Brothers in Arms

by Ben Weaver

  “Platoon, fall back,” I ordered. “Fall back!”

  When I glanced over my shoulder, I saw Mai Lan standing in the middle of the street, screaming at two privates: James Kim and Michelle Maz. The only experience I had had with those two was shaking their hands and saying hello. Both were about my age and seemed as serious as they were scared. They flinched as Lan continued to swear at them.

  “Computer? Stop the sim,” I ordered, then de-skinned.

  Gunfire died. The lights grew brighter. I jogged out toward Mai Lan and the privates. “Sergeant? Report.”

  Mai Lan gave me a look before snapping to. I wasn’t sure if she had smirked, so I dismissed it. “Sir, these two privates disgraced the platoon by failing to obey your order, sir.”

  I leveled my gaze on Kim. “Is that correct, Private?”

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  “Why did you fail to obey?”

  “Sir, I can’t say, sir.”

  “You can’t say?”

  “Sir, I’ll tell you, sir,” said Michelle Maz. She gave Lan a dirty look.

  “Sir, the privates became confused,” the sergeant quickly interjected. “At the moment you ordered them to fall back, I was on the tactical frequency and had ordered them to advance. They hesitated, and subsequently both were shot.”

  “I see. Private Kim, why did you hesitate?”

  “Sir, I’m not sure, sir.”

  “And Maz?”

  “Sir, I guess I was just confused, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “All right. Let’s form up and try this again. And let’s make sure that when my order comes in, you obey it.”

  “Sir, yes, sir,” they replied in unison.

  I went back to the computer, added on another fifty snipers, but this time I had them changing their positions much more rapidly.

  We walked into another ambush. I allowed myself to get killed right away, then watched and listened as Mai Lan directed the platoon.

  “We gotta fall back,” screamed Staff Sergeant Douglas. “C’mon, Lan! Get us out of here.”

  “And I just lost two more,” yelled Staff Sergeant Pariseau.

  “I’m down to four,” Staff Sergeant Holmes frantically reported. “Three. Aw, shit! I’m dead.”

  “Tamburro, you’re in,” Lan ordered. “Enter that brick building on the corner. You’re on that nest on the roof. Chopra? I see Douglas is out. You take the rest over to the right side and—”

  Lan got shot.

  I stopped the sim and went around the corner to her position, passing by a dozen privates looking pissed and lying on the street. Lan sat on the curb, glancing up at the rooftops. She heard my approach and stood at attention.

  “What happened, Sergeant?”

  “Sir, we got our asses kicked, sir. I was surprised you died so soon, sir.”

  “Sergeant, what made you think you could take on this force?”

  “Sir, I thought that was our job, sir.”

  “We won’t win every battle.”

  “Sir, aren’t we supposed to die trying to win them, sir? I didn’t think we were allowed to pick our fights.”

  “Think again. I have no intention of taking this platoon into a no-win situation—which is what this is. Suicide missions are a last resort for desperate moments. When we get to Callista, if we’re heavily outnumbered, I will order this platoon to fall back. You think that’s an act of cowardice, Sergeant?”

  “Sir, some might think so, sir.”

  “I asked if you think it’s an act of cowardice.”

  “Sir, I think it is, sir.”

  “And you’d rather sacrifice the entire platoon to avoid being called a coward.”

  “Sir, I didn’t join the Guard Corps to fall back, sir. I’m here to fight.”

  “And I need fighters, but you’re no good to me dead. If I say fall back, you fall back. That is not an order that is open to interpretation. Understood?”

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  “Get the squads together. Let’s do it again.”

  “Sir, aye-aye, sir.”

  That night in the billet, my platoon divided into the cliques I had noticed my first day with them. Lan spent most of her free time with Douglas, Holmes, and Pariseau. Supply Sergeant Giossi joined their card games. Chopra liked to work on the exercise machines with Kim, Maz, Phrawphraikul, and Squad Corporal Van Buren—whom I had seen more than once clutch his heart after an hour on the tread-mill. Van Buren was nearly thirty, and I heard him tell Chopra that he was, in fact, getting too old for this shit.

