by Dan Cragg
“Ensign Charles H. Bass, front and center!” Colonel Ramadan called out.
Charlie Bass was startled to hear his name called but stepped forward and marched to the reviewing stand on which Ramadan and Brigadier Sturgeon stood along with the FIST staff officers and FIST Sergeant Major Parant. Rear Admiral Blankenboort, as the highest-ranking Confederation military officer on Thorsfinni’s World, was also on the reviewing stand.
Bass climbed the stairs to the reviewing stand, stood in front of Sturgeon, saluted, and said in a firm voice, “Sir, Ensign Bass reporting as ordered!” In his peripheral vision, he saw Katie Katyana mount the reviewing stand from its side and take position next to Ramadan.
Sturgeon returned Bass’s salute and said in an amplified voice that carried clearly, “Ensign Charles H. Bass, in recognition of your years of exemplary service as a platoon commander in Company L of the infantry battalion of Thirty-fourth Fleet Initial Strike Team, both as a senior noncommissioned officer and as an ensign, and by the authority granted me via an executive order from Confederation of Human Worlds President Cynthia Chang-Sturdevant, I hereby grant you a commission as a lieutenant in the Confederation Marine Corps.” He turned to Ramadan and nodded.
Colonel Ramadan handed a small case containing the paired silver orbs of a lieutenant to Katie, who in turn stepped up to Brigadier Sturgeon and held the case out to him. Sturgeon exchanged a smile with her and took one of the paired orbs from the case. He waited while Katie took the other and dropped the case into her purse, then the two of them faced the obviously stunned Charlie Bass, removed his ensign’s insignia, and replaced them with the lieutenant’s.
“I told you I could do this, Charlie,” Sturgeon said without amplification. His voice was low enough that it didn’t even carry to everybody on the reviewing stand. Then sotto voce, “Kiss the man, Katie.”
Katie placed her hands on Bass’s shoulders and lifted her face to kiss his lips. “Congratulations, Charlie,” she whispered. “We’ll celebrate later.”
“After the officers celebrate with him, my dear,” Sturgeon whispered.
Katie stepped back, winked at Bass, and said to Sturgeon out of the corner of her mouth, “We’ll see about that, Brigadier. And you better not get him drunk.”
At a signal from Ramadan, Bass exchanged salutes with Sturgeon, about-faced, and marched back to his position at the head of third platoon. Katie returned to her place in the bleachers.
“I have one last announcement to make,” Brigadier Sturgeon said when Bass had resumed his place in front of third platoon. “I imagine that by now all of you have heard the rumor that the quarantine that has kept Thirty-fourth FIST under wraps has been lifted. It’s not a rumor, it’s true, we’re no longer quarantined. However—” He had to stop because of the spontaneous cheering that broke out.
“However,” he said when the volume of the cheering dropped, “everyone in the FISTs that have come into contact with the Skinks has been involuntarily extended for the duration. That means no releases at the end of active service, and no retirements. Furthermore, we will remain together as a unit, as Thirty-fourth and Twenty-sixth FISTs have been declared to be the best counter-Skink units.”
He paused to let that sink in, then continued: “Basically, all the lifting of the quarantine means is we are no longer under a Darkside penalty for talking about the Skinks with people who don’t have the clearance to already know about them.
“That is all.”
“FIST!” Colonel Ramadan commanded in an amplified voice, “Pass in review!”
The Marines on the parade ground came to attention as one, and company by company, led by the FIST headquarters company and the infantry battalion, began the march that would bring all of them past the reviewing stand.
At the end of the short parade, Company L marched back to the barracks, where Captain Conorado held a brief ceremony to distribute the ribbons and certificates for the army Distinguished Unit Citation. He then dismissed the company and sounded liberty call. Third platoon charged en masse to where Lieutenant Bass stood in line with the company’s other officers behind the company commander. Everyone soundly congratulated him on his promotion.
“Sir, does this mean we’re going to lose En—, I mean Lieutenant Bass?” several of them asked Conorado.
