Blood Contact

by David Sherman

  "Where's Erika?" Dean asked a waitress as he seated himself at a vacant table. She nodded upstairs, and Dean felt his heart sink, thinking she was with another man. Owen, who'd been glowing bright pink when they entered the bar, turned a dull orange, almost matching Dean's mood.

  It was only then that Dean noticed Corporal Pasquin sitting by himself in a far corner, nursing a beer. Since they were in the same platoon, Dean knew he should have at least acknowledged the corporal's presence. But since he was off duty, miffed at Erika, and the corporal didn't like him anyway, Dean just ignored him. Pasquin glared at him but kept to himself.

  "Owen!" Erika shrieked as she came running down the broad staircase that led to the second floor, where the girls had their rooms. She ran to Dean's table and placed a large kiss on Owen's bulbous forehead.

  "What about me?" Dean asked sourly. There were times when he felt ambiguous about Owen being around.

  "Ach, my darling Joe!" Erika put one hand behind Dean's head and kissed him full on the lips, her long dark hair enfolding them both in its rich tresses. She smelled fresh and clean, and her teeth scraped pleasantly against his. Momentarily, Dean forgot about his ego. She sat down and put a soft hand on his thigh. The waitress brought another schooner of ale, from which Erika enthusiastically poured herself a glass. She raised it, toasted Owen, and drank thirstily. Dean laughed and did the same. Together they finished the schooner and ordered a second one.

  "I bought myself some nice thinks today, Joe," Erika said, making circles with her finger on the wet tabletop.

  "Yeah?"

  "That's why I was a little late coming down," she added.

  Dean brightened immediately. "Oh," he responded.

  "Would you like to see dem?" she asked quietly.

  Upstairs, Dean put Owen on the mantel, then undressed and crawled under the covers with Erika. "Where's your new ‘thinks’?" he asked as he snuggled down beside her.

  "You see dem, Joe! Dere on the back of the chair!"

  They both laughed. Dean rolled over on top of Erika. Then he froze.

  "Vat is it? Vat's wrong?" she asked.

  Dean shook his head. "That goddamned Owen!"

  "Oh, Joe, you shouldn't talk like dat!"

  "No, I can't do it while he's sitting up there. It's—It's like somebody's watching!"

  Indeed, Owen was watching, his luminous eyes staring unblinking down on the pair. Dean leaped naked out of the bed, opened the closet and thrust Owen inside. "You take it easy in there, old buddy. I got some heavy work to do out here," Dean said, and closed the door. For the next hour pink light seeped out from beneath the closet door, dimly illuminating the two figures as they enjoyed themselves on the bed.

  Things had picked up at the bar by the time the pair descended the big staircase. Several crewmen from a fishing vessel that had just come into port were standing there, drinking and talking loudly. A big man with a full beard slammed his mug down hard as the couple crossed the floor to an empty table and shouted, "Erika!" then something in Norse Dean didn't catch, but his gesture was clear enough.

  "Never mind him." Erika shrugged as she guided Dean toward a table with one arm. "He tinks he's got a claim on me. He doesn't. Dat odder one too." She nodded at Pasquin, who was glaring sullenly at them from his corner. "He haf dirty mind." She shook her head disgustedly. She squeezed Dean's arm in hers. Owen perched comfortably on an unoccupied chair at their table.

  The big, bearded man shouted again, louder this time, and in English, "You goddamn Marine, leaf my Erika alone!"

  "Uh-oh," Dean muttered, his back to the bar. Owen jumped onto Dean's shoulder and emitted several quick bright flashes of white light. Dean whirled around. The man was already halfway to where he stood, a wicked fillet knife grasped in one hand. Owen's flashing had temporarily blinded the man, but he blinked rapidly several times and came on, his eyes tiny slits against the light. Owen leaped back toward Erika. The attacker carried the knife extended before him in his right hand and low, a foot or two from his right side.

  Dean feinted toward the attacker's knife arm, stepped inside his reach and punched him solidly on the left ear as the man whirled past. The fisherman shook his head and pivoted toward Dean, who stepped in quickly again and smashed his fist onto the tip of the attacker's nose. Blood spurted everywhere and the man stepped back a pace but held firmly onto the knife, so Dean kicked him solidly in the groin. The man doubled over, gasping, and the knife clattered harmlessly onto the sawdust floor. Dean rammed his knee hard under the fisherman's chin, and the sound of his teeth slamming together could be heard all the way up on the second floor.