  Tamburro and Stark, the sisterlike staff sergeants, had formed a singing group with Corporals Cintia and Du Ponte. I had never heard four females sing a better harmony. I told them I’d be amazed if they didn’t get a recording contract after they were discharged. They just smiled.

  I kept circulating around the billet, trying to get to know my people a little better, trying to draw privates like Joyce Jozayt and Mark Durrance and Laura Koris out of their shells. Most of them seemed intimidated, and even when I softened my tone, they kept theirs military terse. The only real friend I had was Chopra. And that had been his choice from the start. I guess most of them needed to trust me before they would open up. Training exercises wouldn’t earn me much.

  The night before we would ship out, I took a magnificently long shower. I was about to leave my stall when Chopra and Lan came into the latrine. I leaned over to open the door and realized that they hadn’t noticed me.

  “So what do you think, Jama?” Lan asked.

  “I think we’ll be all right.”

  “I don’t know. It’s gonna be tough with a rookie spearheading us. Blind leading a whole lot of the blind.”

  “I thought he did pretty well on the range this week. He didn’t get nervous or screw up. He gave the orders, and a couple of times we beat the sim. I like him. He’s a good guy. Just give him a chance.”

  “Oh, I’ll give him plenty of rope. He hangs himself with it, that’s up to him. You know, he’s a conditioned cadet, but he’s only showed us his power a couple of times. You saw him fall that day. He’s afraid to use it. Know what? This whole conditioning is a bunch of bullshit. Just an experiment that went wrong. And now we got the fucking monster leading us.”

  “I think we’re lucky to have him. I think he’s just holding back because he doesn’t want to scare us.”

  “Oh, he’s scared me, all right.”

  “Don’t be such a pessimist.”

  The showers clicked on. I shrank in my stall and stayed there until they finished, dried off, and left.

  I hated Lan. I didn’t need her to help me feel insecure. I was already an expert.

  A few hours before we were all scheduled to board the transports, I caught up with Dina in the mess. She and Beauregard had also been assigned to the same battalion and were headed straight for Alba Patera on Mars.

  “Are you scared?” she asked.

  “No, not at all.”

  She punched my shoulder. “Me, too.” She sighed, stared off into a thought. “I should have called my parents.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “I thought it would be too hard.”

  “You should have called.”

  “You know,” she began suddenly, “I feel like we’ve known each other for so long.”

  “Yeah, we’re like brother and sister,” I said grimly.

  “I love Paul.”

  “Where did that come from?”

  “Every time I look at you, it hurts. So maybe now it’s good that I go.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  She looked away for a moment, then grabbed my head, pulled me forward, and kissed me long and hard. Trouble was, I was caught so off guard that I hardly enjoyed it. The whole time I should have been thinking, Wow, this is great. Maybe it’s only a good-bye kiss, but it’s one hell of a good one. Instead, I kept thinking, Oh, my god, she’s kissing me.

  Slowly, as though the effort pained her, she pulled away, still cupping my head in her hands. I had
never seen her eyes so close. I had never shuddered so hard.

  “I love Paul,” she repeated. “Because he needs me. There’s a lot of pressure on him. He’d fall apart. I know that. But you…you’re okay, Scott. You’ll always be okay.” On that note, Second Lieutenant Dina Anne Forrest hurried toward the mess hall’s exit.

  “You love him because he needs you?” I called after her. “What do you need?”

  I was hoping she would pause at the door, glance back longingly, and explain. But she strode on with no indication that she had even heard me.

  “Okay, sir?” Chopra asked, suddenly at my side and still munching on a nut bar.

  It took a moment to realize that the sir he had mentioned was, in fact, me. “Yeah,” I muttered.

  “The Three-seven is ready to depart. The Three-eight and Three-nine are on the line.”

  “Very well. Answer me a question, Sergeant. Why have you been my liaison and not First Sergeant Lan? You have your own squad to manage. You’re violating the chain of command.”

  “Not exactly, sir. First Sergeant Lan ordered me to serve as liaison, sir.”

  “That’s her job.”

  “Yes, sir.” Chopra’s face paled.

  “What’s going on, Sergeant?”

