by P. A. Piatt
Cherry Drop
Book One of Abner Fortis, ISMC
By
P.A. Piatt
PUBLISHED BY: Theogony Books
Copyright © 2021 P.A. Piatt
All Rights Reserved
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Cover Art and Design by Elartwyne Estole.
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License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
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“For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother;”
William Shakespeare
Henry V, Act IV
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Contents
DINLI
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
The One-Legged Lady of Pada-Pada
About P.A. Piatt
Excerpt from Book One of the Lunar Free State
Excerpt from Book One of the Chimera Company
Excerpt from Book One of Murphy’s Lawless
Excerpt from Book One of the Salvage Title Trilogy
* * * * *
DINLI
DINLI has many meanings to a Space Marine. It is the unofficial motto of the International Space Marine Corps, and it stands for “Do It, Not Like It.”
Every Space Marine recruit has DINLI drilled into their head from the moment they arrive at basic training. Whatever they’re ordered to do, they don’t have to like it, they just have to do it. Crawl through stinking tidal mud? DINLI. Run countless miles with heavy packs? DINLI. Endure brutal punishment for minor mistakes? DINLI.
DINLI also refers to the illicit hootch the Space Marines brew wherever they deploy. From jungle planets like Pada-Pada, to the water-covered planets of the Felder Reach, and even on the barren, boulder-strewn deserts of Balfan-48. It might be a violation of Fleet Regulations to brew it, but every Marine drinks DINLI, from the lowest private to the most senior general.
DINLI is also the name of the ISMC mascot, a scowling bulldog with a cigar clamped between its massive jaws.
Finally, DINLI is a general purpose expression about the grunt life. From announcing the birth of a new child to expressing disgust at receiving a freeze-dried ham and lima bean ration pack again, a Space Marine can expect one response from his comrades.
DINLI.
* * * * *
Prologue
Paden Nesbitt grimaced when he broke the air-tight seal on his mask. The acrid stink of burned plastic, scorched ozone, and seared flesh stung his nose. A thick, phlegmy lump rose in his throat, and he struggled to swallow it down rather than choke it up in front of Beck.
“What’s wrong, Nesbitt? Does the sight of blood bother you?” Dexter Beck’s voice was heavy with derision, and Nesbitt felt his cheek burn with annoyance.
“No, I’ve seen much worse than this.” Nesbitt swept his arm around the clearing filled with shredded bodies and smoking wreckage, evidence of the ferocity of the recent battle. “It’s the smell that bothers me. It’s a savage perfume.”
Beck threw back his head and laughed, and his teeth flashed perfect and white. “‘Savage perfume?’ I didn’t know you were a poet, Nesbitt.”
Nesbitt frowned and shook his head. “Not me. It’s from a book I read once.” He shook his head again. “Anyway, these are for you.” He shoved a bloodstained cloth sack into Beck’s chest.
“What the hell is this?” Beck untied the drawstring and looked inside. “Dog tags? What do I need these for?”
“Fleet Command will want to know what happened to their company of Space Marines, Beck. They will investigate, and a simple report won’t satisfy them. We have to give them something.”
Beck thought for a moment and then nodded. “Okay, fine, we’ll send these up with the shuttle. How much longer to mop things up here?”
“We’ve put all the dead Marines in Shaft Four. We can’t move their mechs from Shaft Two without heavy equipment, and we don’t have enough time to get one from the colony.”
Beck tsked his disapproval at the news.
Nesbitt hawked and spat. “The mechs aren’t important. The jungle will swallow them long before those dog tags reach Fleet HQ. What about the test tubes? What—”
“Don’t call them that!” Beck’s upper lip curled and his face contorted with anger. “They are precision crafted soldiers and Galactic Resource Conglomerate property.”
The vehemence of Beck’s reaction surprised Nesbitt.
“Okay, Beck. What do you want done with the Conglomerate precision crafted casualties? Last count was three hundred dead and twice that wounded.”
“Is there room in Shaft Four?”
“Yes.”
“Put them in with the Space Marines, then.”
“Will do, sir. We need transporters to get the wounded to the lander pads. Can the miners help us out?”
“We don’t need help from the miners.”
“How are we supposed to evacuate six hundred wounded men if we don’t get them to the lander pads? The shuttles can’t take off from the jungle, and I don’t have nearly enough manpower to carry them cross-country to the pads.”
