by Marko Kloos
“Looks like it worked out well.”
“Eventually,” Sergeant Fallon says. “Took years of blood and sweat. And parts of the city still aren’t Brigade-controlled. Probably never will be. Too hard-ass even for the general to crack. Can’t police people who don’t want to be policed. But here in the quiet part, you can be out past 2200 again without getting stomped into the curb.”
“I see you all have matching gear now,” I say, and point to the M4 carbine Sergeant Fallon wears slung over her shoulder.
“We have an arrangement with HD now. They gave us all the old United States surplus from the wartime reserve depots. Vehicles, rifles, ammunition. Billions of rounds. It’s all ancient as fuck, but it still works. And we can finally standardize our training and issue. Hard to even come up with a weapons training manual if your army uses whatever they can find,” she says.
“Mind-blowing,” I say. “A few years ago we were shooting at each other. Now HD is providing weapons.”
“It’s a good trade for them,” Sergeant Fallon says. “We keep the peace in the PRCs for them, and all they’re out is a few storage depots full of obsolete gear. We still don’t have the firepower to match the HD or SI battalions, but it’s more than enough to keep a firm hand on the PRCs. I’d call that a win-win situation for the new government.”
From beyond the retaining wall on the far side of the plaza, I hear loud engine noises, the raucous, thundering racket of old combustion engines. It echoes and reverberates in the canyons of the streets between the high-rises.
“What the fuck is that?” I ask.
“The race,” Sergeant Fallon says. “You’ll see.”
In the street that separates this residence block from the next, there’s a crowd lining the sidewalks, and there are barriers on both ends of the block to close this section of road to traffic. Someone laid out an ellipse shape on the asphalt with orange polyplast fencing, the sort used for temporary traffic control. There are LEDs set up on the retaining walls of the adjoining residence blocks to illuminate the scene beyond what the street lighting can contribute. It’s an ad hoc temporary racetrack a hundred meters long and maybe thirty meters wide. On the track, two vehicles are revving their engines next to each other. Both are old Army all-terrains, but these look like they’ve been stripped of everything that isn’t strictly necessary for driving. They’re barely more than frames with driver seats and engines.
I shoot Sergeant Fallon an incredulous look.
“We had more vehicles than we needed all of a sudden,” she says with a shrug.
“And they use them for racing?”
“Panem et circenses,” she replies. “Bread and circuses. Nothing wrong with a little fun. Don’t tell me they never had stuff like this where you grew up.”
The noise from the racetrack and the surrounding crowd is impressive, and we stay a good distance away—close enough to watch the action, far enough away to still be able to have a conversation. On the track, the stripped-down all-terrains send up dark clouds of exhaust fumes as they continue to gun their noisy engines. Then they release their brakes and barrel down the makeshift racetrack, and the crowd cheers.
“People make their own fun, whatever shit they find themselves in,” Sergeant Fallon says. “Let them watch these things go fast around a circle. Beats the shit out of watching them shoot each other in the alleys.”
Sergeant Fallon walks over to one of the nearby vendor stalls and returns with two bottles that don’t bear any labels. She hands one to me and uncaps her own. Then she takes a swig, closes her eyes, and sighs.
“Needed that after today.”
“What is this stuff?” I ask, eyeing the bottle suspiciously. The plastic is green and opaque. I pop off the cap and smell the contents. It has a familiar artificial fruit tang to it.
“They call it Bug Juice. The base is fruit juice made from ration packet powder. Then they add a few shots of ethanol. A few liberal shots.”
I take a swig, surprised to find that the concoction is actually not awful. It certainly beats the soy beer we can get in the military clubs.
“It’s no Shockfrost,” I say. “But it’s all right.”
Sergeant Fallon winces. “Nothing’s a Shockfrost ’cept a Shockfrost. You could run a drop ship with that stuff. Best thing about that godforsaken ball of frozen shit.”
