by J. N. Chaney
“Damn, these froggys sure can dial up the chow. Why don’t we have the same programs?” Udu asked between bites.
“Maybe proprietary,” Bundy said.
Proprietary or not, Rev was going to have to see about getting some of these programs.
“What is this dish called? Did anyone see it?”
“Yeah, but it was in French. Ask your AI,” Dyce said.
He’d left his AI awake to record the brief and had forgotten to put it back to sleep, but this was the first time it had ever volunteered information like this.
“Are you still at twenty-five percent?”
From what he understood, a twenty-five percent PQ shouldn’t allow for something like that. He made a mental note to look into it.
“Beef borgon-something or other,” Fyr said.
“Bourgignon,” Bundy added. “Some famous froggy dish.”
“We’re eating frog? Real frog?” Udu asked, looking at her dish in obvious distaste.
“No. Froggy, as in someone from the Hegemony,” Bundy said.
“Why do we call them that?” Rev asked, hoping that his AI wouldn’t kick in and answer.
“I don’t know. I think it’s an old term for the Napoleonic Empire on Old Earth, and the Hegemony was born in the French Diaspora,” Bundy said.
His eyes got that faraway look of someone consulting their AI, and then he said, “Not quite. Right country, but before Napoleon. Supposedly because the French ate frog legs, so you were almost right there, Udu.”
“Fucking gross,” she said, poking at her food.
“What, like you care? This isn’t real beef, either. Just the same protein base that’s programmed to look and taste like it,” Fyr said, giving her a light punch to the arm.
She slapped his arm away.
“Well, all I know is that this shit’s delicious,” Rev said, taking another mouthful. “And we better eat up. You remember Senior Drill Instructor Howland. ‘Always sleep when you can, eat when you can, and shit when you can ’cause you never know when you’ll get the next opportunity,’” Rev said, imitating Howland’s gravelly voice.
“Probably the best advice we ever got at boot camp,” Bundy said as he tucked into his chow. “Well, that and don’t shit in a tank.”
34
“Two more minutes,” Darcy shouted. “Come on, push it!”
“Easy for her to say,” Tomiko gasped out from beside Rev while she ran.
Darcy Millsap was a civilian contractor for DSS, one of the companies that performed the augmentations. In her black and copper unitard, she looked like a poster child for fitness, but the two O2 cannulas inserted into her nostrils were proof enough that she couldn’t do what the Raiders and sappers were doing . . . and that was killing themselves.
The treadmill under Rev sped up, and he grunted in frustration. This was far, far more difficult than he’d expected. Maybe he’d gotten too used to his augments, taking them for granted, but physics was physics, and biology was biology. His body needed lots of oxygen to support it, and even his improved lungs were not up to the task.
Just do it. Two more minutes.
He reached down deep as his lungs bellowed and his legs seared with fatigue.
“Faster!” Darcy shouted as she strode in front of the Marines like a DI.
Rev wasn’t sure what he’d expected when he entered the environmental spaces six hours before. Maybe hang out, get some tests, just get used to a lower O2 atmosphere. What he hadn’t expected, however, was to be put to the test like this. And even when he was told, he hadn’t expected it to kick his ass so much.
He was superman, right? The best that human science could make, right?
So why was he feeling like such a candyass?
“One minute! Don’t stop!”
Rev started lurching, his pace getting rough, but he was not going to quit.
There was a crash from the other side of the space. Rev looked up to see Gunny Jin, the sapper platoon sergeant, collapse, his body in a jumble at the base of his treadmill.
A couple of the other sappers start to move to help him when Darcy yelled out, “Don’t stop! We’ve got him.”
A corpsman in a full helmet stepped up to attend to the fallen Marine, and Rev lowered his head to gut out the final few seconds.
It seemed like forever before Darcy shouted, “Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . and stop!”
“Thank God,” Rev muttered as he came to a halt. It took an effort of will to remain standing tall and not lean over, hands on his knees. Hell, it took an effort not to puke.
He looked up at Darcy, hoping against hope that they were not about to jump right into another torture session.
“Take five while we run some scans.”
Beautiful words: take five.
Two DSS techs and three corpsmen started down the line, collecting blood, having each Marine exhale into a mask, and running scans.
“Some shit,” he said to Tomiko, who tried to gain some sort of control over her breathing.
On the other side of Tomiko and Tanu, Staff Sergeant Montez suddenly lost her balance, stumbled back against the bulkhead, and slid to a sitting position, her eyes glazing over. Rev jumped off the treadmill to help, but the motion constricted his field of sight, closing it off to tunnel vision, and he had to grab the front of his treadmill to remain upright.
Darcy was at the staff sergeant’s side immediately. “We’ve got her.”
Still holding the front of his treadmill, Rev wanted to help, but the medtech who joined Darcy was far more qualified.
“Take a seat if you need to,” Darcy told them.
Twenty-eight Raiders and sappers immediately sat down.
That helped. Rev watched the staff sergeant for a moment to make sure she was OK, but she was conscious and talking to the medtech.
