by W. C. Bauers
Very funny, Mother. Have you come back to demote me too?
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself and talk to the girl.”
By now Promise was pretty sure that Mom was really dead, dead since she was a young child on Montana, and whatever Promise was seeing now was some sort of break with reality. Or a psychographic projection of my subconscious self in response to one or more traumatic events from my past. Whatever. If she was sane on the battlefield—and she could run’n’gun with the best of them—she could live with a small mental-health challenge as a sideshow. To keep life interesting, of course. Notwithstanding the yarn-snake thingy, which was beside the point and so far just a one-off. Besides, everyone is diagnosable once you got to know them, right?
“Sounds like you and Sephora were made for each other.”
The resemblances between Sephora and Sandra weren’t hard to miss either, and they were more than just skin-deep too. Once you got past Sephora’s nose ring and the chain that ran from it to her lip, and the buzzed hair and the tats. Both women were well built. It isn’t fair, Promise told herself in the corner of her mind that largely sat neglected. Like her off-duty attire and her social life. Beautiful women with beautiful lines. Sephora could have been a much younger version of Promise’s mother. Same generous curves and sinfully long legs. Same regal neck and near-flawless skin. Promise had gotten none of it and she wasn’t a fool either. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder” was a bunch of crap. Beauty was beauty, pure and simple, and her flat build and angular muscles just weren’t.
“Are you okay?” Sephora asked. “Where’d you just go?”
Promise cleared her throat and “frogged” part of her work. The stitches ripped out fast and angry, and she lost one of her needles, which clanked to the ground. “That’s just frogging great. I’m fine.”
“She just read you like a book,” said Sandra.
Same as you do, Momma.
“Is that such a bad thing?” Sandra asked. “Maybe you need some flesh and blood in your life.”
That stopped Promise cold.
“Just think about it, Promise. So far you’ve approached Sephora as the girl in need. She’s the only one.” Sandra blew Promise a kiss and began to fade from view. “Love you, munchkin, and I always will.”
“Earth to Promise,” Sephora said. “Hey, you’re really starting to worry me.”
Promise shook her head. “Sorry, I’m fine, just overly tired.”
“No, you’re not fine,” Sephora said. “Be honest.”
“Don’t worry, munchkin, you’re mostly well-adjusted where it counts.” Sandra’s voice was more a thought now, inside Promise’s head, and her mother was singing a song from her childhood. Something about letting it go.
“Promise, you’re freaking me out. Why don’t you put the needles down, okay?”
Great, now I’m getting it from both ends. “Don’t worry. I really am fine.” BUMED might not agree. “You ever see ghosts from your past?” Promise put her work aside and smiled weakly at Sephora. “Like memories that won’t let you go?”
“Yeah,” Sephora said cautiously.
“Well, my mother is one of those memories.” I can’t believe I’m going there. “I hear her voice telling me to do this or that. Sometimes she won’t shut up. Sometimes I need her voice. Does that make any sense?”
“Sometimes I hear my father’s voice. He loved to sing after a long day of work. That’s one of the things I miss most about him.”
“I’d love to hear more about him sometime. Really. But time is in short supply at the moment. Speaking of which—” Promise scooted to the edge of the bed and clasped her hands together, elbows on her knees. “—I found you a place while I’m away.”
“Why do I have the feeling that now is one of those times when you’re going to tell me what to do and what not to do?”
“Stop reading my mind, will you?” Promise tried her best to look angry but couldn’t hold the ruse. “Seriously, you’re really good at that.”
Sephora crossed her arms and held herself tightly. “And?”
“My unit is shipping out soon and we need to settle your living arrangements. There’s no time to go out and find a place. I have an idea.”
“And?”
“An officer I once served under said if I ever needed anything to comm her. She’s got a huge home, her kids are all grown, and she’s got a lot of time on her hands. She’s actually a highly decorated general and someone I have a lot of faith in, and I think the two of you might hit it off. How would you like to go live with a great-grans?”
