by James Cox
“Rumor says, Micah Stone, that you're headed for the Corps.”
“Rumor is right,” replied Micah cautiously.
All the Marines started grinning evil grins.
“I hope you realize,” said Reyhie, “if we let you board that transport without a decent hangover we'll burn in hades with drill instructors for eternity.”
“Blather?”
“Truth, Stone! Let's get you some GOOD slosh!”
Micah might have considered arguing, but not for long.
***
Micah spent the first day of his journey recovering from his send-off. He'd never had much to do with drinking before, now he swore he never would again. Once he convinced his eyes to focus straight he turned his concentration to studies.
Micah had several datacubes on the Corps in general and the Drop Marines in particular, the latter courtesy of Reyhie. Enlistment started with twenty weeks of unspecialized training followed by another sixteen in Drop School. His service on Caustik, he discovered, meant nothing. The Corps counted from the time a recruit walked onto the base. Micah smiled at this.
In addition to the recruitment and information cubes Micah studied every scrap he could find concerning League military tactics. He made good sense of some, less so others.
The second hop brought more recruits on board. At first aloof, they soon warmed to Micah. Three in particular attached themselves to him. They all came from an agrarian world and they planned to use enlistment as a ticket to the stars.
“I tell you it's totally polar!” Paige McCree tossed her hair and dared the others at the table to disagree. “Support is what keeps the other branches going! You try getting a Navy scrubbie to drop you in a hot zone or zip in for a pickup under fire! That's what I'll be doing.”
McCree had spoken several times of escaping a marriage arranged by her parents. Though Micah cringed at that particular thought he flinched only slightly less at her words. Micah tried not to think of what awaited her. If even she made the cut.
“Blather, Paige. Technical is where it's polar! Travel the stars, visit new worlds, meet interesting people...” Terrence 'Bix' Bixby reminded Micah of BJ Tyler in more ways than one. Excitable when relaxed but able to focus when necessary, Bixby professed an interest in all things mechanical and electronic.
“... and kill them,” interjected Dale Jeffers. Jeffers let nothing ruffle him. Whether arguing - pardon, debating! - or playing one-across for blood, Jeffers remained calm and even.
“Y'know, Bix,” continued Jeffers, “Chances are you'll spend your terms stuck on a backwater asteroid where air is rare and women are rarer.”
McCree took exception to this and tossed a crumpled napkin at Jeffers.
Micah forbore comment. Though he wasn't too much older than the other three they were much, much younger. Micah wondered if he'd ever been so idealistic or innocent.
Eventually the conversation turned to music and movies. Micah discovered that Lethal Max 6 was just released and the series showed no signs of slowing. After a few minutes Micah rose.
“Where are you going, Micah,” demanded McCree, “We're going to play Feodality. You need to learn it.”
“Later,” said Micah, “I need some exercise.”
Micah warmed to his workout easily. McCree, Jeffers and Bixby looked up to him. He knew that. They knew it. He told them a little about the service but he kept the stories tame. Even then they comprehended little. He didn't want to scare them out of their dreams but he knew the reality that would soon slap them hard.
When Micah finished he saw the three of them waiting for him.
“Better,” asked McCree.
“Better,” said Micah.
McCree sat on Micah's shirt. When he gave it a tug she shifted but her eyes focused on his chest. They'd all seen his scars and he'd explained most of them. Now McCree pointed to his two smallest.
“Spearhead,” said Micah. Then he explained it.
“All the way back?” Bixby struggled to wrap himself around Micah's story.
“All the way back,” confirmed Micah, “Pain doesn't hurt once you learn to embrace it.”
McCree shuddered and took on a haunted expression.
“So d'you think we'll have to do that,” asked Bixby.
“Different units, different traditions,” said Micah, “And what if they do? Taking a blaster bolt hurts a lot worse than that. So does decompression.”
“You say that like it's nothing,” said McCree, more subdued now.
Micah shrugged. “I lived. That's more than I can say about a lot of others. Which would you take, pain or death?”
