by P. A. Piatt
When they were out of earshot, Fortis leaned close to Ystremski.
“Drager said the sifter has passed, and they’ve got a satellite signal. I’m on my way to contact Battalion HQ.”
“Hmm. Okay, sir. I’ll ride herd on the platoon while you’re gone. Just make sure you include the entire chain of command on your message. We don’t want Reese to ignore it and leave us hanging again.”
“Good idea.”
Lieutenant Fortis accompanied Drager to the Fenway communications center, a windowless office located in the same hall as the governor’s office.
Drager gestured at the racks of blinking screens and scopes. “It’s not state-of-the-art, but our communications suite gets the job done.” He explained to Fortis how to format and transmit a message to the flagship, then left to give the officer some privacy.
“I’ll come back and check on you in a few minutes.”
Fortis wrote and rewrote his message several times. He hated spending so much time on a simple task, but he had to choose his words carefully.
Although he strongly suspected Reese had sent Third Platoon to Eros-28 out of spite, he couldn’t say that. There might be a legitimate reason why he and his men were routed to the industrial colony that he wasn’t aware of. He also didn’t want to sound like he was complaining.
The Space Marines had a roof over their heads, the food was good, and nobody was shooting at them—an easy day in the Corps. Fortis addressed the message to Captain Brickell, but that didn’t mean he was the only person who would see it.
He finally settled on a short and simple request for extraction which left little to misinterpretation:
From: Platoon Leader, 3rd Platoon, Foxtrot Company
To: Company Commander, Foxtrot Company
Request extraction of 3rd Platoon from Eros-28 to flagship Atlas at the earliest opportunity. Eros-28 is an industrial colony with limited capability to host deployed troops.
3rd Platoon is standing by for orders.
Fortis
* * *
Thirty minutes later, Fortis returned to the transient personnel quarters and found the lights on and the entire platoon awake and dressed. Their racks were made, and many of them had their duffel bags packed and waiting.
“What the hell is this?” he asked Corporal Ystremski.
“Sir, I tried to tell them, but I’m just a lowly corporal.”
He sighed. “Form them up, I’ll explain.”
Once the men were in ranks and standing at ease, he stepped forward to address them.
“Men, it seems you’ve all heard the news that the sifter has passed. That is true, and it is also true that I was able to get a message off to the company explaining our situation and requested extraction.”
Smiles and nods greeted this announcement.
Fortis continued: “It’s going to take time for my message to reach Captain Brickell. Remember, the entire division is on liberty on Eros-69, so it won’t be easy for him to round up the right people to make arrangements for our extraction. Who knows, they might decide to leave us here.”
There were crestfallen looks and scowls in the ranks, and he shrugged. “DINLI.” He motioned to Corporal Ystremski. “In the meantime, we’re all awake, and Corporal Ystremski is in charge of the daily schedule. Corporal?”
Ystremski didn’t miss a beat. He strode forward with an evil grin on his face. He placed his hands on his hips.
“YOU HAVE TEN SECONDS TO GET YOUR ASSES OVER TO THE GYMNASIUM. MOVE! MOVE! MOVE!”
* * *
Colonial Police Chief Schultz steered his electric cart into a narrow Boston side street and turned off the flashing lights. Dask Finkle, his friend and former shift leader in the pipe fitting shop, slid into the seat next to him. The two men shook hands.
“Good to see you, Schultzy,” Finkle said with a smile.
“I see nothing,” Chief Schultz declared, and the two men laughed. The pair had been friends for many years and the old joke was comfortable territory.
“What’s new?” asked Finkle. “Any problems from the sifter?”
“I have received no reports of trouble except for the explosion in Garage Number Seven. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“No. I didn’t have anything to do with that one.”
Chief Schultz knew Finkle was the nominal leader of the resistance. It was Finkle who had organized the first labor slowdowns, and he had led the opposition to the crackdown by Security Director Chive and his mercenaries. Schultz relied on Finkle to keep him apprised of news around the colony. In return he provided the resistance leader with information about the goings-on in upper management. Together, they kept tensions on Eros-28 at a low simmer. Until China Mike had flooded the colony.
“A platoon of Space Marines arrived on a lander in the middle of the sifter,” said Chief Schultz.
“Space Marines? So the UNT has sided with the GRC?”
“I don’t think so. They claim they’re here by accident.”
“Accident? Nobody comes to Eros-28 by accident.”
“The rest of their division is on Eros-69. These poor bastards got sent here.”
“Huh. What are they doing?”
Schultz shrugged. “Nothing right now. They called for a transport back to their flagship, but it’s going to take time.”
“Interesting.”
“You know what’s really interesting? The platoon leader is a lieutenant named Fortis. Does that name ring a bell?”
Finkle shook his head. “Hmm, no. Should it?”
“A little while back there was a GRC project to clone soldiers for the UNT. A group of Space Marines destroyed the clones and killed a bunch of humans, too. Fortis was one of those Space Marines.”
“Huh. That is interesting.”
After a few seconds, Finkle continued. “A woman is missing. One of ours, named Raisa Spears. Do you have her?”
