"Works for me. Every minute counts now." Lan said as he stood. They walked directly from the room.
Becla was right at his side. The two of them were Yin and Yang and together they would be very hard to kill. Synergistically they were more than the sum of their individual parts. Back to back, they were a two fronted warrior with no weakness, no blind spot. Gylastak filled in the spot right behind them, and after a moment, the rest followed. No one besides Lan or Becla really trusted the Molog, but Becla now trusted Gylastak without reserve. She could not fathom how or why, she simply did. With her life.
Gylastak smelled her thoughts/feelings. Molog were not creatures given to trust, especially unpredictable humans, except when they were close enough to smell their feelings, but Gylastak now added Becla to his very short list of friends.
And a Molog did not give such easily.
A motley group, thought Sanchez. He would hate to have to do what he would have to do if they did not bring the Senator back alive. There were no ifs, ands or buts about it. It could never be known that a Senator's life had been entrusted to such a group, and that they had subsequently failed. The public would never understand. It did not matter that Sanchez knew that with these lay the Senator's best chance. That mattered not at all.
When the Molog passed by him it seemed to look directly into Sanchez' soul. Of course the Molog knows, Sanchez thought in a flash of comprehension. So why was it still willing to participate? It was not under contract. It was a free citizen. So why?
Friendship? Could Lan Carter mean so much to it?
Yes, the Molog knew. He would have smelled it coming from Sanchez as easily as Sanchez had read it in the memo passed down from his Superiors.
Why did humans release these pheromone indicators if humans couldn't smell them themselves? Some evolutionary twist where it had used to serve some function that it no longer did? Probably at some long lost point humans had been able to smell them, and they had persisted even after their sense of smell had not.
He wondered how many millions of years that had taken, and why the change?
Well, the Molog in no way distressed Sanchez. There was a reason he had been chosen to recruit this group, and it was not because he had earned his rank sitting behind a desk far behind the battle lines!
But Sanchez very much doubted that there was any misunderstanding concerning the consequences of failure. There was enough comprehension in Lan Carter's little finger to deduce that immutable fact. The Space Corps was not the Boy Scouts. Failure was not an option.
Of the present group, only the young woman seemed unaware, but Sanchez put any feelings of guilt he might have had, harshly aside. He did not doubt that he would probably burn in hell for the things he had done throughout his own blood soaked life, but even there, in the fires of eternal damnation, he would not go down without a fight; who said Satan was so all-powerful, they just might see a change of leadership fucking with him! He had always prevailed, had walked unscathed through all the fires that mortal life could throw at a man. Sanchez had no reason to believe he could not also prevail there!
Like Lan Carter. If anyone could prevail, it would be he.
Sanchez needed Carter to prevail. Shit always rolled downhill, and Sanchez would be rolled with Carter if Carter failed. The repercussions would not be as severe for him, but they would be serious.
Sanchez tried not to think about that, but he wished to God he had gotten out when he could. For some idiotic reason he had thought himself secure once he had graduated out of the rank and file. Ten long years in the Infantry, and now later, this bull-shit!
God damn that Senator anyway!
Sanchez stood in the corridor watching as they entered the lift and then were gone. He would not babysit them all the way to the dock. That was Carter's job now. Nor would Sanchez have wanted the job. Carter was welcome to it.
Maybe after this, it would be time to consider retirement. Maybe, after this, he would have no choice!
"He doubts we will succeed." Gylastak said once the lift had sealed and they were on their way.
"Hell, that's not surprising." Lan said. "It's not exactly an odds on bet.”
"That Senators probably already cooking over a slow fire!" Briar said. "A real slow fire."
"Shouldn't have gotten any of you into this." Lan now said. "This is a fool's folly. We'll probably all be cooking over a slow fire before it's all said and done."
"I like cookouts!" Briar said, a big wolfish grin on his face. "I wasn't busy anyway."