Thirty-nine
MAY 21ST, 92 A.E., STANDARD CALENDAR, 0900 HOURS
REPUBLIC OF ALIGNED WORLDS PLANETARY CAPITAL—HOLD
NEVERFAR MANOR
Lieutenant General Felicia Granby’s country house was less than twenty minutes from the RAW-MC’s Central Mobilization Command, if you flew by aerodyne. A hardwood forest guarded the general’s home on all sides. From a distance it looked more like an ancient Roman phalanx than a wood: bases and branches impenetrably linked like overlapping shields. There was a single, unpaved access that meandered for several kilometers beneath a canopy of trees, and over several streams. The access wasn’t a proper road by any stretch of the word. Great-Grans had stubbornly refused to cut and pave a swath across her land.
Promise and Sephora spotted the house when they were almost on top of it. It was less a home and more a small castle. Three stories of stone and wood stood beneath a tower, which occupied the northwest corner. A head-high battlement ran the perimeter of the roof with rectangular cutouts equally spaced on all four sides. Promise had to dig a bit into her history to come up with what they were called. Crenels. On Holy Terra, during medieval times, an archer would string her bow and rain indirect missiles from behind the battlement, or use the indentation for line-of-sight fire. The piece of artillery guarding the entrance nearly made Promise laugh. It didn’t fit the period of the home at all. She’d seen something like it in the histories that predated the Republic. Terran, perhaps twenty-third century in origin. She supposed there were more surprises hidden on the grounds too.
I bet it still fires.
A mech was trimming the lawn as they circled the house pad, which lay in a sea of manicured green. A large beast sprinted from the doorway as the aerodyne settled onto the pad.
“Here we are,” Promise said as she got out.
“This place is like something from a vid,” Sephora said. The beast was a black and white Great Dane and he didn’t slow down until the last possible moment, and then he threw his front paws up into the air and slammed Promise into the frame of the aircar. The jolt nearly knocked the air out of her lungs. Slobbery dog kisses covered her mouth. Sephora had gotten out on the starboard side of the aircar, and come around the front of it. Her hand covered her mouth and the other was pointed at Promise and her spotted friend.
“I think he likes you.”
“A little help.”
“Sorry, P. You’re on your own.”
“That’s enough, mister,” Promise said, pushing the dog’s massive head aside. “All right, already. Get down.” The dog pushed his nose through her feeble defenses and licked her from chin to brow and cheek to cheek.
“Come on, please?”
Sephora was laughing now. “He’s huge and, um, really excited.”
The dog was gyrating and Promise’s shoulders were hurting because they were pinned between two massive paws and civilian-grade plexi. She was about to knife the dog’s throat when the front door of the house slammed shut and a gravelly voice barked out across the lawn.
“Otis! You filthy mongrel. Get your horny tail back here this instant.”
Otis cocked his head, gave Promise one more kiss, and then sprinted for the house. Great-Grans swatted his backside as he took the stairs, which sent the dog scooting into the foyer.
“Sorry about that,” Grans said, tossing Promise a hand towel as she neared. A small tray was hovering behind he
r. “Otis is a prized stud. And he hasn’t seen action in a bit.” Grans gave Promise a sardonic look. Then she smiled at Sephora. “You two are the first pretty young things he’s spotted in weeks.”
“Ah—” Promise got her feet beneath her and toweled herself off. Though she was out of uniform her hand rocked to her brow out of habit.
“Relax, girly. I’ve been benched. You’ve been demoted. We don’t need to make it any worse with all that hooey.” The general reached for the tray and selected two glasses filled with amber fluid and ice cubes. “Here. It’s unsweetened. I’ve got crystals and local honey inside if you want to doctor it.” She raised a third and said, “Cheers.”
The trees swayed in a sudden breeze, branches briefly parting to reveal the access road before closing ranks to swallow it whole. Most were older than the house itself, some well into their second century. That one must be three mechsuits across, shoulder-to-shoulder, Promise thought. I bet Grans has whiskers in the trees.
“The trees are the true wealth of the place,” Great-Grans said with a wave of her hand. Her work jacket was marred with dirt and grass, and a pair of gloves was folded over one of the front pockets. A wide-brim hat blocked the rising sun’s rays. “Welcome to Neverfar Manor.”
