by J. N. Chaney
Yancey looked over to another table where a dozen privates were whooping it up. Most of the new fills went to the infantry battalions. They’d been the ones who’d suffered the most losses. Charlie Company had only received a few boot new joins, and only one, Strap Gantz, had come to Raider Platoon.
“But this, my friends, this is bullshit,” Yancey continued, holding up his glass of beer. “And if this is for some lame-ass drill, I’m going to be mega pissed.”
The CG had implemented a division-wide limit on drinking. Two drinks per day. There were no more pitcher sales, no more buying for anyone else. Each Marine and sailor had to buy a glass themselves and get scanned for each one.
“Just be lucky we’re here, nice and toasty, and having our two glasses,” Rev said.
The last six cold and rainy days had been out in the field on a regimental-wide field exercise, and Rev was just happy to be inside and out of the weather. The beer was a bonus.
“I thought my ass was going to freeze out there,” Udu said.
“What? You’re mech,” Cricket said. “Try getting down in the mud with us real Marines.”
“A lady like me doesn’t play in the mud.”
“You ain’t no lady, lady. You’re a damned Marine.”
Rev just smiled as the two gave each other shit. If he didn’t know better, he’d say they had a thing for each other. Both were pegging the BS meter as they trash talked. Most of the infantry was kitted out in the PAL-3 Infantry Combat Suit, which had heating and cooling elements like the Raiders’ PAL-5s. And as far as Udu, her MMCS was even more weatherproof, completely sealed off from the outside air. But Marines were always going to bitch, no matter what.
He caught Tomiko’s eyes and smiled at her. She knew what he was thinking: their PAL-5 trumped both of them on the misery index. But they didn’t need to get into a pissing contest, even a good-natured one. He raised his glass and clinked hers, the sound bright even among the raucous noise around them.
Rev looked around the E-Club. It was packed. Other than the gym, maybe, this was now the social center of the junior enlisted. Without being able to leave the base, it was the only place where they could unwind and socialize. As he looked around, just taking in the scene, he realized that this place felt . . . right.
After being conscripted like a real criminal, all he’d wanted to do was serve his time, counting down the days until he could leave. He still looked forward to getting out, but he wasn’t even sure how many days he had left. Over a year, sure, but he wasn’t crossing off any days on his mental calendar. He could ask his AI, but why bother? It was what it was—a fact he couldn’t run from. Like the enemy.
Cricket, though, was different. From initially being ambivalent to having to serve, he hated it now. But then again, he’d seen some terrible shit on Preacher Rolls, where Rev had escaped seeing the carnage. Maybe losing two-thirds of his fellow Raiders would have given him a different outlook on things.
Rev swirled his glass and tilted it, looking inside. He’d been nursing the last swallow or two for a half hour. With a sigh, he started to lift it when the thunderous call of Condition One-Alpha blared through the club.
Rev froze for a moment, glass half-raised, looking around while he tried to process what was going on. He’d heard the alarm, of course, when they were testing it each month. But the test was promulgated beforehand, and the test itself was followed by a this is only a test message.
There was no such message this time.
Rev hadn’t woken it. He hadn’t even known it was possible for it to wake without his orders.
“What the hell is happening?” he asked. All around him, others had that talking-to-their-AI look on their faces as well.
“What’s going on?” Yancey asked, standing up.
The cavernous club filled with talking as Marines stood. A few started to the main entry when others held them back.
They had orders to remain in place, but nothing said he couldn’t look out the windows. Rev put his beer down and strode over to the corner window by their table. It was nighttime, but with the lights out there and his augmented vision, it might as well be day. Other than a lone Marine sprinting for a building, he couldn’t see anything as the others crowded alongside him.
He twisted around, looking toward the sky. The corner window gave him almost 180 degrees of visibility, but he couldn’t see anything—no Centaurs descending on their landing pods.
“Are we under attack?” Tomiko asked.
“I can’t see anything.”
Condition One-Alpha was reserved for a base being under attack. In its entire history, no base on Safe Harbor had ever been attacked, and there being only one enemy at the moment . . .
