by Ian Douglas
That must be it. Devereaux supported Simmons. More, she was positioning herself to be noticed by the new administration. If she were seen as a champion of cutting back the military—principally by eliminating or severely restricting the Marine Corps—she was all but assured of a strong position within the new government. Hell, she might even be angling for a shot at the presidency herself, eight years down the road.
The hell of it was, the election results of the other day were being widely interpreted by the news media as a rejection of the hardliner conservative stance against the Islamic Theocracy. That was scarcely a surprise; lots of people, Alexander included, had some doubts about the nature and the necessity of the current war.
But the media loved the word “mandate,” and the election was being presented as a mandate to end the ill-starred war with the Theocracy…and, what was more, to draw down on the military in order to banish any future risk of interstellar war—whether it be with the Theocrats, or with the Xul.
Disarming in the face of a clear and imminent danger. From Alexander’s perspective, that was sheer lunacy…but he’d seen it before, and knew enough history to know that the same thing had happened time after time after time throughout history, going back long before there’d been a Marine Corps.
The problem was that sooner or later, Humankind would face an enemy that didn’t give a damn if humans were unarmed or not, and which would be strong enough and technologically advanced enough to send humanity the way of the dinosaurs.
An enemy, for instance, like the Xul.
Devereaux, he realized, was still speaking, but it sounded like she was on the point of wrapping things up. “Senators, this proposal placed before us this morning by Lieutenant General Alexander and his staff should be, must be rejected. We cannot act preemptively against the Xul. When they come, if they come, we must trust to the gentle art of diplomacy to convince them that we are no threat to them, that we and they can share this vast Galaxy without threat or dominance of one over the other.
“Furthermore, I submit that the Marines themselves should be allowed to retire, to fade away into the mists of history…and to cease once and for all in their meddling and in their interference in the modern affairs and political ministrations of a united Humankind! It is, in my humble opinion, Marine belligerence, their martial spirit and outlook, their tendency to look at anything strange or unknown as a military foe that threatens the peace more than any presumed threat by an ancient and distant alien empire!”
Devereaux sat down, and a moment later the high-vaulted Senate chamber filled with a roar of applause. There were jeers and boos as well, but it sounded to Alexander’s ear as though the senator from Quebec had successfully swung the majority to her way of thinking.
He thought-clicked a request to speak.
It took several moments for the noise to die away. A number of the senators in the boxes nearer to the visitor’s gallery, he could see, were looking up at him expectantly. Maybe they were just waiting to see if he would react to Devereaux’s tirade with a tirade of his own. Politics could be boring, and maybe this sort of infighting was the only entertainment they could expect this day.
He considered a tirade, a broadside in return, but dismissed the idea. That would be fighting on ground of her choosing.
But he had to respond….
“General Alexander,” Ronald Chien, the Senate president said. “You have a reply or a rebuttal?”
Slowly, he stood up, and now an immense image of him towered over the assembly. He tried not to look at it. The scowl, the craggy eyebrows, the jut of the chin all conspired to make him look angry, even darkly sinister, and that made him self-conscious.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the Senate,” he began, keeping his voice low, “I am not, of course, a member of this body. I am a guest and, I suppose, a kind of expert witness, whom you have kindly invited to come here and share my views on the Argo incident, and on the necessity of adopting War Plan 102–08.” A babble of voices, protests, and catcalls rose, and he shouted through the noise. “Yes, necessity! Because if we duck back into our shells and ignore the crisis before us, I promise you that we will cease to exist as a species, that you, me, and every man, woman, and child in this system, on the world beneath us, and among the stars around us, will be hunted down and exterminated!
“But before I get to that, I feel that I must comment, briefly, on some of the things Madam Devereaux has said. You see…as it happens, I agree with her, in two important ways, at least.”
At that moment, the Senate chamber became deathly silent. Currently, there were within the Commonwealth government 494 senators, two representing each state, district, major orbital colony, and world within the Commonwealth, and even some major corporate entities as well. Each of those senators had his or her own oval seating box, and each was accompanied by his or her own entourage of secretaries and personal assistants. Several thousand people were watching Alexander at that moment in complete and utter silence.
And a far vaster audience, he knew, was present virtually, watching through their personal links from home.
“Madam Devereaux has said that she believes Marines to be ‘a little dangerous.’ I really must take exception to that. Marines are not a little dangerous. We are very dangerous. We are trained to kill, and we are very, very good at what we do.
“She has also called us extremists, pointed out that we are not a part of the overall culture of Humankind, and suggested that our extremism is more of a threat than are the Xul.
“Extremists? Maybe so. We are extreme in our pride. We are extreme—I would say we are insufferable—in our devotion to our Brotherhood, to one another, and to what we stand for. We are extremists in that way, in the depth of our devotion, to our Corps, to our traditions, and to the memory of those Marines who’ve gone before, to the blood shed by all of the Marines who have served in the past eleven hundred years.
“And we are extremists when it comes to our devotion to duty, to service, to country, to you senators, and to the people and the government you represent.