“As far as I know, Brigadier Sturgeon is going to leave him right where he is,” Conorado said. Most of them thought Charlie Bass was the best platoon commander any Marine could have.
After a few minutes of celebration, First Sergeant Myer and Gunnery Sergeant Thatcher, the company’s two most senior enlisted men, moved in to break it up and let the other officers take Bass away to a reception at FIST headquarters.
Thirty-fourth FIST quickly settled into a training routine. Some days were spent in the classroom, some in the virtual-reality training facility, more days in the field. Classroom and VR days always included substantial physical fitness and hand-to-hand combat sessions. And on the weekends, liberty. There was a full measure of grumbling about the involuntary extension for the duration, and the lack of normal rotations. The officers had their celebration of Charlie Bass’s promotion before Charlie and Katie had theirs, but when they did, Charlie agreed that Katie’s celebration was a whole lot more fun than the officers’ had been. Jente continued to refuse to talk to Corporal Claypoole, cutting the connection every time he contacted her on his comm. He didn’t bother going to her farm; he decided that would be an exercise in pointlessness, and he didn’t feel like dealing with that level of frustration. Instead he drowned himself on liberty in drink and women. Lance Corporal Schultz spent every night he could get off base with Einna Orafem—and never talked about it afterward. Lance Corporals MacIlargie and Longfellow were released from the hospital and returned to duty with Company L. Lance Corporal Beycee Harvey, who had replaced Longfellow when he was evacuated on Ravenette, returned to Whiskey Company. MacIlargie was put on light duty as an assistant clerk in the company office. “So I can keep an eye on him and make sure he stays out of trouble,” Top Myer said. That left Lance Corporal Ymenez in Claypoole’s fire team, where he was feeling more and more comfortable with the Marines of third platoon.
And that’s how it went for almost three weeks, until Brigadier Sturgeon had a company commanders’ call, after which the company commanders returned to their units and held formations to pass the word.
Captain Conorado looked grim and didn’t waste any time in getting to the point.
“Vacation’s over,” he began. “The Skinks are back, and Thirty-fourth FIST is joining a task force that’s going after them.” The company’s other officers stood in a rank behind him. Even First Sergeant Myer and the company clerks, none of whom normally attended company formations, were there.
“Most of you will remember the CNSS Grandar Bay; she’s the starship we went to Kingdom on. You’ve probably heard she was lost in Beam Space. Not so. The Grandar Bay has been in quarantine, the same as Thirty-fourth FIST. She’s on her way to Thorsfinni’s World; she’s already in Space Three on final approach and will arrive in orbit in a few days. When she gets here, she’ll reprovision; her crew will be given a couple of days of shore liberty. Then we will board and head for a world called Haulover.
“An element of Fourth Force Recon Company was dispatched to Haulover more than a month ago to investigate the hostile destructions of remote homesteads and the deaths and disappearances of the people on those homesteads. The Force Recon Marines had rather a surprise when they encountered the Skinks,” he commented drily. He got a restrained chuckle from the members of the company who had faced the Skinks on previous occasions.
“FIST HQ is putting together a package detailing what Force Recon discovered about Skink strength and order of battle on Haulover, along with data about the world, and everything currently known or suspected about the aliens. As soon as it is ready—that should be in a couple of days—it will be presented to you.
“That is all.” Conorado turned his head towar
d Gunnery Sergeant Thatcher. “Company Gunnery Sergeant, front and center.”
Gunny Thatcher broke from his position at the head of the company and marched to the company commander. They exchanged salutes.
“Gunnery Sergeant, the company is yours.”
“The company is mine. Aye aye, sir!”
Conorado about-faced and led the other officers back into the barracks.
Thatcher stood at attention facing the barracks until the officers and clerks were inside, then turned and faced the company. He looked as grim as the company commander had.
“You heard the man,” he said in a growl that carried to everyone in the formation. “It’s the Skinks again. Most of you know what that means. Start teaching the Marines who haven’t faced the Skinks about them. Teach them everything you can so they stand a better chance to live through first contact than you did the first time you faced those Hades-damned beasts.”
