by Jean Johnson
That was the first page. A nudge of her mind scrolled the sheet upward . . . and an extra sheet as well. Rolling her eyes, Ia firmed her concentration, rolled it back by one sheet, and thought the body of the text at the machine.
Stutter,
Hugo is not the best partner for you. Tell him he deserves someone who has more in common with him, and that you are moving. Take the job offer in Capsicum Warren; it will lead to something better. Ignore the job offer in Greenleaf, it’s not as good as it looks. Make sure you have moved by no later than TS 2513.10.02. Once you do, look for the man with two earrings in his left ear. Forgive him on the second date, ignore the incident on the third. Avoid the trip to Halfway Warren TS 2633.04.23-27 at all costs, extended family included. The disaster would be restricted to your family, but with far-reaching consequences. Do not go. Otherwise, live long and well.
Ia
Tearing the sheet free, Ia scrolled it up out of the machine, separated the two pages, and tucked one note inside the other. Putting workstation and paper back into the locker, she pulled out the lockbox. The lock was an expensive DNA model, keyed to the genetics of just two people, herself and Grandmaster Ssarra. The only things currently inside the largish box were a bundle of silver sealing wax sticks and a custom wax stamp. The other time-sensitive letters she had crafted on the voyage to the Liu Ji had been mailed on the Battle Platform just before boarding.
Selecting a stick, Ia ignited it with a thought and dripped a small puddle onto the folded sheets. A press of the seal marked the wax with the symbol she had chosen to represent herself, an arrow drawing a line from the right, wrapped in a circle. To her, it represented the way she drew upon the future to inform and shape the present, wrapped within the arms of the Milky Way galaxy. That, and she wasn’t an artist; drawing anything more complicated than an arrow-and-line within a circle for the company that had made the seal would have been beyond her capabilities.
The wax stick was snuffed as easily as it had been lit. More easily, since it simply required drawing back the heat-based energies into herself. She wasn’t a full-blooded Feyori—if they could be said to have blood, since they didn’t have anything of the sort in their natural state—but manipulating energy was a part of her nature. A headache-risking, hunger-stirring part of her nature.
No time for food right now, she reminded herself, locking up the letter and tucking the strongbox back into its cupboard. I’m going to be late by three or more minutes, then it’s an hour or so in the gym, a shower to freshen up, a tour of the prep bays, and the installation of my mechsuit in its designated storage alcove, plus there’s that sixty-five percent chance Lt. D’kora will insist on a full diagnostic of the suit to make sure it’s battle-ready.
Which it had better be, Ia added, shutting off the lights with a swipe of her hand as she left the cabin. I have just three days until my first official combat as a TUPSF Marine.
CHAPTER 11
In the military, your teammates—squad mates, platoon mates, shipmates, whatever—are the single most important resource you have, outside of your own body. Getting along with everyone is vital for the survival of your group and the successful completion of your missions. It is also one of the hardest things to do, because in the military, people come from hundreds and thousands of different backgrounds, cultures, social standings, interests and creeds.
The person fighting next to you on the line of combat may believe in a completely different god, or in none at all. They may prefer comedy over horror or action-adventure. They may think lettuce is disgusting but munch their way through fried squid strips with glee. But that’s the thing about a good, effective military. None of that matters . . . because they’re fighting at your side, with you, protecting your hide. The same as you’re doing for them.
Ethnicity, culture, creed. None of it matters. At least, none of that matters once you’re out on the line. Until you’ve proven yourself in combat, however, getting along is not the easiest thing in the universe.
~Ia
Ia studied her teammates, familiar with their faces and some of their personality quirks from the timeplains. They eyed her back, not at all familiar with their newest squad member. A stray thought flitted through her head. They say Merlin aged backwards, which was how he knew everyone. Maybe he was just a precog like me . . . sort of like me . . . and just remembered everything in advance. Just one difference: none of these will be a future King of England.
Given the white and steel gleam of the exercise equipment bolted to the deck of the gym, nothing could have been further from a sword-stuck rock in a Motherworld forest. Amused, she let herself smile slightly. “Hello.”
“. . . Right.”
