by Chris Bunch
“The Task,” a woman’s voice came.
“The Duty,” Brooks answered.
The woman put her pistol away, came closer. She was Jo Poynton, and had once been part of his Fold, the ’Raum congregation. She was slender, medium height, in her mid-twenties, small-breasted, with surprisingly full lips that looked like they wanted to smile if their owner would ever let them.
“Were there any problems getting on world?”
“None,” Poynton said. “How long before you’re missed?”
“I’m covered through the end of the shift,” Brooks said.
“We aren’t that clean,” the other man said. “The security tech we bought can only keep his radar down for another hour.”
Brooks recognized him by the livid scar down his cheek as Comstock Brien, who’d left the ’Raum almost five years ago, one of the first of The Movement to go into the hills, now regarded as its most dynamic war leader. He was not tall, above average for a ’Raum, once stocky, heavy-bodied, but the time in the jungle, the time running, had worn him down to gauntness.
“Is it open?”
Brooks slid the door open. Brien took a lantern from his belt, turned it on, and they entered.
“A candy store,” Poynton said.
Brooks made a noise like laughter.
“Telex there, Blok over there, and the primary ignitors are in this room here.”
“Get the detonators first,” Brien said. “With those we can make anything go up.”
Brooks and the woman carefully took padded boxes of various detonators, carried them to the gravlighter, came back for another load.
Poynton had just stepped out of the bunker when a light blazed, and a voice said:
“Move and die.”
Both stopped.
“Mellusin Security,” the voice said. “Put the boxes down. Slow. There’s two guns on you.”
They obeyed.
“Five steps forward,” the security woman said. “Prone on the ground, arms and legs extended.”
Brooks knelt, went on his face. A second lightbeam came on, pinned the two against the muddy ground.
“You,” the woman said. “You in the bunker. Come out. Slow. Guess you three didn’t think we’ve got our own snitches out listening for when somebody asks about explosives. Or that we’d set some extra alarms on the demo supplies just to make sure.”
Brien came out, hands half-raised.
“All the way up.”
His hands moved … and he dived forward in a shoulder roll. The guard’s blaster went off and the bolt crashed above Brien’s head into the bunker. Flame flashed, and smoke boiled as an alarm seared the night.
The guard spun, aiming again at Brien as he came to his feet, and Brooks was on his hands and knees, bear-walking forward into the woman’s legs, sending her sprawling. The other guard’s light flickered toward Brooks, just as Poynton got her pistol out and shot him.
The woman was rolling onto her back, both hands on her blaster, trying to aim, but Brooks was on her, hands clawing at her face. The gun spun out of her hands, and he had her throat and squeezed, squeezed, and felt bone crack, her heels drum against the ground, and smelled shit as she died.
He was off the corpse and on his feet. Another alarm screamed from a distance, matching the bunker’s fire warning.
“Let’s go,” Poynton said.
“No,” Brooks said firmly. “We’ve time for one more load. And we’ll take the guards’ sled with us.”
His voice was calm, emotionless. The other two stared in surprise, then obeyed. Brooks trotted back into the smoky bunker, ignored the growing flames, draped slings of explosive porta-paks on his arms, staggered out, and dumped them into the back of the security lifter.
“Now let’s go.”
“What about you?” Brien said. “I can’t see how you’ll be able to get back to your shift with the hue and cry out.”
Brooks got into the pilot’s seat of the sled, examined the controls. “It seems the One has decided I’m now on the run, like you.” He shrugged slightly. “What happens, happens. Let’s lift!”
He started the sled, brought it clear of the ground. The others jumped into their lifter, started its engine.
The air shock-waved as something inside the bunker exploded.
The lifters came off the ground, swung, then went to full power, banked around a rusting conveyor way. Jord’n Brooks followed, and the two craft fled into the night.
The only thought in Brooks’ mind was: Wish I’d had time to say good-bye to my children.