  “Sir, nothing, sir.”

  I scrutinized him a moment more, saw that his lips were held behind an order from Lan, then decided I would question the first sergeant herself. It was no secret that Lan didn’t like me and probably wanted to do all she could to avoid direct contact. But I would not tolerate her pawning off her job to an already heavily burdened squad sergeant. “All right, Mr. Chopra. Let’s get ready to load up.”

  Our assault ship, the SSGC Triumph, stood on her multifingered skids below a pentagonal launch tube that had been bored through the mountain. The Rexi-class troop transport more closely resembled a blocky, unmarked freighter than a military attack ship. Her appearance was intentionally deceiving. Stubby wings could be extended for atmosphere operations, and her missiles were mounted to retractable hardpoints and concealed behind dull, black blast plates. Her sizable crew of two pilots and four gunners (most transports were operated by half as many personnel) made me feel a tad more comfortable as I took a seat in the hold with the rest of my platoon. While the Triumph was capable of hauling an entire company, the Corps took no chances in packing that many soldiers into a single ship. We were told to expect heavy resistance once we made planetfall.

  My tac flashed an alert for incoming message from Paul Beauregard, so I skinned and took the call. “St. Andrew here.”

  “We didn’t get a chance to say good-bye. Just wanted to wish you luck, Lieutenant.”

  “Uh, and you, too,” I answered, surprised that he had even bothered.

  “I heard they got a full regiment in Ro, another one in Vosk. We’ll match their numbers there, but those Alliance troops have a lot more experience. I’m you, I bleed everything I can out of my conditioning.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “This is it, Scott. This is what we wanted. We have to be ready for it. Stay in touch if you can.”

  “You, too.” As I de-skinned, I began groping for subtle reasons why he had called me. Perhaps Dina had mentioned my name; maybe after all we had been through together, she had persuaded Beauregard to say good-bye, which was the least he could do.

  No, that wasn’t it at all. Dina wasn’t thinking about me, and he just wanted to do the right thing to make himself feel better.

  Chopra had taken a seat to my right, and I noticed that the seat to my left remained empty. I craned my head to spot First Sergeant Mai Lan seated in the back of the hold, behind all three squads. We still had a few more minutes until launch, so I rose and walked down the center aisle, provoking stares from more than a few privates.

  “Lieutenant,” Mai Lan acknowledged, shooting to attention.

  “Have a seat. Let’s talk.” I slid past her and took the chair to her left. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

  “Sir, I’ve been extremely busy coordinating with the squad sergeants. As you know, not a single troop has ever seen real combat. And most of us sergeants have only been through the live fire trials, most of them except me. I’ve fought drones and gunners on ten different colos.”

  “You’re changing the subject, Sergeant. We’re about to ship out, and I need to know what’s going on here.” My hands had already balled into fists.

  She stared at me, her gaze as steady as any Pope had shot my way. “Sir, I don’t understand, sir.”

  “You ordered Sergeant Chopra to serve as platoon leader liaison. That’s your job.”

  “Sir, as I indicated, sir, I’ve been extremely busy.”

  “Do you and I have a problem, Sergeant? Because if we do, we need to settle it here and now.”

  “Sir, there’s no problem, sir. Equipment’s checked out. Our people are ready. Sir.”

  “Fine. But I want you to relieve Sergeant Chopra of his liaison duties. I want you to report directly to me, as indicated in the OPM, section forty-one, paragraph twenty-two. Would you like me to recite it for you, Sergeant?”

  “No, sir. I understand, sir. Sergeant Chopra will be relieved of that duty, sir.”

  “Now, why don’t you come up front and sit next to me. These privates need to see that. And remember, they gave me this platoon. I didn’t pick it. Lieutenant Callis was transferred to Mars, and there’s nothing we can do about that. I know you two were close. Anyway, I’ve been trying to make the best of it. I expect you to do the same.”

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  She followed me to the front and sat, her expression unreadable but her gaze darting from me to the cockpit hatch. Chopra gave me a worried look that I shrugged off.

