Nicole? Was that her name? She looked at her hands, at the rest of her body, confused by their pale color. Where were her talons? My name is Esah-Zhurah. No, she thought again, as the dream rapidly faded, that cannot be. My name is Nicole. Nicole Carré, not Esah-Zhurah. That name belonged to another. She frowned, unable to remember who the other woman might be.
“Nicole?” Jodi asked again, her hands on her friend’s shoulders, her eyes wide with concern. “Say something, will you? Do you need the surgeon?”
“Non,” Nicole rasped, finally locating her voice. “I… I am all right.” She managed a weak smile that did nothing to reassure her friend.
“You look like hell, Nikki,” Jodi said, reluctantly releasing Nicole to sit up on her own. “My God, you were having some kind of wild dream, woman, let me tell you.”
“Did I say anything?” Nicole asked, her mind still in a deep fog. She caught fleeting glimpses and sensations flashing across her memory that seemed totally alien, yet somehow familiar…
“The only thing I could understand was when you said Reza’s name,” she replied quietly. “The rest was gibberish as far as I could tell.” God, Jodi thought, and I thought I had a wild time last night. What had Nicole been doing? She had been crying Reza’s name over and over, as if she was never going to see him again. Well, she thought, somewhat bitterly, at least her suspicions were confirmed: Nicole was in love with him. Even if she was risking a lot by fraternizing with a trainee, Jodi conceded that at least Nicole had managed to fall for a decent guy this time.
Nicole looked at her palm. Where there should have been a bloody gash from the knife there was only a scar that looked as if it had been there for a long, long time.
“Jesus, Nicole, how did you get that?” Jodi yelped, taking hold of Nicole’s hand to get a better look at the scar. She knew her friend’s body fairly well from living together for so long, and knew that this had not been there the day before. But if that was so, she thought, confused, how could there be a scar now? They didn’t just form overnight.
“A long time ago,” Nicole mumbled noncommittally, pulling her hand away. She was still dazed, confused, and wanted only to be alone to think. She looked at the clock. It was almost oh-seven-hundred. Time to get up. She groaned, feeling as if she had run a full marathon. No, she corrected herself. She felt as if she had lived a lifetime in a single night. The only problem was that she did not remember now whose life it had been. “A long time ago,” she repeated absently as she pushed herself out of bed and headed toward the bathroom and a long shower, wondering silently what had really happened last night.
“A long time ago?” Jodi murmured after Nicole had closed the door between them. “Bullshit.”
***
“Reza,” Eustus puffed as he ran with his friend through the obstacle course that took up nearly three hours of their morning every other day, “you know Commander Carré, right?”
“Yes,” Reza replied as he led Eustus over a water obstacle. Both of them cleared it with room to spare. They were almost halfway through the course, with about half their classmates ahead of them. Reza chose to pace Eustus, for he himself had never found the obstacle course particularly challenging. He was breathing now only slightly faster than normal, which was practically not at all. “I knew her when we were children. She was… special to me then. And she is a good friend now.”
“Oh,” Eustus grunted as he leaped up and heaved himself over a ten-foot wall that shook as if it was undergoing a perpetual earthquake. Scrabbling like a rat, he gripped the top and hurled himself over and down the other side, rolling as he landed.
Reza was already on the ground waiting for him, as if he had simply walked through the wall. “Why do you ask?” he said.
“Well,” Eustus breathed as he fought to keep up with Reza’s relentless pace, “I heard some of the instructors talking when I was passing by their table in the mess, when the commander wasn’t around.” He paused as they navigated a series of barbed wire mazes. They were very primitive, but very effective for focusing one’s attention on one’s surroundings. “They said she’s been acting a lot different than she normally does.”