That came from the biggest, most muscular male in D’kora’s A Squad. D’kora had introduced them to her before abandoning her to make her way. Only Estes was a corporal, the rest were all privates, either first or second class. This one was Jamil Eimaal-Elelle, lead member of A Squad Beta, nicknamed “Double-E” by his teammates. He towered over her by nearly forty centimeters, about as tall as could be fitted into half-mech armor, and flexed his muscles a little. Given he was wearing a sleeveless brown shirt, the effect was no doubt meant to be intimidating. He just wasn’t as muscular as her older brother.
“You’re supposed to lead us? I heard you were coming straight from Basic,” Double-E challenged.
“You’re from Mars, aren’t you?” Ia countered, changing the subject. “My biomom has relatives in the Thessaluna Dome area. I’ve seen pictures; it’s nice. You from around there?”
“Nah. South Pole. Closest I ever got to Thessaluna was Rainbow Rock. You ever been there?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Closest I ever got to Mars was a flyby on my way to Earth.” She turned to his teammate, Tom Harkins. The man was almost as tall as Double-E, but skinny by comparison, and pale where Jamil was dark in complexion. “You’re ‘Happy’ Harkins, and you’re from . . . don’t tell me . . . ah . . . Beaumonde, in the Lalande system. Space station in orbit around the third moon, right?”
“Right. What’s with the funny outfit?” Happy asked her, lifting his chin at the tile-covered straps of her weight suit.
“I’m from a heavyworld. I wear the extra weight to keep in shape when I work out,” Ia explained.
“And they put you in a half-mech team? Shouldn’t a heavyworlder be in full-mech?” The question came from a curly-haired woman with skin somewhere between Ia’s light honey and Double-E’s chocolate hue, Angela Cooper. Her question was understandable, given how she and her teammate wore the heavily armed, oversized suits, and how both of them had the wiry muscles to match. She poked her thumb at him, addressing Ia. “Guichi and I are both heavyworlders. I’m from Tau Ceti Gamma, and he’s from Seti Five.”
Happy Harkins snorted. “Seti Five’s a heavyworld only by a thousandth of a G-point.”
Guichi grinned. “And only that if you stand on a mountain.” He bumped knuckles with his tall teammate, then lifted his chin at Ia. “Which world or satellite are you from?”
“Sanctuary.” Blank looks met her gaze. “It’s the heaviest heavyworld, on the backside of Terran space. Second-gen firstworlder.”
Thom Estradille, the second team member in A Squad Delta, mocked her. “Ooh, we got a firstworlder here, an honest member of the planetary squatocracy! Why the hell aren’t you at home, grubbing in the dirt?”
“Because I’m not a dirt-grubber, I’m a ground-pounder. And they put me in half-mech because they didn’t want to waste my reflexes,” she added to Cooper. “Full-mech is meant for standing, taking, and giving a pounding. Half-mech is for maneuvering and outmaneuvering the enemy, and I’m far better at outmaneuvering.”
“. . . In other words, your aim is v’shakk,” Cooper translated. She grinned and shared another fist-bump with her teammate Yoishi Guichi.
Ia smiled slightly, not offended by the other woman’s quip.
“Gentlebeings.” Coming from the far side of the gym, D’kora’
s voice cut through not only their conversation, but the clanking of weights and the humming of treadmills. Her words turned several heads among the members of the other squads, aimed first her way, then theirs. “The Marine Corps does not pay you to stand around talking. We pay you to keep in shape. Do so.”
“Sir, yes, sir.” Gesturing at the machines, Ia let the others settle back into whatever routine they had been doing before her introduction, then opted for one of the empty treadmills.
With roughly fifty people in the room, there weren’t many machines open. She found herself next to the last member of A Squad, Oslo Knorrsson. He wasn’t much taller than her, had a stocky build, tanned skin, and a shock of light blond hair. He was also wearing wraparound sunglasses. She didn’t know why, though; that was one of those unnecessary details Ia figured she didn’t have to learn in advance. If she never learned in the course of the next two or so years, then so be it.
The moment she stepped onto it, the treadmill beeped and scrolled a message across its display screen. “Excessive weight detected in single occupant. Report to the infirmary to implement weight removal regimen.”
