Vorpal Blade

by John Ringo

  "That's what the mission says we're supposed to be doing," Mimi said. "But what are we really doing?"

  "I don't follow you," Miller said. "That's the mission parameters, like Doc said."

  "We're seeing how hard this is," Miriam interjected.

  "Exactly," Mimi replied. "We're out in space to find out how hard it is to be out in space. How long we can expect to stay out and survive. What we can expect to encounter in the way of space hazards and planetary hazards."

  "We've found that out," Miriam pointed out. "It's hard."

  "Not yet," Mimi argued. "Because we can keep going. I'd say that if we turn back when we're still capable of going on, we won't know what the ship and the crew can handle. So far, we've handled everything we've run into."

  "Yeah, but you don't test to destruction," Miller said. "Not in this case, anyway. There's only one ship. We don't even have the theory for another one, unless I'm much mistaken. Doc?"

  "He's got a point," Weaver admitted reluctantly. "We'd sure as hell better head back before we run into something we can't handle. There ain't any more ships on the drawing board if you know what I mean."

  "Ten Marines and a wake-up," Miller said then snorted.

  "What?" Miriam asked.

  "I get it, but only because I've been in the Navy for a few years," Weaver replied, smiling slightly at the grim joke. "When you're about to get out, when you're 'short' as they call it, you do a countdown. 'Forty days and a wake-up and I'm a civilian, man!' "

  "So we have to turn back when we're out of Marines?" Miriam asked. "That's harsh."

  "But we can keep going, so we should," Mimi said. "We should keep going as long as the food, air and water hold out. And the Marines, of course. Or until we run into something that really messes us up. Otherwise we won't know what we can do. Is this the last mission we're going to do?"

  "No," Bill said. "The overall plan is go back, assimilate data, do maintenance and repair, maybe switch out some crew and mission specialists, then go back out. I don't know what the next mission parameters will be. Pretty much the same unless I'm much mistaken, just farther out."

  "And farther and farther," Mimi said, stroking Tuffy. "To go farther and farther, we need to know how far we can go, what we can do. That's all I'm saying."

  "Solving the problems of the universe, sir?" the COB asked as he walked in the mess.

  "Trying to," Bill admitted. "That's what we're out here to do, right?"

  "Yes, sir, as you say," the COB replied. "But at the moment, the captain would like a minute of your time."

  "On my way," Bill said. "His office?"

  "Yes, sir," the COB replied. "I see the medicinal bourbon has made its way here. Mind if I have a hit?"

  "Actually, just maple syrup," Miller said, squeezing some more into a cup. "Have some. Puts hair on your chest. Then Miss Moon, Miss Jones and I are going down to the Marine mess to explain the concept of a wake to them."

  "Come," the CO said, slipping away a book and waving to a station chair as Weaver entered the compartment. "Sit."

  "Sir," Weaver replied, sitting down carefully.

  "Any more thoughts on turning back versus going on?" the CO asked.

  "Lots, sir," Bill admitted. "I think there are about two hundred different opinions on the ship."

  "But only one matters," the CO said. "Why did you ask to join the service, Weaver?"

  "Sir?" Bill asked, momentarily confused. "Well, I was getting jerked off this mission by Columbia over and over again and I thought I could make a contribution, sir."

  "So you arranged to get a commission with the caveat that you got to go on the mission," Spectre said. "You got sent through half a dozen classes, which you naturally breezed, given your background, and a couple of cruises. Do you think that makes you a fit officer?"

  Weaver opened and closed his mouth for a moment at the apparent attack. The thing that got him was that the CO was presenting it in such an even tone he couldn't figure out if there was anger in the background or not.

  "More or less accurate, sir," Weaver replied. "But, yes, I think I'm a fairly good officer. So far my reviews have been excellent. I think I'm a good officer, sir."

  "Did you know those Marines, Weaver?" the CO asked. "I'm sure you knew Dr. Dean, but did you ever meet any of the Marines?"

  "Only in passing, sir," Weaver said.

  "I did," Spectre said. "I made sure to meet with all the security personnel at one point or another, get to know them. I'm not a ground combat guy and don't begin to think that I am. But they were under my command and I made sure I knew what they were made of. Pretty good kids for Marines, and they were all kids. I sent them out there, knowing it was going to be a hot mission. Given what we'd seen of the crabpus, there was a fair chance one or two were going to get injured or killed. Why did I do that?"

  "It's our mission, sir," Bill said, still puzzled. "We're doing a survey."

  "We had all the big information we needed about Runner's World," the CO said. "Dr. Dean got his core sample, we had botanical and animal samples. We had air and water samples. We could have just left and gone on to the next planet. So why keep poking?"

  "If you're second guessing your decisions, sir . . ." Weaver said carefully.

  "I'm not, I'm asking you why I chose to keep poking," the CO replied.

  "Sir, with all due respect, I'm not a mind reader," Weaver said.

  "Take a guess."

  "Curiosity, sir? You felt that more information was necessary for the mission?"

