Luna Marine: Book Two of the Heritage Trilogy

by Ian Douglas

“Don’t tell the Marines,” David replied with a chuckle. “It would disillusion them. The poor dears.”

  “You two better strap down,” Heyerson warned. “We’re coming up on our final thrust phase, here. I’d hate to deliver the jarheads’ new corpsman with two busted legs.”

  Space, of course, was at a claustrophobic premium aboard the Clarke. The ugly little tug had been designed to haul construction materials, fuel, and personnel from LEO to higher orbits—especially to geosynch, and to the construction shacks at L-3, L-4, and L-5. With the addition of a spidery set of landing legs, it could carry heavy cargoes to the Lunar surface; the USAF Transport Command had requisitioned Clarke and three sisters, Asimov, Ecklar, and Viglione for hauling high-priority cargoes to the Moon and back. In fact, the Viglione, with forty more soldiers, was trailing behind the Clarke by a few thousand kilometers, preparing for her own landing maneuvers at Fra Mauro.

  Because of the crowding, and his VIP status of Clarke’s sole civilian aboard, David had been allowed to make the trip in one of the cockpit couches; his service with the Marines on Mars had almost automatically meant that he and Thornton had found each other on the first day out from LEO, and the permission had been extended to the Navy man, too.

  Cramped as the tug’s cockpit was, it was a lot roomier than the cargo bay, with space-suited soldiers packed into narrow bucket seats like armored eggs in a carton. David hadn’t been at all shy about taking advantage of Heyerson’s offer.

  And he found he was enjoying his status as an honorary Marine.

  As he strapped himself in, listening to Heyerson warning the troops aft of a delta-v maneuver in another minute, David thought about that. He’d received his patch at a party on Earth, just a month after his return from Mars. Gunnery Sergeant Harold Knox, one of the Marines on the March, had had a source in San Diego make up enough of the unauthorized patches for every Marine who’d been to Mars, with one left over for the civilian who’d endured the grueling, three-week march from Heinlein Station to Mars Prime…and then been on hand to snap the famous flag-raising at Cydonia.

  The beer can represented an in joke among the men and women who’d been with the MMEF. “Sands of Mars” Garroway, in the true improvise-adapt-overcome spirit of the Marines, had converted cans of contraband beer into weapons, showering them on UN troops at Cydonia from a hovering Mars lander. The aluminum cans had burst on impact in the thin Martian air, spraying suits and helmet visors with a fast-congealing foam that had immediately frozen, leaving the enemy confused, frightened, and largely blind.

  The ponderous acronym across the bottom of the patch stood for “All The Way To Mars And They Made Us Throw Away The Beer.”

  “Our honorary Marine,” Knox had called him when he’d presented the badge. After the shared hardships and dangers of Garroway’s March, after the wild firefight—and the literal beer bust—with UN Foreign Legion troops at the Cydonian base, David Alexander had been…changed.

  It was hard to put into words, even now. David had been a Navy brat, and as a kid had dreamed of being an aviator, like his father. After losing his aviator father to an equipment failure aboard the USS Reagan, though, he’d developed a deep-seated loathing for the military, coupled with a pacifist’s hatred for war in all its forms.

  But now? He still hated war and thought that this war, in particular, was suicidally stupid. But for the men he’d been forced to serve with, struggle with, fight beside on Mars, he felt nothing but admiration and respect.

  Acceleration slammed at him through the couch, its hand unpleasantly heavy across his chest after three days of free fall. The pressure went on and on for a long time, too. Normally, a Moon-bound craft would decelerate first into Lunar orbit, followed by a second deceleration to drop into a landing approach, and the final burst as it gentled in for a landing. Clarke was combining all three delta-v maneuvers in one, however; no one had said anything definite, but David had heard rumors that the Aerospace Force had already lost a spacecraft passing over the Lunar farside. Coming in straight this way, without an initial orbit, was risky…but it avoided the possibility of being shot down by the rumored UN forces on the side of the Moon always hidden from the Earth.

  And as the Clarke plunged from dazzling, white sunlight into the Moon’s shadow, David decided that he was all in favor of that….

