by J. N. Chaney
“And that leads us to today. You got yourself killed.”
“It was just a sim,” Rev said.
“A sim that simulates real operations.” He paused as if picking his words before continuing. “Yes, I know what the ROI was. We are going to war with Perseus, Frisian, MDS, and other citizens. Humans. Not everyone on Alafia is even CoA. So, yes, we need to pay heed to the ROI.”
“And that’s—” Rev started to say before the staff sergeant cut him off.
“But we are not to put our own lives at risk. These . . . Angel shits are fanatics,” he said, using the normal slang instead of his usual Children of Angels or CoA. “They will stop at nothing to further their beliefs. You’ve had the briefings. They believe that they’re trying to save humanity from destruction, so any collateral damage along the way is acceptable. Even to their own children. What better way to level up, as they say, than to sacrifice yourself for the greater good?”
On a rational level, Rev knew the staff sergeant was right. But on an emotional level? He kept seeing the boy’s face just before he blew himself up. Simulation or not, it shook him.
“A suicide bomber, be they an adult or not, is going to be dead no matter what. It makes no difference if that is from a dart in the head or by detonating a vest. What I need from you is the discipline to act and keep any of the team from joining them. I don’t want to write any more letters because you didn’t act quick enough and as you were trained.”
The staff sergeant stopped and waited for a response. Rev had thought that he’d get his ass chewed for getting killed, for lowering the team’s exercise score. Instead, he was at the receiving end of an earnest and heartfelt sermon.
But the simulation was rigged against them. It had programmed the boy to attack. Rev couldn’t buy that a six, seven, or even eight-year-old boy would make that decision. He could be forced, Rev knew, but that wouldn’t be his fault. And could he act in that situation? Could he kill a fellow human?
Rev was still haunted by the kapo he’d killed on Tenerife. How would he feel if he killed a child? It was something he didn’t want to contemplate.
The staff sergeant was waiting for a response. It wasn’t as if Rev didn’t understand his point. He suddenly had an image flash in his mind: a young boy standing between Tomiko and Yazzie, exploding into a ball of fire. As the smoke cleared, the two Marines were down, their bodies torn apart.
He shuddered and tried to block the image.
Rev didn’t know what he would do if the scenario played out in real life, but the staff sergeant wasn’t the only one striving to keep his Marines alive. He knew what he had to say, even if he wasn’t sure he could do it.
“I understand, Staff Sergeant. I’ll do what I have to do.”
A look of relief flowed across the team leader’s face, and he said, “I know you will. Take this sim as a learning point. That’s why we do them, right?”
“Right.”
“OK. Let’s head over to our space. We’ve still got our hot wash.”
The staff sergeant opened the hatch and motioned for Rev to walk through. “You good?”
No, I’m not.
But he said, “Yes, Staff Sergeant. I’m good,” as they went to join the rest of the team.
14
“This is some good shit,” Tomiko said before putting another huge chunk of steak in her mouth, juices running down to her chin.
Rev rolled his eyes. “Barbarian.”
“You just don’t understand good chow.”
“No, I just have table manners.”
Tomiko snorted at that, and a small chunk of steak flew across the table to hit Yazzie on her blouse. The PFC made a face, then carefully wiped it onto her finger and ran the finger on the edge of the tray to get it off her.
“Sorry about that, T2,” Tomiko said through a still-full mouth. “Consider it a bonus.”
“Gee, thanks, Corporal. I appreciate you looking out for me.”
“That’s my job.”
Rev had to smile. Yazzie was pulling her own weight and developing into a good Marine. As the only one in the element junior to Tomiko, the sergeant rode her a little hard, but Yazzie took it all in stride.
Tomiko was right about the chow, though. The Navy mess crew had really put on a feast. The food on the Big Hob was already primo, but this D-Day feast was something else. Which didn’t make any sense. None of this was fresh or natural. All of it had started this morning as vats of organic bases, to be printed out by programs into the final version and then heated or chilled to the correct temperature.
But all of the Navy had the same programs, and he imagined the printers were the same, too. So why was this food so much better than what was offered on other ships? Rev had no idea,
Not all of the food was printed, however. Each Marine had a natural apple, and Rev looked forward to biting into it. True, his palate wasn’t refined enough to tell a real from a printed apple, but it was the thought that mattered.
Overall, Rev had to admit that the Big Hob was a sweet ship. Berthing was comfortable with an excellent entertainment library. The facilities such as the gym and simulation pods were top-of-the-line. The food was amazing.
Maybe when this is all over, I can put in for the Marine detachment, he mused before rational thought took over. He still had a job offer with the Benevolent Order of Crystal Technicians when they were taken off indefinite status. He’d be flying a crystal vat, not a Navy ship, even one primo as the Big Hob.
“All embarked Marines . . .”
“And sailors,” Doc Paul added.
“ . . . assigned to Lift One, you now have ninety minutes to be at your stations. Eat up, and report to the armory.”
“That’s us,” Staff Sergeant Delacrie passed. “Shovel it down.”
