Master Sergeant

by Mel Odom

  The other bashhounds stood at their table and Sage knew things were about to turn even uglier. The man in front of him managed to set himself and unload a backfist.

  Sage slapped the blow aside, took one step to the side, then lifted his foot and stomped down against the side of the man’s knee. The joint came apart with multiple snaps. A lot of cyberware came with amped reflexes but not knee-joint reinforcements. That cost extra because those joints tended to be vulnerable. Corp muscle was often cheap.

  As the man lurched sideways on a leg that no longer held his weight, Sage spun him around and stepped behind him. He roped one arm around the man’s neck and secured a chokehold with his fingers digging into the flesh of the man’s throat. He caught hold of the man’s trachea, ready to tear it out if he had to, but stopping as he realized more bashhounds were in motion. At the same time, he snaked a hand up inside the man’s black jacket, freed the high-capacity Gatner semiautomatic fletchette pistol, and pulled the weapon out. Luckily, the pistol didn’t have a biometric lock that prevented others from using it.

  Before any of the bashhounds could reach them, Sage had the pistol’s safety flicked off and aimed the weapon’s vicious snout at the approaching men. “Stop right there or I’m going to rip out his throat and start killing you.” He spoke in his command voice, flat and unforgiving.

  Some of the men hesitated for just a moment, listening to the authority in his words, then pulled weapons of their own and pointed them at Sage. His large size and broad shoulders made it hard for him to take cover behind his captive, but he succeeded in keeping his head out of the way of the red laser targeting sights that flared across the man he held.

  One of the bashhounds lifted a hand. The laser sights winked out of existence. The man was tall and rangy. He wore his blond hair brushed back and neat, polished with platinum-white definitions. He was clean shaven and handsome. He smiled calmly. “Who are you?”

  “Just a man trying to take care of his buddies. Call off your dogs or I’ll put them down.”

  A small blurred spot opened up in the man’s retinas and Sage knew the man was accessing an integrated online camera that broadcast images through his eyes. The residual blurring was a dead giveaway.

  “Master Sergeant Frank Nolan Sage of the Terran Army. You’ve got quite an interesting history, Sergeant.”

  Sage ignored the comment. Corp execs getting into military files wasn’t surprising. They got into everything the military did, and most of the time the motivation was to find planets like Makaum, places they could weasel into and rob blind while Terran soldiers spilled blood protecting those worlds.

  At that moment, a group of blue-suited space-station law-enforcement officers in riot gear arrived on the scene with stun batons and pistols. They separated Sage from the bashhounds and he surrendered his captured weapon.

  “You’re under arrest for disturbing the peace, Master Sergeant Sage.” A woman wearing lieutenant’s chevrons at her collar grabbed Sage’s wrist and expertly pulled his arm behind his back. She was in her thirties and experience stamped her tight features.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Sage placed his other hand behind his back before she had the chance to reach for it. The cold metal bit into his wrists. “If you could do me a favor, Lieutenant?”

  “I’m not in the habit of doing favors for those that I arrest.”

  “Make sure those soldiers get taken care of. They weren’t asking for trouble tonight.”

  The lieutenant’s face softened a little, but she remained professional. “I’ll make certain of it myself, Sergeant.”

  “Thank you.”

  She led Sage through the bar’s front door. The blond man’s gaze bored into his back the whole way.

  “My names Velesko Kos, Sergeant Sage,” the bashhound called out behind him. “Remember that name. Our paths will cross again.”

  Sage ignored the threat and kept moving.

  TWO

  Compartment 341-22F (Brig, Gen Pop)

  Space Station DSC-24L19

  Loki 19 (Makaum)

  LEO 332.7 kilometers

  0716 Hours Zulu Time

  Sage. Frank Nolan.”

  Hearing his name, Sage drifted out of the doze he’d willed himself into through long years spent waiting in hostile conditions. He sat on the narrow cot in gen pop that he’d claimed for himself in the space station’s holding center. He raised his voice as he leaned forward and got off the cot. “Here.”