“We should get to our gear,” Yancey said.
“You got the orders, Yance,” Bundy said. “Shelter in place.”
“I’ve got family out there,” Yancey said. “I’m not going to sit here and do nothing.”
He turned to leave, but Bundy grabbed him. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Says who?” Yancey asked, jerking his arm free.
“I am, Private First Class,” Bundy said.
Bundy’s meaning was clear. He’d been meritoriously promoted to PFC, so he’d been the first in their group to pick up lance corporal. The rest were due next month, but at the moment, he outranked them all. And while there wasn’t a firm practice of the chain of command between non-rates, technically, Bundy was the senior Marine in the group.
Rev stepped up and put a hand on Yancey’s shoulder. He didn’t push the other Marine down, but he was firm enough to let him know he would if he had to.
“We all have family out in town, but until we know what is going on, until we have some sort of orders, we need to stay here, Yance.”
For a moment Yancey looked like he was going to argue, but then he nodded his head, slow and resentful.
The thought on everyone’s mind was a Centaur invasion. There had been none this far into the Perseus Arm, and there were probably a hundred closer and better targets to their advance, but that didn’t mean much. They were aliens, and their logic and strategy were often at odds with human thinking.
The club loudspeaker kept repeating the condition and calling for all hands to remain in place, but the two-hundred or so non-rates in the club were getting antsy, Rev among them. He had his family out in the ville, too.
“Who’s that?” Orpheus asked, pointing out the window and down Kingston Street.
Rev shifted to the west-facing window. A block and a half away, a mob of possibly thirty people were running down the street toward them, carrying an assortment of weapons.
“Are they wearing white headbands?” Tomiko asked.
“Children of the Angels,” Bundy said.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Rev said. “Those limp-dick Angel Shits broke into the base? How the hell did they do that?”
“Not too hard,” Tomiko said. “Looks like they came in through the fence down at the playing fields. It’s not like this place is really that secure.”
Which was true. More than a few Marines cut their way out through the fence to make a quick trip home or to smuggle a spouse or partner in for a quick matrimonial assignation, as the gunny termed it.
“But what the hell are they trying to do?” Yancey asked. “We’ve got, what, four-thousand Marines here.”
More Marines crowded around the windows on the west side of the club. The mood was relief that the Centaurs had not invaded, curiosity about what the Angel Shits were trying to accomplish, and anger that they had invaded their space.
The mob reached the intersection of Kingston and Tellez. A dozen turned north on Tellez toward regimental headquarters, with the rest continuing on.
“Let’s jump the fuckers,” somebody yelled out to a chorus of ooh-rahs as the Angel Shits jogged down the street.<
br />
“Hold on! We’ve got our orders. Let the MPs deal with them.”
Arguments broke out, and Marines surged toward the entrance. But when you can’t go to the mountain, sometimes the mountain comes to you. To everyone’s amazement, four of the Angel Shits broke off and ran up the steps to the club.
A moment later, four armed Angel Shits, full of righteous fury, broke into the club, brandishing their hunting rifles. One young man shouted, “All of you, you are under arrest for crimes against humanity!”
Not the smartest move ever.
Within seconds, a wave of Marines engulfed the four. Rev and the rest of the crew tried to get in on the fun, but there were too many Marines and not enough Angel Shits.
By the time the MPs came by and the all-clear had sounded, the four invaders were rather worse for wear. Laid out on the bar, they’d been stripped stark naked, and each had a bottle strategically and not-so-gently placed where the sun doesn’t shine.
An MP tried to glare at them—tried and failed. “Who gave ’em the enema, you sick assholes?”
No one spoke. At first.
In the back of the crowd, someone snickered, and it sounded a lot like Tomiko. When she spoke, her voice was rippling with laughter. “No one. We’re Marines, not doctors.”
32
Yancey needn’t have worried about the alert being a drill. Thirteen hours after the Battle of the Angel Shits, as those who’d been at the E-Club were calling it, the call came down. The regiment was deploying, and this time, the Marines, for once, were not kept in the dark.