With the platoon’s two gunnies and one master sergeant eating in the chief’s mess, Delacrie was the senior Marine from the platoon in the galley, and he was taking his job seriously. Rev had a slightly better opinion of the man since their talk after Rev had been “killed,” but he was withholding any more judgment until he could observe the team leader in combat.
Throughout the galley, about three-quarters of the Marines started gulping down the last of their chow. Rev used a piece of bread to mop up the pepper sauce that had covered his steak, then put the apple in his cargo pocket.
“You gonna eat that?” Tomiko asked.
“No. I’m just putting it in my pocket to wait until it goes rotten. Then I’m going to throw it at an Angel shit.”
Nix and a few others in earshot laughed, and Tomiko stuck out her tongue at him.
“That, my friend, was a most excellent joke. Learn from the master.”
But is it really a joke?
On second thought, Rev wasn’t sure about that. At least not by definition.
He shook it off. Teaching an AI what is and what isn’t a joke was not in his job description. He had a little more on his plate at the moment.
Rev followed the mass exodus from the chow hall. The team’s berthing space was two corridors over. Each Marine had staged their kit on their rack, so it only took a moment to grab them.
Hussein made a show of hugging his rack. “I’m going to miss you, baby.”
“That’s about as close as you’re going to get to a warm body to sleep next to you, Hus-man,” Strap said.
Hussein lifted one arm from the hug, middle finger extended.
“Come on. We don’t want to be the last in the armory,” Sergeant Nix said.
“We’ve got time,” Rev reminded him.
“So you say. I’d rather not push it.”
They left the space only to be met by the staff sergeant coming to collect them. The Raiders were used to berthing as a team, but as a SNCO, Delacrie was in with the other staff sergeants.
“Let’s go, let’s go,” he said.
“You just said that,” Rev
whispered to Nix.
“And you gave me shit.”
“I’d never give a sergeant shit. You know that.”
“Right. And my cat can sing ‘All the Pains of Love,’ and in two languages.”
“Talented cat.”
The ship was well designed with the embarked armory two decks up. There was already a line of Marines at Station One at the issue windows. The staff sergeant led them to their assigned window. A grunt platoon was in front of them, but the issue went quickly, and within six minutes, Rev was at the window. He leaned forward to get his retina scanned.
“Pelletier, Reverent. Combat Kit Three,” the flat voice intoned from the speaker.
There was whirling as the track started up. Ten seconds later, a bin shot up, stopping at the window.
“Check your issue.”
Other than getting scanned, this was the only time that he could stop the automated process. All he had to do was say he didn’t accept the issue, and a live armorer would arrive to check and either rectify the issue or tell him to accept what he had and move on. Rev pulled out his M-49 Assault Rifle, his lance, and his MF-30 sidearm. Everything he was supposed to receive was there.
“Accepted,” he said before he stepped back and Tomiko took his place. The entire issue had taken twenty-five seconds, most of that for him to check his issue.
“Get your armor,” Staff Sergeant Delacrie needlessly told him. Rev knew the drill.
The combat kit was Station One. The armor was issued at Station Two. Ordnance was at Station Three. Fully automated, the ship had enough issue points to fully outfit five hundred Marines, Seabees, SEALs, or combinations of the three in fifteen minutes.
Rev carried his kit to Station Two and fell into the queue. It moved swiftly with a Navy petty officer playing traffic cop. Rev got to the front where he faced several rows of pods, his eyes peeled for the next green light. Above the rows, trolleys sent armor whizzing to the right pod.
“Next, number fourteen,” the petty officer shouted.
Rev had been watching, but he missed the green light. A little embarrassed, he hurried to the pod and stepped in. The cage closed around him, and the scanner shot his right eye.
There was no voice this time, but his name and service number appeared across a small strip directly above the scanner. The wait was slightly longer, but not by much. His PAL-5 clunked to a stop above him. Rev held his arms out to his side, and the main body of the armor was lowered around him. As always, he flinched as the arms started sealing him inside with noisy clanks and snaps. He was always afraid that something of him would be caught in the armor as it was assembled around him. His biggest fear was of getting castrated. But as always, the valet was perfect. His circuit tested green, and the back of the pod opened up. The sign over the scanner told him to exit.
This was one time when Rev wished he was on a smaller ship that didn’t have an automated valet. It might take longer to get into his PAL-5 manually, but he wasn’t afraid of getting part of him snipped off.
He idly wondered how the mech Marines were faring. They couldn’t use the same valets as the ground pounders. Getting them into their mech suits was much more of an undertaking.
“One more station,” he muttered as he navigated through the oversized passage, bumping into more than a few fellow Marines as he went.
This time there was no retinal scan. Each combat suit had multiple RFIDs which were inert until activated by a synched scanner. Rev got into the correct queue. By the time he walked to the front, he’d been scanned, and his ordnance load was ready. He grabbed it and carried it out the exit and into the hangar, where he found space to clamp each magazine into place and find a pocket or holster for everything else.
Thirteen minutes and twelve seconds after reaching the armory, Rev was ready for bear. Modern technology sometimes amazed him.