  Conditions in the brig’s general population holding area weren’t aimed at creature comforts. Malcontents that had broken the law and spent the night in the brig sat scattered around the five-meter by five-meter cell. Disinfectant masked the stink of hungover men, blood, urine, and vomit, but the chems didn’t eradicate the odor. The noxious sour stench stung Sage’s nose, but it wasn’t any worse than some of the barracks he’d been assigned to.

  The other men in the holding cell glared at him. He hadn’t made any enemies, but everyone had gotten the message to keep their distance from him. Ignoring them, he walked to the bars. None of them made a move on the cot, not certain if he would return.

  Four jailers stood in the hallway. A young first lieutenant in full Terran Army dress stood with them. He referred to the wristcomm he wore. For an instant Sage saw the small reproduction of his image from the field service record illuminated on the vidscreen. Then the lieutenant looked at him again without expression.

  “Put your hands through the bars and turn them palms up.” The jailer held an oval scanner not much larger than his hand.

  Sage shoved his hands through and turned them up. The scanner pulsed blue light that slid across his palms. Visual ID was never enough.

  “Fingerprint analysis, handprint analysis, DNA analysis all confirmed.” The jailer returned the scanner to a holster on his belt. “This is Sage, Frank Nolan, Master Sergeant Terran military.” He looked at Sage. “Stand back from the door.”

  Sage pulled his hands back through the bars and took a step back.

  A meter-wide section of the bars yawned open, retracting back into the ceiling with a smooth hum. Sage waited, knowing better than to walk through without permission. The space station had a lot of volatile people on board at the moment, and the security people were antsy. All four of the jailers had their sidearms at the ready in case the incarcerated people decided to stage a coup.

  “Walk through.”

  Sage did and came to a stop at the lieutenant’s side. He stayed in step with the officer as the containment cell door yawned closed behind them and they were escorted from the holding area. A scuffed blue line painted on the steel deck led from the cells to the security department’s administration offices. Sage had followed such lines before, in other places.

  THE LIEUTENANT HAD already made all the arrangements, signed off on all the necessary edocs, so all Sage had to do was leave a thumbprint for his personal effects. Once he had his ID and MilCard back, he put them in his pockets.

  “That it?” The lieutenant looked at Sage expectantly. He was in his early twenties, probably fresh out of the academy and still full of spit and polish that hadn’t gotten worn away yet.

  “Yes sir.”

  “You don’t carry much.”

  “Not much to carry, sir.”

  “I’m Lieutenant Flynn.”

  “Good to meet you, sir.”

  Flynn smiled mirthlessly. “We both know that’s not true.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “We also both know you’re in a lot of trouble with the brass.”

  “Yes sir.”

  The lieutenant led the way to the door. “Have you ever served under General Whitcomb?”

  “No sir. I’ve never had the pleasure.”

  “See? That’s your mistake, Top. The general is only pleasurable to work for when you’re not embarrassing him.”

  “Yes sir. I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”

  Compartment 683-TAOP HQ (Terran Army OffPlanet Headquarters)

  0943 Hours Zul
u Time

  Uncomfortable, hungover, hungry, and irritated that he was kept waiting, but knowing that the brass dragged their feet to remind a disobedient non-com of the chain of command, Sage sat in the lobby and tried to think about other things. Instead, he thought about the fact that he’d missed breakfast and how much work he had ahead of him on Makaum. Part of him looked forward to the challenge of the posting, but the other part still felt offended that he’d been sent to the planet instead of the front lines. As Anders had pointed out, someone with the amount of time he had in deserved more preferential treatment.

  The challenge wasn’t just that the planet was green. Nearly all the soldiers onplanet were green as well, because anyone with experience was on the front lines of the war. Getting chewed to bits on a regular basis by the Phrenorians. Not many soldiers lived these days with the experience he had. Young soldiers looked at him like he was something out of myth, or like he was a pariah from the apocalypse. He was alive because he was good at what he did—and because he was lucky. Young soldiers just interpreted that any way they wanted. The brass didn’t want to field a man others would follow because they thought he was supernaturally protected, and soldiers didn’t want to follow a man who had whole squads around him killed while he still lived.