She burst out laughing, startling the Marine jogging at her side. Knorrsson stumbled, recovered, and lowered his shades long enough to look at her with his pale blue eyes, bouncing smoothly in place with each running step. “What’s so funny?”
“It wants me to remove my excess weight. The funny thing is, so do I.” Chuckling, she synched her wrist unit with the machine, downloading her exercise routine into the treadmill’s programming. There wasn’t much that made her laugh anymore, but that had done it. Ia grinned as she began jogging, savoring the good feeling for as long as it lasted.
The voice of her teammate wafted out of the head. “You know, I don’t get it. I just don’t get it. I know I can’t do a damn thing about it, but I just don’t get it. Why you? Why did you get the Lance Corporal rank fresh out of Basic? I’m up for review and promotion in just three more weeks! Why you, Ia—and what kind of name is ‘Ia’ anyway?”
“What kind of name is Estes?” Ia shot back, tucking the last weighted strap back into its carry case. She kept her tone light, not wanting to antagonize the other woman. “It’s just my name.”
“Yeah, but usually there’s more.” Swinging her upper body around the corner of the wall, she started to say more. Ia jumped back, startled by her teammate’s appearance.
The green goop on her face was unexpected. Nothing foreseen in the timestreams. Cut off by her sudden movement, the other corporal blinked, then blushed. Or rather, some of her face blushed, the parts uncoated by whatever-it-was Estes had smeared over her forehead, jawline, and chin.
“. . . I get acne if I don’t clean up right after I sweat, okay? It’s the late twenty-fifth century,” Estes added tartly, swinging back into the bathroom, “and you’d think modern medicine could come up with some sort of cure for pimples, but noooo. I even keep a jar of this stuff in my armor locker so I can pre-coat my face if it looks like we’ll be suited up for more than an hour. So. You got any bad habits, Ia? Aside from being promoted straight outta Basic? By the way, you have to take the top bunk. I don’t care if you outrank me, I have the seniority time-wise in this cabin, and I want the bottom one.”
“I prefer the top bunk, actually. I don’t like being touched when I sleep. Particularly when it’s unexpected.” The face-goop was unexpected. Ia didn’t like the unexpected. She cautiously probed the nearest fringes of the timestream, then offered a little bit more. “My only big ‘bad habit’ is writing a lot of letters. And . . . I sing.”
“What, like in the shower?” Estes asked, voice echoing once more from around the corner.
“Sometimes.” Fetching her writing materials from their locker, Ia hauled herself into the upper bunk. The ship swayed around them, undocking from the Battle Platform. They wouldn’t be back to the Hum-Vee for a good two weeks. They would, however, reach Battle Platform Johannes, which lay on the far side of their circuitous patrol route.
“Well, singing’s not so bad. It’s part of being a Marine and all. But if you sing off-key, I’ll have to shoot you.” Splashing noises followed, before Estes added, “Nothing personal. So just make sure you sing quietly, and keep the door shut.” She poked her head around the corner again, this time pink-scrubbed and damp around the edges of her hairline, making her brunette hair look even darker. “You’re also gonna have a hellish time convincing everyone in A Squad that you can lead us, fresh from Basic.”
Ia spread her hands in an eloquent shrug. “Blame the DoI. They actually thought I should be D’kora’s new platoon sergeant.”
Estes stared at her. “You’re shakking me.”
“Only if the Lieutenant was shakking me,” Ia returned. “He gave me the option. I pointed out I’d never get anyone to follow me, not fresh from Basic, so he made me the A Squad leader instead. His idea, not mine.”
“Yeah, but it’s up to you to pull it off.” Ducking back inside briefly, she did something in the head, then came out again. “Where’d you put your gym stuff?”
“Laundry bag, in the locker by the head.” Her own ablutions had been quick, a wipe down with a damp cloth and a change of clothes were all Ia needed to freshen up at this point.
Estes opened it up briefly, eyeing the mesh bag. “Not quite enough to go to the sonics yet. I’ve filled it up twice by myself, since . . . Corporal Suvrapati was a good woman. A good Marine.”