“No. We don’t have anyone in custody. When did she go missing?”
“The night the garage collapsed.”
“Maybe she got caught in the sifter.”
“Maybe. I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”
Chief Schultz extended his hand and Finkle shook it.
“Time to go, my friend. Protect and serve. Lots of dirt to move.”
Finkle slid out of the cart.
“Stay safe, Schultzy.”
* * * * *
Chapter Eight
Instead of a costly city-wide communications system that required continual maintenance in the dusty conditions of Eros-28, the GRC built a number of towers with speakers mounted. These served as an early warning system for approaching sifters and Eolian blasts. They were also used to communicate news about the repair facility. One long blast on the horn indicated the next shift started work in one hour. One, two, or three short blasts followed to indicate which crew was due to start. It was rudimentary but effective, and, most importantly, it was inexpensive.
Electric plow trucks patrolled the city streets and cleared the main thoroughfares of any dirt left behind by the sifter. When they finished, the plow drivers would use whatever battery capacity remained to clear side streets and back alleys.
The colony police spread out across the city in search of citizens who might need assistance. Blowing dirt could block doors and windows, and more than one dead colonist had been discovered entombed in their home after a severe storm.
A long horn blast sounded, followed by one short blast, and the first shift streamed through the city toward the tunnel entrance to the maintenance facility. Word of the garage collapse had spread from house to house as soon as the sifter passed, and everyone knew there were long, hard hours of labor ahead.
Glenn Deale lurked in an alley doorway just off the main street and watched the crowd closely. A few individuals passed through the mass of workers and appeared to shake hands with many of them. To Deale’s experienced eye, they weren’t shaking hands. Instead, small plastic envelopes were being ex
changed for folded corporate scrip. The exchanges happened so fast that they were almost invisible and the colonial police who monitored the crowds seemed oblivious to the drug trade happening in plain view.
The surge of people tapered off until only a few tardy workers were left running toward the maintenance facility and the street dealers took that as their signal to melt back into the cityscape. Deale saw his chance when one of them chose his alley.
Deale surged out of his hiding place, wrapped one beefy arm around the dealer’s neck, and delivered a kidney punch with the other. The dealer gurgled and stiffened in agony from the blow to his kidneys. Deale dragged his prey to his hiding place and elbowed the door shut behind them.
The man went limp and Deale shifted his grip so he could hold the unconscious man under both arms. He kicked open a door, revealing steps that led down into the hand-dug tunnel network.
Twenty minutes later, Deale let the drug dealer fall to the floor of the half-built dome. He struck a match and a candle flickered to life. The semi-conscious man grunted and tried to get up, but Deale planted a boot between his shoulders and drove him back down.
“Don’t try that again, or next time I’ll make it hurt.”
The other man grunted again, but stayed down.
Deale pulled out a length of cordage and knelt on the other man’s neck. He yanked his arms back and bound his wrists together with a tight knot. When Deale was finished with the hands, he shifted and straddled his captive’s legs. He lashed the ankles together and then rolled the man over until he was sitting.
“What’s your name?”
The drug dealer was wide-eyed with fear but said nothing.
Deale poked him in the chest with a thick finger.
“What’s your name?” After a second, Deale shook his head. “Man, listen. My name’s Glenn. I just want to ask you a few questions, like a conversation, okay? C’mon, what’s your name?”
The other man pursed his lips, and for a moment Deale thought he wasn’t going to respond.
“Moore. My name’s Moore,” he croaked through parched and dirt-crusted lips. “I need some water.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get you some water. After we talk, okay, Moore?”
Moore was silent.
Deale dug through Moore’s pockets and came up with a thick wad of scrip and a handful of plastic envelopes. Inside the envelopes were yellow-white crystals.
“China Mike, right?” Deale knew what the crystals were from personal experience, but Moore didn’t know that.
The dealer nodded.
“Who do you get it from?”
Moore stiffened and shook his head.
“Come on, you can tell me,” Deale said.
“He’s just a guy I know. I don’t know his name.”
“You can do better than that, Moore.” Deale leaned in until their noses were almost touching. “Who’s your supplier?”
The drug dealer squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.
“If you don’t answer my questions, I’m going to hurt you. Now, who is your supplier?”
Moore twisted away and rolled over onto his side. “I don’t know. I don’t know!”
Deale pulled him back up. “Okay then, tell me this: where do you meet this guy you don’t know?”
Moore clenched his jaw and stared straight ahead.
After a long second Deale slapped him across the face. The drug dealer looked at him with a mix of fear and surprise. Deale nodded.
“Yeah, it’s like that. I want answers, and if you won’t give them to me I’ll take them.” He grabbed handfuls of Moore’s tunic and yanked him close and snarled, “Let’s try this again. Where do you meet your mystery man?”
The sharp stink of urine stung Deale’s nose as Moore lost control of his bladder.
“Ah, shit!”
He shoved his captive away, and Moore tumbled across the floor and buried his face in shame. Deale regarded the defeated man for a moment before he hauled him up.
“Where do you meet him, Moore?”