"I was." Mike Dobrune said. "With this pretty little soldier girl whose life I just happened to have saved, and who was oh so grateful! Say Carter, you don't mind sharing yours, do you? You know, for morale and all!"
"I don't own her." Lan said. "Try your luck."
"I wouldn't." Becla said shortly to Mike. Her eyes looked rather steely.
"You don't know what you're missing, sweetheart. May I call you sweetheart?" Mike said, with a smooth smile and an exaggerated wink, which Becla saw through to the shallow person beneath. Survivors came in every stripe, Becla mused, just like the rest of humanity.
"She finds you repulsive." Gylastak told Mike.
"Haven't looked in a mirror recently, have you?" Mike retorted, somewhat heatedly, though the smile had not budged a millimeter.
Gylastak did not reply. He did not want to have to kill the foolish human, and the barb he had already planted had burrowed into him deeply. He should not antagonize Becla though, because Gylastak did not like it.
Lan knew that Gylastak had a dozen or more wives. That among his kind he was quite desirable, and among his kind, there were a dozen females to every male, in any case. He couldn't see it himself, of course, but then he was no Molog.
Dobrune generally only kept a woman long enough for her to discover what he was really like, and then she wanted nothing more to do with him. He picked them up easily enough however, Lan had to admit. He had to give him that, for whatever it was worth.
The lift arrived at the dock, and a wall opened. Like the pupil of an eye. In this case, it was the wall to the very right of the wall through which they had entered. Depending on their destination, it might have been any of them which opened.
They stepped out directly into the dock. The Destroyer Cavanagh, which would carry them to the surface, and which would provide air and recovery support for their mission, nearly filled the docking area.
The only other craft in the dock was the Jump Transport, the ship which had delivered the remainder of the Team. The ship was only about double the size of a normal Troop Transport, the extra space containing the added power and the Jump apparatus equipment.
They were already debarked and standing beside the Cavanagh. Lan led the way over to them.
"If I'd known we were going to be babysitting, I'd have demanded hazard pay!" Kelly Riordan said as Lan approached.
Lan embraced Riordan, squeezing him into a great bear hug that had Riordan's joints popping, despite his own quite physical presence.
Lan had known Kelly on Calafga, where they had both fought for the Army of Liberation. They had both hung around for several years after, while Rebecca had immediately enlisted and departed, thinking they would be able to find places in the new society, but when the new government began purging itself of its undesirables, they both went down to the new Space Corps Offices and signed their forms. Better a known evil than an unknown.
Or at least that is what they had thought.
Few of Calafga's stalwarts remained. It was how the new government had rewarded them.
Lan shook the others' hands. Tad Blenkish, Mekel Jacobi, and Gris Holter. All good men, and all men Lan knew personally, had fought with at some point or other, and all of whom were survivors.
"Sorry to drop this on you," Lan said, "but we're leaving. Right now."
As if to emphasize his words, a large hatchway opened in the side of Cavanagh next to them, and the Captain of that vessel stepped out to greet them.
; "We are ready whenever you are, Sir." That worthy said, as he stood at POA facing Lan, as if Lan were the Superior Officer.
Lan supposed that he was the Superior Officer, temporarily, but it was a situation he was unused to. He did not rank him, but he was in command of this mission. Command was something he had not experienced since Calafga, where he had commanded a Regiment with a rank equivalent to that of a General. His success on Calafga had been his failure.
He would need the same bloody ruthlessness here as what had made him so successful there. It was why Sanchez had chosen him.
"Yeah, we are ready whenever you are, big nuts!" Tiny Richmond said, to guffaws from the rest of the men.
"The Commanding Corporal." Briar said, to more laughter.
"This is one to write home to mom about." Nat Bergen sneered. "Next he'll be writing policy and procedure."
"Get it out of your system now, boys." Lan said, with the last bit of good-naturedness they were going to see from him for a while. "Because when we hit the dirt, there'll be strict military discipline. Strict!"
