Star Marine!

by John Bowers

  "Beaner! I'm getting heat sigs!" Texas crouched along the wall at the T end of a corridor, two pairs of double doors facing him. A sign on each door said CAFETERIA.

  "Where?"

  "In there." Texas pointed. "At least twenty, maybe more."

  Rico tensed. Two squads, maybe, or even a whole platoon. Christ! It had to be an ambush!

  "You getting any power readings from laser weapons?"

  "No." Texas glanced at him with eyes that looked unnaturally white in his grimy face. His cheek was blistered red from their encounter on the floor below. "But they don't all carry lasers. That last guy was using a machine gun."

  Rico nodded. Texas was right. After what had happened on the ninth floor, he couldn't take any chances. The BC were deadly, ferocious fighters. They never surrendered, never stopped killing. They had to be taken out first. He glanced over his shoulder — the entire squad crouched along the wall behind him.

  "Maniac, Tiny." He motioned them forward. "Texas, you're with me. The rest of you wait here and cover us."

  The other two men moved forward and Rico gave terse instructions in a hoarse whisper.

  "Two plasmas each, okay? We're gonna kick the door open and throw, then get the fuck clear. Don't hang around, either — be moving as soon as you throw, because that plasma is gonna come outta there like a volcano. I don't want anybody else dead."

  They nodded solemnly, every man in agreement.

  "Okay. We're gonna cook the fuckers before they cook us. Tiny, you and I will throw, Texas and Maniac will kick. Ready? Let's do it!"

  They edged toward the doors, Tiny and Maniac taking the pair on the left, Texas and Rico those on the right. When Rico and Tiny were ready, they gave each other the nod. Rico held two plasma grenades with the pins pulled, arming levers gripped tightly down.

  "On three. One … two … three!"

  As Maniac and Texas each kicked open a door, Rico and Tiny released the arming levers and pitched the grenades as far as they could. For three long seconds Rico stared inside the cafeteria, saw the rows of tables, the chairs, the serving trays. He saw the BC, too — more than twenty of them, closer to a hundred. Unarmed, staring in blank astonishment at the Star Marines who had appeared so unexpectedly at their doors. Heard a scream of terror as the hand-thrown missiles sailed lazily through the air toward them, saw some of them duck. His heart stopped in his throat and he stood frozen with horror.

  "They're civilians!" Maniac shouted in disbelief.

  The door in front of him swung shut, but not before Rico saw the panicked scramble, heard the shrieks of terror. His mind froze as he stood immobile.

  "Why the fuck are they —"

  Texas tackled him, driving him to the floor an instant before the wall bulged under the force of the plasma bursts, then flame gushed through the doors as they blasted open, filling the cross corridor with fire and heat. The four Star Marines scrabbled desperately back the way they'd come as the heat surged after them, scorching the ceiling and walls above them, forcing them down. Behind them they heard the shrieks of women and children, horrible screams of raw agony and a terrible clatter as the helpless victims of the four grenades stampeded into tables, chairs, serving trays, and any other obstacles in their path. Some made it through the doors, ablaze from head to foot, screaming in helpless torture as their skin cracked and split, as hair and clothing burned from their bodies and fell in small fiery clumps to the floor.

  Rico sat up and stared backward with acid in his gut, his stomach churning with horror at what they'd done. The fierce stink of roasted flesh and burning hair swept over him, gagging him, as he watched three hideous creatures stumble toward him in their last desperate, hopeless bid to escape the most horrible of deaths. Two fell and lay writhing, no longer screaming, but the third made it almost to where he lay, clawing at her body with fingers that had roasted down to the bone, her mouth a black hole like the gateway to hell. Rico stared, horrified beyond words, as she stumbled into the wall and finally slid to the floor, twitching in unspeakable agony, her body splitting like a hot dog on a grill. She was only a child, not more than ten years old.

  Rico scrambled backward, turning away as tears spilled down his cheeks, mixing with the dirt and ash to form a muddy rivulet. He pulled himself to his hands and knees and lowered his head in horror, his stomach churning. He puked everything he had inside him, and continued with dry heaves for several minutes after that. The other men of Second Squad did the same. When he was able, Rico crossed himself, shaking like a leaf.