When they finally did play Feodality Micah won. Mostly because the other three were still digesting his words; Micah had little skill at the game.
***
The third and final hop filled the small transport to capacity. The captain packed the recruits four to a cabin and somehow McCree managed to get them all in the same room.
“I hear they line people up any old way when it's time for barracks assignments,” she said, “Let's all get in the same one!”
Jeffers and Bixby assented cheerfully. For himself Micah had less enthusiasm. After some internal convincing, though, he managed it.
***
“Atten-HUP! THAT MEANS STAND UP!!”
Micah snapped to attention followed in sloppy order by the rest of the recruits. Jeffers, Bixby and McCree tried to snap like Micah but failed miserably.
“OUT-side, you sorry slabs of meat. SINGLE FILE!”
A hot blast of air hit Micah when the lock cycled. It tasted different than Caustik's but felt the same; minus the corrosives.
Micah had studied the Corps training facility on Remise. The Slyco system had two planets inside its habitable zone - uncommon - and the League Navy and Marine Corps used them both for training. Named Remise and Reprise the worlds were, respectively, hot and dry and mostly frozen. The system's proximity to the border made it an ideal military facility.
“TEN-HUP! RIGHT HACE!!”
Micah snapped and turned automatically. He didn't block the fist crashing into his chest but he did step back and lighten the impact. The sergeant spared him a foul look. McCree stepped out of the ship.
“TEN-HUP! RIGHT HACE!!”
Micah caught her shoulders as she fell gasping for air. Her face clenched in an agonized mask and tears dripped at the corners of her eyes. By the time Micah got her unbent Jeffers had stepped out and received his. Between Micah and McCree they got him unbent and ready when Bixby stepped out.
“ARRIGHT, LADIES! QUIT YER LAZY LAGGING AND GET YOUR MAGGOT ASSES ON THAT LINE! NOW!! MOVE, MOVE, MOVE, MOVE...”
Micah almost laughed. It felt like coming home!
***
Micah cleared his mind and focused on his opponent. He and Darehorn, the other recruit, both wore dampers but a solid punch or kick would still hurt.
After his first unarmed combat lesson with Sergeant Taylor Micah found himself appointed assistant instructor. Taylor forgave Micah the broken rib but still assigned him two weeks of scrub.
Darehorn's attention wandered for the instant Micah needed. He lunged and kicked and Darehorn's damper flashed red.
“Hit and kill,” said Taylor, “Dumb-born, your MOMMA could've done better than that!”
Darehorn jumped to his feet, bowed to Taylor, bowed to Micah, then dropped and started doing pushups. Micah started to join him but Taylor's glare kept him in place.
The first six weeks had taken a hellish toll on the recruits. Though officially none had histories before joining the Corps, all of the recruits in Micah's barracks soon learned his. Micah found himself in the unaccustomed position of leader, counselor, confidant and cheerleader. Micah floundered but did his best. Attrition among the recruits was appalling, but less so in Micah's platoon. Their instructors knew the reason and not long afterward Micah had the recruit rank of sergeant. Micah took the responsibility very seriously.
“Places,” barked Taylor.
Micah and the others found their spots and snapped to attention.
“You sorry maggots just might make your mommies proud. Some day far, far, FAR in the future. DO YOU HEAR ME?!”
“YES SERGEANT!!”
“DIS-missed!”
Micah felt the undercurrent of excitement all the way back to the barracks. With dismissal from their last class the recruits officially had a pass for a long weekend away from the base. Micah hadn't planned to go - he could always use more study time - but Jeffers and Bixby vetoed that idea in no uncertain terms. They even contributed from their store of civilian clothes, quashing Micah's main reason not to go.
“This is going to be such a posh!” Paige McCree positively bubbled at the chance to go somewhere non-military.
“I suppose you have us rooms, m'dear,” said Bixby.
“But of course,” she replied, “Even one for Micah. I have plans that involve intoxicating drink and private company! Oh, Micah, don't forget your paychit.”