Snickers among the group told what they thought of that, but Lan was no longer playing and he knew that they knew it as well. The sky would fall on any who disobeyed, and on a planet's surface, with a good solid sky above, that sky could fall suddenly and ruthlessly.
In fact, Lan found it probable.
Their gear was arranged in the staging area just inside the hatch. Destroyers were seldom used for Troop insertions, but they were designed so that they could be if necessary. The Cavanagh wasn't large enough to have an interior dock of its own, but the staging area was large enough for two hundred Infantry, so it was more than large enough for their present needs.
Their packs, weapons, and communications gear were neatly arranged and waiting in individual piles. They strapped on their packs and double checked their weapons. Blasters, the blast rifles, boot knives, swords, carbon nano-filament garrotes, and other odds and ends that might prove necessary, each as each preferred, as noted in their records.
Lan took one of everything.
"One of everything." He told Becla, then helped her to adjust her pack straps. No one else had to be told. One of everything also meant one blaster per hip.
They might be staying for a long time.
Gylastak took nothing extra. Just his own side arm and the weapons nature herself had given him. In his case, it was sufficient.
Cavanagh was on its way even before they were finished climbing into their gear. Lan could feel the AGP Drive. They said humans weren't supposed to be able to detect it, but he had always been able to do so.
Lan had many peculiar traits which most humans did not share. It had everything to do with a long line of survivors stretching deep into Calafga's past. He was the end product of that line of survival. A highly capable and competent human evolved to survive on a planet intrinsically different than the planet on which humans were spawned.
"I'm Captain Henry Reed." That man said when they were finished. A matter of only minutes. "I'm your support vessel. Whatever you need, I'll supply. I'll supply it quickly and efficiently. I'll ask no questions. I'll jump when you command. My guns are at your disposal, Sir."
"Thanks Captain," Lan said, immediately liking this Officer. "There's every chance we'll need them." This was another man hand-picked by the General, Lan thought.
The communicator was a comfortable weight on his wrist. Unlike normal Infantry Ops, where the Infantry man or woman was not given this option, since it just tied up communications channels, gave Troopers the false hope that someone would come and rescue them when they were in a bind, which was nearly all the time, and forced them to rely on themselves, forced those soldiers to fight their way out on their own, since it would be the only way out, but for once he would be able to call in support when they needed it.
"Well then good luck." Reed said. "We'll be down shortly." Reed nodded imperceptibly to Lan then turned and walked from the staging area through a hatch that appeared in a wall as he approached it. Then he was gone.
"Never had the Corps at my beck and call!" Riordan said, with a funny smile. "Hell, almost been forgot a few times!"
"That's no way to talk about the Corps!" Mekel Jacobi said. "The Corps does not forget it's Troops!"
"Yeah, they're needed for the next battle." Briar said.
"Then why don't they give us communicators?" Tiny asked Mekel. “We couldn't get forgot then!"
"The Officers are given communicators, that's more than sufficient." Mekel said calmly. He would not be baited. He was the unlikeliest man among them. Strictly by the book Jacobi, he was called, and for good reason, because he was strictly by the book. No one could really figure out how he continued to survive. He had received one field promotion after another, and he was now a Sergeant Major. Had things been left as they were, he would probably have walked out of his ten a Colonel or better. Maybe even a General. If he walked out of it at all. But like all of them present, he had the knack. He continued to survive against all odds.
"Thought you'd have bitten it by now." Nat told Jacobi, a large smile on his ordinarily morose face. Bergen was small and mean looking, while Mekel was large and square jawed, the ideal Corps' poster soldier, one a strict military disciplinarian, the other one of the worst misfits Lan had ever met, but the two were old chums.
"I bite back." Mekel said, returning Nat's smile.
"No one likes a kiss-ass." Briar said. If Mekel was a friend of Bergen, then he was no friend of his.