  "Hail Mary," he whispered, "Mother of God; blessed art thou among women … "

  Polygon, Washington City, DC, North America, Terra

  General John Willard stood in the War Room at the Polygon and stared impotently at the holomaps, as if he could see the battle being fought. The situation reports came in minute-by-minute, and the news was guardedly encouraging. Third Division had moved into the downtown area of Periscope Harbor and was clearing the towers one by one. Including their gains on the first day, they'd captured a radius of approximately six miles from the airport. Unfortunately, most of the ground they held was worthless — none of their major objectives were located near the airport, but by sunset they were only twenty blocks from SE Headquarters.

  Willard rubbed a hand over his face and sighed, accepting a cup of coffee from an aide.

  Fourteenth Division was proceeding parallel to the 3rd, heading for the harbor itself. One battalion of 14th had descended into the lower levels, not to capture them, but to close them off from the airport. They'd eliminated what opposition they encountered, then blown the subterranean corridors to seal them. Casualties were much higher than anticipated, however; both divisions had suffered nearly twenty percent losses. If that rate continued, they would need reinforcements by tomorrow night.

  Willard knew the third day of the battle would be the most critical.

  Periscope Harbor, Beta Centauri

  Rico slept little during the second night. They'd finished clearing the sky tower shortly after dark, encountering no more BC of any kind — military or civilian. Capt. Connor ordered Delta to sleep for a few hours, and they stayed where they were, scattered among three tall towers.

  Rico sacked out near the open mouth of a wide window on the fourteenth floor. The Solarglas had been blown out and he gazed out at the night sky, feeling the crisp night breeze as it washed over him, soothing his body if not his soul. Nearby, other squad members lay snoring wearily — twitching in their sleep, but sleeping. Rico tried, but tired as he was, rest would not come.

  He could still smell the stench of burned hair and roasted flesh, still see the BC women running about in flames, shrieking away their last lungfuls of air. Women! God, they'd seen hardly any civilians since the landing, so why were a hundred women and kids hiding smack in the middle of the combat area? Whose brilliant fucking idea had that been?

  He tried to tell himself it wasn't his fault, he couldn't have possibly known. He tried to convince himself that God wouldn't hold it against him, and prayed that it was so; but after seeing the agony those women had suffered, his Catholic upbringing told him that if God did hold him responsible, he would suffer an even worse fate when he went to hell.

  But how could he have known? How could any of them have known? He stared into the Centauri night without finding any answers, and wished more than once that he'd listened to Angela and got out after Alpha 2. What had he been thinking, for Christ sake?

  The city was restless below him. Gunfire erupted from time to time as Star Marines and BC found one another and blazed away in small, vicious firefights. Rico heard it come and go, wondering each time which side had prevailed. For the most part, it was quiet, especially when the ocean breeze picked up; its passing created enough natural sound to blanket much of that below. Were it not for the smell of smoke that reached him from time to time, and the fact that he could still see the fiery images of roasting women — and the fact that three of his men were dead — he could almost belie
ve there was no war here, that he was simply sacking out in a peaceful place where he could enjoy the breeze and night sky.

  About two hours after local midnight, the tenor changed. Rico was half dozing when heavy artillery not far away began to light the sky with brilliant flashes. At first he thought it was simply a short firing mission, that it would stop in ten or fifteen minutes. But more artillery began to fire, and Rico heard missile batteries as well. He sat up and looked out, frowning. The sky flickered with muzzle flash and the glare of missiles, the wave of sound growing steadily. He glanced around at his squad, all but one of whom were asleep. Gearloose was standing guard, and the two of them exchanged looks in the unnatural flicker of light.