  Hab One, Picard Base

  Mare Crisium, the Moon

  0758 hours GMT

  “Kaminski!”

  “Yeah, Gunny?”

  Yates jerked a thumb at the ladder leading to the upper deck of the hab. “Get your sorry butt topside, Sergeant. The captain wants to see ya.”

  “Christ, Ski!” Corporal Ahearn shook her head. “What the fuck did you do now?”

  “Dunno, Hern,” he said, throwing down his cards. Jesus, always something. It had been a good hand, too. “I ain’t been in trouble for, hell, two or three hours, it seems like.”

  Padding across the steel deck in his socks, he hesitated at the ladder. None of the Marines had their boondockers because they’d all arrived in pressure suits, and their shoes were still with the rest of their personal gear, back at Fra Mauro. It seemed…wrong, somehow, to be going up to see the skipper in BDUs and padded green socks.

  “Get movin’, Ski,” Yates warned. “She didn’t say tomorrow.”

  “Aye, aye, Gunnery Sergeant Yates, sir!” he snapped, and started up the ladder.

  Captain Fuentes was seated at the desk that until a few days ago had belonged to the commander of UN forces at Picard, Arnaldo Tessitore of the San Marco Marines. Lieutenant Garroway was perched on the corner of the desk, also in greens and socks. “Sergeant Kaminski, reporting as ordered, ma’am,” he announced, centering himself in front of the desk and coming to attention.

  “At ease, Sergeant,” Fuentes said. “According to your records, you were with Major Garroway on Mars.”

  Kaminski flicked a quick glance at the lieutenant. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then you knew one of the scientists on the expedition, Dr. Alexander.”

  “Huh? Sure!”

  “My father told me that you and Alexander were pretty friendly,” Lieutenant Garroway said. “You were with him inside the Cave of Wonders, helped him out, that sort of thing.”

  “Uh, yes, ma’am. I guess I was pretty interested in what he was doin’. He let me help out some. And, yeah. He let me come inside the cave with him.” Kaminski suppressed a shudder. “Didn’t like it, though.”

  “Why not?”

  “Some of those, uh, things on the things like TV screens were pretty, well, they gave me the creeps, ma’am.”

  “But you got on well with Alexander?”

  “Huh? Yeah! The Professor, he was okay.” Kaminski drew himself up a little straighter. “Th’ way I see it, anyone on the March with us was okay! And the Prof, he did just great, for a civilian.”

  “Excellent, Sergeant,” Fuentes said, making a notation with a stylus on the screen of her PAD. “Thank you for volunteering.”

  “Volunteering!” He stopped himself, swallowed, and licked his lips. “Uh, if the captain doesn’t mind telling me, what did the sergeant just volunteer for?”

  “We have a guest, Sergeant,” Fuentes replied. “Dr. Alexander. He’s just arrived to investigate the UN archeological dig outside. And you just volunteered to be his assistant.”

  Kaminski sagged just the slightest bit with relief. That ought to be easy enough. A real skylark detail. He’d seen the new arrivals filing from their bug transport, of course, but had had no idea that Alexander was aboard. “Uh, yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”

  “He’s in Hab Three, with Dr. Billaud and the other UN scientists we captured. Suit up, hotfoot on over there, and make yourself useful. That is all.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain!”

  He came to attention again, whirled in place, and dived for the ladder. Hot damn! If they had to roust him from a friendly game with his squadmates, at least it was for an assignment that ought to be interes
ting.

  The last few days, since the Marine assault on Picard, had been downright boring.

  He had a happy feeling that that was about to change.

  Hab Three, Picard Base

  Mare Crisium, the Moon

  0815 hours GMT

  They’d been shouting at the prisoners when David had walked into the hab compartment, moments before. “You had damned well better cooperate, mister,” the Army colonel bellowed, his voice ringing off the metal walls as he leaned over the prisoner. “I’m losing my patience! It is one hell of a long walk back to Earth, and right now, we are your only hope of a ride!”

  Dr. Marc Billaud stared past his tormentor with an icy indifference. “Je ne comprends pas,” he said.