“Breathe into this,” one of the mech corpsmen, shanghaied for this, said, holding a mask up in front of Rev’s face. “Four good, deep breaths.”
Rev leaned into it and complied, a bit of the dizziness coming back.
The corpsman checked the readout, nodded, then slapped a vampire on Rev’s arm to take his blood. After a quick scan, he moved onto Tomiko.
“I wish they’d given us more of that goose DNA,” Rev said when the corpsman moved onto Tanu. “Why stop when they did?”
Tomiko shook her head slightly and said, “For the same reason they didn’t give any to the mech-heads and tankers.”
“Not the same thing. They already gave us some of that stuff to give us better lungs and feed our augments. To give us more stamina when we run,” he said, tilting his head back to the treadmill track.
“But the more they give us, the greater, you know . . .”
Rev did know. The more augments they were given, the greater the chance for the rot.
But if they couldn’t breathe when they got to their target, then they wouldn’t last long enough to catch the rot.
“It’s not like it would be a totally new augment. They already pumped us up with damned DNA. Would it hurt to goose that up a little more?”
“Damn, Rev. You still got enough energy for a weak-ass pun like that?”
“I try,” Rev said, mustering up enough energy for a chuckle.
“Alright, listen up,” Darcy said, striding to the middle of the space. “We’re halfway through the first session. This was at six-point-six percent oxygen. We’ll be dropping it to six-point-four percent next.”
A chorus of groans reached her, which she waved off as if shooing a gnat buzzing her face.
“But first, we need to get you fed. Tanista, if you’ll get the XL-12s?”
One of the medtechs took out a box and opened it, then tossed Darcy a dull white tube before he started passing out others to the Marines.
“This is the newest nutritional sludge, specifically formulated to help your bod
ies cope with the lack of oxygen as well as counteract the more toxic elements you’ll be breathing in.”
“Has it been tested?” Lieutenant Omestori called out.
“What do you think we’re doing here?” Darcy answered. “I told you it was brand new. So, just eat and relax. We’ll start Phase Two for today in about twenty minutes. We’re supposed to give the paste time to be absorbed.”
“Paste? That isn’t a good omen,” Tomiko said.
Rev watched as the medtech passed out the white tubes. “She said we were at six-point-six percent. I thought the planet was at six-point-nine percent?”
“It is. But maybe they’re doing this so we think six-point-nine percent is like a day at the beach.”
Rev just grunted. He didn’t need to be tortured to know he wouldn’t like it.
The medtech tossed Rev his tube. Rev popped the cap and took a sniff. It had a faint almond smell.
He looked at Tomiko, then raised his tube as if in a toast and tapped hers.
“Here goes.”
He squeezed the tube and took a big mouthful. It wasn’t horrible, almost reminiscent of cookie dough but with a weird undercurrent and aftertaste.
“With all the great froggy chow on the ship, we’re eating this shit,” Tomiko grumbled.
“It may not be beef burgundy-whatever, true. But it isn’t that bad.”
Rev tilted his head back and squeezed the tube empty.
“It ain’t cookies, either.”
35
The Hegemony landing craft was a bare-bones thing, with full cocoon-like seats that kept everyone locked in place, which was good since the craft was juking like a crazed bird in a cage as it plummeted to the planet’s surface.
Rev braced himself into the seat, just wishing the damned thing would get on the ground, and fast. He didn’t know how long he could last before spewing despite the max dose of antiemetics coursing through his body.
The intel was that all the Centaurs were located at the main emitter site, three terrain features away, and that there were no defenses anywhere near. But the Dixmude’s commanding officer was taking no chances on losing his landing craft, programming the AI to use a high-avoidance path in, which meant not even the AI knew what it was going to do. Each juke and jive was a result of a random chance-generated course correction.
Rev had felt exposed during his last insertion, but in retrospect, he’d rather do that than experience this torture.
Maybe they want to piss us off so much we’ll be mad enough to take on anything.
Another especially hard lurch hurt his side, and Rev shifted his weight to brace himself better. Combat casualties weren’t supposed to happen during an insert.
But mercifully, the craft’s flight smoothed out as it flared for a landing. The back ramp hissed as it broke the seal, and the seats relaxed, releasing them. The petty officer’s image on the monitor shouted at them to get off.
Rev ran his hands over his kit, making sure nothing had gotten knocked off in the descent, then followed the rest of the team and the Sapper’s second squad off the craft.
“Good riddance,” he said as he stepped off into the too-harsh sunshine.
He was immediately hit by the smell of lavender, but not really. It was like lavender-lite. Lavender was a favorite of the terraforming companies because it put out high amounts of O2. There was still a lot of it gone wild on Safe Harbor, but the smell of it there was stronger, more robust. Maybe it had something to do with the lower atmospheric pressure.
Above the lavender patches rose Roher’s patented TD420s, better known as “fart trees,” a common sight on their projects. A GMO cross between bamboo, larch, and the areca palm, they provided good O2 production. They also had the ability to survive in nutrient-poor soils and an extremely fast growth rate.
With no other trees in sight, the valley looked more like some sort of plantation rather than a still-wild planet.