She’s talking about New Svalbard, of course, where we got stuck for months last year just before the Exodus. Whenever I remember that little ice moon and the rough crowd that settled it, I vacillate between dread and something that feels strangely like homesickness. It’s a lonely, harsh, frozen colony, and it’s on the ass end of settled space and terribly vulnerable, but there’s something clean and pure and simple about it. The more complexities this profession throws at me, the more I find myself thinking that New Svalbard would not be the worst of all choices for a retirement colony. But I keep that opinion to myself, because Sergeant Fallon would have me forcibly committed to the mental ward at Great Lakes if I shared it with her.
“You didn’t come here to discuss the relative merits of local booze production,” Sergeant Fallon says matter-of-factly. She nods over to some nearby concrete barriers, and we both sit down, a little out of the way of the crowds that have gathered to watch the noisy race.
“There’s a special mission in the works,” I say. “Deep-space recon.”
“Where to?” she asks.
“I have no idea,” I say. “Yet. But I can tell you who we’re going after.”
I make a sweeping gesture with my bottle to encompass the scene around us—the racetrack, the high-rise residence towers, the city as a whole.
“The fuckers who ran away just before the Lankies dropped on our heads. The ones who were supposed to hold the fucking line. The ones who left us to clean up the mess they left behind.”
“That a fact.” Sergeant Fallon takes another swig from her bottle and grimaces. “We found out where they went, huh?”
“Colonel Campbell’s recon drones did. The ones he left on station at that secret anchorage right before we came back to New Svalbard. They recorded all the message and data traffic right up until their whole fleet took off and made Alcubierre.”
“Well, I’ll be dipped in shit,” she says. “Corps intel actually good for something for a change.”
“I hear they had some help from the Chinese.”
“And you’re going to check out their new cozy home.”
“That’s the idea,” I say. “Get eyeballs on the place so we can call in the rest of the Fleet and spoil their little party.”
“I would pay good money to be there when they drag the old NAC administration back home by their scruffs. Give ’em a trial, then hang ’em for treason. Or better yet, shoot them over to Mars and let the Lankies settle that account for us.”
“You want to be a part of that? Come with me. I need a platoon sergeant I can trust. Someone who knows the job.”
Sergeant Fallon barks a laugh.
“You want me to serve under you?”
“You’re the best platoon NCO I’ve ever had. I know it’s a lowly job for a master sergeant, but you know it better than anyone else I know.”
“Andrew, you can get any number of gunnery sergeants in SI who would jump at that chance. You don’t need me to ride herd on a bunch of space apes for you.”
“Look,” I say, and turn the bottle in my hands slowly. “I’m a fresh second louie. I’ve never been in charge of anything more than my battle armor and my radio set. I need people with experience ’cause I sure as fuck don’t have any. Not when it comes to leading thirty-six troops.”
“You’ve been in the shit for half a decade, Andrew. You’re a damn sight more qualified for the job than some boy wonder fresh from Officer U. Don’t fucking worry about it too much.”
“But I do,” I say. “I worry. Because if I find that I’m in over my head, I can’t call a time-out and have them fly in another guy to take over. I fuck up, three dozen grunts a
re going to bite it.”
“Your day job involves calling down airstrikes. Giving the cruisers targets to shoot nukes at. I think you can deal with the stress of commanding a grunt platoon.”
She puts her bottle to her lips and chugs about half the remaining contents.
“Besides,” she continues. “You know how I know you’ll be a good officer? Because you do worry. I’ve never met a second lieutenant fresh out of the academy who didn’t think he was God’s gift to tactical warfare. You’ll be just fine.”
“Come with me,” I repeat. “It’s a two-week mission. Maybe three. Keep the squad leaders on task and watch my back if things start going sideways. Keep me on the straight and narrow if I start going sideways.”
She doesn’t say anything. Instead, she keeps watching the crowd reacting to the events in the race we can’t see from our vantage point.
“They thought they got away clean,” I say. “Left us here to die. Never came back to check on the mess they left behind. As far as they know, we’re all dead by now, and Earth is Lanky real estate. Think about how much fun it would be to go after them and help fuck up their little paradise.”
“How many ships did they take with them?”
I think for a moment.
“A Navigator supercarrier. A cruiser. Three frigates, I think. And a destroyer. Along with a dozen freighters from the auxiliary fleet.”
“And that’s not counting what they may have squirreled away in their new home system before the Lankies cut their timetable short.”
“Correct,” I say.