Maybe it was the new command leadership, figuring that after the last fiasco, things needed to change. Maybe they just decided that an informed Marine was a better Marine. Whatever the reason, Colonel Destafney, Rev’s old recruit battalion CO and now the Regimental commanding officer, put every Marine and sailor in the fieldhouse and personally briefed them just before embarking.
A small contingent of Centaurs had invaded Roher-104, way out on the Outer Arm, even if invaded, in this case, seemed too strong a term.
Roher-104 was in its twenty-ninth year of terraforming, not even into Phase 3. There were no human inhabitants yet, with Roher terratechs visiting twice a standard year to measure progress. Why the Centaurs wanted the planet was anyone’s guess, as was why it was so far removed from their other expansions.
Whatever their reasons, humanity—and Roher, Inc, and its shareholders—wanted it back. And with Roher a true intergalactic, the Marines weren’t going to be the only ones on the mission. A Host battalion was going to join the other Frisian augments, and the Hégémonie Liberté was providing some of the transport.
Which was why, six days after the Angel Shits tried to take on a Marine regiment, the Raider platoon, a sapper platoon, Alpha Company, Fourth Armor Battalion, and Charlie Company, Fourth Mech, were on the Dixmude, L404 of the Liberty Navy, heading back into the shit.
33
“With an O2 level of six-point-nine percent, this is on the very edge of what can support un-augmented human life,” Captain Ferenz, the tank company commander told the Marines crowded into the ship’s aft galley. “That shouldn’t be a problem for you sappers and Raiders, but for the rest of us, that means being buttoned up for the duration. You’ll have supplemental breathing kits for emergency evacs.”
“I never thought to ask. How do you take a crap in that thing?” Rev whispered to Bundy.
As expected, the older Marine was laser-focused on the captain and the brief, and he ignored Rev.
“Really? If we’re there for a week, you’re going to fill that thing. The smell alone . . .”
This time Bundy turned and glared at him before looking forward again.
“Quit teasing him,” Tomiko said. “Just pay attention.”
“I really do want to know. Don’t you?”
“Later.”
“That is still low for you Raiders and sappers, but this ship has a pretty sweet acclimation chamber aboard, and you’ll be spending half of your time in it until we hit the planet,” the captain continued.
“The rest of you can use it if you want, but the sappers and Raiders have priority. If you commanders want to use it, hit up Gunny Graggs. Do not go to the ship’s crew yourself. Now, there are trace gasses that are toxic over the long term. They shouldn’t be a problem if everything goes according to the plan.”
“When has anything ever gone according to plan?” Tanu whispered.
“But to ensure that long-term medical issues are avoided, sappers and Raiders will be getting a nano upgrade, which will monitor the total intake. Uh . . . Chief, that’s tonight after chow, right?”
“Yes, sir,” the senior corpsman said. “At sickbay. I’ll contact the platoon sergeants with the time.”
“OK, then. Good. As far as temperatures in our AO go, they should range from a little above freezing at night to the low teens during the day. That’s Celsius.”
“What’s that in Fahrenheit?”
The Perseus Union was metric for most measurements, but different planets within the union used either Fahrenheit or Celsius for temperatures. Rev had never gotten used to Celsius temps.
“Cool, but not cold. Our target is the major emitter, though, and that tends to make the local weather unstable. So, be ready for anything,” the captain continued. “Let me see . . . humidity averages around twenty percent this time of year, axial tilt is one-point-eight degrees . . . well, there’s a lot more here that I don’t have to go into right now. You should all have this. Take a look at it. The key limitation is the O2. It’ll be just as much an enemy as the Centaurs.”
The back partition into the galley kitchen opened up, and a waft of stomach-rumbling aromas rolled over the assembled Marines and sailors, causing every single head to turn. If evening chow was as good as the lunch they had when they got aboard, they were going to enjoy this.
“Maybe being aboard a froggy ship isn’t going to be that bad,” Tomiko said.