“How so?” Reza asked, curious. The training schedule had been so busy that he and Nicole had not had a chance to speak to one another since she had come to his room three nights before. Sharing himself with her had somehow released him from the horrible pain that came with thoughts of Esah-Zhurah, the furious burning in his blood. He had not realized what agony it had been until, later that night, after he had led Nicole back to her room and put her to bed, he had dreamed of Esah-Zhurah in his sleep. He had awakened in tears, longing for her, but the pain was no more than a dull throb, as if Nicole had taken away the bulk of the pain by sharing his burden. Nicole, in her turn, had seen and felt the world he would forever call home, voyaging through Reza’s spiritual memories as Esah-Zhurah, viewing it as she might, knowing his love for her. But those memories would only visit her in her dreams – she would never be able to relate them to another soul.
Eustus blushed slightly, not knowing how Reza would take what he had overheard. How did you tell someone like Reza that one of Nicole Carré’s colleagues said she was acting “like she’d found a really good lay”?
“Well,” Eustus said, searching for a somewhat more tactful phrase than the original version, “I guess she seems abnormally cheerful and outgoing, like she’s suddenly taken normal pills and stopped being so, you know, aloof, I guess.” The two of them sprinted across a worn wooden log laid over a mud-filled bog. “They think she’s sleeping – you know, having sex? – with someone, but they can’t figure out who it is.” He cast a sideways glance at Reza. “It wouldn’t happen to be you, would it?”
Reza did not answer, instead throwing himself and Eustus to the ground as the brush nearby erupted with a volley of liquid “bullets” fired by patrolling robots at the trainees running the obstacle course. Any trainee having the telltale red stain on his or her fatigues at the end of the course was in for remedial reaction training and two dozen pushups per “hit.” The technique was an effective attention-getter.
Satisfied that Reza and Eustus had reacted properly by quickly rolling into the nearby foliage after hitting the ground, the two rovers moved out of their temporary hiding spot and further back down the trail in search of other victims.
“Damn, but I hate those things,” Eustus muttered, again thankful that Reza usually ran with him. He always seemed to know exactly where the lunatic machines were. Eustus only worried about what would happen in combat, when Reza probably would not be by his side.
They went on running, gaining speed for the next set of obstacles – the surprise set – that was different every time and lay around a few more bends in the trail, still out of sight.
“You haven’t said no,” Eustus said, trying to pick up where he had left off.
“I have not had sex with Commander Carré,” Reza replied quietly, almost toying with the truth. While their bodies had never touched in that way, the cache of memories she held in her subconscious included the times he had lain with Esah-Zhurah. In her dreams, Nicole would remember them as had Esah-Zhurah herself after they had been joined in blood. “She is a friend and superior officer, but she is not my lover, nor has she ever been.” He smiled to himself, hoping against hope that his touch had brought her some happiness, that perhaps she no longer would have to live her life as the cold and quiet Ice Queen. While he had not touched her body, he had touched her heart, and had found it tender and warm, wanting but afraid to love. She, in her turn, had granted him release from much of the pain he felt merely at the thought of Esah-Zhurah. What magic this was, he did not know. All he knew was that his heart had been lifted and that he could fulfill whatever destiny awaited him. “If she has found freedom in her heart,” he went on, “I rejoice in her happiness.”
Eustus smiled at his friend’s words, not because of the stilted way in which Reza often spoke, but because everything he said was s
incere. Eustus, who would have given his eye teeth to have the attentions of someone like Nicole Carré, could not help but admire Reza’s complete lack of jealousy toward whomever Carré’s lover might be.
“You’re such a sap sometimes, Reza,” he said lightly as they rounded the bend and saw the set of obstacles that Thorella and his minions had devised for them today. “Oh, shit…”
***
With few exceptions, the sprawling Quantico headquarters compound was asleep. The command and communications watch centers, deep below the planet’s surface, maintained their vigils, humming with matters of insignificance and importance both. Above, trainees pulling guard duty at their posts stamped their feet to keep warm in the chill night air, waiting impatiently for their watch to be up so they could return to their bunks and the religious comfort of sleep. Overhead, no stars showed through the solid cloud cover. The sweet smell of rain, creeping in among the reek of ozone and bitter oil of sleeping war machines, promised an early morning downpour.