  Breathing heavily, more from fear than exertion, Dean stood in a fighting stance over his opponent as the fisherman groped on the floor for the knife, muttering curses while the blood from his broken nose splattered the sawdust. Dean's legs felt rubbery under him, but at the same time he was wildly elated. Without even thinking, he'd done just what his instructors in unarmed combat had taught him—attacked relentlessly until his opponent was down. But the man wasn't out yet. Dean wound up to deliver the knockout blow to the back of his head.

  Before he could, a tremendous weight smashed into Dean's right shoulder and bounced sickeningly off the side of his head. Big Barb herself had laid him low with a chair. The next thing he knew, he was being dragged and pulled through the sawdust as men threw punches all around him. With Erika's help, he got to his feet and they staggered out the door into the cold night. Back inside, pandemonium reigned as the patrons carried on the fight. Big Barb was among them, screaming for order and bashing heads with the best. She wasn't called "Big" Barb for nothing.

  Dean was bleeding from the blow struck to the side of his head. Erika found a handkerchief and dabbed at the blood. She was laughing. "My wunnerful Marine!" she said. "You knock him silly!"

  Dean began to laugh too. Owen, who'd stayed firmly attached to Erika's shoulder throughout, glowed a subdued pink. They found a restaurant a few blocks up the street and slipped inside. The place was warm and smoky, crowded with late evening diners. Heads turned when people noticed Owen sitting on Erika's shoulder, but evidently nobody had a second thought about the big bloody smear on the side of Dean's head, or the sawdust that still clung to his liberty utilities. The 'Finnis were brawlers, and no one in the settlement considered a black eye or a fat lip out of the ordinary on a man or a woman.

  Dean and Erika ordered two huge reindeer steaks and large schooners of beer, and when they were done with the meal, Erika ordered Clintons and both lighted up.

  "Who was that guy?" Dean eventually asked.

  Erika shrugged. "Karl. He is nice enough man when not drinking, but nobody special. You goddamn Marines, going away all the time, what's a girl to do?"

  Dean nodded and gingerly felt the side of his head. "That goddamned Barb, jeez."

  "She keep order dat way." Erika laughed. "Besides, you pick up one of dem chairs, yah? You know, dey could be lots heavier? She make dem out of soft wood 'cause dey get broke so much, and besides, she don't want to kill her customers!"

  "Couldn't prove it by me," Dean said ruefully. His fingers came away with crusted blood on them. Well, a hot shower would take care of that.

  As if reading his thoughts, Erika said, "We take good, long, hot shower, we get back to my place, Joe." She winked and blew a cloud of cigar smoke into the air. Owen, who did not like tobacco smoke, sat glum and dull gray on Erika's shoulder.

  Outside they walked arm in arm down the dark street, bodies close together. Impervious to the cold night air, Owen dozed on Erika's shoulder. Suddenly, a horrible face, nose twisted, bulbous, and red over a leering mouth full of broken teeth, popped up before them. It was Karl! He held one hand over his eyes before Owen could go into his flashing routine.

  "You broken my nose," Karl said accusingly. "No, no," he said to Owen, "don't do dat! Is okay. Yah, everytink is okay."

  Karl swayed drunkenly in front of them. "I loose my knife too," he added. "Ve haf dam good fight,
yah, Marine?" Karl grinned. "Nex time I come back here, we fight, okay? Maybe nex time I wins." He stepped into the street to let them pass, waved good-naturedly at the pair, then staggered off into the dark.

  Erika stared at Dean for a moment and then doubled over with laughter. "You know, Joe, I tink dat Owen, I tink he is very good friend for you Marines!"

  A voice in the dark sounded throughout the barracks one night several days later:

  "Prettiest girl I ever seen.

  Was smokin' thule in my latrine."

  Dean shot bolt upright in his rack. "Sounded just like that fool, Wolfman!" he muttered. Footsteps came down the hallway, then the door to the third fire team's cubicle right next door burst open with a crash.

  "Drop your cocks and grab your socks!" MacIlargie shouted, sliding his seabag noisily across the floor. "Thirty-fourth FIST is now combat ready!"