He looked the company over from one end to the other, seeming to look every Marine in the eye, then bellowed, “Platoon sergeants, dismiss your platoons!” He about-faced and marched into the barracks.
The Marines spent the next few days making sure all of their weapons and equipment were fully functional and combat-ready while preparing everything they weren’t taking with them for storage in the company supply room. And they pulled as much liberty as they could manage—they knew they probably wouldn’t have any opportunity for civilian dining, drink, or women until they returned to Thorsfinni’s World. And some of them knew this was the last chance they would ever have. Some of them may have gotten somewhat carried away.
Einna Orafem called in sick one day. That same day, Lance Corporal Schultz called the Company L office to say he’d be back the next day, so Captain Conorado could go ahead and prepare an Article 15 for his return.
When Jente Konegard wouldn’t accept his calls, Corporal Claypoole went to her farm. She wouldn’t come to the door.
Lieutenant Charlie Bass obliquely approached the subject of marriage with Katie Katyana but couldn’t quite bring himself to propose to her. She seemed amused and let him founder. They had a good time together anyway.
One morning, Frida and Gotta delivered Sergeant Kerr to the barracks. Kerr was so drunk he thought they were Valkyries delivering him to Valhalla. He kept protesting that he was still alive, no matter how much it might appear otherwise.
Lance Corporal MacIlargie tried to get Lance Corporal Ymenez drunk enough to miss reporting in, so he’d get an Article 15 for Unauthorized Absence and get some brig time, so MacIlargie could return to his position in third platoon. Ymenez could handle alcohol much better than MacIlargie had expected and nearly drank the other lance corporal under the table. Either that or Ymenez poured his Reindeer Ale into a nearby potted plant when MacIlargie wasn’t looking.
Most of first squad got embroiled in a brawl with the crew of several fishing trawlers that happened to be in port. Several men on each side had to be treated for injuries, but nobody other than a couple of the fishermen was held in the hospital even overnight.
As it happened, nobody got married. Nobody even was hit with an Article 15. Nobody suffered any injuries that would keep them from performing their duties.
Finally the day arrived for Thirty-fourth FIST to board the Grandar Bay. Trucks and buses delivered the Marines to Boynton Field, Camp Ellis’s landing field. The Marines dismounted and formed up in FIST formation, facing a long row of Essays. A thin group of people in civilian garb lined the edge of the field behind the formation. They were almost exclusively the families of the married officers and senior NCOs. Not all of the families were there; some found watching their men going off to war too painful to endure. Only a few of the civilians were friends of the Marines, or girlfriends of the unmarried men. They weren’t actively discouraged from attending, but the Marines generally hinted that they shouldn’t. The people on the sidelines watched as the FIST’s Dragons trundled onto the field and lined up between the Marines and the Essays. More Dragons, these belonging to the Grandar Bay, rolled down the ramps of some Essays and joined the others.
The Marines had their Dragon assignments, so when the command was given to mount up, the units moved smoothly to the Dragons they would ride inside Essays to the Grandar Bay in orbit. That was when something never before seen by any member of Thirty-fourth FIST happened.
A woman burst from the sidelines, racing toward one group of Marines heading to the Dragon that they’d ride to orbit. Three different MPs attempted to intercept her. She dodged the first two, and when the third managed to grab her, she kneed him and he dropped to the ground, clutching his injured groin. She reached the group of twenty Marines she was headed for and crashed through their ranks until she reached the one she wanted.
“Rock!” she screamed as she leaped at Corporal Claypoole and wrapped her arms and legs around him, staggering him. She pelted his face with kisses, burbling, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry for how I treated you!”
“J-Jente?” Claypoole gasped, struggling to maintain his balance and not drop his weapons, gear, or the woman riding him.
“I’m sorry, Rock, please forgive me, Rock!”
“Jente, I have to go now,” he said, shifting his grip on his blaster and other gear to free a hand to stroke her.