"No one likes you period!" Bergen said.
"Shut the fuck up!" Lan said viciously. "Playtime's over. All of you!"
To their credit, they did. Luckily for them.
It seemed all of another lifetime ago, but when Lan had Commanded his Regimental Force on Calafga, he had run shit By The Book. It was a different Book, different rules, different policies and procedures, but he had run it by that book and with a firm hand and now the remembrance of those days came back to him as if it had only been yesterday.
Strange how, when the roles were reversed, his whole philosophy changed!
Suddenly Cavanagh's guns were thrumming, felt through the deck under his feet, but it was just to clear a place for them to set down, hopefully far enough from the wreck that it did not disturb the sign left around the ship, if there was any left at this point. Sign they would need to track Rebecca and the Senator. If either of them still lived.
"Were putting down boys, and girls, so let's be ready. We're the shit, and Bali is the fan, so let's be sharp." Lan said. He gave Becla a wink, which she returned with a sultry look that could probably melt plas-steel. The blast rifle in her hands looked like it belonged there.
It did belong there. It had become an extension of her.
It took another five minutes to actually hit the ground, during which time they all stood ready and waiting, appearing unconcerned, while the slag the Destroyers guns had made of the trees, soil and rock below cooled and hardened. Then they were down, just the slightest bump, and the hatch was open.
Chapter 33
It was like a whirlwind of new purpose had exploded among these people, with Baldwin, Rebecca and Benefactor their focal point, about which all else now rotated.
"This is Rico Town. Our farthest outpost village." Larita said. They had just arrived, and it was nothing like what Baldwin had expected.
This was no medieval encampment. No military bivouac of armed marauders. It was not what Baldwin had expected at all. Though small, this was a permanent community, and much like many he might have expected to find in rural Sarvan, where people still worked for a living, where they built their own homes within to raise the families they loved.
Baldwin was a bit overwhelmed.
Of course, he admitted, his preconceptions were based on the imaginations of contemporary writers, both novelists and screenwriters whose work became the various visual entertainment medias.
In the movies, these people were always portrayed as nomadic raider
s, pillaging warriors, or homicidal maniacs moving from one place to another, only staying in one area long enough to use up its resources, and then moving on.
This was a different reality altogether. The homes were permanent, solid, made of log and mortared rock. There was a school and a church. There were businesses. There were several large structures under construction that looked like they would be factories once they were completed. Everything was new, as if it had just been thrown together for his benefit, but that was of course ridiculous. He asked Larita about it.
"Yup. Rico Town is new. This is what we are doing. Expanding. To fulfill my father's dream." Larita explained as they walked past the church. Even Jesus Christ was here, something he would not have imagined in his wildest dreams.
A crowd was growing around them as they strolled, as word spread that a man of the Federation, a Senator, was among them. The ring of Security Personnel, which Baldwin had at first suspected were there merely to prevent his escape, were keeping them at a distance. Baldwin saw the wisdom in that as the entire town began to turn out for their own look, the crowd growing explosively around them.
But these weren't the savage barbarians he was expecting. These were normal people. Their faces wore expressions of curiosity and hope. They were all armed. It did not appear that any of them would go anywhere without their weapons. They looked like they could use them, too! They were hale and hearty and very competent looking, self-assured. A similar slice of Sarvan citizenry would not look the same. Well fed, clean looking children raced among the crowd, roughhousing and laughing. There were a great many children.
Undoubtedly these people could be savage, but were not innately so. Not at all what Baldwin had been expecting.
As Baldwin surveyed them, they returned his stare with frank, curious looks of their own, but were not unruly or aggressive. The Security cordon around them had no problems. Their presence was enough. These people were accustomed to discipline, to order.
Workers were busy all over the town, building, moving materials, and who knew what else behind closed doors. Besides the crowd they had drawn, there were no loungers visible anywhere.
Duty, Honor or Death the Corps Sticks Page 19