“Well, that sure sucked,” Corporal Dean-Ballester said as they hurried out of the lift zone.
“I thought I was going to hurl that Last Breakfast they gave us.”
“I think Nix did.”
Rev looked over to where the sergeant was running along with them. He didn’t look covered in puke, but the craft had some righteous suction going on, probably for that very reason.
“Waste of a good steak and eggs if he did,” Rev said.
At a hundred meters, the team went to one knee and looked back. The landing craft had shielded drive nozzles, but they could still cook someone too close to them. The craft jumped up in the air and climbed, one of the four that had brought the entire Raider and Sapper platoons down from the Dixmude.
All around them, hundreds of craft were in the process of landing and taking off. The Centaurs might not have weaponry in the area, but there was no sense in testing that by trickling in. If this valley was covered, then they were just going to have to overwhelm them with sheer numbers.
But as Rev watched, no landing craft or shuttle was falling in flames. Maybe Intel got it right for once.
“OK, gather up,” the lieutenant yelled. “Top, give me a head count.”
Master Sergeant Rzyko was the Second Team leader, but like the lieutenant was dual-hatted—in his case, as the platoon sergeant. He got the thumbs-up from each team and reported back to the lieutenant.
Rev wasn’t sure who would have gotten lost since the last head count inside the landing craft, but it was just SOP, he guessed. Probably a good idea getting into the habit if they have to evac like they did on Preacher Rolls.
Don’t even begin to compare the two, he scolded himself. Bad juju.
Rev had never considered himself superstitious, but two years now in the Corps, and some of that was rubbing off on him.
“OK. We’ve got two hours before we step off, but that time’s going to go by quicker than we think. Let’s break out the disks, and I want everyone to get the feel of them. I don’t want to look like drunken idiots to Second Battalion, right?”
Neither did Rev. Second Battalion was the disk battalion, with each Marine trained in riding the disks into battle. Like all DC Marines, Rev had ridden them in training, and he’d had simu-time on them, but nothing beat practice. And while some of the Frisians had their scoots, others would be on the disks for their very first time.
And the task force commander knew that as well, which was why all the other Marines except for armor and mech would be screened by Second Battalion. If the Centaurs had a surprise up their sleeves—if they even had sleeves—the screen would be best trained to react.
“You heard the lieutenant,” Top said. “Fifth Team, you’re up. Second, get ready. The rest of you, we’re not out for a stroll in the park. This is still bad-guy country, so provide security.”
Tomiko raised her eyebrows at that. They were in the middle of a task force. If the Centaurs hit them, the real flank security would encounter them first. But you don’t argue with a master sergeant, so they dutifully spread out and faced outboard. Behind them, Fifth was breaking out the disks from where the landing craft had dumped them.
“You ready to ride those flying saucers?” Tomiko asked him.
“We’re almost two hundred klicks away? Damned skippy I’m ready. Better than walking, right?”
“I guess so. Just hope I don’t fall off in front of those Second Battalion Marines.”
Yeah, me too.
Rev stood, feet shoulder width apart, with his right foot slightly in front of his left.
This is easy. Just like riding a banana board back home.
The lieutenant gave the command, and not quite as one, the platoon lifted off the ground.
“Lord help me,” Sergeant Nix muttered.
“Ain’t no thing, Sergeant,” Tanu said, shifting his weight to spin the disk like a top.
The sergeant just shook his head. Nix had a Silver Nova as a private from the Torsiar Incursion, so he wasn’t some lightweight. But to say he was uncomfortable on a disk would be an u
nderstatement.
Rev wasn’t entirely comfortable himself, but not like the sergeant. Disks took controlled movements of the feet to move, and the less-skilled drivers tended to bob, sway, come to complete stops, or even move in reverse. With the Disk Marines from the battalion flying screen, he didn’t want to look like a drunken idiot. But as he’d told Tomiko, two-hundred klicks was a fair hump, one he really didn’t want to make. With the tanks and mech-heads moving out as well, if they didn’t fly, they’d miss out on the battle.
Not that they’d fly right up to the emitter station. The disks themselves were moderately shielded, but long before a Centaur could drop it, the lightly armored Raiders would be fried.
The current plan was for the platoon to fly to an assembly area forty-three klicks from the enemy where the terrain would still give them cover and go the rest of the way on foot.
The lieutenant gave the signal to move out, and Rev leaned forward just a bit, pressing down with the ball of his right foot. The disk complied, and he started moving forward. They might not be the Marine Corps Disk Drill Team, but they got it done. Even Sergeant Nix.
Off to their flank, Rev could see the Bravo Company Disk Marines gracefully fly along. In the unofficial hierarchy of the Corps, Raiders might rate a little higher than the Disk Marines, but Rev felt a twinge of jealousy watching how smoothly they picked up speed. His competitive nature drove him to match them, and he concentrated on the impulses he was sending his disk. Theirs had been detuned, so they were more forgiving, but still, his disk snaked a bit as he flew five meters above the forest of fart trees.
His focus was on flying, but he knew that all around him Marines and soldiers were maneuvering forward to surround the Centaurs. In four short hours the battle would commence.