Strong arms grabbed Jente, pried her off Claypoole, and handed her to the MPs who had finally caught up with her.
“Rock, come back to me. Please promise you’ll come back to me!” she shrilled as the MPs hauled her away.
“I will, Jente, I promise,” he called back to her. Then he faced front and continued his movement onto the Dragon. His face was almost scarlet and he tried to ignore the hoots and catcalls from other Marines.
Claypoole hoped the trip to Haulover would be quick; he knew he wouldn’t hear the last of the incident until third platoon was so heavily engaged in combat that nobody had any energy left to razz him about the scene his girlfriend made at Boynton Field.
CHAPTER TEN
“You are a bastard.” The statement was delivered not as an insult or a challenge, but just a plain statement of fact. “Your father never married your mother, so that makes you a bastard. You can look it up in the dictionary.”
Dean Kuetgens regarded Heine Kurtz closely and considered whether he should punch him for using that word. None of the other boys would’ve dared to use it on him; Dean was just too ferocious even for the older boys enrolled at the Brosigville Preparatory Academy, but Heine was a boy without fear.
Dean decided it wouldn’t do any good to bash Heine. He knew perfectly well what the word meant. Every swearword, every obscenity in Spanish, German, and Standard English, the common languages spoken by the people of Wanderjahr, were known and used with great relish by the boys Dean played with; even the girls joined in. But every time Dean heard another boy use that word, he cringed. “They were too married,” Dean replied at last. That had been his standard response before every fight.
“My dad says they weren’t, that your dad screwed your mom in a tomato patch on your great-uncle’s farm and then your dad went away with the Marines somewhere else and never came back, and then your great-grandma went to jail, where she died.” Heine’s father was one of the leading thule exporters on Wanderjahr, enormously rich and powerful although he supported Dean’s mother, Hway Kuetgens, in her position as Chairman of the Wanderjahr Ruling Council.
Dean’s mother had kept little of her past from her son, except for one very important detail. He did know that his great-grandmother, Lorelei Kuetgens, Oligarch of Morgenluft, had gone to prison for many crimes and died there. His mother, Hway, Lorelei’s granddaughter, had become Oligarch of Morgenluft in her grandmother’s stead and eventually been elected to the supreme political office on Wanderjahr, Chairman of the Ruling Council that sat in Brosigville, formerly the capital city of Arschland Staat, now the capital city of Wanderjahr. The tomato patch story he’d heard before but he didn’t believe it.
“You’d better take tha
t back about the tomato patch, Heine,” Dean threatened. He knew with absolute certainty that with those words he’d crossed another Rubicon.
“I won’t. My dad said it happened. You callin’ my dad a liar?”
“I’m calling you a sonofabitch, Heine. Your dad fucked a dog and you popped out.”
“You eat shit, Deany-beanie, and your mom got fucked in a tomato patch.”
They went at it then. Heine was bigger than Dean but Dean was lean and quick with his fists. His first blow bloodied Heine’s nose, then Heine grabbed Dean around the waist and threw him to the ground and they rolled in the dust. Neither boy said a word as they struggled.
Later, both boys stood before the headmaster’s desk, heads bowed. Mr. Pablo Nguyen regarded the pair ominously. “Ever since you’ve been here, Mr. Kuetgens, you’ve had fights like this with other boys,” he began. “Who started this one?”
“I-I struck the first blow, sir,” Dean answered.
“Mr. Kurtz? Why’d he hit you, then?”
“Because—because I insulted his mother,” Heine answered in a small voice.
Mr. Nguyen sighed. “Okay, boys, shake hands, make up. No more of this. The school nurse has pronounced you both physically fit to resume your short, brutal, academically undistinguished lives. I will be informing your parents of this incident, of course, and you’ll both have to deal with that when you get home. That’ll be nothing new for either of you, I’m very disappointed to say. Mr. Kurtz, you are dismissed.” After Heine had departed, Mr. Nguyen silently regarded Dean for what seemed a very long time. “You’ve had a hard time of it, haven’t you?” he said at last.
