Star Marine!

by John Bowers

  When Griffen finished, the other three were waiting. When they'd all raped her, they started around again. She passed out long before they stopped.

  Chapter 52

  Late October 0232 (PCC) - Lunar Base 4, Luna

  The Star Marines of Luna 4 were treated to an FSO show in late October. Rico Martinez sat among more than thirty thousand other men from the 3rd and 14th Divisions and watched, enthralled, as entertainers from all over Terra and the Federation put on a show like he'd never seen. Scantily-clad girls danced frantically to thundering Supernova Rock that reverberated inside the moon base. Comedians had them screaming with laughter, fifteen lucky raffle winners were awarded dinner dates with famous video stars, and others got to dance with them as the music hammered the rhythm to the bone. It was scalp-tingling, and Rico couldn't remember ever having a better time.

  The gala lasted four hours, and just when everyone thought it was over, the Federation anthem swelled and holospots from six directions pinpointed a single figure as she walked forward toward the center of the stage. Every Star Marine came to his feet and stared in mute fascination as the young woman stopped and looked in all directions, then raised her arm in salute. Rico felt his heart leap, for he knew that face. She was Regina Wells, the stunning redhead from Your Sirian Enemy. As she began to talk, the anthem softened but kept playing as background.

  "Hi, fellows," the redhead said in a sultry voice. "It's me. I just want you to know that you're the greatest bunch of guys who ever lived, and I speak for every girl in the Federation when I tell you that I love you, every last one of you. I know you've been through a lot, and I know you're tired. But it's not over yet, guys. Remember what you're fighting for. When you come home, we'll be waiting. And we won't ever forget."

  The music climaxed at that moment, and not a man in the audience could suppress a gulp. The redhead kissed her hand and waved it in every direction.

  "Come home soon!" she whispered, and the lights dimmed, followed immediately by a spectacular holo-fireworks show that lasted fifteen minutes.

  As he walked back to the 33rd camp with the rest of his squad, Rico was still tingling. He knew it was psychological manipulation, but it was incredibly moving just the same.

  "I tell you," Maniac moaned aloud, "that Regina Wells is the sexiest goddamned redhead I ever saw in my life. I could feed her nine miles of my dick, ten inches at a time."

  "Maniac," Texas laughed, "you ain't got ten inches."

  "Fuck you, Texas! I measured it!"

  "Ten millimeters, maybe."

  "Fuck you!"

  "What we got here," Texas told the others, "is a severe case of penis envy."

  Chavez frowned at Texas. "I thought only women had penis envy."

  "When you've seen Maniac in the shower," Texas told him, "you'll understand."

  Rico tried to get in touch with Carla before the 33rd shipped out, but it was impossible. He wasn't sure which carrier she was on, and dared request no more than to speak with the doctor who'd treated him on Alpha 2. His inquiry immediately provoked an offer to see a base doctor, which he managed to sidestep. He gave it up after the first try and recorded a letter in which he addressed her only by her first name. He mailed it to Angela — if anything happened to him, she could get the chip to Carla.

  Two days after the FSO show, 3rd Division boarded transports and canceled orbit from Luna. When the escorts had joined up, they jumped into warp, headed for Beta Centauri. Rico serviced his weapons for the umpteenth time and checked his gear again. Everything was as ready as he could make it. This would be his fourth combat drop, and his last. Whatever might happen, he promised himself, he would never do this again. The Star Marines allowed men with two or more campaigns behind them to stand down, even if their enlistments hadn't run out. He second-guessed himself all the way to Beta Centauri, telling himself he should've listened to Angela.

  But he knew he had to make one more drop. He wasn't yet satisfied that he'd done everything necessary. He didn't want to feel, in later years, that he should have done more. He needed this one, just this one. Then he could go home, marry Carla, and put it all behind him. Let someone else finish the war.