Rev was loyal to the Union and its Navy, but she had a point. As the ancient saying went, an army travels on its stomach.
“And I guess that’s our cue,” the captain said. “Commanders, meet me in my stateroom at, let’s say, nineteen-thirty. Tanks, go eat chow, then stand by for further word.”
“Mech! Platoon commanders, see me at nineteen hundred,” the mech company commander yelled out as the Marines started a rush to the line.
With almost three hundred Marines to be fed, no one wanted to be last.
“Hey, grab a sit-down,” Udu said as Rev, Tomiko, and Tanu were heading to where the Raiders were sitting in the back corner of the galley.
Marines normally ate with their units aboard ship, but Bundy, his buddy Dyce, Udu, and Fyr were sitting together among mostly mech Marines.
Rev hesitated. Being on the same ship as three of his and Tomiko’s posse was a welcomed coincidence, but their team was their team.
“Go ahead and eat with your buddies,” Tanu told the two of them. “If what that captain said was true, we’re going to be in pretty close quarters during the transit, and I’ll be sick of both of you before we even get there.”
“Eat me,” Tomiko said with a smile as she sat down.
Rev was right behind her.
“Miko, Rev, have you met Dyce?” Udu asked, ever the social butterfly of their group.
“We met back at Nguyen,” Dyce said, extending a hand. “Raiders. Much respect.”
Dyce had said the same thing when they first met. To Rev, a Raider was just a fellow Marine. He felt a little weird that this guy seemed to put them on some sort of pedestal. But he was a good-enough seeming guy, and if Bundy liked him, that was good enough for Rev.
“That kind of sucks for you guys,” Fyr said. “I wouldn’t want to be stuck inside some environmental chamber for twelve hours a day.”
“Kind of sucks to be you guys,” Tomiko said. “I mean, if you get your armor breached, you can
’t breathe, right?”
“We can breathe. Just might pass out from hypoxia. And that’s why we’re getting breathing packs. But what are the chances that the Doretha gets breached and Sergeant K’Adair and I are still kicking and needing to breathe?” Bundy asked with a laugh.
He and Dyce bumped fists. A Marine tank was a powerful piece of machinery, capable of taking out a Centaur on its own. Not favored to do so, but capable. However, there tended to be two outcomes for tanks. Survival or destruction. Not much middle ground where the tank itself was taken out, but the two Marines inside were left alive.
Rev didn’t even understand why there were Marines inside the tanks. They could be entirely automatic, run by battle AIs, but in test after test, manned tanks had a 4 percent better chance of fulfilling the mission than the automated versions. Four percent didn’t seem like much to Rev when there were two Marines with their lives on the line.
He’d asked Bundy about that once, but he was shut down so hard he never brought it up again.
“Hey, you never did answer me. If you’re going to be inside your tank for a week, how do you shit? There’s no room for a head in there, right?” Rev asked.
“We get a tube stuck up our ass,” Bundy said.
Rev looked at him in surprise. That didn’t sound very . . . comfortable?
“No shit?”
“With a tube up our asses, yes, shit.” He made a raspberry and mimicked something moving down a tube.
“Damn! That’s freaky. I don’t know if I could do that.”
“You are so gullible, Rev,” Fyr said, laughing. “Biodegraders. We wear diapers with superbacteria that eat our shit up. A big dump, and five minutes later, all nice and clean. Same as for tanks.”
Rev wasn’t sure who to believe, but Bundy was trying to hold back a laugh.
“Eat me,” Rev said with a scowl.
“Come on, guys. No shit talk when we’ve got this primo chow,” Tomiko said.
Good point.
Rev looked at his plate. He wasn’t sure what it was. Some sort of protein with a purplish-brown sauce, veggies, and a fluffy something that looked like basic mashed potatoes, but with a slightly different texture. And the smell was enough to start his mouth watering. He took a small bite, and while it was weird, both in taste and texture, he sure liked it. He shoveled a bigger forkful into his mouth.
