by W. C. Bauers
Promise glanced at the empty hook on the wall and knew she was going mad.
Sandra cleared her throat. “Correct me if I’m wrong.”
I told them enough … and I didn’t lie. A Marine never lies, but that doesn’t mean I have to tell the whole truth either. I’ve got this.
“For how long?” Sandra asked. “We both know you’re running on damaged cells. What happens when they fail?”
I’ll survive. Promise knew it was a lie. She was as close to lying as she had ever been comfortable with. It’s just a thought. I’m not responsible for every thought that crosses my mind.
How long could she hold it together? The question was unanswerable. Promise had started seeing visions of her deceased mother shortly after her father’s murder, just before she’d enlisted in the Republic of Aligned Worlds Marine Corps. Raiders had hit her birth world, Montana. Her father’s pacifism had gotten him killed. She’d been too young, too inexperienced, too far away, and too frightened to help him. She’d tried to outrun the pain ever since. How’s that working out for you, P? She never knew when her dearly departed mother would appear and read her like a well-worn book, but it was always at the most inconvenient of times.
Look, I need to get in my morning run. If I swear I’ll talk with someone will you let it go?
“Yes.”
Good. Talk later.
Promise turned away from the mirror and opened a drawer on the opposite wall. She selected a fresh pair of skivvies, and her PT uniform. After dressing, she removed the two polished onyx bars of a first lieutenant from the small box in the corner of the drawer, and pinned one to each side of her collar. When she turned back around she nearly jumped out of her skin.
“I love you, munchkin, you know that, right?”
“Yeah, I know,” Promise said aloud. And you know I hate being called that. I’m tired of telling you because it never makes any difference. She heard her mother’s laughter echoing in her mind, and then Sandra was gone. Promise couldn’t help smiling, and she shook her head. “Don’t stop laughing” was one of her mother’s mantras.
Promise took a deep breath and told herself that the morning could only get better. I’m sure some of my Marines talk to their ancestors too. I know some of my boots pray to them. This isn’t as weird as it seems. I’m doing fine. Right. Promise raked her short-cropped hair. A swipe of gloss completed the battlefield makeover. She grabbed a pair of socks and her boots and headed for the door.
Hold’s rising sun peeked over the horizon as she stepped outside, inhaled the cool morning air kissed with a hint of rain. She reached over and activated her minicomp, which was strapped to her arm above the biceps, flicked to the next screen, and selected a preprogrammed sequence called “Dawn Up”:
One—molded soles for running uneven terrain.
Two—activate Stevie.
Three—send Stevie for the usual: extra-hot caf with cream and sugar, and egg and chorizo roll.
“And turn the music off. I want to hear what I’m running through.”
The soles of her boots morphed for light trail running, the sides with extra support for her ankles. Promise set off at a modest pace and looked left, nodding over her shoulder. “Right on time, Stevie. Stay on me.” Stevie’s humanoid metal carcass dropped back on her six, and settled into a slow hover on a plane of countergrav. It cradled a thermos of extra-hot caf in one hand and a breakfast roll in the other, fresh from the chow hall. Promise’s pulse rifle was slung over its back, the muzzle pointed skyward.
In the next seven and a half minutes, Promise covered two klicks to the Saint Sykes training field, over hills, through a light patch of woods, and past Great-Grans’s house. The RAW-MC’s old lady was actually Lieutenant General Felicia Granby and her house was the RAW’s Central Mobilization Command. CENT-MOBCOM wasn’t much of a house either, just an unpretentious four-story seated on a foundation of one hundred underground levels. Grans was something of a legend in the Corps. She was pushing eighty and hadn’t deployed in over a decade but still rated expert with heavy weps, and she held the record for most orbital insertions by a RAW-MC officer. Two hundred sixty-eight … and counting. Grans was lethal in a mechsuit. Out of mech she owned a near-vertical side kick and twelve grandchildren who didn’t mess around. Eleven were Fleet Forces: eight Marines and three Sailors. The twelfth was the black sheep in the family. Johnny. He’d become a man of the cloth and was now a bishop in the Episcopal Church. The general’s scarred hands had molded the RAW-MC over the last two decades, and more than one boot had assumed the position and taken a wallop in the ass from Lieutenant General Felicia Granby.
