Captain Tuit considered. There was one possibility that really frightened him about the situation down on Society 437, but he hesitated to mention it. It was his call, all right—let Bass continue to pursue the aliens or withdraw the landing party and the surviving pirates and head home. Well, the skinks had killed more than a thousand people on 437, and whatever their purpose in committing that slaughter, Hank Tuit was not going to sit down and talk it over with them.
"Go get 'em, Charlie," he said.
"Thank you, sir. Here's my plan: Dr. Bynum says the casualties are too badly wounded to move overland with us. They've got to get back to the sickbay, where more definitive medical care is available, so I want an Essay to evacuate them."
"Combat landing?" the captain asked. A normal landing would require three degrading orbits and take five hours or more.
"No, sir. They need to be stabilized first, and Dr. Bynum will need time to be sure they can stand the liftoff. I'll leave them with a couple corpsmen with two Dragons and move out at first light tomorrow. We'll go on foot with the other two Dragons as support. We'll follow the skinks by the trail they left. When the casualties are evacuated, the third Dragon will join us. It's going to be slow work, Captain, because the string-of-pearls is having difficulty tracking the things. We'll have to proceed cautiously."
"Gunny, I have just the man for running an electronic surveillance. Hummfree. You may remember him. He's a surveillance specialist of the first order. And he's the one who pinpointed the pirates' location for you."
"Yes, sir, I do remember that lad. Many thanks."
"Good plan then, Gunny. I'll launch the Essay on your call. Skyhawk out."
Bass switched to the platoon net and called the NCOs and Dr. Bynum to his position. Let the scientists and philosophers contemplate the skinks and try to figure out the whys and wherefores of their origin and purpose, Bass told himself. "But for me," Gunnery Sergeant Bass whispered, "it's time to rock and roll." Grinning fiercely, he bit off the end of a Clinton and stuck it between his teeth.
"Ma'am, I ain't going, and that's it! Court-martial me if you want to, but I am a walking wounded and I'm gonna walk out of here and do some wounding of my own," Claypoole told Dr. Bynum. He shook his head stubbornly.
"Lance Corporal, that wound could get infected and then you could be in very serious trouble. You need time in the sickbay for it to heal properly."
"No, ma'am," the Marine answered. He shook his head again.
Dr. Bynum sighed. "Lance Corporal, try to keep the dressing in place, and keep it dry if you can. As soon as this is over and you're aboard the Fairfax, report directly to sickbay. Now go back to your squad." As a doctor, she thought Claypoole was being incredibly stupid. At the same time, she couldn't help but admire his determination and courage.
"Aye aye, ma'am!" Claypoole said. He picked up his weapon and charged down the ramp.
Bynum went to examine the stasis pods where Clarke and Dornhofer were sedated.
"All signs stable," HM1 Horner, who was monitoring the casualties, whispered.
"Larry, the Essay'll be here soon. Nothing's going to happen until then."
"Don't worry. If it does; we'll be ready." He nodded toward the crew compartment and patted the side arm he carried. "But Commander, begging your pardon, why don't we switch places? A ship's doctor is a hell of a lot more important than old Tom and me." He nodded to Hospitalman Second Class Hardesty, who was adjusting settings on Clarke's pod. Hardesty grinned at them, revealing gaps where he'd lost front teeth in a brawl years before that he'd refused to have replaced. He'd thought the missing teeth gave him a rakish air, made him look like a pirate. But after seeing real pirates up close, he was seriously considering dental implants.
"What? And miss the excitement?" Dr. Bynum replied. "No, no, Larry, ‘rank hath its privileges,’ and I'm pulling it on you two this time. Besides, you've got Owen to keep you company." The woo sat contentedly on a ration box, twiddling his appendages as he consumed a box of dirt. The soil on Society 437 seemed to contain good nourishment for the woo, which had gained weight since their landing. Dean had given him over to the corpsmen for safekeeping. "Okay, boys, be good." She clapped Horner on the shoulder, gave Hardesty a thumbs up, and walked down the ramp.
"Lieutenant," Lowboy said softly, sidling up to where Lieutenant Snodgrass was standing, watching the Marines prepare to move out. "Can I say something?"
