by J. N. Chaney
“Then why do we let them come?”
Rev turned to the staff sergeant, waiting to hear what she had to say. The provincial command was rushing recruits through training, and with the new conscription laws in place, there were enough in the pipeline. But the regiment was still undermanned, especially in the infantry ranks. If they needed augmentation, why not from the rest of the Corps? Even just on Safe Harbor, First Division was still at close to T/O, or Table of Organization, strength, so why not send some of them to this side of the planet.
“It’s all part of this Pax Humanity initiative. We’re all in this together, you know. Those soldiers there, they’re a symbol of our close and intimate relationship.”
Rev wasn’t the only one to break out laughing at that. “Close and intimate relationship? With the fucking Frisian Host?”
“I’m not saying I agree with that. But that’s why they’re here. Give the leeches some hope that we’re going to win, especially since, well, you know.”
That sobered Rev up. The base was still on lockdown, but if the brass thought they could hide the disaster of Preacher Rolls, they were sadly mistaken. Families knew when their loved ones were killed or missing, and they talked. The entire planet knew that the mission had been a failure.
“There’s the lieutenant,” Tomiko said. “We’ll see if we’re stuck with them now.”
Lieutenant Smith, Lieutenant Omestori and Master Sergeant Beaulieu (who had been with the regimental Bravo Command group and so survived the Preacher Rolls mission) walked out of the company office with a Host green-master, the equivalent of a Marine warrant officer. The Host soldier escorted Smith to the yellow-master who’d stopped his inspection and had taken a position at the head of his formation.
The yellow-master did their weird, palm-out salute, and Lieutenant Smith moved to the first soldier in the formation, the green-master, Omestori, and the master sergeant in trace. The soldier saluted, then brought his version of the Mantis to and extended port arms. The lieutenant took it.
“Oh, shit. He’s inspecting them,” Nix said.
Which meant the Host flight was going to be part of the platoon after all.
Rev had no idea how that was going to work out.
27
“Rev, the lieutenant wants to see you,” Ting-a-ling said, sticking his head inside the classroom.
Rev looked up to Staff Sergeant Montez who said, “Go ahead. Catch up with me later today.” He stood and was leaving when she added, “And I mean today. I need to get everyone’s Survivor Benefit nominations in by COB.”
With the high mortality rates, the Corps wanted six-month updates on who was going to get their survivor payment. The Corps could and did suck at times, but it treated its obligation for survivor benefits with an almost religious fanaticism.
Rev’s wasn’t going to change. His family would get everything, but he couldn’t just tell the staff sergeant that. Sitting through the brief was part of the process.
As Rev followed Ting-a-ling out of the building, he wondered if the Frisians had the same sort of banal paperwork. He knew they had a liaison admin team in with the personnel office, but here with the company in admin and maintenance week, the Frisians seemed to have lots of free time on their hands.
“Which lieutenant? Smith or Omestori?”
“Omestori,” Ting-a-ling said.
“Ting-a-ling” was not the Frisian’s real name. Neither Rev nor any of the Marines could pronounce it, but Ting-a-ling was close enough, and he didn’t seem to mind.
Half of the twelve Host soldiers had impossible names. On their side, they had problems with Tanuwijaya and Černý, and the concept that Kel had two last names in Dean-Ballester blew their minds.
Despite that, and despite the fact that their rank system, which they swore weren’t ranks but rather operational slots, the integration of the flight had gone surprisingly well. The commandos were skilled, to be sure, and some of their augmentations were pretty rad, but the main reason was that they were good guys. Rev liked almost all of them.
Yancey and Orpheus were not as happy with their Frisians, and there were none in armor, mech, or arty units—too much equipment incompatibility—but with the Raiders and Recon, the two Host flights were fitting in.
Ting-a-ling turned into the company duty office as they entered the building, and Rev continued down the passage to the platoon commanders’ office. The lieutenant was at his desk at the back of the room.
“Kaitlan, Hua, can you give me a moment?” he asked the two other platoon commanders in the office when he saw Rev.
“Sit down a second, Pelletier,” he said when they were alone.
The lieutenant, for such a green boot, was turning into a pretty good commander. He was still technically the team leader as well, but he’d been straddling the line between learning from Gunny Thapa but not letting the SNCOs play him. Rev didn’t have much experience, but he thought the man was doing a pretty good job at it. And from what he’d been hearing, both Staff Sergeant Montez and the gunny thought so, too.
At the moment, however, he seemed unsure of himself. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, then sat back up straight. He started to say something, then cut himself off.
Finally, he said, “I’m just going to come out with it. It’s about your PN.”
That perked Rev right up. He was wondering how long it would take to jump through all the necessary hoops. But he couldn’t ask. That would make him seem like he cared about the award, that he was a medal chaser. Rev wasn’t a medal chaser, he thought, but he did care about the medal. But acting like he didn’t care was part of the game, part of the culture.
Everyone professed not to give a shit about awards, but they always checked out the rack when meeting new Marines, seeing what they’d earned.
The lieutenant scratched his ear, grimaced, then said in a rush, “It’s been disapproved.”
Rev heard the words, but they didn’t register. “Sir?”