  Sage blanked that out of his mind. Thinking like that only made him more dissatisfied with his posting.

  A collection of campaign booty occupied the walls. Three-dimensional images of battle scenes from Kauld, Nostan, Valeek, and other places shared space with pieces of Phrenorian armor. Closer to MilHQ, such things wouldn’t have been allowed. But out here in the fringe systems, the rules were different. Things got more primordial. Soldiers reverted to a more savage state. That came with living with the constant fear of getting killed. Other tri-D images showed soldiers fighting the massive hordes of the Phrenorians.

  Seeing the huge bipedal scorpions covered in blue and purple scales, sporting four “lesser” arms along with the two main ones that ended in pincers—the resemblance to the Terran insect made even more uncanny by the long, wicked tails they had—reminded Sage of all the battles he’d been in. Phrenorians were humanoid at first glance, but that wasn’t their true nature. They were insectoid and had very little comparable DNA to Terrans. Their culture resembled colony insects as well, developed into stratas and substratas based on pecking orders PsyOps still hadn’t completely deciphered.

  The Phrenorians were chitin-covered killing machines, some of the best Sage had ever seen. He’d survived confrontations with them by being smart and lucky. He was one of the most learned hand-to-hand combat people he knew, and that was just the simple truth of the matter. He’d learned though battle and by being observant. He’d fought hard, gave war everything he had, because he didn’t want to die and didn’t want to see his men killed around him.

  No matter how hard a sergeant tried, he couldn’t teach that to guys in boot. A Sting-Tail’s barb was poisonous and caused general incapacitation and probable death for anyone not equipped with an antidote. Fighting one of them was like fighting a man with an extra limb. The only training a soldier could get for that was fighting one of the enemy. Then it was just a matter of adjusting quickly or dying.

  The young corporal manning the front desk of the general’s office was only mildly distracting. She was blonde and pretty, little more than half Sage’s age, and extremely efficient as she plowed through subspace transmissions and wormwave communications that fired through Oakfield Gates and provided almost instantaneous communications back to Terra when the stars—literally—lined up. The subspace communiqués were easy, but the Gate dispatches required a deft touch. An unskilled operator often didn’t get the whole message reassembled after being Gated.

  A bright blue dot flared to life on the fade-monitor in front of the corporal. She reached up and dragged the blue dot down to the bottom of the see-through screen, sliding her finger through the three-dimensional image of the monitor to make contact.

  “Yes, General.” She adjusted her micro-headset and glanced at Sage. Her green eyes sparkled with interest. “I’ll send him right in, General.”

  Sage stood and waited some more.

  The receptionist waved him toward the general’s door. “A word of advice, Top?”

  Sage paused and smiled hopefully. “Intel is always appreciated when approaching hostile territory, Corporal.”

  “No matter what the general says, or how vicious he gets, don’t say anything to excuse your actions. He doesn’t buy into excuses.”

  Tight lipped, Sage nodded. He wasn’t a man to give them.

  “And the general will get vicious. He hates this backwater planet and everybody on it. After the festivities last night, as far as he’s concerned you’re wearing a gold-plated reticle.”

  “Sure.”

  Her eyes held his for a moment, and she hesitated, as if uncertain. Then she spoke her mind. “But the men are proud of you. What you did made a difference. Soldiers are getting tired of the bashhounds kicking dirt on them. Those corps sec people will think twice in the future about starting something with us.”

  A crooked grin twisted Sage’s lips. “Good enough then. Worth a night in the brig. Have you heard anything about those boys that got hurt last night?”

  “They’re going to need medical treatment, but they’ll be fine. Broken bones. Some light reconstruction. Lacerations. Nothing they haven’t dealt with before. We’re a tough bunch.”

  “We are. What about the girl?”