Sephora took a hesitant step toward the general. She’d decided on something semi-modest at the last moment, much to Promise’s relief. The nose ring was in and her tattoos were peeking out all over. At least the skirt covers her cheeks, Promise thought. She exchanged looks with the general while Sephora circled in place, hand on her heart and eyes as large as full moons.
Then Grans rolled up a sleeve and stretched out her arm. A black and gray tattoo of a demon dog appeared to leap off of her skin, and a blond pinup was riding it. “That’s me on the beast, long before I grayed.” Grans winked, spun around, and waved over her shoulder for them to follow. “I was young once. Leave your gear, both of you. I’ll have Roman get it.”
Sephora turned to Promise looking positively delighted. Shielded her mouth and said, “Wow, for an old lady she’s great.”
“I heard that, young woman.”
Sephora swore under her breath.
“I heard that too. The lieutenant and I don’t care much for language so you’ll kindly keep it to yourself.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Last I checked you weren’t in uniform,” Grans said as she reached the steps, “unless you plan on joining up. At the moment, I’m not feeling charitable toward the Marine Corps or I’d take you to the recruiting station myself. ‘Ma’am’s are for uniforms. Something else, please.”
Sephora gave Promise a help-me-out look. “Um, sorry, Great … Grans?”
“That will do, girly. That will do. Come on in.”
As the door opened, they heard another aerodyne approaching at subsonic speeds. Promise caught sight of the craft, which looked no larger than a bird. And it was several hours early. You’ve got to be kidding me? The bird became an unidentified craft, and then a silver-sheened aerodyne like the one currently parked on Neverfar’s grounds.
“I’m sorry.” Promise turned to face Sephora. “I thought I had at least the morning to spend with you and Grans.”
“Your new captain tried to comm you first,” Great-Grans said. “I was going to tell you once we took a load off and had our tea.”
“I turned off my implant,” Promise said absentmindedly. “And my minicomp.” Grans gave her a reproving look though you could tell her heart wasn’t in it. Technically, Promise wasn’t supposed to disable her mastoid implant, ever. At least not until she retired from the Fleet Forces, and even then the Corps could reactivate it and recall her to active duty, without notice.
The first aerodyne, which was already parked on the lawn, lifted about a meter into the air and floated over to make room for the second vehicle.
“She stays outside,” Great-Grans said as she ushered them indoors. “Finish your tea first. It’s nothing against the captain. She’s just following orders.” Another stern look like the one from Grans’s vid. “Sit tight while Roman transfers your gear and grabs Sephora’s things from the car.”
A woman got out, on the side opposite the house, and stretched her arms in the sky before coming around the aerodyne. She had a slight build and her head barely crested the top of the car. She was wearing plain clothes and her hair fell to her shoulders, and was tied to one side. Promise watched from the storm window and felt an arm slide around her shoulder. Sephora. It was an unexpected show of affection from the girl, and Promise sagged into it, reached up, and patted her hand.
They clinked glasses. “Cheers. To the bravest Marine I know.”
“Thanks, kid.”
“See you when you get back, roomie. Don’t worry about me. I’m going to be okay. Great-Grans seems, well, really great.”
“Watch your backside around Otis,” Promise said.
“Count on it.”
“All right, come here.” It was a short, intense embrace. The tears came anyway.
Great-Grans stood in the doorway with a distinguished-looking gentleman. He wore a single-button jacket and was halfway through a cigar.
“Roman is my man candy,” Grans said as she slipped an arm around his waist. Her head came to Roman Granby’s shoulder. He looked pleased and gave the general a smooch on the crown of her head, and then he puffed on his cigar and blew a halo into the air.
“Ms. Paen, it’s a real pleasure,” Roman said. “Sephora, I look forward to getting to know you. Be right back with your things.” Then he was out the door.
“All right, girly. Out you go. Mustn’t keep the captain waiting.”
“Thanks, Grans. I really can’t say that enough … taking Sephora in and all.”