Snodgrass looked down his nose at the disagreeable little man. Lowboy grinned back at him, his deferential smile revealing the rotten yellow teeth behind his cracked lips. But Snodgrass liked the man's deference. He'd gotten very little proper respect in the recent past. In fact, he had even begun questioning his own judgment, a rare event for Argal Snodgrass. Years before, one of his uncles had told him, "Argal, if one person says you've got a tail behind you, well, you'd just ignore him, wouldn't you? If two people say you've grown a tail, you might begin to wonder a bit. But if a third person says you've got one, you'd better turn around and take a look." He'd never followed that advice—until now.
"Well, sir, I was jist thinking, why ain't you in charge of this operation here? You're an officer, ain't cha?" Lowboy smiled even more broadly.
"I'm a navy officer," Snodgrass replied haughtily. "This is a ground operation and the Marine's in charge, even if he is only an enlisted man."
"Well, I was jist wondering, is all. I mean, you got education, right, Lieutenant? You know starship navigation and all that stuff, don't cha?"
"Yes, Mister, uh..."
"It's Lowboy, sir, at your service." Lowboy made a slight bow.
"...Mr. Lowboy. Starship navigation is a big part of an officer's education at the Naval Academy. I was number two in that subject in my graduating class. Engineering was my best subject, though. One day I'll command a starship, Mr. Lowboy. I am a navy line officer, you know."
"So I figured, Lieutenant, so I figured," Lowboy said, reflectively working a forefinger in his ear as he spoke. "Say, Lieutenant, why don't cha do us all a favor and speak to the sergeant. Hell, we're no good to anybody down here. Let us go back to the Fairfax with the wounded. We just want outta here, Lieutenant, that's all. We've been refugees on this stinkin' planet nearabouts a fucking year now, sir, and we want off this place." Lowboy's voice had taken on a whining tone and he'd screwed up his face to make it look as if he were about to cry. "It ain't fair that goddamn sergeant of yours wants to keep us down here, nossir. We ain't no damn good to him or anybody else, and that's the Buddha's truth, Lieutenant."
"Well..."
"You can volunteer to stay behind, kind of supervise us, Lieutenant?" Lowboy added hopefully. "You can get along with people, Lieutenant; that damned sergeant can't get along with nobody. But if that Sergeant Bass knew you was looking after us, I bet he'd agree. Please, Lieutenant. Please?"
Snodgrass considered. He was tired of being made a fool of. At least back on board the Fairfax he'd have the respect due a navy line officer from navy men.
"Gunny, may I talk to you?" Lieutenant Snodgrass asked.
"Sure, Mr. Snodgrass, but make it fast. I've got to check the night defense dispositions."
"Gunny, I suggest you send the pirates back to the Fairfax with the wounded. You won't need them anymore, and I'll volunteer to stay behind and see they get on the Essay. They'll only be in your way otherwise. Then I'll join you when the last Dragon comes forward."
"Mr. Snodgrass, I may need every man we've got before this is over, and the pirates can fire a weapon. If we run into more of the skinks or if they've got prepared positions to ambush us from out in the boonies, I'll need every trigger-puller I can get."
"Gunny, you know they're worthless. Look at them. They're undernourished and scared permanently out of their wits. They won't be worth a damn to you in a firefight. I'll volunteer to stay behind and get them aboard the Essay. Then maybe I should go back to the Fairfax. I've been no good to you down here."
The tone of resignation in Snodgrass's voice was s
omething new. Bass considered. Snodgrass was right, he conceded. "Okay, Lieutenant, you get the pirates together and keep them together until you get them into the brig on board the Fairfax. You've got the responsibility. First thing you do, Mr. Snodgrass, is take their weapons back."
Best of all, Bass reflected, he'd be getting rid of Lieutenant Snodgrass.
"Gunny, can I talk to you for a second?" The voice came from behind Bass while he was making his rounds.
Bass whirled around and glared at Baccacio standing behind him. "What is this, talk Charlie Bass to death day?" He sighed. "Make it real quick, Mr. Baccacio, it's almost dark and I want to check the perimeter by daylight."
"Minerva and I don't want to go back to the Fairfax right now, Gunny."
"Of course not. The Fairfax means the brig for the both of you until we can dump you into the hands of a Confederation magistrate."
"I know. You have to do that. But I want to stay with you for another reason. Afterward, sure, I'll gladly face the music."
"Get to the point, will you?" Bass said. He had no time for the coward-turned-criminal.