“Marines are different from the men and women of the other branches of service. I admit that. I am proud of that. And that distinction is an important one.
“In the Army, you have riflemen…and you have supply clerks, and you have cooks, and you have electronics specialists and sims technicians and cartographers and comm personnel and pilots and drivers and military police and all the rest. What is it, now…four, maybe five hundred distinct military specialties?
“In the Marines, though, it’s different. We have specialization skills, yes…but in the Marines every man and woman is a rifleman first. I don’t care if a Marine is unloading cargo pallets at a spaceport, or flying an A-410 Kestrel, or programming combat sims at Skybase, or sneaking drones through a Stargate into a Xul base at the Galactic Core. I don’t care if that Marine is a general officer, or fresh out of boot camp. He or she is a Marine combat rifleman first.
“I daresay General Lisa Devi, the General of the Army, would not call herself a soldier. The General of the Aerospace Force would not call himself an aerospaceman. The Chief of Naval operations does not call himself a sailor. General McCulloch, the Commandant of the U.S. Marine Corps, however, is damned proud to call himself a Marine. As I am proud to call myself a Marine.
“Does that make us extremists? Maybe…but if it does, I submit, ladies and gentlemen of the Senate, that the Commonwealth needs that kind of extremism. That kind of dedication. That sense of purpose and that devotion to duty!
“In five more days, ladies and gentlemen, the Marine Corps will have its birthday, celebrating eleven hundred and three years of service, first to the United States of America, then to the Commonwealth of Terra. Eleven hundred years.
“It’s true, you know, that the Marines have their own culture. I admit that. In fact, I’m damned proud of that. We call a floor a deck, a door a hatch, a hat a cover, our living spaces quarters, a bed a rack. We have our own brand of humor
, jokes only Marines can appreciate or even understand. Marines have had their own culture ever since they lived crowded together on the stinking lower decks of wind-driven wet-navy sailing ships, ever since seven of them led an army of revolutionaries across the Sahara Desert to Derna, ever since they charged time after time after bloody time the German machine-gun nests in Belleau Wood. It’s a part of being a member of this fraternity, this brotherhood of heroes.
“Is that such a bad thing? We still have God knows how many distinct cultures on Earth, and we call it diversity and say it’s an important part of being human. And the people living in Earth Ring have their own distinct way of looking at things…as do people in Mars Ring, or in Luna, or out in the Belts or the Jovians or Chiron or Ishtar or anywhere else where humans have gone and made homes for themselves. We Marines are no different. We’ve made a home for ourselves within the family we call the Corps. If we’re proud of that, it’s no worse than being proud of being American, or Japanese, or Lunan.
“How does having a unique culture make us a threat?
“Yes, we have our ‘pretty uniforms,’ as Madam Devereaux said, where each part carries its own tradition, each color its own meaning. Black for space, blue for the ancient oceans of Earth. And red. Let’s not forget the red in that thin red stripe down the trouser legs of our full-dress uniforms. Red for the blood of Marines shed at places like Chapultepec and Belleau Wood, Suribachi and the Chosin Reservoir, Cydonia and Ishtar.
“Blood, I might add, shed for your ancestors, so that they, and you, might be free to hold these deliberations in this chamber today!”
Alexander was startled by a sudden burst of applause from the chamber. He hesitated, looking across the pit, wondering what it was that had inspired this display. He didn’t think of himself as a demagogue, and certainly not as a politician or a speechmaker. He’d been speaking from the heart, from a very angry heart, not so much trying to sway the audience as to simply get them to hear, to understand.
He took a deep breath, calming himself. He did have their attention now, so if he was going to make his point, now was the time to do it.
“You have a choice before you, Senators. You can do nothing, and wait for the Xul to arrive…and they will arrive, I promise you that. Sooner or later, they will be here, just as they were here in 2314, but this time it will be an armada flinging rocks or worse at Mars, not a solitary, arrogant, and cocksure huntership.
“And if that happens, I promise you that the Marines will stand and fight. We will fight, as we have always fought in desperate actions, and we will die protecting you, and your children, and our children, and our worlds. We will stand and we will fight and we will die…because there will be no place else to which we can withdraw if the enemy comes to us with his full, vast, and overwhelmingly advanced technological might.
“Do you understand that? We will die. Earth will die. And on every one of 512 planets scattered across eight hundred light-years, Humanity will die! We know something similar happened half a million years ago, with the destruction of the Builders. It happened to the An. It will happen to us.
“Or…you can adopt the proposal I have placed before you, a plan drawn up by my staff on Skybase and incorporating the best intelligence on Xul basing and deployments that we have. We can go on the offensive, take the war to them in a dozen different star systems. We can hit them and keep hitting them and never be there when they muster a retaliatory force, and we can hurt them enough that they will send their full strength after us, rather than to Sol and Earth. We will lead them deeper and deeper into the sea of stars that is our Galaxy, far away from Earth, and we will continue to fight them while you, here, decide how best to preserve that ‘precious way of life’ invoked by Madam Devereaux.