“I didn't,” lied Micah.
The city of Remise Down existed for two reasons. It served as the primary spaceport for civilian and semi-military traffic. Its secondary purpose: rest and relaxation for personnel stationed on or near Remise or just passing through. The city itself sprawled over a large area with the spaceport serving as its center and hub.
Micah concentrated on moving himself in time with the overly loud music. At the moment he was dancing with McCree. Jeffers and Bixby and their partners danced nearby. After he ignored two 'dance-able' songs McCree took matters into her own hands. Micah would not, she said, spend the evening holding a table for them. Especially with young and eager ladies just waiting to dance!
Micah's three friends knew about Jenn. He still didn't know how McCree got that out of him but she did. The next weekend she helped him write Jenn a letter.
The music slowed and McCree snuggled in.
“I know I'm not her,” said McCree, “But you wish her a good time while we're dancing!”
Micah chuckled at this. After a time he relaxed and began enjoying the dance.
Closing time found the four of them out in the street along with a huge crowd.
“I say we find some food!” Bixby's stomach growled and Micah thought again of Tyler.
“I concur,” said McCree, “Food should be this way!”
They walked, chatting idly, then not so idly. Within three blocks the neighborhood turned bad.
“Bad,” said McCree, “I think my directions were faulty. I say turn around and try again.”
Micah nodded but the three of them lost the decision.
“Leaving already, nubbs? Don't like our hospitality?”
Half a dozen seedy folk gathered around Micah and the others. Before long more joined them. Bangers, gang members, thought Micah.
“We'll leave,” said Bixby carefully, “If you don't mind. No restaurant here.”
“Maybe we do mind,” said the obvious leader, “Maybe we don't like you here. Maybe we'll just charge you a bit to leave.”
Micah and the others shifted back-to-back as knives and clubs appeared.
“We don't want any trouble,” said Micah, “If you just let us leave we will. No reason for anything else.”
The leader swaggered up to Micah.
“Well maybe we DO want some trouble!”
Then he swung at Micah's head.
Micah blocked the club easily and fisted the leader hard under the ribs. He collapsed backward a few steps and the others converged.
Bixby, Jeffers and McCree fought well but they lacked - yet - the reflexes hard-trained into Micah. The thugs might have done well against their ilk but they stood little chance against him.
Before long Micah, Bixby, McCree and Jeffers stood alone.
“I think we'll leave now,” said McCree, wiping blood from her lip.
Movement at the edge of vision. Micah's instincts triggered and he turned, knowing already what he faced.
The leader, recovered now from Micah's punch, rose with something small and deadly in his hand.
Time slowed. Micah felt the familiar flood of panic and prepared to shunt it aside.
The man lifted the pistol. Time slowed but it took Micah with it! He moved much, much slower than he should!
Fear! Micah suppressed it automatically and tried to focus himself. He knew he'd be too late! He moved as though through a thick syrup, trying to push himself to the speed he knew so well.
A dull pain stabbed Micah at the base of his skull. The leader leveled his pistol and squeezed the trigger. Micah hurled himself forward, knowing he'd be too late but knowing he must at least try.
Muscles that should be bursting with energy lay like flaccid lumps. Time slowed. The pistol flashed. Searing pain washed through Micah.
***
Images. Micah's hand breaking the man's wrist and his other hand crushing the man's throat. His shirt flaming and burning where the bolt hit, a small pain against the shot itself. The world spinning. The ache in his head stabbing through his skull all the way to his eyes.
McCree turning toward him, her eyes numb with shock.
The street hitting him hard. The smell of synthetics and urine.
The pain...
The pain!
An infinite field of numbness with a single point of agony. A beacon. A bright light in a dark fog.
Voices. Numbly heard. Focus. Focus!
Micah swam through a sea of viscous apathy toward the brilliant point of consciousness.
The pain!
“... he's fighting it!”
Micah heard the voice through a vast space of cottony indifference.