  “He’s lying,” the Army captain at the colonel’s side said. “His record says—”

  “Ah, Colonel,” David said, interrupting, “I really don’t think you’re going to get anything out of them this way. Do you think I could have a few moments with them?”

  The interrogators—three Army officers who’d made the trip out aboard the Clarke—stared at David for a moment. The senior officer, Colonel Thomas R. Whitworth, opened his mouth, then closed it again, as though fearful of appearing foolish. The other two, Major Dahlgren and Captain Slizak, glanced at one another, but said nothing.

  Stiffly, then, hands clasped behind his back, the colonel glared at David. “For your information, Doctor, these…people,” he replied, “have information that we need. They speak English…or at least this one does. But they’re not cooperating.”

  “I understand all that. I also know Marc Billaud.”

  “Eh? How’s that?”

  “He’s a friend of mine.”

  “Dr. Alexander, how the hell is it you’re friends with this UNdie?”

  “I met him before the war, Colonel. There was such a time, you know. It only seems like the war’s been going on forever.”

  “Hmpf. My orders—”

  “Are these people prisoners of war, Colonel?”

  “Technically, no, Doctor,” Dahlgren said. “They are civilians, and unless we can prove that they’ve borne arms against American military forces, they must be treated as civilians according to the terms of the Geneva Convention.” The major was staring at Whitworth as he spoke, and David had the feeling there was no lost love between the two.

  Well, being cooped up in a tin can with thirty-some other troops for the three-day coast up from Earth could do that to people. David was glad once again that he’d been able to spend much of the voyage up forward with the pilot.

  “I am well aware of the legalities of this situation,” Whitworth huffed. “But these people know things that are vital to our operation here. I will not see this mission jeopardized by—”

  “Give me a few moments with them alone, and perhaps I can get him to talk to you. Without the histrionics.”

  Whitworth’s eyes narrowed with an expression hovering between disbelief and outright suspicion while Major Dahlgren looked carefully noncommittal. The major, it turned out, was fluent in French and had been serving as interpreter…though Whitworth appeared dedicated to the age-old linguistic theory that speaking very loud and waving the arms about would hurdle all language barriers.

  As though suddenly arriving at a decision, the colonel cocked his head, shrugged, and exchanged a glance with the other officers. “Well, of course. This isn’t a formal interrogation. Not yet, anyway.” He gestured at the French scientists. “Go ahead. Knock yourself out. I’ll be back…later.”

  “A friend of yours?” Billaud asked in English, rolling his eyes toward the doorway through which the colonel and his entourage had vanished.

  “A friend? No, my God. An acquaintance only. I met him on the transport bringing me here. I think the major, the one with the mustache, is Army Intelligence.”

  “Oui. He has the look. So, my friend. What did you hope to accomplish with that little show, just now?”

  “I thought it would be more pleasant in here without the shouting.”

  Billaud shook his head with a wry chuckle. “Thank you for that, David. We appreciate the quiet. But…you must know, I will not betray my country.”

  “Of course not. But…well, damn it, Marc, what can you give me?” When Billaud did not immediately answer, David spread his hands. “Look, it’s all just a big, ugly game, right? Give me something, anything, to make the bloodhounds happy, and maybe we can get ’em to leave you alone for a while.”

  Billaud sighed. “You have, no doubt, read my notes. The ones I left at Fra Mauro? Your people, I’m sure, picked them up when they captured our base there.”

  “No, actually. I came straight here, from Earth.”

  “Ah. Well, your people already have those notes. I can only tell you what is in them…and nothing more.”

  “At least it gets Whitworth off your back.”

  “Oui.” Billaud hesitated, as though wondering where to begin, then pursed his lips. “You are in for a surprise, my friend, when you examine our dig outside.”

  “I’ve been wondering about that. I was told it was a ship.”

  Billaud nodded. “A ship, oui. Or rather, a piece of a ship. A piece of a very large ship that…ah…suffered an accident, we think, six thousand years ago.”

  “I saw the trenches outside. How is it that the ship was buried?”