  The pilot finally issued the warning cue, and we strapped up and braced for launch. Acceleration dampeners kicked in, but not before our bodies were plastered down into our seats under a shoulder-slumping, four-G blastoff. I closed my eyes and waited out the six minutes until we cleared the planet’s atmosphere.

  After a curt announcement to that effect, the pilot shut down the thrusters, and as we glided through space via inertia, he told us to stand by. I did not realize anything had gone wrong until a second after the tawt drive had been engaged. Mai Lan turned to me, her jaw falling slack, her eyes bugging before they lifted to the overhead.

  13

  The tawt had come on so quickly that if my stomach had sunk or my vision had narrowed, I didn’t notice. We materialized about seven hundred million kilometers from Lalande 21185, a dim red dwarf star 8.1 light-years from Earth. What gained my attention and Lan’s were the multiple missile strikes from an Eastern Alliance destroyer that had targeted us from a range of two hundred and ten thousand kilometers. Our co-pilot went on to say that we had made orbit of planet Gatewood-Callista but that a carrier group had been waiting for us with a pair of destroyers spearheading the formation. For the time being, the only evidence of that harsh reality was the awful drumming on the hull, but that would change quickly.

  “Skin up!” I ordered in preparation for a hull breach. “Set for squad frequencies. Remember to report directly to your corporals.” I winced over that last order; it was more than a little obvious.

  “We’re still under fire. Insertion locked in,” cried the pilot. “They’ve set up a few SAM sites. Countermeasures away!”

  A horrific bellow from the stern drowned out the pilot’s last word, and I felt the wind of escaping atmosphere jerk my head despite the skin’s protection. A gaping seam had been torn in the overhead. Beyond the hole lay a smoky tunnel of darkness whose sides lightened and swirled as the pilot plunged into Gatewood-Callista’s deep cloud layers, stained blue by an abundance of methane. Not unlike Exeter, Callista orbited a gas giant, in this case Lalande 21185 b, whose mass was similar to Jupiter’s and whose planetary rings extended several million kilometers from the planet.

  “Skin damage to stern,” reported the pilot. “Hull breach. I still have control.”
>
  “All right,” the co-pilot said. “Here comes the SAM fire.”

  For a second, I was paralyzed, imagining the Triumph rolling, climbing, and diving to avoid the incoming missiles, their warheads designed to eat through the ship’s reinforced skin and alloy hull. Then I wondered if I could take my thoughts into the mesosphere and recognize the bonds of those missiles. What if I could sever those bonds?

  Buffeted violently by the pilot’s evasive maneuvers, I closed my eyes and called upon that strange new sense.

  “First missile prematurely detonating,” hollered the co-pilot. “Same for the second. And the third.”

  “Fourth missile locked on,” said the pilot. “It’s going to—”

  I guess the missile was quicker than me, or the conditioning had failed. The missile struck the troopship head-on, shucking off the last of her skin and blasting apart the cockpit. Past the toothy, sparking remnants of the bow, a grayish brown plain blanketed in frozen methane shone through the moon’s perpetual twilight and hurtled toward us. I estimated our altitude at five hundred meters and decreasing fast.

  “On your feet!” ordered Sergeant Lan.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Sir, preparing for a crash-landing, sir! Platoon, reach for the ceiling.”

  Then I understood. Our crash would actually involve three impacts: the ship hitting the ground, our bodies hitting whatever was around us, and our organs slamming against our insides. We would first strike the surface with a force that would probably snap our straps and pull our seats from the deck. While we were skinned, we could sustain that force, though we would need to transfer the kinetic energy by bouncing up and down between the deck and ceiling. That would help ease the third and often fatal impact. I remembered Pope telling us about those cadets who had jumped from Whore Face, only to bounce themselves into IDOs. Lan had chosen a controlled version of the same. It might work.

  We slammed into the surface at a fifty-two-degree angle, then the entire fuselage unexpectedly flipped over, tossing us toward the ceiling. Our skins registered the blow with a sharp rebound that sent us caroming haphazardly toward our seats. I figured Lan had hand-and-boot rebounds in mind when she suggested that we reach out, but as I spun back in midair, having just smashed into my seat shoulder-first, I gazed across a sea of tangled limbs.