“There aren’t six hundred wounded men, Nesbitt. There are six hundred defective precision crafted soldiers. They belong to the GRC and the GRC has determined that the cost of recovering and repairing them is too high. Therefore, we will destroy them. Put them all in Shaft Four. The dead, the wounded, and the uninjured.”
Nesbitt gaped. “You want us to put all the tes—uh, precisio
n crafted soldiers, living and dead, into the shaft with the Marines?”
“That is precisely what I want. Put them in the shaft and then nuke it.”
“That’s… that’s murder.”
Beck chuckled. “Not murder. They’re not human, remember? They’re experimental, and the experiment failed. Our scientists have recorded the data from this test for analysis in the lab, so there is no reason to keep defective, and potentially dangerous, Conglomerate property.”
Nesbitt’s mind raced as Beck spoke. It was bad enough they were covering up the fate of the Space Marines, but at least they were already dead. Nesbitt had watched the test tubes in action over the last week, and it was hard for him to consider them anything other than human. Even after the GRC handlers lost control and the test tubes slaughtered the Space Marines, the “precision crafted soldiers” never seemed not human.
“Mining the solar system is a cutthroat business, Nesbitt. There are a hundred other companies developing their own precision crafted soldiers, and whichever company perfects them first will have an insurmountable advantage. It’s my job to see that GRC wins that race. So get it done, Nesbitt, or I’ll get someone who can.”
* * * * *
Chapter One
Second Lieutenant Abner Fortis held on tight as the flight line support vehicle raced toward the personnel shuttle poised on the launch pad. The vehicle was a bright yellow box on wheels with no windshield or roof, used to tow cargo boxes and jetways around the spaceport.
The electric motor whined as the Fleet ground crew driver kept the pedal jammed to the floor, and the vehicle bounced and jerked at every seam in the asphalt. Fortis perched on the flat deck behind the driver and used one hand to steady himself and the other to keep a tight grip on the two large duffle bags that contained everything he owned.
Fortis chanced a look down at his dirty, rumpled uniform and cursed the ISMC, International Space Marine Corps, regulation that required new personnel to report in their finest. He’d already lost his dress uniform cover when the wind snatched it off his head and sent it pinwheeling across the tarmac. When Fortis pointed and shouted, the wind whipped the words out of his mouth, and the driver just shrugged. Fortis watched in dismay as a week’s worth of pay disappeared in the distance.
At least it’s not raining.
As they approached the waiting shuttle, Abner saw a trio of figures in ISMC fatigues at the foot of the ladder. One of them was holding a communicator to his ear with one hand and gesticulating wildly with the other. The driver braked hard, and the trio approached the ground support vehicle. Fortis identified the men as a captain, a first lieutenant, and a gunnery sergeant. He jumped off the back of the cart, stood at attention, and rendered a parade ground-perfect salute.
“What is this?” Using a peripheral vision technique perfected on the same parade ground as his salute, Fortis could see the captain addressing the driver.
“Looks like an officer to me, sir.”
The first lieutenant scowled at the response, and the gunnery sergeant stifled a smile with his hand. The captain threw his hands up in exasperation. “I know it’s an officer. I can see it’s an officer. Is this the officer Launch Control delayed us for? A fucking cherry?”
The driver shrugged. “They told me to bring him over from Pad Four. You’re Foxtrot Two-One, right?”
“That’s us. The Pig Dogs.”
“Then he’s all yours, sir.”
The captain turned to Fortis, who had remained at attention and held his salute throughout the exchange.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Fortis’ face burned, and his mouth dried out, but he maintained his composure. “Sir, the captain has not returned the second lieutenant’s salute. ISMC regulations require the second lieutenant to maintain the salute until acknowledged or until the senior officer has moved at least ten paces away.”
Although his eyes were locked on the horizon, Fortis saw the first lieutenant stare open-mouthed while the gunnery sergeant laughed aloud. The captain leaned in, red-faced.
“You’ve got to be kidding me with this bullshit.”
Fortis felt a stab of panic, and his mind went into overdrive. “Sir, the second lieutenant apologizes, but his cover—”
“Secure that third-person bullshit and drop that goddamn salute already.” The captain touched his fingers to his temple, and Fortis cut his salute away smartly.
The captain eyeballed Fortis from head to toe and took in his disheveled appearance. “Your cover what? Why in hell are you wearing Dress Blues? You can’t wear that shit in space.” He turned to the first lieutenant and the gunnery sergeant. “XO, unfuck this cherry most riki-tik; we have a launch window to make. Gunny, make sure Ystremski knows he has a new platoon leader.”