Only a few lights were visible throughout the complex. The warning strobes on communications towers blinked on and off, warning away any incoming ships. Guardhouses located along the roads leading onto the base glowed softly. Then there was the bright pink neon sign over the post’s premier NCO club. It was a gaudy aberration that somehow had survived long enough to become an icon of the Corps. And, of course, there were lights illuminating the entrance to the bunkers where the post’s weapons and equipment were kept.
Many considered the lights a danger, believing that they would only serve as an added target signature in case of a Kreelan attack. This argument was countered by the belief – demonstrated in many drills – that without the lights, it took a great deal longer for the trainees and Marine Corps regulars who staffed the base to get to their assigned bunkers in the massive confusion of an attack. Moreover, in all the years that humans and Kreelans had been fighting, never once had any Kreelan ships even ventured near Quantico, let alone attacked it, despite the fact that the base was on well-established transit routes between colonies that had repeatedly fallen under attack over the last several decades. Some thought it was almost as if the Kreelans were intentionally avoiding the base and its young warriors-in-training.
Now, under one of those lights next to the yellow and black striped blast door that served as the entrance to bunker 175, a red indicator showed on the entry panel: the bunker was occupied. Inside, through the second set of blast doors and the man-sized inset hatch that now stood open, the interior was dark, save for the light of a single hand-held lantern. Carefully balanced on one of the armorer’s worktables, its narrow beam was focused on one of the many suits of heavy combat armor that was the primary item in this bunker’s inventory. The armor, different from the light armor that Jodi had become accustomed to during her time on Rutan, was of far sturdier material. Completely airtight and equipped with its own maneuvering system, and combined with the heavy armament it allowed the wearer to carry, the armored suit transformed a single human being into a weapon of awesome firepower. Their expense and complexity made them a rare item outside of Marine fleet units.
Not coincidentally, the trainees of Reza’s company were to use these very sets of armor in an upcoming exercise that served as the final exam before they received their regimental assignments. Combining all of what they had been taught here, with a great deal of “ingenuity enhancers” thrown in, the final exercise – or “ENDEX” as many called it – was more than a canned field problem that everyone was expected to pass: in ENDEX, failure often meant sudden and violent death.
That was exactly what the sole occupant of bunker 175 was concerned with, although not in nearly so generic a sense. The man smiled as he worked with gloved fingers that seemed far too large for the nimble work they were engaged in now.
Almost finished, he thought placidly as he fitted the auxiliary access panel, about the size of his palm, back to the right thruster pack that bulged from the armor’s backplate. Beneath the panel lid, amid the extremely complex but solidly reliable jet control system, a pair of circuits had been slightly altered, their metallurgical and electronic properties not quite what they had been before. When the thrusters had been used a preset amount of time, about half as long as it took for a Marine to hit the ground from an exo-atmospheric combat drop, the right side thruster would fire at maximum burn until it had exhausted its fuel supply. And the left would be disabled, useless. The wearer, faced with a hopeless asymmetric thrust situation, would be left falling, helpless as he spun like a top into the ground. Any remaining fuel and the few live weapons the individual would be carrying would explode, eliminating any physical evidence of tampering.
That was the first modified circuit’s intended function: to cause the failure. The second one was somewhat more devious: it sabotaged the miniature telemetry system through which the suit’s functions could be monitored by Navy ships or other Marines tied into the same data net. It, too, would fail, just before the thruster fired for the last time. There would be no indication of what had gone wrong.
“A terribly unfortunate accident,” he murmured to himself as the panel clicked into place and sealed.
Replacing the heavy armor on its storage rack, he shone the light over it to make sure that nothing appeared amiss. No, he thought, no one would notice a thing. The light paused a moment on the name that had been written in temporary stencil on the armor’s breastplate.
“PV-0 GARD,” it read.
Happy landings, he thought as he left the bunker, closing the doors and reactivating the alarm and access recording system behind him. Even the computers would not know he had been there.