He seized Moore by the throat and squeezed. Moore’s eyes bulged, and he made a wet sobbing noise. He struggled, but he was no match for the larger man. Deale relaxed his grip before Moore passed out and let him slump to the floor.
“We can do this all day if you want,” said Deale. “I don’t know how many times a guy can be choked out before his brain is damaged, but I guess we’ll find out.”
Moore gagged and gasped.
“Ready for round two?” Deale’s fingers closed around Moore’s throat.
He squeezed before Moore managed to croak, “Please.”
Deale stopped. “Please what?”
“No more.” Moore’s voice was barely audible. “No more.”
“There’s plenty more, unless you tell me what I want to know.”
Moore nodded, and a tear escaped from the corner of his eye, leaving a clean streak on his dirty cheek.
“Good boy.” Deale dug a hydration pack from his jacket, popped the cap, and stuck the nipple in Moore’s mouth. His captive made greedy slurping sounds as he sucked it dry. Deale threw the empty pack aside and put his hands on Moore’s shoulders.
“You were about to tell me where you meet your supplier.”
“The Cock and Tail. It’s a pub on Dirt Road.”
“I know the place. How do I recognize him?”
“He works the door. Big guy, scar across his cheek.” He traced a path across his face with trembling fingers. “Can’t miss him.”
“Does he have a name?”
Moore shrugged. “I dunno. I hand him the money, and he gives me the stuff. It’s not like we’re friends.”
Deale lifted Moore’s face up with a finger under his chin. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“You’ll let me go?” Hope filled Moore’s tear-streaked face.
“I never said that.” Deale slammed a massive fist into Moore’s jaw, sending him sprawling in the dirt. He dug the plastic envelopes of China Mike out of his pocket. “Do you know what the penalty is for dealing drugs? It’s death by overdose, and it looks to me like you’re about to overdose on your own shit.”
* * *
After an intense calisthenic workout at the hands of Corporal Ystremski, followed by a hearty breakfast, Fortis felt a wave of euphoria as he left the cafeteria. The entire platoon was in good spirits, and they laughed and joked through their meal. Ystremski had been right; despite a few fat lips and black eyes, the Calcio Fiorentino had exorcised tension within the platoon. The vigorous pre-reveille exercises had stretched out residual muscular soreness, and morale was high.
“Lieutenant Fortis?”
Fortis turned and saw Bob Drager bustling down the corridor.
“Good morning, Bob. More good news?”
“More like an opportunity,” Drager panted. “Now that the sifter is over, you and your men can go out on the surface. There’s not much to look at, but it beats being buried underground all the time.”
Fortis looked at Ystremski, who shrugged.
“That sounds great, thanks. How do we get out there?”
Drager pointed up with both index fingers and smiled. “How about if we go up onto the observation tower and get oriented, first? Boston is a small town, but it all looks the same when you’re down on the streets.”
The whole platoon followed Drager up a vertical tube with ladder rungs welded onto the side.
“We built these to make sure we can get out in case of a big sifter,” Drager explained as he climbed. “We call them periscopes; you’ll see why when we get to the top.”
At the top of the periscope Drager opened a large hatch and climbed out. The hatch led to a platform about twenty meters high, large enough to accommodate the entire platoon with room to spare. From the platform, they could see the entire city of Boston and the surrounding desert.
The surface of Eros-28 was brown and featureless. In the distance, a single mountain towered over the landscape. The top of the mountai
n was shrouded in brown clouds and the weak light from the planet’s primary star cast an orange-hued halo around the solitary peak.
Below, there was a squat collection of buildings close to the maintenance facility. Fortis saw yellow plows at work in the widest roads and orange-clad figures were shoveling doorways clear in side streets and alleys.
“Not much to look at, is it?” Drager smiled. “Not much liberty.”
Fortis nodded in agreement. “What are we looking at, Drager?”
Drager pointed at the tall mountain in the distance. “That’s Dirt Mountain. It’s the highest point on the planet; actually, it’s the only mountain on Eros-28. It’s also the source of the dirt the sifters blow around. All the dirt you see around you originated up there.”
The lieutenant looked around at the mounds of dirt piled up in every direction.
“All this dirt came from the mountain?”
Drager nodded. “Dirt Mountain is what they call a cold volcano. It’s a thermal vent that extends to the center of the planet. As the core pressure vents, molten material rises up through the center of the mountain. By the time it reaches the top, it’s cooled to the point where it doesn’t flow, it sticks to the inside of the vent and adds another layer of rock. The new inner layers create outward pressure and the old layers crumble away. When a windstorm blows, it picks up the loose material and becomes a sifter, which dumps dirt wherever it wants.”
“Wow. That’s incredible.”
“Yeah. Lucky us.” Drager chuckled and coughed at the same time before he spat over the side of the periscope. “Don’t mind me, Lieutenant. My sense of humor jumps between the gallows and the graveyard.”
He pointed at the buildings below. “That’s Boston, where some of our workers live. There’s not much to see or do. It’s just a bunch of mud huts, really. Along the outside wall of this facility is a place we call Dirt Alley. There are several bars there, basically our version of a red-light district.” He pointed at the surrounding desert. “The rest of it is a whole lot of nothing.