  Unlike Mars, where winds blew, dust accumulated, and sand dunes migrated across the landscape in million-year marches, the Moon was not a place you associated with changes in the terrain. A crash thousands of years ago, even millions of years ago, should still be on the surface, where it fell. The slow infall of meteoric dust was not enough to bury something as large as a spacecraft, even after millions of years.

  Billaud exchanged a quick glance with the other scientists—there were three, two men and a woman. Then he sighed. “There was some wreckage on the surface. Most of that is…gone now. Salvaged.”

  “Salvaged! What do you mean?”

  “I’d rather not say more. But…you Americans are interested in the technology of these aliens, no?”

  “Of course.” David nodded. Then he slapped his knee. “Of course! You found a power plant…or an engine assembly! Good for you!”

  “Good for us, yes,” the woman said. “Perhaps not so good for you!”

  “Estelle!” one of the other scientists warned.

  But David already understood…enough, at least, to know in general what was going on.

  “There really wasn’t that much to salvage,” Billaud went on, as though he’d not been interrupted. “In fact, it appears the vessel was torn open some distance above the ground. The contents spilled out…here. Much of the wreckage was scattered across most of the floor of this crater.”

  “There have been TLPs associated with Picard,” David said. “Transient Lunar Phenomena.”

  “Yes. That was our first clue, in fact, to look here. Large chunks and scraps of highly polished metal. When it catches the light just right, it can look like unusual clusters of lights, here on the crater floor. Observers on Earth have seen unusual lights and effects here for some time.”

  TLPs had been seen for almost two hundred years at many different sites on the Moon. They appeared only rarely and were usually dismissed as volcanic phenomena. David wondered if those sites now warranted a closer look by xenoarcheologists.

  “The largest fragment was a kind of module or capsule containing the ship’s power generator,” Billaud continued. “When it struck, most of it was buried. It took six weeks to dig it free. Many of the smaller, heavier fragments were buried on impact as well, which is why we have been digging the trenches.”

  David found a chair by the compartment’s one small table and sat down. “Tell me more,” he said.

  One of the other men said something sharply, in French.

  “Ah,” Billaud said. “Jean-Paul thinks I’ve already said too much.”

  “Not really. We’d guessed that you’d found something im
portant at Picard. And that you’d already moved it to your base on the Lunar farside.”

  None of them said anything, either in confirmation or in denial.

  “What can you tell me about the aliens? They had a base here?”

  Billaud leaned forward, his eyes bright. “Oh, my friend! I wish I could tell you what I’ve seen, what I’ve learned! Things wonderful…and things terrifying, as well.”

  “Where? Here? Or at your base? You’re at Tsiolkovsky, right?”

  Billaud sighed. “Your people must know that by now. Yes. And thousands of years ago, another race, another civilization, was there as well. Until they were attacked by les Chasseurs de l’Aube.”

  “The…what?”

  “‘Hunters of the Dawn’ is how we have translated the name. There appears to have been a terrible war fought, here…and elsewhere.”

  “I think you need to tell me more. Everything you can. Please.”

  Twenty minutes later, he walked out of the compartment. The three Army officers were there, seated at a table. The Marine guard posted outside the room with the UN scientists stood by the door, and another Marine was leaning against one wall. He straightened as David entered the room. “Hey, Professor!”

  “Kaminski!” David said, startled. “What are you doing here?”

  “Waitin’ for you. They told me you needed an assistant.”

  David nodded absently. “That’s…good….”

  “Well?” Whitworth demanded. “Did they tell you anything?”

  “Yes,” David replied. “They told me quite a bit.”

  Whitworth’s leathery face creased in an unexpected grin. “Excellent, Doctor! You had the routine down just perfect!”

  “Routine? What routine?”

  “Good cop—bad cop, of course. I had ’em rattled and worried. Then you stepped in and sweet-talked ’em. Works every time!”

  The major gave David a sour look. “What did you learn?”

  David resented Whitworth’s implication that he’d been playing some sort of game. How little could he get away with telling the bastard and still have it sound convincing? “I’m not sure you’re going to want to hear this,” he replied. And then he told them.