  Tuesday, 30 November, 0232 (PCC) - in hyperspace

  Onja Kvoorik sat in the ready room aboard UFF Anwar Sadat and listened to the combat briefing. Sadat was cruising half a day ahead of the transport task force, one of seven carriers that would support the Beta Centauri landings. Tension was building aboard ship as the hours counted down to zero; everyone knew instinctively that this one was different. Never before had they assaulted an enemy home world. Never before had they had the opportunity. Everyone was anxious to get it under way, no one more than the Fighter Queen.

  Onja leaned forward as the briefing officer zoomed in on the target city. Periscope Harbor, a colorful name for an exotic locale. It sounded like a good place to spend a holiday weekend, lie on the beach, do some snorkeling. Onja could imagine souvenir shops and aromatic seafood. But the briefing officer was pointing out targets to hit, others to avoid. The hills that ringed the city on three sides flashed red with ASC markers, indicating the danger zones.

  "We have intel agents on the ground," Cdr. Ferdigssen was saying. "Our latest data is only a week old. The landing will be a surprise, because the Sirians don't expect us, and the Centauris will be distracted by the festival, which should be reaching its peak at this very moment. Their guard will be down, which should allow us to get the first wave on the ground. But after that — believe me, they're gonna come alive. As soon as the first wave touches down, you'll be right behind them, and you've got to knock out the ASC before the second wave can go in.

  "You'll only get one chance, and there's no way you can take out everything, so go for the weakest point, which is right here." He pointed. "Directly west of the city. These mountains are nearly nine thousand feet, but this saddle is only six thousand, and we're gonna send the Marines through it. The first wave should get through with minor difficulty. You're going to plaster these hillsides as soon as they're through. You've got about ten minutes to get the job done, and then the entire 3rd Division will shoot right through."

  Ferdigssen turned and looked at them grimly.

  "You'll make repeat passes, of course, but that first pass is critical. Anything you don't kill will be shooting at the Marines. As soon as that saddle is cleared, you're free to seek targets of opportunity. Concentrate on ASC batteries. Keep away from the city airport, because the Marines are going to be hip-deep in shit down there, and if you use ordnance there you're likely to hit them."

  Onja turned her wide blue eyes on her pilot, twenty-six year-old Steven Langley. His dark blue eyes were intent on the briefing officer. He sensed her gaze and looked at her, lifting his left eyebrow and managing a crooked grin. She'd chosen him to replace David Coffey, killed at Alpha 2. Langley had fought brilliantly during that campaign, and fleet scuttlebutt had it that he was the hottest pilot to survive Alpha Centauri. She liked him, liked his cockiness and his easy manner, but hadn't flown with him in combat yet. Her final judgment would be reserved until they'd been in battle.

  At the front of the room, Wade Palmer sat silent and listened as his CO delivered the briefing. It was the first time he'd witnessed an actual combat briefing, and he could feel his blood surge. It was a rush. He glanced across the room at the gunner with the wide cheekbones and snow-blonde hair, and felt almost as if he were in the presence of royalty. He'd never seen the legendary gunner in the flesh, but her reputation had spread throughout the Federation. It was even rumored that the Confederacy had placed a price on her head.

  His attention returned to Ferdigssen as he opened the floor for questions.

  "The landers are coming through the saddle," Onja Kvoorik asked, "but how are they leaving? Surely they aren't going to double back?"

  "No. As soon as they unload they'll head out across the harbor, bank left, and run at sea level until they get clear of the city. We know these offshore islands have ASC emp
lacements, but squadrons from Thatcher are going to be hitting them. That should keep them busy long enough for the first wave landers to get clear, and hopefully they'll be too beat up to do much against succeeding waves."

  Wade listened to it all, saw the expressions in the eyes of the pilots and gunners, and knew they didn't like it. It was too disorganized, too weak. And they didn't know the half of it.

  He wondered how many would survive it.