Three minutes later the bunker exploded, destroying a square kilometer of the mine’s aboveground equipment and buildings, and killing forty-five ’Raum miners, a dozen supervisors, plus nearly fifty security and firemen just short of the bunker. It was a month before that division of Mellusin Mining was able to resume operations.
CHAPTER
8
“Looking for a dec named Ben Dill?” Garvin inquired of the legs sticking out of the Grierson’s drive compartment.
“Inside the tin can,” the muffled voice came. “Tell him from me he’s a dirty bastard.”
“Uhh,” Garvin responded, and went to the rear of the assault vehicle. As he did, an antenna swiveled, tracking him, then waggled back and forth like a hound who’s just lost the scent.
The ramp was down into the troop compartment, and inside was a man wielding a broom with great vigor. He was possibly the largest humanoid Garvin had ever seen outside the circus.
“Dec Dill?”
“That’s me,” the man said. “Armed, dangerous, and attitudinal with your basic Mark 1 Bristle Boomer.” He put the broom down and came out of the AV. Dill was in his mid-twenties, already balding, and had an amiable grin on his face. Garvin decided he didn’t want to be around when Dill lost the smile. He guessed he wasn’t supposed to salute, but brought himself to attention.
“Recruit Garvin Jaansma. Reporting.”
“Oh yeh,” Dill said. “You’re gonna be my new gunner. Relax. I ain’t an officer — I know both my parents. Welcome to Third Platoon, A Company, Second Infantry, and may the gods have mercy on whatever pieces you’ve promised them.” His voice easily changed to a bellow. “Awright, everybody! Unass the can!”
The legs came out of the drive compartment, became a grease-covered stocky man about Garvin’s age.
“Stanislaus Gorecki,” Dill introduced. “He’s the driver/wrench, mostly wrench.”
“So it’s my fault this pig runs one time out often?”
“Got to be somebody’s fault,” Dill said reasonably. “Not mine, ‘cause I outrank you, and sure can’t be the assholes in the Confederation who decided to issue us Mod. 2 Griersons instead of something livable, now could it?”
“Don’t complain,” Gorecki said. “We all could be crunchies, couldn’t we?”
“Strong point,” Dill said. Garvin was lost, and the vehicle commander took pity.
“Here’s the drill,” he explained. “Pigs though they be, there’s eight Griersons in each company. Takes two assault teams — that’s twenty muddy infantrymen — crunchies. One Grierson per platoon. The other four are Company headquarters, heavy weapons, maintenance/recovery, and signal vehicles.
“We’re part of A Company, and this Grierson is Third Platoon’s. But you don’t see the rest of Third Platoon hanging about here, do you? And if you look down the hangar, you see no more’n five people, plus idiots like the maintenance sergeant and his pukes, lurkin’ about, trying to appear busy. You know where the rest of the platoon is?
“Today they’re out painting rocks in front of Regimental Headquarters. Definitely part of learning to be a combat soldier.”
“I got you,” Garvin said.
“Study hard with us,” Gorecki said, “or you, too, could carry the mil-specialty of Shit Shoveler First Grade.”
Gorecki eyed Garvin. “You’re the guy we paraded for day before yesterday?”
“I am,” Garvin said hesitantly.
“Glad I could be of service.”
Garvin heard a clang from inside the Grierson, and a small woman with archaic glasses and straight shoulder-length hair that looked like it’d been styled with a butcher knife came out. She wore the three rank slashes of a finf.
“Uh … hi,” she managed, nodding rapidly.
“This is our countermeasures yoodle,” Dill said. “Ho Kang. Garvin Jaansma. She’s a finf, so I’m the only one with rank enough to call her a yoodle.”
“Uh … hi,” she said again, promptly dismissed Garvin, and turned to Dill.
“Ben, I’m still getting false echoes on the close-scope. I tried tracking him around the ACV and got six people. Dancing.”
“Ho,” Dill said patiently, “if I put that in the logbook, they’ll redline us, and do you have any idea how long it’ll be before we get parts?” He nodded at Garvin. “Our newbie here was on the ship that got ‘jacked, which probably had all the goodies we’ve been whining for.”