Promise sighted the open window in the upper story’s northwest corner—Great-Grans’s office—and Grans’s personal ANDES standing watch below it. Only the truly brave approached the stoic sentinel and made a bet with Great-Grans. Promise slowed to a jog and fast-walked to the ANDES. She raised her sunglasses so the mech could scan her eyes. “Morning, Lieutenant Paen,” said the ANDES in a perfect imitation of Great-Grans, grizzled voice and all. “Want to play Great-Grans says?”
“I’m game,” replied Promise. Grans liked challenges and she liked to hand them out too. If you volunteered to play, Grans came to you on her terms, and it might be tomorrow and it might be a month from now. The record was five years.
“Grans will comm you at her convenience,” the ANDES said.
Right. “Thank you, ma’am,” Promise said, and pulled down her shades. “I’m off to the range.”
As Promise took off, a gravelly voice boomed from the heavens. “Ooh-rah, girly—send one downrange for me.” Promise almost ran off the path and into a patch of basil thornwood. Grans herself had been listening.
Promise arrived at the earthen track feeling at ease, limber, ready to face her Marines. The hulking girth of Gunnery Sergeant Tomas Ramuel crested the hill a moment later. Victor Company was struggling to keep up with the veteran senior noncommissioned officer. And, Promise noticed at once, the gunny looked pissed. Uh-oh.
Ramuel and Victor Company jogged past Promise and circled the field. Her Marines were dressed in PT uniforms with pulse rifles cradled in their arms. All except one. Private Atumbi had forgotten his, again.
Promise’s eyes narrowed and zoomed on the Marine’s face. “Figures.” Why can’t he remember his wep?
* * *
As Victor Company circled back to Promise’s position, the gunny called out his first preparatory command. “Company, double time, march!” The company dropped out of a steady run and into step with the gunny, at a slight jog. A squat Marine fell out of formation and promptly threw up.
* * *
Private Race Atumbi was admiring Private First Class Jupiter Cervantes’s backside when the gunny’s order came, and his reaction time was far too slow to avoid a collision with her. When the company slowed, Atumbi plowed through Cervantes and burst through a platoon of Marines, sending every one of them to the deck.
Cervantes ended up on top of Atumbi. “Don’t get any ideas,” she said as she backhanded him across the mouth.
“Hey, chica! What was that for?”
“For your wandering ojos. Keep your eyes on target and off of me.”
Cervantes stood first, and then offered a grudging hand to Atumbi. Her grip was like a vise, and she kept squeezing until he cried out. “What was that for?” he said, rubbing his hand, which now hurt worse than his throbbing jawline.
“So you don’t forget.” Cervantes looked pleased with herself as she shoved Atumbi forward. He fell in beside the Marines he’d just knocked down, and Cervantes joined him on his right.
“Where did you get a grip like that?” Atumbi asked as they jogged.
“Bion-ics,” she said, and held up her right hand. “I don’t regen. I lost the original in a training accidente.”
Atumbi took a closer look at the skin’s color. It was slightly off but pretty good for synthetics.
Colorful metaphors and insults erupted all around Atumbi as he found h
is place in formation.
“You fool. The gunny’s gonna make us frog-jump around the field.”
“Hey, Atumbi, you make me believe in reincarnation. No one gets so stupid in one lifetime.”
His one-word nickname earned in boot camp—a solitary, cold dismissal—rolled off the lips of the woman who’d caught his eye. “Trip.”
He brushed each aside with the dirt on his PT uniform. Jupiter’s next words knifed the deepest. Cervantes eviscerated his manhood, shot through two magazines without so much as reloading. “Tirar de su cabeza fuera de su asteroide.” His Spanish was north of rusty, but he caught the gist. Because they’d come from her they cut him to the core.
Atumbi’s stomach sank when he realized the gunny had turned around and was marching backward with his eyes on him. They weren’t quite smoldering. Then Ramuel did an about-face and started singing “The Old Lady.”
Here we go again, Atumbi thought.