  Rico stood up and crossed the room to another window, one that offered a view back toward the airport. A few black skeletal towers were visible in the foreground, but beyond that was only blackness — the residential area, stretching five or six miles toward the mountains. At the foot of the mountains, also invisible, was the airport. The artillery was hitting the residentials, hammering them, lighting the area with repeated explosions, destroying everything in its path. Rico knew that Star Marines were down there, backing up the forward advance. Support units, kitchen units, medical units, quartermaster units. His brow knitted in alarm and he felt his heart accelerate. What the hell was going on?

  "What the hell's going on?" Gearloose murmured at his elbow.

  Rico shook his head slowly.

  "If I didn't know better," he said, "it looks like the enemy is trying to cut our supply line. We may have walked into a trap."

  "What do you mean?" Gearloose looked close to panic. "They didn't exactly let us walk in here! We had to fight like hell to get this far."

  Rico nodded. "Yeah, I thought so, too. But maybe we ain't seen everything they've got."

  "Oh, shit!"

  Rico returned to where he'd left his gear and picked up his helmet, seating it on his head. He chinned the command channel.

  "Second Squad to Delta Six," he said. "Captain, you there?"

  There was no answer. For a minute or two he kept trying, but heard only static in his headset. Then, without warning, the static disappeared.

  "Hi, Star Marines," a velvet voice cooed, "this is Periscope Patty. Don't try to adjust your helmet sets, because we've blocked your channels. From now on, the only reception you're going to get is me."

  Rico's blood ran cold, and he swallowed. The woman sounded sexy as hell, but the sound of her silken voice filled him with apprehension.

  "You've never heard of me," she continued, "but I know all about you boys. And you know what? I feel real sad, fellows, because for most of you, mine is the last voice you'll ever hear. That's because you're all trapped in a meat grinder in Periscope Harbor. And you're all going to die.

  "That's right, fellows. You men of the 3rd Division, and you of the 14th — I hope you all went to confession before you left Luna 4. And I hope you all got laid." She giggled. "Too bad I can't help you out in that department, because I know you'd like me.

  "Hey, now there's an idea! Why don't you just surrender? That way you won't have to die, and you'll get to meet me in person. Who knows what might happen then? Wouldn't that be cozy?

  "Tell you what, fellows, you think it over. And while you do that, I'll play you something sad, something quiet to help you decide. It's an old classic from precolonial Terra. Tell me what you think."

  The song that followed was one Rico had never heard, but it touched him like a drug, almost filling him with despair. The title was Mr. Lonely.

  Saturday, 3 November, 0232 (PCC) (Day Three) - Periscope Harbor, Beta Centauri

  With sunrise of the third day of the battle, the fighter squadrons began to show a marked increase in losses. The reason quickly became clear — the ASC batteries were opening fire several minutes sooner than they had the day before, long before the fighters came within visual range. It appeared the computer virus was no longer working. It also appeared that batteries which had been knocked out were again operational, or had been replaced with new ones.

  Nor was that all. Suddenly, where they hadn't been before, ground to air missiles began to appear. Called "GAMs" by the fighter pilots, these missiles were dangerous at any range, and against low-flying spacecraft were positively lethal. The BC may have been holding them for the proper moment to deploy them, but whatever the case, they now streaked out of the saddle itself and began bringing down QuasarFighters like falling leaves. By mid-afternoon, it was no longer possible to get spacecraft over the saddle into the airport at Periscope Harbor.

  * * *

  Bullets whined along the streets of Periscope Harbor in the early morning dawn. The breeze had died down, leaving a heavy pall of smoke over the city that only grew thicker as the day wore on. Star Marines moved in a crouch, keeping close to the buildings; the streets had become deadlier than ever. Enemy hovertanks had moved up from somewhere in the direction of the harbor and were shooting at anything that moved. BC infantry fired down on the streets from high in the towers, and from the direction of the harbor the artillery had never taken a break. The morning air was filled with a steady thunder, the whoosh of missiles, and the shriek of heavy lasers.

  Rico still had eight men in his squad — Chavez, the Foursome, Hamilton, Grove, and himself. His helmet radio no longer worked; that sexy bitch was still broadcasting, alternately playing sad songs and threatening them with death, then entreating them to surrender. He had to go looking for Capt. Connor and the rest of Delta, and it took an hour to find them.