Whistling a tune he had made up himself, he briskly walked the almost two kilometers back to his quarters, noting with pleasure that the trainee sentry there, ensconced in the warmth of the tiny lighted cubicle outside the officer cadre’s quarters, had fallen asleep. Passing up the spontaneous urge to berate the young woman for her dereliction of duty, the man silently passed on, unheard and unseen, to a sound sleep and pleasant dreams of what was soon to come.
Twenty-Five
To an untrained eye, the hangar deck was the epitome of confusion as would-be Marines in full combat gear poured from the ready rooms and into the cavernous launch bay of the old auxiliary carrier, their feet hammering an urgent tattoo as they double-timed their way into the waiting drop ships. Overhead, klaxons bleated and eerily calm voices issued instructions and warnings over the ship’s PA system as the launch sequence began. But the apparent chaos was an illusion: every movement, every order, had been rehearsed for days before the recruits had set foot on the ship.
Inside Boat 12, Reza’s platoon was settling in, securing their weapons and themselves into the dropship’s harnesses for the bumpy ride that doubtless lay ahead. Dressed in powered assault armor that made Reza feel more like a trapped animal than a human killing machine, they were about to do what Confederation Marines got paid for: taking the fight to the enemy. Only this time, the enemy would be human, fellow trainees from another battalion, and the energy bolts would not hurt them. Too much.
“Stand by for launch,” Nicole told the trainees in Boat 12’s cargo section. Then she reported in to hangar deck launch control. “Pri-Fly, this is Delta One-Two, standing by.”
“Roger, Delta One-Two,” the controller replied. “You’re first up. Launch on green.” Outside Nicole’s viewport, a series of lights that a race car driver might have found familiar cycled from red to amber. “Launch,” she heard the controller say as the light went green.
Even with the little ship’s gravity and acceleration controls, the catapult launched the boat with enough force that Nicole could sense it. Ahead of her, the catapult tube seemed to peel away to reveal the stars. As the boat was released from the launch field, she took control and smoothly maneuvered it toward their target, one of Quantico’s continents that had been established as a massive training range.
“Delta One-Two, this is Eagle One,” c
ame Thorella’s voice through the comm link. He was flying ahead of them in a fighter that had been modified to carry the assault group coordinator and an assistant, in addition to the pilot. Today, Thorella was serving as assault group coordinator, with Sergeant Major Aquino observing. This jump, the last before graduation, was going to be their toughest – in training, at least – and Aquino wanted to be there to see it.
Jodi, as usual during the exercises of the past few weeks, had the great misfortune of being Thorella’s pilot.
“Delta One-Two,” Nicole acknowledged.
“Delta One-Two, you are point for first wave. Note that local target defenses are active; no deep-space systems or fighters noted.” That meant that Nicole’s ship probably would not have to worry about being seared out of space by any simulated enemy weapons, but nearer the ground the Marine trainees would have to contend with flak. The Kreelans were never known to use anti-aircraft fire, as they preferred their opponents to get to the ground in one piece. But it never hurt to train for the unexpected.
Thankfully, Thorella had chosen not to throw any enemy fighters into the scenario. Yet, at least.
“Did you copy, Reza?” she asked.
“Affirmative,” he replied through the boat’s intercom. During each exercise, trainees would be chosen at random from within each platoon to fill the leadership positions in the company. Reza had drawn the position of “platoon guide” for this drop; not being qualified NCOs or officers, the designated trainees were ostensibly unfit to be termed “leaders.” Be that as it may, in his distinguished post Reza was tied into the drop group’s command nets and was responsible for the orders and reports that concerned his platoon.
Reza looked at Eustus, his acting platoon sergeant, who nodded vigorously, eager to get on with it.
“We are ready, commander,” Reza reaffirmed.
Nicole could not help but smile at his voice. Despite Thorella’s best efforts, his endless harangues and futile attempts to provoke him, Reza had excelled during his training, and was now ranked at the top of his class.
In Her Name Page 52