Three
APRIL 14TH, 92 A.E., STANDARD CALENDAR, 0623 HOURS
REPUBLIC OF ALIGNED WORLDS PLANETARY CAPITAL—HOLD
MARINE CORPS CENTRAL MOBILIZATION COMMAND
Gunnery Sergeant Tomas Ramuel ran astride Victor Company in a sweat-stained shirt and shorts, his pulse lightly elevated. He’d just finished chanting, “Gimme some, gimme some. PT! PT! Good for you and good for me!” It was a legendary cadence in the storied history of the RAW-MC. In fact, the United States Marine Corps from the wet-Navy days, back eight hundred years ago, had sung the cadence too. This reminded Ramuel of the one about Ho Chi Minh and something about crabs and the seven-year itch. He couldn’t remember it all or place the time period it was from, but he was pretty sure that this guy—HCM—had been a real SOB.
From the corner of his eye Ramuel saw a Marine fall out of formation and throw up, which made him smile. Looking over his shoulder, he found two stragglers about a quarter klick behind the rest of the pack. Good, he thought. Still there. Still toughing it out. Still loving the suck. Good, girls and boys. He grunted in satisfaction as he turned around and pounded over the next few meters of caked earth.
Ramuel clicked his tongue as he ticked through his repertoire, until he came to a personal favorite. “The Old Lady.” Oh yeah. Ramuel cleared his throat. “Hmm … la, la, la.” His deep baritone voice bellowed out the first verse. A collective groan rose from Victor Company, and then Victor Company echoed the response, a bit less enthusiastically and a bit more off-key. Back and forth it went, first the gunny and then the unit.
I saw an old lady humping down the street.
I saw an old lady humping down the street.
She wore a gravchute pack and mechboots on her feet.
She wore a gravchute pack and mechboots on her feet.
I said, Hey, Old Lady, where you going to?
I said, Hey, Old Lady, where you going to?
She said, I’m going to the RAW-MC Atmo School.
She said, I’m going to the RAW-MC Atmo School.
I said, Hey, Old Lady, I think you’re too old.
I said, Hey, Old Lady, I think you’re too old.
You’d better leave drops to the young and the bold.
You’d better leave drops to the young and the bold.
She said, Listen, Private Atumbi, I’m talking to you.
She said, Listen, Private Atumbi, I’m talking to you.
I’m a trainer at the RAW-MC Atmo School.
I’m a trainer at the RAW-MC Atmo School.
As the cadence ended, Ramuel barked out, “Company, forward, march!”
Victor Company eased into a brisk walk about fifty meters from Promise’s position, all eyes staring past her. To his credit, the aforementioned Private Atumbi was in sync with the rest of company, mostly, but on the wrong foot.
The right flank overtook Promise, and the gunny called out, “Company, halt!” Ramuel’s voice soared upward on “Pythons, right, face!”
* * *
Promise looked to her left, at Gunnery Sergeant Tomas Ramuel, her de facto second-in-command, and saw a plume of steam rising from between his ears. Ramuel was either overheated or pissed off. Promise was almost positive it was the latter of the two. After the gunny’s “Order arms!” every Marine was supposed to shift his or her rifle to the right side, with the butt of the rifle resting on the ground. Promise counted three boots with their barrels scraping the deck instead of pointed skyward. Then there was Atumbi, who didn’t have a rifle at all.
“Marines need feet to pound ferrocrete.” Promise’s voice carried over the field. “The gunny said order arms, not shoot the jane or jack beside you in the boot. Get it fixed. Now!”
Promise schooled her face to unreadable and began to walk the line. She stopped when she was standing in front of Private Atumbi’s row. Promise motioned for Atumbi to step out of line. But Atumbi’s eyes were locked on the aft compartment of the Marine in front of him, Private First Class Cervantes, and Atumbi had a dumb expression plastered on his face, and empty hands instead of a properly righted pulse rifle.
Promise cleared her throat to get his attention. “Private, I believe you’re missing something.”
Atumbi still wasn’t paying attention.
This is going to be fun, Promise thought. She cast the gunny a look. Shall we?
The gunny nodded back. Yelled, “Atumbi! When the lieutenant speaks, the obligatory response is to listen. When the lieutenant speaks to you the obligatory response is ‘Yes, ma’am.’ When the lieutenant points out your mistake the obligatory response is ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. I screwed the pooch, by the numbers, ma’am!’”