  Well, not quite, but it was getting there. Its men were coming home.

  Chapter 2

  "Gunnery Sergeant Charlie Bass..." Brigadier Sturgeon began sternly.

  The wall behind the desk he sat at, on which Bass's eyes were fixed, held 2-D pictures of Confederation President Cynthia Chang-Sturdevant, Confederation Minister of War Marcus Berentus, and Chairman of the Confederation Combined Chiefs of Staff Admiral Horatio Perry. Confederation Marine Corps Commandant Kinsky Butler was depicted in a hologram. The four images were flanked on one side by the Confederation flag and on the other by the gold-and-scarlet Marine Corps flag and 34th FIST's battle standard—the latter so thickly festooned with campaign and unit-citation streamers it was barely visible through the pennants. Four men sat in chairs along one side of the office: Colonel Ramadan, Sturgeon's chief of staff; FIST Sergeant Major Shiro; Commander Van Winkle, the FIST's infantry battalion commander; and Sergeant Major Parant, the infantry battalion sergeant major. Standing at attention in front of the brigadier's desk, Gunnery Sergeant Charlie Bass, acting platoon commander of third platoon, Company L, was flanked by his company commander and first sergeant, Captain Conorado and Top Myer.

  "It has come to my attention," Sturgeon continued, "that a certain platoon in this FIST's infantry battalion has a tendency to run wild when it's on liberty." He fixed Bass with a steely eye and drummed his fingers on his desktop.

  "Sir?" Bass said into the void.

  "You know what I mean, Gunnery Sergeant," Sturgeon snapped. "I'm talking about the third platoon of Company L."

  Bass's jaw clenched. His platoon didn't run wild. When his men were on duty, they were the most disciplined platoon in the entire FIST, and he'd bet the pension he didn't really expect to live to collect on that. So what if they were particularly high-spirited when they were on liberty?

  "When your platoon pulls liberty in Bronnoysund, it makes more noise, damages more property, and gets into more fights than any other unit in this FIST. It's a wonder that every man jack among them hasn't been in front of Commander Van Winkle for nonjudicial punishment—or before me for a formal court-martial!"

  "Sir, it's a good platoon. My men work hard and they play just as hard."

  Sturgeon seemed to ignore Bass's defense of his platoon. "I think the matter could be properly resolved if third platoon, Company L, had a regular platoon commander instead of an acting commander."

  There it is, Bass thought bitterly. I won't accept a commission, so they won't let me keep a platoon. Maybe they'll give me an ensign as good as the last one. The last officer of third platoon, Ensign Vanden Hoyt, had died bravely during the fighting on Diamunde. Bass had served as acting platoon commander ever since.

  "You always say you refused a commission because you can do more good for the Marine Corps by training and taking care of the Marines in one platoon or one company than by becoming an officer and losing touch." Sturgeon snorted at the implication that officers lost touch with the enlisted men they led, and exchanged glances with the other officers. "Therefore, I'm going to exercise a prerogative available to me as commander of a remote FIST. That is to assign senior noncommissioned officers to fill the billets of commissioned officers on a permanent basis. Commander Van Winkle concurs with me that you can probably do the job. Captain Conorado has said he can put up with you as long as I agree to bust you a grade or two if you screw up. So I'm assigning you to permanently fill the position of platoon commander."

  The brigadier stood abruptly. A broad grin split his face and he extended his hand across the desk. "Charlie," he said when the stunned Gunnery Sergeant Bass took his hand, "just because you refuse to accept a commission doesn't mean I can't get an officer's work out of you."

  Bass hardly heard Sturgeon's last words. Conorado was pumping his other hand, Myer was pounding on his back. Van Winkle and the two sergeants major were on their feet and crowding in to offer congratulations Ramadan hovered behind them, trying to find space to squeeze in to add his own.

  Charlie Bass had been with third platoon, Company L, 34th FIST for more than two years. On Diamunde he'd begun his third stint as acting platoon commander. Both of the previous times, he'd had to yield command to newly commissioned ensigns. The first one...well, he preferred not to think about Ensign Baccacio, who hadn't had enough enlisted experience before getting commissioned. The second, Vanden Hoyt, had been a staff sergeant and a good platoon sergeant before being commissioned an officer. Most officers—all Marine officers—were commissioned from the ranks, and he didn't resent giving up command. But sometimes... And the constant changing of commanders couldn't help but be disruptive to the platoon. Now third platoon was his. He wouldn't have to give it up to the next junior officer, a man who'd probably come aboard with less experience than Bass had, who'd join the company on his first assignment as an officer.