  "More the second one," the CO said. "But the information I was looking for was 'how hard will it be to poke on this planet.' For that matter, how hard could it be to poke on other planets? We've only found two planets through the gates that have extensive biology. And both of them are pretty tame compared to Earth, much less Runner's World. What's your opinion of that, Commander Weaver? Be frank."

  "I think it was a valid choice, sir," Bill responded automatically. "That was part of the discussion I was just having. How hard is it going to be to do things out here is an important part of what we're looking at. And, hell, sir, pure curiosity isn't a negative in what we're doing."

  "Ever read any Kipling, Weaver?" the CO asked.

  "A bit, sir," Bill said, trying to keep up with the apparent changes in topic. "A book called Kim and a couple of his poems."

  "Brilliant man, I wrote my masters thesis on connections between Kipling's Victorian Era, the Romans he tended to write about and current conditions. At least, current when I wrote my thesis. Things . . . change. But one of his overlooked poems is one called 'The Explorer.' It's about a guy who quits farming one day and goes off exploring over a mountain range everyone says is uncrossable. The trip nearly kills him, and others take all the credit, but he was the first to go there and to see what was there. 'Then a voice as stern as conscience said: Something lost beyond the ranges, lost and waiting for you . . . Go!' "

  "Not familiar with it, sir," Weaver said.

  " 'That was where the Norther killed the plains bred ponies, so I called the pass Despair,' " the CO said, apparently lost in thought. "Haunting poem. And do you know that funny thing about it? Such a place as he found would never have existed on Earth at any point. Even in the Americas, there were Native Americans who had been there first. A farmer couldn't walk away from the plow and find a place that was uninhabited. But we can, Commander Weaver. We can. I'd suggest you brush up on your Kipling, Commander Weaver. Take that as a strong suggestion based on professional development. The reading list of the CO of the Vorpal Blade will, after all, be the de rigueur reading list for the future space Navy, right?"

  The. Heat. Was. Lowering. It. Was. Becoming. Again.

  "Semper Fi, jarhead," Miller said as he entered the compartment.

  First Sergeant Powell was standing by the hatch, looking at the group of nearly silent Marines. The mess was standing room only. But, normally, you couldn't have packed the whole company, less officers, into the space. And even at the
tables there were empty spaces, places that no one chose to sit.

  Powell looked at the SEAL, then at the two women with him, and nodded.

  "Semper Fidelis, Flipper," Top said. "Ladies, why don't you sit in one of the seats?"

  Miriam looked around the room nervously. The Marines hadn't even changed; they were still in their skinsuits, and the compartment reeked. The smell was strong and strange, the smell of fear and sweat and anger overlaid with oil and ozone. She suddenly felt as nervous as cat at a dog convention.

  "Those are where your dead sat," Miriam said. "We cannot fill their space."

  "No, but we can give the ones who sit nearest someone to talk to," Mimi said. "Come on, Miriam."

  Almost cold enough to Be. The Ons and Offs flowed more normally. It was Becoming . . .

  Berg looked up at a sudden laugh and saw Mimi Jones sitting across from him.

  It was the place that Gunga-Din had occupied for the last six weeks and it shook him just a bit to see the petite young lady sitting in Prabhu's seat. It also, for just a moment, angered him. He'd been trying to avoid looking across the table for the last ten minutes. Nobody had anything to say. The losses were still too fresh.

  "What are you doing here?" Berg asked roughly.

  "Looking for you," Mimi said. "I wanted to ask you some questions."

  "I'm fresh out of answers," Berg said.

  "I think you can tell me these," Mimi said. "Whose seat am I sitting in? Who was he? What was he like?"

  Berg teared up and turned away.

  "His name was Arun Prabhu," Sergeant Jaenisch said. "He was a Hindu who didn't know a grapping thing about it. We called him Gunga-Din."

  "Din! Din! Din!

  "You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!

  "Tho' I've belted you an' flayed you,

  "By the livin' Gawd that made you,

  "You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!"

  Mimi quoted.

  "What?" Guppy asked. Lance Corporal Francis Golupski was the sole survivor of Staff Sergeant Summerlin's Alpha Team after the attack of the giant crabpus. The shaken lance corporal hadn't said anything since returning to the ship.

  "It's the closing lines of the poem," Mimi said gently.

  "Yeah, that says it," Hatt said, nodding. "He was a damned fine guy. Never touched a cheeseburger once he found religion."

  "He sounds like a fine man," Mimi said. "I wish I'd known him."

  "Oh, he was a character, all right," Jaen said, his jaw working. "One time in Singapore . . ."

  Still too much Heat. It could feel the Ons and Offs struggling. If only the Heat would not flow to it, constantly. If only the temperature would lower enough. It felt that this had happened before. Vague memories of prior times of cold and then the Heat returning. Cold was Life. The Heat was . . . Death.