Now the private was looking unnaturally pale, which was odd for a man with skin as black as cinders.
* * *
Private First Class Cervantes matched eyes with Promise and muttered under her breath. “You need to listen better.” Then she looked over her shoulder and shifted her weight slightly. Atumbi’s head suddenly disappeared behind Cervantes’s smaller frame. When he came up for air, his face was pained and his shoulders were hunched forward.
* * *
Promise scowled at Cervantes and raised a finger. Mouthed, That’s one. Then she caught the gunny’s eyes. “Hmmm … one of my Marines is not like the other. Gunny, I believe Private Atumbi forgot something important.”
“We left before sunrise, ma’am. I should have double-checked.”
Cervantes opened her big mouth. “Estúpido imbécil—”
“Enough, Jupiter!” Promise glared at Cervantes and raised another finger. That’s two.
The gunny piped up, growled really. “Cervantes, you don’t want to get to three. Shut your mouth or Atumbi’s fate will be your own.”
“Thank you, Gunny,” Promise said, the full weight of her gaze on Cervantes, who was now looking quite pale too. “All of you. Keep your traps shut.” The words edged out as sharp as a force blade. “I’ll worry about Atumbi. You worry about you. Clear?”
Every boot in Victor Company looked dead ahead. Not a single jane or jack dared speak up and earn three klicks for the trying.
Cervantes nodded and broke contact.
Good, Promise thought, and then back to face Atumbi. Now to fix this mess of a Marine. Atumbi was coated in sweat and dirt and trying very hard not to cry. “Private, you’ve been in the RAW-MC for what, six months now? Let’s start with something easy. Please repeat the Third Directive.”
Atumbi groaned out a response. “Ma’am, ah, yes, ma’am. The Third Directive says … that … uh…”
Promise cocked her head; spoke just loud enough for her entire command to hear. “‘I don’t know, ma’am’ is a very good place to start … Private.”
“Yes, ma’am.” A tear rolled down Atumbi’s face. “I don’t … I don’t know, ma’am.”
“Lance Corporal Van Peek, the Third Directive if you please.”
Nathaniel Van Peek’s cobalt eyes and runway nose met her gaze, and he nodded. Van Peek was one of the few surviving members of her original command, and one of her
heavy-weapons experts. One of her Montanan Marines. Promise approved of the sideburns and trimmed mustache, both new additions to his otherwise baby-faced appearance. They’d aged the young NCO by several years, clearly distinguishing him from the average green-as-get-you-killed privates.
“Yes, ma’am. The Third states, and I quote, ‘A Marine must keep his rifle with him at all times. Failure to do so will result in immediate disciplinary action at the commanding officer’s discretion.’ Ma’am.”
Promise nodded and looked from Van Peek to Atumbi. “So, Private, what happened to your rifle?”
Private Atumbi’s eyes imploded. “I … I left my gun back in the barracks, Lieutenant.”
Really. Promise smiled. “You left your gun in the barracks.” She cocked her brow, planted her free hand on her hip, and raised a fist to her mouth like she needed to cough. Did so twice. She took the time to compose her thoughts, until she was sure every trace of amusement was wiped from her face.
“You left your gun back in the barracks? Did all you Pythons hear that? Private Atumbi left his gun behind, back in the barracks.”
“That’s because this chica bonita took it from him.”
Promise snorted and raised two fingers, and cocked a third for good measure. “Shut your askhole, Jupiter, or this chica will have you running laps around the field for the rest of the morning.”
Promise heard muffled chuckles and hushed swearing, but decided to let the small break in discipline go.
“Lance Corporal Van Peek, where’s your gun?”
“Hanging on my lifeline, right where the Maker put it, ma’am. I get that right?”
Promise dipped her head toward the lance corporal. It was always the Maker, and never God, so said her father anyway, and a lot of Montanans too. As for getting the location right, well, if a jack didn’t know where his gun was located he had bigger problems to deal with than the ire of his commanding officer.
Promise shot a sideways glance at Private Atumbi. The young boot would soon enough recognize the slight twinkle in her eye, assuming he didn’t get himself shot first, either by the enemy or by a firing squad … for jar-headed stupidity.