“Oh.” Kang readmitted Garvin’s existence. “They got everything?”
“Ship and all.”
“Who was they?” she wanted to know.
“Uh … I’m supposed to say it was pirates.”
“But who was it for real?”
“I’m in enough trouble,” Jaansma said. “I’ll stick with pirates.”
“I wish pirates,” Ho said wistfully. “A lot more colorful than those stupid bandits who call themselves The Movement, or the Musth, who never do anything except posture. Dammit, I want … I need … a fight!”
“We’ll feed him a couple of beers and find out the real story later,” Gorecki said. “Meantime, how do we fix that close-range pickup? I really like knowing when somebody’s creeping up on me with a grenade.”
Kang glanced around, making sure she wasn’t overheard. “I could do it myself,” she said, “if it weren’t illegal, probably figure out a patch and pick up some stuff next time I get into Leggett. But who pays?”
Dill dug into the pocket of his coveralls, took out bills. “Here. If it’s more, I’ll come up with it.”
The money disappeared into Kang’s pocket.
“See what some people’ll do to make tweg?” Gorecki asked. “Even spend their own coin to look good.”
“Look good hell,” Dill said. “This rustbucket breaks one more time, and it’ll be a hangar queen and we’ll all be on permanent sol vent-tub duty. I’m just looking out for your best interests.”
Garvin was lost yet again.
“See,” Dill explained, “that’s this strike force’s problem. We look real good on the surface … hell, you could shave in the reflection on this piece of shit.” He slapped the side of the Grierson. “But ask it … or anything else to run for longer’n about a klick … that’s another thing.”
“The motor pool’s got shit in the way of supplies,” Gorecki added, “but gods help anybody who fixes something with a nonauthorized part. So around here if you break down, you stay broke down and the asshole first tweg finds other duties for you. Shoveling shit.”
“Which brings up another problem,” Dill said. “How much training do you have?”
“None,” Garvin said honestly. “I was told I’d be trained when I got to my unit.”
“Just swell,” Dill said. “As long as we’re on the list of what we ain’t got, try a budget for training exercises, ammo for training, rockets for training, try everything but fuel.”
“We’ve got simulators,” Kang said.
“Kang thinks sitting in a nice warm place shooting at things that don’t really shoot back is the way to learn how to be a hero,” Dill said. “She’s a few microns short of a circuit.”
“Better than nothing,” the woman said stubbornly.
“Not much,” Dill said. “You see, Jaansma? It ain’t nothin’ like the livies. Welcome to Strike Force Limp Dick.”
• • •
Alt Jon Hedley was less seated than sprawled atop his desk. His office would’ve been quite large if it weren’t for the map racks, the several viewers, computers, and the map table that devoured space.
“Welcome to Intelligence and Reconnaissance,” he said, holding out a hand. Njangu blinked at the informality, but tapped it.
“Since we have our own way of doing things, we figure we should have our own flipping way of training people. We just started a cycle with four eagerly baying locals two weeks gone. You’ll be able to drop right in.”
He glanced at the bulking, slightly going-to-seed senior tweg standing behind Njangu. “Reb, would you mind buzzing Monique and ask her to drop in if she’s in the company area?”
“Right, boss.”
Njangu’s eyebrows lifted. Hedley caught it.
“This is a good place for instant flipping orientation,” he said. “We have a few rules. First is that we’re all flipping volunteers. Mess up, and you’re devolunteered back into one of the regiments to become part of the madding herd.
“Second is not to get a big flipping head. We’re nothing more than crunchies who happen to work in small lots. What we do, we do faster, better, and dirtier’n anybody else. So don’t go bragging about how billyjo-bad you are and pushing civilians or the herd around when you’re outside the company area. Starting a fight is another reason to get punted out. Especially if you don’t win.
“I said we’re dirty, but when we’re not, we’re the cleanest. We depil, we bathe, we keep the boots shined and the uniforms as clean as we can. Any idiot can be a pig. We’re not idiots.
