d judged his performance on Roanum.

  “Aw, today was just marksmanship training. Nothing elaborate. We’ve got six new men, and only two of them are veterans, so I wanted to see if they could hit anything. They did all right, and it never hurts to get the experienced men out there either.”

  “I understand we’re still waiting for a few men to come back?”

  “Yes, sir. Five hospital cases, all expected to return.” He gave his new officer an appraising look. “Some of the older guys have a little difficulty finding their way home.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  His answer seemed to please the platoon sergeant, who gave him a slight smile. “To tell the truth, sir, I’m a little surprised you got out here as fast as you did. That was quite an experience you had.”

  Mortas sensed that this was a test, perhaps related to his status as Olech Mortas’s son. “It wasn’t easy, but it was only a few days. I learned a lot, I can say that.”

  “I bet you did.” Berland nodded slightly, the narrow eyes unreadable. “Well don’t worry about a thing, sir. I’ve been all over this war, and this brigade is the best I’ve seen. The platoon’s loaded with guys who know what they’re doing, and most of them have been together a long time.”

  “I’m looking forward to this.” The words came out unplanned, and he was struck by how much he meant them. How long he had meant them. “So. Should I meet the men?”

  Berland considered his response, seemed to change it, then went ahead anyway. “There is one question the troops wanted me to ask you, sir. I hope you don’t mind.”

  And here it was. The question, and so many ways to ask it. How come you’re alive, and the other three are dead? Are you a dumb-­shit rich kid who’s going to get us all killed? Why should we trust you with our lives?

  “Go ahead.”

  Berland actually looked left and right, even though they were alone. Mortas glanced across the field, toward the platoon. Some seated, some standing, all of them appearing busy, but he imagined them trying to hear what was being said, even from that distance.

  “There was this rumor . . . nothing official. Me, I don’t care, but some of the men were curious.” The platoon sergeant leaned in and lowered his voice. “Is it true you fucked the alien?”

  Mortas felt his eyes blinking rapidly, and he made them stop. He felt a sensation akin to vertigo, something he normally associated with having narrowly missed major injury solely by chance.

  Berland’s eyes widened, waiting, and his mind raced. The answer was important; after all, this was the one question his troops had decided to ask their new lieutenant. For an instant he saw Trent as he had known her, annoying at first but unquestionably intelligent, then growing in his estimation until he would have gladly died for her. And yet he knew the right answer, from having spent so much of his life in the rough-­and-­tumble of prep school and university sports. A male world with its own expectations.

  The right answer was a lie in this case, and it would have been a betrayal if that thing had actually been Amelia Trent.

  But she—­it—­wasn’t. In the end, the thing itself had been the ultimate betrayal. Mortas was surprised to realize he owed it nothing.

  He cleared his throat, looked left and right in imitation of Berland, then spoke in a hiss. “Yes.”

  Berland’s head jerked back in mock surprise. An instant later a grin spread across his face, and he nodded appreciatively.

  “Aw-­right. I’ve had a lot of lieutenants over the years, and all the good ones were sick, sick individuals.” He wagged a playful finger at him. “You might be the best one yet.”

  He turned, and for the first time Mortas noted that many of the troops over by A Company were observing him and Berland closely. The platoon sergeant ignored them, taking a step away from Mortas and staring at First Platoon. A meaty arm came up, and he extended his thumb in the air.

  The response was electric. The members of the platoon came to their feet, hooting and hollering like spectators at a sporting event. Then they were clapping loudly, drowning out shouted comments that were clearly approval. A moment later several of them were calling over to the A Company troops, words of pride and derision passed between soldiers in different units from time immemorial. Some of the A Company men waved dismissive hands at the B Company troops, but a few of them briefly joined in the applause and Mortas saw more than one thumbs-­up.

  Berland tilted his head in Mortas’s direction, smiling broadly at the applauding First Platoon. “Welcome to the Orphans, sir.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Ayliss’s mind never seemed to completely shut down during the Step. Though heavily sedated for the voyage like any other passenger, she always emerged from the experience half-­believing she’d been awake the whole way. Experts had assured her that those memories were only dreams—­and that the dreams had been of brief duration—­but she remembered them with great clarity and suspected they had gone on for a very long time.

  Mankind’s greatest achievement required her to be unconscious and sealed within a protective chamber inside the craft that would take her across the generated Threshold. As Olech Mortas’s daughter and a representative of the Veterans Auxiliary, Ayliss always traveled in comfort, and so her sleep compartment was both spacious and luxurious. When strapped into its cushioned seat, she could just reach the chamber’s low walls and the heavy bubble that was the cubicle’s lid. The soldiers she’d interviewed had described the claustrophobia of the transit tubes in which they were forced to make the Step, saying they were so much like caskets that the transports were known as coffin ships.

  The Step could reduce enormous space voyages from decades to days, and in this case—­the trip from Earth to Broda—­to mere hours. Even so, Ayliss routinely experienced a sensation akin to having been asleep for only minutes before shifting into semiconsciousness. As usual, she now became aware in some part of her brain that she was asleep in the bright compartment. The drugs kept her calm, but the constant activity of her intellect raced throug
h thoughts and memories the same way her body was racing through the cosmos.

  A picture formed around her, figures looming because she was only six. The ribbons from a black bonnet had been tied too tightly beneath her chin, but minders on either side held her hands and kept her from loosening it. Looking down, she saw the hated black dress that she’d torn to shreds many hours later and the black shoes that she’d thrown from her bedroom window.

  It was a familiar dream, if a dream it was, and Ayliss could sometimes direct her actions in it. She usually made her little-­girl self look over her shoulder, trying to see Jan, but she never accomplished it and often wondered why. He had been there, one year younger, and weeping not far behind her.

  The minders shuffled forward slowly, mastodons in a black-­draped herd, heads down and pulling her with them. Ayliss was unable to see anything except the dark trousers and skirts of the ­people in front of her, some of them in uniforms that she recognized from her father’s office.

  Father. Without her bidding, the girl in the bonnet began turning her head from side to side, becoming agitated, trying to see the only parent she had left. Astounded that he wasn’t right there, where he should be, with her and Jan now that they no longer had a mother. Fighting the hands now, trying to break free and being told to stop it, that everything was going to be all right.

  The legs in front of her finally gone, able to see now, and then not wanting to. The flower-­encircled bier, a tripod with a photo of Father and Mother on their wedding day, and what looked like a short set of carpeted stairs. She’d stepped right up onto them, and been startled when she hardly recognized the face of Mother. Motionless, but not asleep. Heavy makeup, something Ayliss didn’t recognize because Mother never wore any, the face so thin, much smaller than the last time Ayliss had seen her, only a few days before.