“It’s been disapproved. The Platinum Nova. You’re not getting it.”
Rev slumped in his chair. He’d gotten used to the idea, and he’d been figuring out how he could use it as a stepping stone once he left the Corps. There was only one living PN awardee in Swansea, and he’d be the second. But now he wasn’t getting it?
Screw it. It’s not the end of the world.
He’d still killed a Centaur, and anything that mentioned that would be proof enough. And maybe it wasn’t quite good enough for the PN anyway.
“Got downgraded, sir?” he asked after a long pause.
“No, Pelletier. Not downgraded. Denied. You’re not getting anything.”
“Nothing? What the hell?” he blurted out before he could engage his brain.
“I know—”
“People get fucking Bronze Achievement Medals for making sure the general’s coffee is hot,” he said, standing as he cut off the lieutenant. “And I killed a tin-ass! Isn’t that worth something?”
The lieutenant stood as well. “I know it’s bullshit, Pelletier. And I’m pissed, too!”
The lieutenant’s surge of rage caught Rev by surprise, and that acted as an immediate damper on his own anger. The man was seething now, his neck turning red.
Rev sat down and asked, “What happened, sir?”
“It was fine, all the way to General Begay. I saw his recommendation. Twenty-five-thousand words in it. All saying you deserved the medal.”
Lieutenant General Locklear Begay was the commanding general of the Safe Harbor Marine Force. There was no one higher on the planet.
“So, if he recommended it, what happened?”
A moment ago, Rev was seething in anger, but in a second, that had changed. For some weird reason, he was more concerned at how the lieutenant was taking it. The man was obviously beside himself.
“Big Corps happened. Or Big Navy. Or the Secretariat happened. Someone on New Mars stopped it.”
“But why? I’m confused.”
“Because we l
ost, Pelletier. We lost big time. They want to sweep this under the rug, to act like this never happened.”
“But it did happen.”
“Of course, it did. But they don’t want the leeches to know. And if someone gets a PN, that’s big news. You’ll be a local hero, interviewed by the press. And the top brass thinks what happened will get out.”
“I could, you know, just keep my mouth shut.”
“Which the general said when he found out. And they told him they were sorry, but this was for the good of the war effort.”
The lieutenant said that more in sorrow than in anger. He sat down and looked at Rev, waiting for his reaction.
Rev said nothing. He didn’t have any words.
“The general also told Colonel Destafney to find some reason to award you a Gold Achievement.”
Rev understood why. A regimental commander could award one of those, and it would never reach Big Corps. It was considered an administrative-level award.
“Well, I guess I could bring him his coffee for a week,” Rev said, disgusted but resigned.
“Yeah, yeah. Look, I know this is bullshit. And I don’t know what else I can do. My grandfather’s on the Safe Harbor Council. I can ask him to bump it up. At least get you a Bronze or Gold Nova.”
Shit? Our team leader is connected? Wait until the others hear this.
Then he looked at the lieutenant. The man was serious. What he was suggesting was a serious breach of military protocol, one that could get him busted down to a Ninety-nine private. Yet, looking into the lieutenant’s eyes, he knew the man would do it. All Rev had to do was ask.
And for a second, he was tempted. He’d imagined going home with the PN around his neck often enough by now, and to have that jerked out from under him hurt.
But it wouldn’t be right. The lieutenant hadn’t done anything wrong. And now he was offering to put his career on the line for a chunk of platinum hanging from a black ribbon.
“Shit, Lieutenant. I didn’t kill that Centaur for a damned medal. I did it because it was my job.”
Was there a tiny bit of relief in the lieutenant’s eyes?
“Are you sure?”
“Sure as shit, sir.”
28
On one level, what Rev had said was true. He didn’t want the lieutenant to pull any strings that could get him busted to a Ninety-nine, but that didn’t mean he was fine with Big Corps’ decision. And so he wasn’t in a good mood as he left the platoon office.
Stewing in his thoughts and anxious to tell Tomiko and the others, he didn’t see the Marine standing in the middle of the passageway with a lost expression on his face, and he slammed into his shoulders.
“Sorry,” the other Marine said.
“No. My fault,” Rev said as he started to go around.
“Hey, can you help me?” the Marine, a private, asked. “I’m a new-join, but I don’t know who to report to.”
Rev looked to the hatch, anxious to go track his friends down and maybe head on over to the club to drown his sorrows. But no, it wasn’t this private’s fault. He could take a minute to get the guy going.
He held out his hand and said, “Rev Pelletier, and welcome to . . . you Recon or Raider?”
“Raider. Mordechai Gantz. And did you say Pelletier? Like the guy who’s getting the PN? We heard about you.”
A small blaze of anger almost burst out, but he put a damper on that. This boot wasn’t trying to make fun of him.
“That was just a rumor. I don’t know how that started.”
The private stopped, looking disappointed. He was an older Marine, maybe in his thirties. Bigger than Rev, too. There was something about him, though—
“Gantz. Have we met?”
“I don’t think so,” the private said, his eyebrows scrunched together as he tried to remember.
“Where you from?”