* * *
Five hours later, after the shuttle rendezvoused with the Fleet troop transport Atlas orbiting high above Terra Earth, a smiling staff sergeant ushered Fortis through his office and into the office of Captain Timothy Reese, Commanding Officer of Foxtrot Company, Second Battalion, First Regiment, or Foxtrot Two-One. After the fiasco at the spaceport, Fortis expected a dressing down. He stopped the prescribed two paces from the captain’s desk, came to attention, and saluted.
“Second Lieutenant Abner Fortis, reporting as ordered, sir.”
Captain Reese looked up from his computer screen and pointed to a chair.
“Sit down, Fortis, and tell me a story.”
Fortis took the seat Reese pointed at. “A story, sir?”
“Yeah, a story. The story of how you ended up here with Foxtrot Two-One. We received no orders or notice you were coming, so you can imagine my surprise at your arrival.”
“Sir, when I graduated from Advanced Infantry Officer Course, I received orders to Charlie Five-Three. When I arrived at the Transient Personnel Center, a clerk handed me a change of orders and pointed at the shuttle.”
“Charlie Five-Three recently returned, didn’t they?”
“Yes sir. Two years and three days deployed. They got back last week.”
“Damn.” Reese leaned back in his chair and locked his fingers behind his head. “That’s a long time.”
Fortis nodded. “Yes, sir, it is.”
Captain Reese studied him for a second. “Don’t you want to be a Pig Dog, Fortis?”
“A Pig Dog, sir?”
“Foxtrot Two-One is called the ‘Pig Dog Company,’ Lieutenant.” Unit nicknames were uncommon in the ISMC and usually earned only after a noteworthy action.
“My apologies, sir, I wasn’t aware of that. As for what I want, well, I’m a second lieutenant. What I want doesn’t really matter. DINLI, sir.”
“Stow that DINLI shit, Fortis. I don’t like it, and I don’t use it. It’s an excuse to accept less than excellence, and that’s unacceptable here in Foxtrot Company.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Captain Reese twisted the heavy gold ring he was wearing on his left ring finger. “Don’t ever forget that you’re only here because of the Imperio, Fortis.”
“Sir?”
“The Imperio. Surely you’ve heard about it?”
“Yes, sir. Fleet transport, disappeared last year with some Fleet Academy personnel aboard.”
Reese winced and then frowned. “Not just some Academy personnel, Fortis. The entire senior and junior classes. Two thousand cadets vanished without a trace.”
Fortis waited in silence, uncertain how to respond.
“The sudden shortage of qualified officers made it necessary to recruit individuals such as yourself.”
Reese leaned back in his chair. “I looked through your personnel file. You graduated in the middle of your class at the Basic Officer and Advanced Infantry Officer courses. Is that your best, Fortis?”
Abner hesitated before he replied, “I don’t understand your question.”
“Middle of the pack. Not ahead, but not behind, either. Doing just well enough to get by. Is that the best you can do?”
&nbs
p; “Sir, I was recruited for ISMC Officer Basic School four days before I graduated from university with a degree in Terraform Engineering. All but two of my OBS classmates were Fleet Academy graduates, and I had no previous military training or experience. I’m not proud of finishing in the middle of my class, but I’m not ashamed of it, all things considered. Sir.”
The words came out in a rush, and Fortis cringed inside once he finished. Captain Reese seemed like a by-the-book officer and Fortis suspected the other officer would see his explanation as excuses.
Instead, Reese stared at his computer monitor for several long seconds before his eye flicked back to Fortis.
“I intend to make a leader out of you, Lieutenant Fortis. It’s one of my responsibilities as your commanding officer, and I take my duties seriously. I will teach, and you will learn.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your training will have to wait, though. Second Battalion is bound for a bug hunt on Ha-acka Ro, but Fleet Command has also tasked us to provide support to the GRC, Galactic Resources Conglomerate, a mining consortium operating on Pada-Pada. In thirty hours, First and Third Platoons, led by Lieutenant Baker, will drop on Pada-Pada with a mech element in support. The mission is an easy breather, and that’s where you’ll be for the next two weeks while I take the rest of Foxtrot Company on the bug hunt with the battalion. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Fortis’ response was automatic, but his mind raced to comprehend what the captain had told him. The name Pada-Pada jogged something in his memory, but he couldn’t remember what it was.
“Is there anything else, Lieutenant?”
“No, sir.”