  "You've hardly said anything," Mimi half shouted, tracking down Bergstresser where he was standing in the corner. Miss Moon was leading the group in a chorus of "Nearer My God To Thee" while Staff Sergeant Sutherland accompanied on the bagpipes. Sutherland was making heavy weather of it. He'd been fine for "Amazing Grace" but on this one he was having to make it up as he went along. It didn't help that from somewhere a bit more than "one shot of medicinal bourbon" had turned up.

  "Not much to say," Berg shouted, then took a suck off a bulb of Gatorade. "We took a lot of losses. Most of the people I'd gotten close to in the unit, among others. Too many good people."

  "They were your friends," Mimi said.

  "No, actually," Berg said. "They were my buddies. I hated more than half of them. But that didn't mean I wouldn't rather have died than them. That's what being a buddy means in the military."

  "I was told, by others, that more would have died if it hadn't been for you," Mimi said. "Does that help, at all?"

  "No," Berg admitted. "I was just doing my job. I couldn't save Mammoth. I didn't stop the crabpus from taking Drago and Crow and Lacey. I couldn't save Candle-Man or Summer. Nobody could. I hate that God damned planet."

  "But you're going on to others, still," Mimi pointed out.

  "Still in question," Berg said. "If the CO turns the ship around, I'm going to withdraw my volunteering. This is a good unit, but . . . Sorry, I don't think I'm cut out to be a Space Marine. Not if it means another world like that."

  "But you are good at what you do," Mimi said. "If you don't continue, more people will die because you are not there. Or, the person that takes your place will be lost. Look at Chief Miller."

  The chief warrant was in the corner arm wrestling with Lyle. The armorer might have been a paraplegic once, but he'd made up for it in the weight room. The chief wasn't losing, yet, but he wasn't winning, either.

  "He had his whole team wiped out in the Dreen War," Mimi said. "He's here. Because this is where he needs to be. This is where you need to be, Two-Gun."

  "Don't call me that," Berg said. "I hate that name."

  "No you don't," Mimi said. "You're too much of a Marine to hate it."

  "Why are you here, Miss Jones?" Berg asked, exasperated.

  "Because everybody else is singing and you're sitting in a corner, brooding," Mimi said. "Because you think too much. Because you know too much. Which is why you need to be here, PFC Bergstresser. Because you think. And because the next time you step out that door, you have to be mentally ready for it. Captain Blankemeier needs you that way. Your CO, your first sergeant, your teammates need you that way. I need you that way. Because the next time, the life you might save is mine or Miriam's."

  "Or lose," Berg said. "That's another possibility, you know. We lost a scientist and twelve Marines, today. Losing you or Miss Moon is a very real possibility."

  "One that's reduced if you're here," Mimi said, lifting up on tiptoe to press her finger into his forehead. "If that is here."

  "Okay, okay!" Guppy shouted as the song died. "This is one that I know Danno can't grapp up! March! March! March!"

  "For Crow!" Jaenisch shouted drunkenly. "For the Crow-Man! March! March!"

  "Okay, okay," Staff Sergeant Sutherland said, taking a drink. "Lemme get my breath."

  "I don't know that one," Miriam said.

  "Simple lyrics," Sergeant Jaenisch said, grinning. "Don't know if you'll like 'em . . ."

  "March?" Mimi asked. "Dirty song?"

  "March of Cambreadth," Berg said, his jaw flexing. "It's only a dirty song if you're a pacifist."

  "Okay, here goes," Sutherland muttered, warming up the pipes.

  "Axes flash, broadswords swing

  "Shining armors' piercing ring

  "Horses run with polished shield

  "Fight those bastards 'til they yield

  "Midnight mare, blood red roan

  "Fight to keep this land your own

  "Sound the horn and call the cry

  "How many of them can we make die? . . ."

  "You're right," Mimi said when the song was finished. "Not much of a song for a pacifist. Are you a pacifist, Berg?"

  "No, ma'am," Berg said.

  "So you gonna 'fight as one in heart and soul'?" Mimi asked.

  Berg looked around the compartment, empty though it was of a lot of people, and admitted what he'd been fighting for a long time. He didn't want to be anywhere else. It didn't seem to be the right response to losing so many friends, but it was what he truly felt in his heart.

  "Hymn!" Guppy shouted, standing up and swaying and putting his hand over his heart. "The Hymn for God's Sake! We haven't sung the Hymn!"

  "Damn straight!" Sutherland shouted. "I think I've got that set to bag—"

  "NO!"

  "Be that way!"

  "THE SPACE MARINE'S HYMN!" Berg suddenly bellowed.

  "The what?" Top asked, his eyes wide.

  "The Space Marine's Hymn, Top," Berg said, his face hard. "Come on, you know that one, right Top?

  Berg put his hand over his heart and opened his mouth.

  "From the halls of Montezuma to the stars of Ori Three,

  "We will fight
our planet's battles in space, on land, and sea.

  "First to fight for rights and freedom, and to keep our honor clean,

  "We are proud to claim the title of Allied Space Marines . . . "

  When Berg was finished the first sergeant's mouth was still open at the butchery of his beloved Corps' hymn but the Marines were insane.