“I’ll put her to work while you’re away. Stay sharp.” Grans looked like she wanted to say more before she threw a sideways glance at Sephora.
Promise nodded and smiled. She and Victor Company were headed to the planet Sheol, which in the ancient Hebrew meant Hell as an actual place. There was no point worrying the girl any more than she already was.
The Marine Corps had a saying that was as old as the Corps itself: “Where do we go? To hell and back. Ua! Ua! Ua!”
Indeed. Promise looked at her new captain outside Grans’s house and frowned. Well, I’m on my way. As she headed for the door, Otis walked up beside her and nosed her leg.
“You better stay here, boy. I know exactly what you’ll do if I let you out.”
Forty
MAY 21ST, 92 A.E., STANDARD CALENDAR, 0917 HOURS
REPUBLIC OF ALIGNED WORLDS PLANETARY CAPITAL—HOLD
NEVERFAR MANOR
Promise hesitated at the top of the steps of Grans’s house, and took the grounds in one more time. She closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of the forest and grasses. Not far away, Victor Company was hot-walking their mechsuits up the ramp of a dropship, and humping gear like stevedores, their nostrils filled with pungent, hot tarmac smells.
They’ve got this. Besides, they’ve got Captain Yates now. They don’t need me anymore.
A battalion-level deployment meant a lot of gear, which was why Charlie BAT had been assigned several dropships to accompany them to Sheol. Much larger than even an assault-class LAC, the large conical craft were designed primarily to ferry equipment and manpower from a parking orbit to a planet’s surface. Promise had signed off on Victor Company’s requisitions before she’d departed for Guinevere, and if the other companies in the battalion were deploying with as much gear, well, the battalion was gutted up, loaded for bear.
Snap out of it, P. You’re an officer. Stop sulking and Marine up! A part of her just couldn’t. Even my AI could hump my gear up the ramp if it had to. That made her feel about as worthless as an unloaded weapon.
The Republic’s Artificial Corporeal-Sentience Edicts strictly regulated what AIs could and couldn’t operate in the RAW Fleet Forces. They prohibited nonbiological intelligences from being fully autonomous. As long as they were sl
aved they were fine. AIs were prohibited from controlling assets critical to the Republic’s daily functions and survival, on the military and civilian side. For the most part, Promise couldn’t disagree, particularly when it came to prosecuting wars. War fighting was a human enterprise and tech was there to help you kill more of the enemy, not to decide which enemies to kill.
One paragraph in particular summarized what the branches Navy, Marine Corps, and Sector Guard, plus the planetary militias, the intelligence community, and local law enforcement, could and could not do with their AIs. The RAW Fleet Forces called them the “Can’t-Do Edicts.”
Artificial Intelligences may not:
1. Exercise autonomous control over the nets.
2. Independently operate any craft larger than an assault-class LAC, and only then as a matter of last resort, for a finite period of time, providing all human pilots are incapacitated or otherwise not available.
3. Command any unit—ground-, sea-, or space-based—capable of delivering a nuclear payload.
4. Independently man remote outposts or orbital platforms.
5. Issue orders for drones and remotely piloted platforms.
Essentially, AIs couldn’t do jack without a jane’s retinal scan and verbal say-so. Which to Promise’s thinking begged the question: Why have them at all?
The Marine Corps had managed a single exemption on the nuclear question: semi-autonomous AIs for their mechsuits. Because the fiscal argument for them as a force multiplier had far outweighed the risks of using them in theater. And even mechanized Marines still needed presidential approval to deploy nukes. Even a “full-throat” AI could be tethered to a loyalty protocol, but all the Corps had gotten were Semi-Autonomous Reasoning Grunts. SARGs. Without them, the Corps would have had to bolster its ranks by a factor of ten, and specked down their armor.
The truth was that she needed her SARG to monitor the nets, track hostiles, access damage to her mechsuit, make on-the-march repairs, ready weapons (and sometimes, yes, even fire them for her), monitor her vitals, fly whiskers, and attend to myriad other details that all had to run perfectly in the background while she gave orders and stroked the trigger of her wep. In. Real. Time.