  “She’s fine. More scared than anything.”

  Sage twisted the knob and let himself into the general’s office. He gave the receptionist a wink.

  She smiled at him, then turned back and focused on her work.

  THE GENERAL'S QUARTERS were spotless and kept to a minimum, like a man there on temporary assignment. General Howard Whitcomb had served as Makaum’s Terran military leader for four years. A few personal trophies—images of the general with politicians and other decorated soldiers, as well as Sting-Tail knives and blasters—hung on the walls. Since every cubic centimeter of space was precious aboard a space station, the fact that the general had a large office and a place to hang his personal things spoke volumes. Behind the desk, a huge screen filled the wall.

  Sage strode briskly to the front of the polycarbonate desk polished to a high black shine, whipped his cover under his left arm, and drew his right hand to his forehead in a crisp salute. He’d been doing that for more than half his life and the movement was automatic.

  “Sir, Master Sergeant Frank Sage reporting as ordered, General Whitcomb, sir.” Sage kept his gaze above the general’s head.

  Whitcomb saluted back in a perfunctory fashion.

  Sage finished his salute and stood at attention, thinking more about his breathing and planning his lunch than the trouble he might be in. Whatever the general said, Sage didn’t much care. There was nothing he would have changed about his actions the previous night. And there was no other posting he could be regulated to that would offer more punishment. He was going planetside. Nothing would be done to prevent that.

  The general was old by Terran standards, a heavyset man who had obviously been put out to seed playing nursemaid to Makaum. His short-clipped gray hair stood out like wire bristles and gray gleamed along his chin. One of his cheeks held an ancient scar that had almost disappeared in the seams of his face.

  “At ease, Sergeant.”

  Sage dropped into parade rest but wasn’t at ease.

  “Got anything to say for yourself?”

  “No sir.”

  Whitcomb glanced up at Sage with a trace of irritation. “Not even an apology, Sergeant?”

  “Would you like an oral or written apology, General?” Sage didn’t care. If desired, he’d knock one out either way—or both—and be done with it. He’d delivered a few apologies over the last six years while trying to make his case to his superiors to break him out of training and support assignments.

  “Neither. I
don’t get the impression that it would be heartfelt.”

  Sage didn’t respond. There wasn’t a question in the general’s reply.

  Whitcomb laid a hand on the desktop and tapped his fingers. In response, a trid image opened up a few centimeters over the desktop.

  The trid showed Sage taking out the corp exec and holding the captured weapon on the other men.

  “It’s a wonder those men didn’t ventilate your head, Sergeant.”

  “Yes sir. I suppose I wasn’t thinking straight at the time, sir.” Sage didn’t think those sec guards would have killed him. He’d felt certain then that he could have taken all the men out if he’d had to. Looking at the trid from the corner of his eye, he still believed that. They would have died, he would have lived. No other equation worked for him. A soldier who doubted himself in a confrontation was a dead man.

  But that wasn’t what the general wanted to hear.

  “We’re not here to jeopardize the working relationships we have with the corps. Without them, we wouldn’t have our present HQ.” Whitcomb gestured at the frozen image and frowned. “Your actions last night were stupid.”

  Sage wanted to point to the two soldiers lying on the floor at the man’s feet, but he didn’t. Generals only saw what generals wanted to see. “Yes sir.”

  Whitcomb looked at him and anger glinted in his pale eyes. “You’re just going to stand there and agree with me, Sergeant?”

  “Yes sir.” Sage resisted the impulse to ask the general if there was someplace else the man would rather he stand while being so agreeable. That would have landed him in the brig again and he didn’t intend to end up there without getting around a decent meal first.

  Whitcomb cursed and tapped the desktop again. The trid image vanished. “Why do you think you’ve been sent to Makaum, Sergeant?”

  “Sir, I’ve been tasked to assess the Makaum troops and bring them into line with Terran military standards for at least the next Terran year.”

  “No, the way you got here was by petitioning training command to the point that they knuckled under.”