Everyone in the regiment was from Metro Swansea, so the question wasn’t that out of the ordinary.
“Gray Creek.”
“That’s not it. I’m from Beakerville.”
Rev didn’t know many people from Gray Creek, which was one of the better sections of the city, and it wasn’t likely that he’d ever go back. Bad juju, that place. It was where he’d gotten into the fight that ended up with him getting conscripted—
Shit no. It can’t be.
He stared at the private, who was obviously now getting uncomfortable. Take away the wimby, put him in uniform—
It is him!
“I see you don’t recognize me, but we’ve met before.”
“We have? Where?”
“In the Gray Creek Park. You were playing a game. Descent into Hades, if I remember right.”
The private’s face relaxed into a smile, and he said, “Ah, you’re a gamer. Sorry if I don’t remember you. I’m not so good with faces.”
Rev was tempted to leave it at that. There was no real reason to go any further. But with the news about his PN, he was in a mood, as his mother used to say.
And there was a reason to go further, something he should have done a lot sooner.
“No, we never played a game together. We met outside the game. You were playing, and I was hanging out with my girl and two friends. We were playing our music too loud, and you came over—”
“That was you? The guy who slugged me?” the private said, his body tensing up.
“Yes, to my shame. That was me. I can blame just being young and stupid, but that isn’t an excuse. I was wrong, and right now, I hope you’ll accept my apology.”
Rev held out a hand, not knowing if the private was going to hit him or take it. The private eyed it warily for a second. “Don’t worry about our rank. If you want payback, I’m OK with that. Go ahead.”
The wariness fled the Marine, to be replaced by a rueful smile as he took Rev’s hand. “You nailed me good. Knocked me on my ass. I never thought you’d get the nerve up.”
“I caught you unawares, or I think you would have killed me. I paid the price, though,” he said, waving a hand around the company offices.
“What do you mean?”
“I got conscripted because of it.”
“You did? But I never reported it—”
“Not the fight. A traffic ticket for leaving the scene of the crime, as it were. What about you? What did you do to get conscripted?”
“I didn’t. I volunteered.”
Of course, you did. And I’m the asshole who cold-cocked you.
“Well, good for you. And, like I said, welcome to the Raiders. You’re probably going to Third Team. Gunny Hsu’s good people. Uh . . . what do they call you? Mordechai?”
“Most people call me Strap, but that was on the outside. I know that doesn’t matter once you’re in—”
Strap was one of the characters in The Horde, a tough, popular figure, and for even suggesting it, other Marines would not only run him ragged but give him something like “Bunny” or “Sugar” for having the temerity to even suggest it.
Rookie mistake, there, Mordechai.
But Rev owed the guy. He wasn’t sure he carried enough weight to pull this one off, but if he acted quickly and got some others to buy off on it, then maybe it would work.
“We’ll see what we can do about that. Here’s the first sergeant’s office. You can report in there. I’ll see you around.”
“Thanks. It may sound odd, but I’m glad to see you again.”
Rev watched him for a moment as he opened the hatch and went inside. He was going to do his best for the guy, pull in some favors. If enough people started calling him Strap, then it would be a done deal.
He turned and started back down the passage. He was still going to get his crew together to let them know what had happened with his PN, and he was still going to pack in more than a few brews, but he was feeling a hell of a lot better about himself now than he was just a few minutes ago.
29
“Stay still, please,” the Navy tech said from inside a protective booth.
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The bed of the scanner was cold against his naked back, and the flimsy briefs he’d been given didn’t do much for his ass, either. The scanner probably cost the same as all of Charlie Company’s salaries combined, so you’d think they could at least warm it up a bit.
The machine came to life, a dull hum filling the exam room. The circular scan ring looked like the ones he’d gone through that first day of recruit training, but instead of simply walking through, he was flat on his back while it made multiple passes over him. Rev had been prodded, gotten a long-ass needle stuck into the back of his head to collect cerebrospinal fluid, and filled up a container with his piss. This was the last test he’d be subjected to.
It was hard to believe that he’d had his augments for a year now. Rev wasn’t sure why he’d been so hesitant before—other than the reason he was getting tested now, of course. They were part of him, just like anything else. Even his AI. He’d gotten used to having a veritable library at his beck and call. He’d kept his at a 25 percent PQ—he wasn’t about to go full Tomiko, something she thought was silly of him.
Not that his AI was on at the moment. It had been taken offline by the tech before he got on the table. Whatever the beams passing through his body were doing, they evidently could damage the AI.
Which didn’t build confidence in what was happening. If the scanner could mess up an AI, which was mostly crystal, then what was it doing to his brain? He tried not to be consumed by such thoughts as he was electronically dissected on the table, and he sighed with relief when the machine shut down.
“OK, you can get dressed now,” the tech said from his little booth.
“When do I find out anything?”
“As soon as the doctor is ready for you. Maybe thirty minutes or so.”
Which was a surprise to Rev. He’d figured the tests would take a couple of days at least to analyze. He felt a wiggle of nervousness. Thirty minutes was too soon.
Better than fret about it for the next couple of days, though.
He finished dressing and then the tech reactivated his AI before directing him to return to the waiting room.