  Citadel, New Angeles, Texiana, Sirius 1

  Sirian hypnotechnology included methods of forcing people to talk. No longer was it necessary to pull fingernails, administer electric shock, or subject one to other unpleasant experiences just to get information. Fortunately — or perhaps unfortunately — the Federation had developed its own countermeasures, so when Regina Wells was transferred to SE Headquarters in New Birmingham, she was able to resist all attempts to get information from her.

  In fact, she was unable to give vital information even when she wanted to, which she did fairly early in the interrogation. One reason, of course, was that she knew very little to tell. Wayne and the FIA had anticipated the very real possibility that she might be discovered, and gave her as little knowledge as possible. The other reason was that her hypno-block simply didn't allow her to say anything. She could talk about anything at all that wasn't sensitive, and did, but was unable to reveal anything that her conditioning had flagged as secret.

  She soon lost track of time. She didn't know her interrogators, nor did she see the same ones more than a few hours at a time. They came and went in a confusing blur of faces. Griffen wasn't among th

  em. The men she faced now were even more sadistic, badgering her endlessly for hours at a time, withholding food, water, and sleep. She sat naked, bound to a metal chair frame. The metal bit into her skin until it became physical torture, until she screamed with the pain.

  The questions came in volleys, always the same, asked from different directions. She knew very few answers, and said so. Sometimes she made up answers, to get them to stop, but they didn't stop. When they sensed she was unable to continue, they raped her. Rape seemed to be their favorite sport, and they committed it almost reverently, as if it were a religious sacrament.

  Never before had Regina wanted to die, but now she did. They were going to kill her anyway — that was a given. With Davenport dead, she had no hope of anyone coming to her rescue, and doubted that even Davenport could've pulled it off. With that looming over her, she wished they'd do it sooner rather than later. The alternative was to continue breathing in a haze of agony. She wasn't afraid to die, was no longer afraid of anything — Wayne and his technicians had seen to that — but the pain was still there, and the hunger, and the utter exhaustion when they finally did allow her to rest.

  It went on for days.

  Wednesday, 31 October, 0232 (PCC) - White House, Washington City, DC, North America, Terra

  "Good evening, Mr. President." Peter Miller shook hands with his Commander in Chief and offered him a weak smile. "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

  "Don't be silly, Mr. Director." Henry waved to a divan in his oval office. "Sit down, please. Would you like a drink?"

  Miller started to shake his head, then nodded instead. It was dark outside the tall windows behind the President's desk.

  "This one time, sir, I think I'd like that."

  Henry pressed a button and five seconds later a steward entered. He ordered a scotch and Miller asked for the same. As soon as the man left, Henry turned concerned eyes on his visitor.

  "From the sound of it," he said, "you don't have good news."

  Miller met the other man's eyes uneasily. For once his composure seemed to have slipped.

  "No, sir, I'm afraid not." He swallowed unhappily.

  "Okay, hold on. The drinks will be here. I don't want you to be interrupted."

  They sat in silence for thirty seconds. The drinks arrived, the steward left, and the two men still stared at each other. Neither touched the liquor.

  "Go ahead," Henry said, steeling himself.

  "I'm afraid … " Miller jerked to a halt, caught his breath, and tried again. "Mr. President —"

  "What's happened? Is it Regina?" Henry leaned forward unconsciously.

  "She's been compromised," Miller said in a rush. "I don't know how, yet. But —"

  Henry closed his eyes and lifted his chin, feeling the shock stab through his body as if he'd been lasered. He held up a hand and Miller stopped. For twenty seconds neither man moved. Henry caught his breath, nodded slowly, and lowered his hand.

  "Go on."

  "Her contact, a man named Davenport, has been killed. He was trying to get a subspace out to us, apparently. But it never arrived."

  "How do you know this?"

  "Davenport was the man Regina fed her data to; he, in turn, passed it on to an agent in Asiana, who then passed it on to yet another agent. This last agent managed to get a subspace out with the news about Davenport. Both Davenport and his contact were killed."

  "And Regina?" Henry's eyes were open now, boring in on the thin man. The tears had formed, but not fallen.