  "We're dead in our tracks," Connor told him as they crouched in the shattered remains of what had been a ground-floor restaurant. "Nobody's moving forward any more; they brought that armor up last night and we don't have anything to use against it."

  "What about our armor?" Rico wondered. He'd seen light tanks the day before.

  "Word is they're all out of action. Most of our heavy stuff got shot down over the saddle. We're on our own."

  Rico felt a cold hand grip his heart. Concussion rocked the building where he stood as a heavy laser flashed down the center of the street.

  "We have to do something, Captain!"

  Connor looked at him, his eyes webbed like star maps.

  "You figure it out, Martinez, you let me know. I don't like it any more than you do."

  "Where do you want my squad, sir?"

  Connor glanced around for Lt. Bauer, Rico's platoon leader. Not seeing him immediately, he squinted and pointed across the street.

  "Try to get up on that second floor and get an angle on the intersection. Keep your men out of sight, because those tanks'll blow you right out of there, but be ready in case their infantry tries anything. I got a feeling they're gonna try to push us before the day is out."

  Rico nodded. "Aye-aye, sir."

  He turned and started picking his way through the wrecked restaurant toward the door. The room was filled with headquarters types, and as he stepped around a wounded man, he stopped. Quickly he dropped to one knee, a frown of concern on his face.

  "Sergeant Natali? Are you okay?"

  The grizzled old sergeant from Headquarters Platoon glanced up at him, his face tense with pain. Blood seeped from a shoulder wound that had received a hasty battle dressing. An IV pack was taped to his arm.

  "Martinez. How the fuck are you?"

  "Better than you, Sarge. What the hell happened?"

  Natali forced a grin. "Just what it looks like. Tried to stop a BC laser, but it just kept on going."

  Rico hadn't seen Natali in weeks, hadn't even known that HQ Platoon had landed.

  "Anything I can do for you? You gonna be okay?"

  "Hell, yeah, I'll be fine. You just watch your own ass, okay?"

  Rico grinned in spite of himself.

  "Semper fi, Sarge."

  "You, too, kid. Take care of yourself. Kill the fuckers for me."

  "Will do."

  Rico stood quickly and walked away, his eyes misting. Natali s
hould've retired years ago. He was too damned old to be here.

  Second Squad spent less than two hours in their new position. Sirian hovertanks crawled down the cross street and began firing lasers into the upper floors of the skytowers, at least nine tanks that Rico could see. The brilliant laser bolts ripped through starcrete and steel; debris tumbled to the street, crushing anyone caught under it, and flame ripped through exposed floors. Star Marines in those buildings either scrambled for safety or died where they stood. Before Rico's squad had a chance to fire a shot in anger, the building where he'd talked to Capt. Connor came under fire, and minutes later a frantic retreat began as Delta abandoned the restaurant. Rico saw at least twenty Marines running toward a fallback position. Nothing came over the headsets except Periscope Patty and her mournful songs.

  Rico settled down by an open window to watch the intersection.

  The hovertanks didn't turn toward him, but marched resolutely down the cross street, still hammering suspected Star Marine positions. Thirty minutes after Connor pulled his headquarters back, Rico spotted a squad of BC sneaking around the corner.

  "Get ready!" he called softly. "Let them get fully exposed. Wait for my signal."

  Keeping back out of sight, Second Squad peered breathlessly down at the BC. The enemy soldiers were careful, nervously scanning the tall buildings, but only empty windows peered back at them. When they drew no immediate fire, they streamed around the corner and pressed against the side of the building opposite Rico's position. When he'd counted fourteen — and didn't see any more approaching — he took aim.

  "Let 'em have it!"

  Eight Spandaus chattered flame and steel, filling their hiding place with a physical wave of sound. The BC staggered and fell; a handful tried to return fire, but none had time to find cover. For ten awful seconds the 11mm slugs worked their devastation, exploding on contact, and the BC were torn apart, shattered. Rico stopped firing and lifted a hand. Silence returned, and they settled down to watch again.