"I was a lousy Marine officer, Gunny, and I'm even worse now," Baccacio said with great feeling. "This is the last chance I'll have to undo some of that for a long, long time, maybe forever. I want a spot on one of your fire teams. Goddamnit, I want a chance to be a Marine again."
Bass stared at the former ensign. Baccacio's face had turned red and there were tears in his eyes. Weeping men, although he'd seen them often enough, embarrassed Charlie Bass, but there was something more to Baccacio than a worthless failure crying in self-pity; Baccacio had handled himself during the skink attack. And apparently he'd held the survivors of the pirate crew together for nearly a year, despite the fact that they seemed to hate his guts. And they hated him because he was braver and smarter than they were.
"All right," Bass answered softly. "Go over to the Dragon and pick up some gear. But you and Minerva stick close to me while we're out there." Bass did not even try to persuade Baccacio to send Minerva back to the Fairfax. "Get a weapon for her too," he called after Baccacio.
Baccacio hardly heard him. He'd given up the most precious thing in his life, and now he had a chance to get it back again.
"Sergeant Hyakowa?" Corporal Pasquin said respectfully as Hyakowa finished reviewing the platoon's night dispositions with Gunny Bass. "May I have a word with you, please?"
"I want one with you first, Corporal," Hyakowa said. He stood looking at Pasquin thoughtfully for a moment. "Thanks for stepping in and stopping me when I jumped on Baccacio. I lost control there. He just isn't worth bruising my knuckles over."
Pasquin's faced turned a deep red.
"Another thing, Corporal, you performed well under fire. You deployed your fire team expertly for a man who's never been in combat before. Good work."
"Uh, thanks. Staff Sergeant...?" Pasquin's face turned a darker shade of red and he stumbled over his words, but finally got them out: "You were right to chew me out back at Aquarius Station. I—I was acting pretty dumb. I was feeling sorry for myself. I was not acting like a Marine corporal." Pasquin drew himself up stiffly to the position of attention as he spoke.
"So you were, so you were. But Corporal, that's behind us now. Go back and get your men ready for the night. Oh, one more thing. You have some unfinished business to attend to. Do you know what I mean?"
At first Pasquin looked bewildered. Then it dawned on him what his platoon sergeant meant. "Yes, Staff Sergeant, I do. I'll take care of it right now."
A few minutes later Pasquin called Lance Corporal Dean aside. "Can I speak to you?" he asked. Dean was surprised at his deferent tone. He'd also been surprised when Pasquin jumped in to separate Hyakowa and Baccacio, and at how he'd reacted under fire. He respected Pasquin for that, but was suspicious of the new tone in his voice. Still, he'd come to realize there was more to the man than his being a pain in the ass.
"Lance Corporal Dean," Pasquin began formally, then took a breath and paused. "No." He started over. "Look, I—I—well, I've been unfair to you. I—I acted like an, um, well, like an asshole, Dean, and I realize that now. I'm sorry." He stuck out his hand.
Dean hesitated for only an instant before taking the corporal's outstretched hand. They shook.
"Dean, you did well. You've been under fire before, a lot, and I'll tell you this honestly: I knew all along I could rely on you and the other men when the shooting started. I wasn't so sure about myself, though. But man, you didn't hesitate. We were a team, Dean, and we kicked some skink ass." Pasquin hesitated for a moment. "Dean, I've got to tell you something. You got a minute?"
"Sure, Corporal Pasquin:"
"Call me Raoul. Hell, you'll be a corporal yourself soon enough."
"My name's Joe, if you care to use it."
"Joe, I came here from the 25th FIST. They're based on Adak Tanaga. Ever heard of it? Tanaga's got the worst climate in all of Human Space. Most violent storms of any planet known, especially near the polar regions, and that's where the 25th is based. You know the Corps," he laughed nervously, "it picks the worst sites on a planet and plops a FIST down there. Anyway, Joe, I gotta tell you what happened to me there, so you'll understand—so you'll know what was eating me. Will you give me a few minutes?"
Dean nodded.
"Well, I was an acting recon team leader." Dean showed surprise, and Pasquin smiled self-consciously. "Yeah, I was a Force Recon Marine, Joe. A good one too. Straight four-o on all my fitness reports, tip-top physical shape, all that." Dean was startled as he remembered threatening the corporal the night of the party back in Bronnoysund. Force Recon Marines were experts in hand-to-hand combat.