  Bass was overwhelmed. He mumbled his thanks to the men congratulating him, but later couldn't remember what any of them said or what he replied.

  The campaign on Diamunde had nearly been a disaster. It was particularly tough on third platoon: it had not only lost its commander, it also lost a squad leader, three of six fire team leaders, and a gun team leader. A PFC had been killed in action as well. In a blaster platoon, seven men dead out of thirty was heavy casualties no matter what kind of operation they happened on, and Diamunde had been maybe the toughest campaign Bass had ever served on. Two other members of third platoon had been seriously wounded in the campaign and, even though they had returned to it, were still on light duty. Third platoon was in serious need of replacements. They got them. Well, they quickly got six, and six out of seven wasn't bad.

  The Marines of Company L stood in formation on the parade ground behind their barracks. At first glance something seemed not quite right about the formation, even though the garrison-utility-clad Marines were in uniformly erect positions, and the lines they stood in might have been laid out by a surveyor. The woo squatting at attention in front of third platoon wasn't the oddity. Neither was it the fact that First Sergeant Myer, who rarely attended the company's morning formations, stood to the left of Captain Conorado. A second glance showed the problem—there were gaps in the ranks. Open spaces had been left for the men who were no longer with Company L. Captain Conorado's eyes, and First Sergeant Myer's, were held by the holes in the ranks. They'd lost some good Marines on Diamunde. Any losses were too many, but the gaps were far too many. Behind the Skipper and the Top, Company Gunnery Sergeant Thatcher stood in front of a smaller formation, twenty-one Marines drawn up in two ranks. The next time the company fell into formation, those Marines would be in it and there wouldn't be any gaps.

  "We lost good Marines." Conorado was finishing up his eulogy to the men who died on Diamunde. "We lost good friends." He didn't shout, but his voice was loud and clear and no one in the formation had to strain to hear him. "But they aren't gone, not totally. They were Marines, and as Marines they will be remembered by the Corps for all time. You will carry them with you for the rest of your lives. Marines who follow along after you will carry you just the same.

  "Centuries ago our progenit
ors, the United States Marines, had a saying: ‘Marines don't die. They go to hell and regroup.’ Those old Marines also said that Marines guard Heaven's gates.

  "Our companions remain with us in our hearts. Someday, whether it's as battle casualties, as the result of the ravages of illness, or simply from old age, we will rejoin them. Now let us take a moment of silence to remember them."

  Conorado bowed his head, as did the hundred Marines facing him. Behind him Thatcher lowered his head. Some of the twenty-one other Marines, the replacements, bowed theirs as well. Most of them had been through such ceremonies before. All of them felt uncomfortable; the ceremony reminded them of their own mortality, and starkly brought home to them the fact that they were replacing well-liked and respected men.

  After a moment Conorado cleared his throat and everyone looked up again.

  "Behind me," Conorado said, "are Marines newly assigned to Company L. They have already been assigned to platoons, you have already met some of them. When you are dismissed, you will go by platoons to areas that have previously been assigned to you. The new men will go with you so that you can formally meet them all and your platoons can be reorganized. But before I release you, one other piece of company business remains."

  He paused and looked from one end of the company to the other, then called out, "Gunnery Sergeant Charlie Bass, front and center!"

  Bass stepped briskly from his platoon sergeant's position and marched to stop two paces in front of the company commander. He sharply saluted. Conorado returned the salute, then Bass faced left and took a few more paces to stand at Conorado's right side.

  "Gunnery Sergeant Charlie Bass," Conorado said to the company, "as you all know, has been serving as acting platoon commander of third platoon since Ensign Vanden Hoyt was taken prisoner by the rebel forces on Diamunde. As of this morning, by direction of Brigadier Sturgeon, Commander, 34th FIST, Gunnery Sergeant Charlie Bass is no longer acting platoon commander, he is platoon commander." He pivoted to face Bass. "Gunnery Sergeant Bass, take your position as platoon commander."