“Increase to forty. Stat!”
Micah fought to open his eyes.
The leader and his bangers! They were trying to finish him off!
Blurry shadows drifting against a light-dark infinity. One moved toward him.
Nearly blind with pain, Micah acted on instinct. Though it felt like moving ten arms he reached for the indistinct shape hovering over him. He fought toward wakefulness as he tried to disable the crunchy torturing him.
“Holy mother nebula!”
Micah tingled and his muscles tried to spasm but he kept his grip. The strange new pain pulled at him. Time twisted as did the thing he held.
“Heaven's flaming feces!!”
Other shapes with the first. Micah struggled but to no avail. He heard a melange of sounds and voices punctuated by an icy metallic prick on his neck.
Darkness.
***
“He's coming around now.”
Micah knew that voice. Again he drifted in a sea of incoherence but now he swam toward something besides the pain. He hurt dreadfully but the agony was sharp and clear.
“Micah! Micah, don't fight it!”
Jeffers. Dale. Micah finally opened his eyes. He saw Jeffers against a too-bright background. With that point of concentration Micah finally found his focus.
“Uhh.” Not what Micah wanted to say but Jeffers understood.
The background resolved itself into a room containing Jeffers, a medic and an assortment of medically complex devices.
“Easy, soldier,” said the medic, “Rest easy. You're safe. You're in the base hospital. You've been through a lot. Do you understand?”
Micah nodded. He felt a hypo and reality snapped into existence around him.
“Better?” asked the medic.
“Yes sir. Mostly. What happened?” The mushy sound coming out his mouth surprised Micah but the medic apparently understood.
“You got into an argument with a pulse pistol and lost. Well, mostly lost. You survived it.”
“Bix...”
“We're fine,” said Jeffers, “Bix, Paige and me. You fought harder after he shot you than all of us put together before. That sonofawhore didn't have a chance.”
The medic made a disapproving sound but no matter. Micah relaxed into the fatigue now overwhelming him.
Chapter 6. Truth W
ithout Beauty
Micah knew he'd had some restful sleep when the nightmares started. They came with faces he knew and faces he didn't. They accused him, attacked him and shamed him. They stared at him with eyes that knew far too much. Eyes that had seen far too much. Eyes that knew Micah and knew him well. He wept and he knew, somehow, that his body did as well. They overwhelmed him, ripping and tearing him. He struggled but to no avail.
Then the angel came. It judged Micah and spoke to him. The nightmares didn't attack it and it almost seemed to want to help him.
Micah drifted between bleary semi-wakefulness and torrid slumber. Sometimes he fought the nightmares alone, other times the angel helped him. In the far back recesses of his mind Micah felt something trying to form. He fought to give it shape but the harder he tried the harder it hid from him.
***
Micah woke, sweat-drenched and weak. He hurt but his mind was clear. Paige McCree sat beside the bed and napped in an uncomfortable chair. He tried to move himself silently but the rustle woke her.
“Hi there.”
“Hello.” Micah's voice was harsh and speaking woke a desert in his throat. “What...”
McCree reached over his head and pressed something. Then she poured him a cup of water and held it for him. The water was life itself, cold and sharp.
“Better? Good.” McCree set the cup aside. “What happened? You, my friend, are something between a hero and a hellspawn. Do you remember the fight?”
Micah nodded.
“At the end of it that sewer-sipper pulled a pocket blaster and shot you. We tried to help you.” A shadow clouded her face. “Micah, we tried. All that training... We tried.”
“It's okay. We made it.”
“We tried.” This a whisper. “Then you saved us. After you got shot.”
“ 'Nother scar. So what?”
That startled McCree. She looked at him hard and then managed a weak grin. Then she leaned over and kissed his cheek.
“You hurry up and get better. We miss you!”
The door opened and a white-uniformed lady entered.
“Bye, Micah,” said McCree.
“Mister Stone,” said the lady, once McCree left, “I'm Eva Tiber and we have some things to discuss.”