"I had another corporal, two lance corporals, and a communications man with me, and we were out humping the boonies, keeping in shape and practicing land navigation, living on the edge. Patrols had been out trying to find us but they didn't have a chance, not with my team. We were good, Joe, damn good.
"We'd been out a week. What you've got to know is that back on Tanaga the weather changes real quick. It can be mild and sunny, and then in ten minutes a Willie can blow up on you, winds of a hundred kilometers an hour, and the temperature drops to way below freezing. ‘Willie’ is what the settlers call those storms. You get caught in the open in one of those things..." He left the sentence unfinished. "It wasn't the season for Willies just then, but on Tanaga seasons are a laugh anyway and you've got to be prepared for bizarre weather the whole year.
"We were having trouble with communications that whole week, so we were keeping alert to any sudden changes in air pressure and temperature drops that'd indicate the approach of severe weather. Normally we'd have been getting regular meteorological reports, but we'd been out of touch for two days at that point, so we were kind of thrown back on our instincts and what we knew of the weather signs. When a Willie blows up on you, you gotta just go to ground, find what cover you can, and try to wait it out. If it catches you out in the open, you're up shit creek.
"I'd been keeping us under cover the whole time, moving mostly at night but practicing concealment in open country during the day, planning a route that'd leave us plenty of terrain features to cover our movement. But, well, we were all getting tired by then and I decided to hell with it, we'd just hump across this flat space, maybe two or three kilometers broad, and head back to the base. If a patrol got us, so what, we'd already run circles around them. Hell, we'd proved we were good. All I wanted was a cold beer and a good night's sleep."
Dean nodded. How many times had he wished for the same thing?
"The other corporal, Taff—well, forget his full name. He was against taking the exposed route. He said we wouldn't do it under combat conditions and what if a storm blew up on us before we got to the hilly terrain on the other side? I was team leader and I overrode him." Pasquin was silent for a few seconds, staring at the ground, the muscles in his jaw working. "I overrode him. We were halfway across when the comm man noticed it'd suddenly turned cold.
You've never seen a Willie, Joe. The whole sky turns dark as night and the clouds blow up on you like time-lapse vid. You can see the wind roaring along the surface of the ground, throwing shit up in the air, a big cloud of dust rolling in on you. In five minutes the temperature dropped twenty-five degrees. The only thing we could do was go to ground and huddle together. We got into a slight depression and managed to throw on some protective gear."
Pasquin paused again. "Well." He sighed. "I was lucky. I lost all the fingers on my left hand, all my toes, my ears, and my nose to frostbite. Yeah," he laughed, touching a finger to his nose, "wonderful how the doctors can graft shit back on you. Feels like the old one." He wiggled his nose between two fingers. The nose and fingers looked perfectly normal to Dean. "It must have plummeted to thirty, forty degrees below zero in just minutes. The comm man and one of the lance corporals froze to death on the spot. That storm lasted only ten minutes, Joe, and two of my guys froze to death before it passed over us." Abruptly, Pasquin stopped talking; his vision seemed to focus somewhere inside.
"So what happened then?" Dean asked.
"So Taff, the remaining lance corporal, and I dragged our two dead buddies twenty kilometers before we could establish contact with base, and they sent a hopper for us. The lance corporal died before we got back. Because I wanted to get home a day early, I killed three good men, Joe.
"There was an inquiry, after Taff and I got out of sickbay. Taff blamed me straight out. He was right. The only reason they didn't bust me is because, despite the frostbite injuries, I got the three of us and the two dead Marines back to safety. But Joe, I didn't panic. That's what everyone thought happened, but I didn't. I just got careless and tired and made a bad decision. Ever since I've been of two minds, blaming myself and rationalizing. You know, ‘Anybody could've made the same mistake,’ and so on. Getting kicked out of recon was the hardest thing. Taff, who was my best friend, he was hard over what happened. You know, we're pretty tight in recon. Those guys who died were his friends too. Threatened to kick my ass. So the CO put me into the supply depot until he could arrange a transfer out of the 25th. And here I am. Only Captain Conorado, Gunny Bass, and Staff Sergeant Hyakowa know what happened. Now you. I've been leaning on you, Joe, because you're the kind of Marine I once thought I was. It's that damn simple. Well, I don't care if you tell any of the other guys. Not now. I ain't making any more stupid decisions. But I've got a ways to go to make up for the one I did make back there."
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