“Three is that we’ve got our own ways, which aren’t anybody’s business but ours. I saw you look a bit surprised when I called Senior Tweg Gonzales by his first name, and he called me boss. But if there’d been an outsider around, I would have used his full rank and last name, and he would’ve called me sir.
“You can call people whatever you want … or, more precisely, what they’ll allow you to. Senior Tweg Gonzales, for instance, happens to have about seven campaigns and two major wars behind him, so if you called him Reb when he comes back, he’d probably hammer you into a thin paste suitable for wallpaper. Save that for when you’re trained and on a team. Or better yet, after you’ve been shot at a time or two.
“As I said, our business is our business. Keep it that way, and you’ll be a credit to I&R.
“Petr Kipchak … who I just punted up to finf, because nobody stays in the flipping ranks in I&R if they’re good, unless they want to … recommended you, and Reb thinks he’s a good man, which is why I asked personnel if you’d be interested in volunteering. Don’t screw up and make Petr … and me … out to be a liar.”
“Nossir,” Yoshitaro said, relaxing in the warmth of Hedley’s smile.
The door came open and Senior Tweg Gonzales came in, accompanied by one of the more beautiful women Njangu had ever seen. She had close-cropped blond hair and an athletic body. As for her face … Njangu remembered a song he’d always hated, with the stupid lyric of “bee-kissed lips,” and wondered what the hell a bee was. He still didn’t know, but thought it looked pretty good.
“You wanted me, boss?”
“I did,” Hedley said. “This piece of meat is yours. Njangu Yoshitaro, this is Dec Monique Lir, our training NCO and First Troop Gamma Team Leader. You’ll find out that most of us wear at least two hats.
“I’m unit CO, which is a cent’s slot, and Second Troop Leader, Reb is Company First Sergeant, which is a first tweg position, and so forth. The TO&E says we should have four officers, we’ve got myself and Aspirant Vauxhall, who’s XO and First Troop Leader. If you qualify for I&R, you’ll find yourself doing a couple of jobs, too.
“That’s about it. Monique, take this disgustingly soft former civilian from my sight and transform him into something acceptable.” Hedley’s voice was just as friendly as it’d been a minute earlier.
�
�� ’Kay, boss,” the woman said. “You … out!”
Njangu saluted, Hedley unwound from the desk, returned the salute, and smiled gently.
“Try to have some flipping fun.”
• • •
Garvin woke up with a headache.
“That’s that,” Dill said.
“What’s what?”
“You’ve seen the holos, where newbies spend all their time marching back and forth, getting hollered at by drill twegs and such?”
“Sure,” Jaansma said. “Can I get up?”
“Do it.”
Garvin slid out of the contoured chair, rubbed his arm where Dill had given him the injection three hours earlier.
“Now, about all that square-bashing,” Dill said. “Group … ten-hup!”
Garvin, without willing it, slammed to rigid erectness, his hands at his side, slightly curled, his feet together, and his head tucked firmly into his chin.
“ ‘Bout … hace!”
Garvin lifted his right foot, put his toe behind his left heel, and pivoted through 180 degrees.
“I could march you back and forth and up and down,” the dec said. “Make you do squads right about, flanking movements, and all that swaddle.
“You’d do it like you’d spent ten years on a parade ground. No muss, no fuss, one hypno-conditioning and three hours in the chair, and you’ve got it, without even one lousy little bead of sweat or blister.”
Garvin felt his skin crawl. “That conditioning could’ve trained me to do anything?”
“Yep,” Dill said. “That’s why the injection can only be given by an officer, and a responsible medical team must be present during the application.” He laughed. “See how careful the army is about your rights?”
Dill’s laugh cut off as he saw Garvin’s expression.
“Sorry. Guess it isn’t funny the first time. The real answer is no … this kind of conditioning, a one-shot program, only takes because you don’t have any objection to it. If I’d wanted you to go murder your mother, say, it would take a whole bunch more time. A year, maybe. That’s why conditioning takes so long.”