Rev and the team were in Bay Thirty-two. There was a little bit of a traffic jam getting to it. There were two yellow lines painted on the deck, closing off the bulk of the hangar deck where the shuttles sat in a neat line along the length of the ship. Marines were supposed to walk within those lines until they reached their embark point, and that made things a little crowded.
But it didn’t take long to reach the point, and Rev stepped over the line on the proximal side. Almost a platoon of infantry, in their PAL-3s, were already there, as were Yazzie, Badem, Strap, and Tomiko. Rev retracted his face shield. He’d be breathing canned air soon enough. No use wasting any of it.
“You ready?” Tomiko asked.
“Always. Kinda hate to leave the ship, though.”
“You’d get bored soon enough.”
Which was true. Still, he couldn’t deny that the ship and crew had made the transit more than just bearable.
“Hey, Corporal Rev!” a voice called out from the infantry types.
They all had their helmets sealed. One Marine waved an arm, a big 50mm grenade launcher attached to the top. That didn’t do Rev any good, but he raised an arm and waved back, wondering who the hell that was.
The Marine must have figured out what was happening because they retracted the face shield for just a moment, revealing Malaika’s smiling face before she closed it again.
“Hey, Angel Wings. You’re on my shuttle?”
“Or you’re on mine.”
Rev nodded and said, “Could be.”
“See you planetside.”
“Who’s that?” Tomiko asked.
“No one. Just another dead Marine.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Before Rev could answer, another grunt came up. Rev didn’t need to see the face when the Marine said, “They’re letting you Raider riffraff on our shuttle?”
“Trying to raise the overall IQ of it, Orphy,” Rev said.
Tomiko hugged Orpheus, a sight to see with a PAL-3 and a PAL-5. “What’s with the Orphy?” she asked.
“That’s his name, isn’t it, Orphy?” Rev asked.
“Damn that Mala. She told me she met you.”
He gave Rev a shot across the back that would have floored him if it weren’t for his PAL-5’s stabilizers.
“Good to see you two. Don’t expect we’ll see much of each other after we hit the dirt, though.”
“Probably not,” Rev said. “But we’ve got a bit of time now. Get us up-to-date. What’s happened since embark?”
The three friends stood together for the next twenty minutes gossiping about everything except for the upcoming mission. More and more Marines arrived until there had to be close to ninety at the station.
Finally, it was time to board. Rev and the rest of the Raiders closed their helmets, as they would stay until they stepped onto Alafia’s surface, and all the Marines got into stick order. The main lights of the hangar went off to be replaced by others that meant nothing to Rev, but they obviously did to the Navy launch crew. A yellowshirt waved at the first Marine in the queue, one of the grunts. Along with all fifty loading points, the Marines moved forward to the waiting shuttle.
With the Raiders in the rear, Rev was able to see the hangar doors open, revealing the black of space dotted with stars, only slightly distorted by the curtain that kept the air in and the vacuum out. Rev eagerly looked for the nebula, but it wasn’t in sight. He figured it must be on the other side of the ship.
And then he was inside the shuttle, taking his seat. Like the last Navy landing craft he rode in, this one was chock full of equipment. And with close to ninety Marines in armor, it was a lot more crowded.
“Is this the same ship as we took up to the Amethyst?”
It didn’t look bigger to Rev, but with all the PAL-3s inside, maybe that tilted his perspective.
“At least we don’t have to drop in,” Tomiko said.
“I’m frightened,” Rev said.
“What?” She turned to look at him, but with the face shields deployed, she couldn’t see hi
s face. “Why?”
“We’ve taken off in shuttles like this, but we’ve never landed in one. This will be our virgin assault landing.”
Tomiko looked at him for a second, then smacked him hard in the upper arm. “That wasn’t even worth the effort.”
“Yes, it was,” Rev said, laughing. “Admit it.”
“I’ll do no such thing, asshole.”
Rev could almost feel the question building, so he stopped Punch with, “In case you were wondering, that was not a joke.”
“Because it was funny.”
“No. Not really. You see, we’ve taken shuttles up, but we’ve dropped into each combat situation.”
“Yeah, but I was joking.”
“Oh . . . just forget it. Look, we’re getting our safety brief.”
Rev didn’t listen to the flight crew member giving the brief. It wasn’t like they expected any opposition, and the landing craft would be shielded by too many fighters to count if anyone did raise their heads. But the joy in getting to Tomiko, even if only for a second, was now muted by his attempt at an explanation to his battle buddy.
It didn’t take long, however, for the rear ramp to close and the pilot to say, “Stand by for launch in sixty seconds.”
Everyone settled themselves in their suits. The launch would make them notice any wrinkle, any position even slightly out of place. The landing craft would be shot along rails out of the ship, not turning on their engines until they were several klicks away. Rev had been in the proximity of landing craft and shuttles on the ground. True, a person didn’t want to be under one as it lifted, but the exhaust wasn’t that deadly.
But when he’d asked, he was told that even the slight exhaust could wear and tear on the hangar bay, and the Navy crews took pride in them. The lack of atmosphere heightened the damage. So, all craft, not just the high-output fighters, were launched.
“Thirty seconds. Crew, take your positions.”
Rev scooted his butt again, making sure he was firmly seated.