“That, Senators, is the choice I give you. Stand and fight and die here…within Earth’s own solar system. Or send the Marines, dangerous and extremist as we are, to fight this war out there, in their backyard, not ours.
“And because we are loyal to the Commonwealth and to the rule of civilian law, we will wait and do what you command.
“I only ask that you make up your minds swiftly…because we, all of Humankind, do not have much time left.”
Again, thunderous applause filled the chamber. As Alexander took his seat, he turned his gaze on Devereaux, in her box on the far side of the pit. His link with the local Net allowed him to zoom in on her face from almost 80 meters away. She was watching him, he saw, with a cold look of absolute contempt.
“I don’t think she likes you, General,” Cara whispered in his thoughts.
“No, I don’t think she does.” He shrugged. “Does make me wonder, though.”
“Wonder what, General?”
“Why it always seems that our most vicious enemies aren’t the aliens who want to wipe us off the face of the universe…but our own friends and neighbors.”
“Truthfully, General, I’ve never understood that about humans. If you don’t have enemies, you seem peculiarly adept at creating them. If you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Mind? No. Why would I mind the truth?” He checked his internal time sense. “Looks like they’re going to be debating for a long time to come, Cara. I need food.”
He electronically logged out, then stepped through the doorway at the back of his visitor’s box. He could already tell that it was going to be a long afternoon, one that would probably extend well into the evening.
And the die was cast, as another general had commented three thousand years earlier.
There was nothing else he could do to influence events, however much he might wish it.
10
1011.1102
USMC Recruit Training Center Command
Ares Ring, Mars
1020 hrs GMT
Like Earth, Mars possessed a ring.
Like its counterpart encircling the Motherworld of Humankind, the Ares Ring was not solid, but was composed of some tens of thousands of separate orbital facilities, colony habs, nanufactories and power stations, dockyards and spaceports, research stations and living quarters. Each structure pursued its own orbit about the planet, though many were magnetically locked with the neighbors, creating the illusion of a solid structure. They were positioned at about 20,000 kilometers above the planet’s surface, locking them in to an arestationary orbit—the equivalent of geostationary for Earth. From this height, Mars appeared some eleven times larger than did the full moon from Earth, and four times brighter.
Unlike Earth, Mars possessed only a single ground to synchronous-orbit elevator, the Pavonis Mons Tower. Pavonis Mons, the middle of the striking set of three volcanoes in a row southeast of the vast swelling of Mons Olympus, reached seven miles into the sky and by chance exactly straddled the Martian equator—the perfect ground-end anchor for a space elevator. The habitat housing the Marine Recruit Training Center Command was positioned close by the nexus with the P.M. Tower, which looked like a taut, white thread vanishing down into the mottled ocher and green face of Mars.
PFC Aiden Garroway stood at attention on the Grand Arean Promenade, together with the thirty-nine other Marines of Recruit Company 4102 who’d completed boot training, and tried not to look down. The deck they were standing on was either transparent or a projection of an exterior view from a camera angled down toward Mars—the resolution was good enough that it was impossible to tell which—and it was easy to imagine that the company was standing on empty space, with a twenty-thousand-kilometer fall to the rusty surface of the planet far beneath his feet.
The effect of standing on empty space, the gibbous disk of Mars far beneath his feet, could be unnerving. He could just glimpse the planet when he turned his eyes down, while keeping his head rigidly immobile.
Garroway and his fellow newly hatched Marines had spent a lot of time looking at that sight since they’d made the ascent from Noctis three days before. The world was achingly beautiful—red-ocher and green, the pristine sparkle and optical snap of icecaps, the softer white swirls
and daubs and speckles of clouds, the purple-blue of the Borealis Sea.
For many of them, those from Earth’s Rings, Garroway included, it brought with it a pang of homesickness. Not that Mars resembled Earth all that closely, even with its reborn seas and banks of clouds…but the oceanic blues and stormy swirls of white echoed the world they’d watched from Terrestrial synchorbit; for the handful of recruits from Earth herself, it was the colors—the blues and greens, especially—that reminded them of home.
All things considered, perhaps it was best that he was standing at attention and looking straight ahead, not gawking at the deck. Somewhere behind him were the ranks of seats filled with friends and families of graduating Marines. No less a luminary than General McCulloch, Commandant of the U.S. Marine Corps, was delivering a speech, his head and shoulders huge on the wallscreen ahead and slightly to Garroway’s right.
“The Marines,” McCulloch was saying, “have been criticized for being different, for being out of step with the society that they are sworn to protect. And it’s true. Marines look at the world around them differently than most people. Marines are dedicated to the ideal of service.
“I don’t mean to say that joining the Marines constitutes the only valid form of service. Certainly not. Nor do I mean that military service is the only way to serve one’s country.
“But military service is one of the very few, unambiguous ways by which a young man or woman can declare themselves in support of the common good. It’s one of the few means remaining today by which young people can make a deep and lasting difference, both in their own lives, and in support of their homeland, even their home world.