Since there wasn’t anything Ia could say, she kept her mouth shut and focused on typing her next letter to the future. There were only so many minutes in a day she could spare for these precognitive directives, and far too many years they had to cover.
AUGUST 2, 2490 T.S.
DEEP SPACE, NOT FAR FROM THE GLIESE 253 SYSTEM
A sandwich was a deceptively simple thing. Layered of meat, greens, sauces and sprouts, a slice of cheese and two of bread, it represented a complete meal, save only for something to drink. Which Ia had yet to consume, being a glass of orange juice. The Navy crewmembers assigned to feed the Marines on board the Liu Ji made simple fare, but they made it well, with ingredients assembled as fresh as modern transportation and a small hydroponics garden could manage to procure. In fact, she had two sandwiches, which was appropriate given her daily caloric requirements as a heavyworlder.
There was just one problem.
“You gonna eat that?” The question came from the lead private of Delta team, Harry Soyuez, affectionately known as “Ticker” by his fellow squad mates. Why, Ia didn’t know. Given his fondness for food, she would’ve thought “Tucker” would have been a more appropriate nickname. How he kept his figure, she didn’t know, either, other than perhaps though the route of spending plenty of time in the ship’s gym.
Since she couldn’t confess the real reason, Ia shook her head and pushed the tray with its plate of sandwiches and glass of juice away from herself. The ship’s alarm blared just as he reached for it, making the man jump in reaction, as if the sandwich was the cause.
“Attention, all personnel. This is Captain Davanova. We have received a distress call from a Gatsugi merchanter, and are altering route at best speed. ETA is forty-five minutes. Ferrar’s Fighters will be briefed by Lieutenant Ferrar in the lower boardroom in five minutes.”
“You heard the Captain. Lock and web—take care of your dishes—then lock and load,” Ia ordered her tablemates, grabbing her tray and rising from her spot on the bench. “You have four minutes, forty seconds to get to the briefing.”
Leaving them to handle their own half-eaten meals, she carried her tray back to the serving line and offered it to the nearest of the three Navy men working in the galley.
“Can you put this in the fridge for me? I’ll be back for it later,” Ia added.
“No problem. If it’s gonna be a fight, better not to go in with a full stomach. Or a full bladder,” the crewman quipped, taking the tray away.
A hand clapped her on the shoulder. Had she been lightworlder-de
nse, it might have staggered her, but Double-E didn’t even rock her physically. His words were meant to rock her mentally. “If it’s a fight, what makes you think you’ll be coming back for that? You’re raw meat—no offense, of course, Corporal. But you’ve never been in combat.”
“None taken.” Slipping out from under his fingers, Ia headed for the boardroom. “Lock and load, Private. Make sure you survive, if this comes to a fight.”
The lower boardroom wasn’t far. The upper boardroom was big enough to hold almost the entire ship’s complement, which she knew from studying the ship’s schematics, but the lower one was just large enough for their Company.
Shaped like a small auditorium, the cushioned seats lining the room came with restraint straps and could be used as acceleration couches if needed. They faced a broad table at which the platoon’s cadre could sit, and a quartet of screens on the back wall, a large primary one, two secondaries to either side, and a narrow one along the top, all of which could stream information for whomever needed to view it.
Claiming one of the seats in the front row, Ia waited as the others filed in and took whatever chairs they wanted. The 3rd Platoon had been asleep when the call came through; most of them were fully dressed, but some were still dragging bootlaces and looking like they needed a cup of caf’ to wake up. Ferrar and his three platoon lieutenants entered with the last few to trickle inside. Everyone stood out of respect.
“At Ease. Sit down,” he added as soon as he reached the head table, dismissing them back into their seats. “Here’s the situation. The comm officers have received a distress broadcast from a Gatsugi merchant vessel, the Clearly-Standing. They had enough time to report their location, dead-stop in an ice field, and that they were under attack from another vessel, but that was it. From the way the signal was cut off, either their hyperrelay dishes were damaged, or the enemy in question is working with the criminal elements intent on circumventing the Blockade. If they are, we are under standing orders to find their jamming equipment and bring it back intact. Which means the Marines will be going in on this one, and not sitting back so the Navy can take their usual potshots.”