  "He knew nothing about her, but we had another subspace from an agent inside the government. He doesn't know who Regina is, but he — he told us … " Miller lowered his head into his hands. "Jesus!" he whispered.

  "Goddammit, Miller! Keep talking!"

  "He told us," Miller said slowly, "that General Field Marshal Vaughn's … wife — had been arrested for espionage." Miller swallowed heavily and looked up, meeting his President's eyes helplessly.

  Henry stared at him, his expression blank.

  "General Field Marshal Vaughn's wife?" He sat with his mouth open for some seconds. "Are you telling me … ?"

  "Yes, sir. Regina married their top military leader a little over three years ago." He waved a hand weakly. "That's … how she got her information. Pillow talk. And she was damned good at it. She saved our ass at Alpha Centauri."

  "My little girl is married to a goddamned Sirian Field Marshal?" Henry was on his feet, shaking with rage, pacing toward his desk and back again. He was no bigger than Miller, but was sorely tempted to pound the shit out of him.

  "Is that what you're telling me?" he roared.

  Miller blinked rapidly and stared at him. No reply was necessary.

  "Jesus fucking Christ! I ought to break every fucking bone in your fucking body!"

  "Yes, sir." Miller looked as if he didn't much care one way or the other.

  Henry continued his pacing for some moments, making further discussion impossible. Miller sat frowning and chewing his lower lip. Finally Henry stopped pacing, picked up his scotch, and drank the whole thing down in one gulp. A moment later, he drank Miller's as well. The liquor flooded his system so rapidly that his head swam, forcing him to sit down heavily. He trembled with surging emotions, and finally the alcohol dulled his nerves enough that he could concentrate again.

  "Miller, is she alive or is she dead?"

  "I honestly don't know, Mr. President. The report said she was being interrogated. But that report is at least two days old."

  "So she could be dead."

  "Yes, sir. She might be."

  "What are you doing about it? Do you have anyone there who can get her out, assuming she hasn't been killed?"

  "No, sir. I don't see how. Most of our agents are lone wolves, so to speak. They're in no position to affect a rescue of any kind, nor are they trained to do so."

  "Can you get a message back to your man in the government?"

  "Not easily. It can be done, but it takes time."

  "Do it. Tell him to find out what he can. Tell him who she is, if you can, and get him to do whatever he can to keep her alive. It's bad enough they have her, I don't want them to kill her."

  Miller nodded. When Henry didn't speak immediately, he licked his lips.

  "Sir, there is one more thing."

  Henry glared at him angrily. "What is it?"

  "Wel
l, if they've broken her cover, they probably know her real name. And I find it very likely that they also know she is your daughter."

  Henry felt a new numbness spread through his body.

  "What are you saying?" he whispered.

  "Only that it seems doubtful they'll kill her. Interrogate her, yes. Torture her, perhaps. But not kill her. She represents an opportunity unlike any they've ever had before."

  "A hostage," Henry finished for him.

  "Yes, sir. They are holding the daughter of the Federation President. God only knows what use they'll make of that, but you can bet they'll find one."

  * * *

  After Miller left, Henry sat staring at the wall for half an hour. He had to tell Yvonne, and didn't look forward to that. He poured himself another drink and sat down alone, wishing he could talk to Oliver Lincoln. If ever he needed his friend, it was now.

  Instead, he called Lester Rice. The Secretary of Defense was still in his office, and came over immediately. Les was his second best friend in the entire universe. When he saw Henry, he frowned in immediate concern.

  "Henry, for god's sake, what is it? What's happened?"

  Henry told him. There was no longer any danger of blowing Regina's cover, so he told him the whole story — how Miller had recruited Regina to go to Sirius and try to discover the identity of the leak that was costing so many Federation lives, about the surrogate who'd taken her place — all of it. Rice sat transfixed through it all, shaking his head in disbelief.

  "God, Henry! How could you keep going with that kind of worry on your shoulders every day?"