“So we’ll be ludicrously outnumbered and outgunned,” Sergeant Fallon says.
“Almost certainly.”
“Fuck.” She grins. Then she looks back over to the crowd watching the race and lets out an exaggerated sigh.
“Two weeks,” she says. “Maybe three.”
“That’s the plan.”
“Did you talk to the general about this?”
“I did,” I say. “He says it’s up to you, but he gave his permission if you decide to come along.”
“What did you have to leave on the table for that?” she asks with a smile.
“Told him I’d join the Brigade and do training for a year and a half.”
She chuckles and drains the rest of her beverage.
“Man, you must really want to hang your nuts back over the fire.”
Sergeant Fallon chucks the empty bottle aside. It clatters to the concrete and bounces off a nearby barrier.
“Ah, what the hell. I’ve done nothing but whipping these hood rats into shape for the last year. This will be like an adventure vacation for me.”
She sighs again. Then she stands up and pats the concrete dust off the set of her fatigues.
“I’ll be your platoon sergeant, Andrew. As a personal favor. For what you did on New Svalbard, and everything after.”
I suppress the urge to jump up and cheer. Instead, I get to my feet in a dignified manner and merely allow myself a satisfied grin.
“Thank you,” I tell Sergeant Fallon. “I didn’t have a backup plan in case you turned me down.”
“Fuck my soft and squishy heart,” she grumbles. “As if I don’t have enough of my old squad nuggets ordering me around already.”
CHAPTER 14
The Limited Duty Officer Academy at Fleet Station Newport is one of the most taxing schools I’ve taken in my time in the service. It’s only a week of classroom instruction, and there’s almost no physical component involved, but getting lectured on officer uniforms, etiquette, and Fleet history and regulations is hard to endure. I know that while they’re teaching me stuff I mostly know already, my new platoon is getting ready for deployment without me. They already cut down the LDO indoctrination to one week instead of two because of our personnel situation, but it’s still a week I could be spending getting to know my new troops and training with them instead of looking at a holoscreen while some Fleet desk jockey drones on about tropical and cold-weather uniforms and how to handle your fork at a formal dinner.
Most of the new officers at LDO Academy are shipboard specialists. There are only two infantry grunts in my class, a new SI lieutenant and a Fleet Security officer. Whenever you stick a bunch of troops from all over the service into a class together, the grunts will naturally gravitate toward each other, and we spend our off time swapping battle stories and running together to remain in fighting shape. I’ve not been back in a classroom setting in years, and it just reinforces to me that humans weren’t meant to sit on their asses for eight hours a day, especially not combat soldiers.
On the second day at LDO Academy, I get an incoming message on my PDP at evening chow. I check the screen to see an inbound connection request from Major Masoud at SOCOM. I leave my half-eaten meal behind and step out of the mess hall to respond to the call.
“Your SI sergeant and his two junior NCOs are in,” Major Masoud says. “Not a problem. They have the chops for the job.”
“They do, sir. What about Sergeant Fallon?”
“It’s your choice,” Major Masoud says. “And I know Sergeant Fallon’s service record, of course. But she’s HD and barely space-qualified. You want to take an HD NCO on a mission out of system?”
“There’s no better platoon sergeant left in the Corps,” I say. “Yes, I want her to come along. We’ve been in combat together off-world. I assure you that she knows her business. On this planet or any other.”
“Oh, I have no doubt,” Major Masoud replies. “Your pick. You want to bring her, you get her. But your platoon may not be altogether happy with a platoon sergeant from Homeworld Defense, regardless of her reputation in the Corps.”
“I don’t need Sergeant Fallon on my team to make the platoon happy,” I say. “I need her to keep the platoon alive and on the job.”
Major Masoud flashes a curt smile.
“Fine,” he says. “She’ll be your platoon sergeant. But be very careful, Lieutenant. This is an unorthodox platoon composition, to say the least. It’s not a common thing to give your platoon-sergeant slot to an HD NCO with minimal space-warfare training. You may be setting yourself up for circumstances that are beyond your ability to control.”
“Yes, sir,” I reply. “With all due respect, that has been the case ever since I signed my terms of enlistment.”
He looks at me as if he’s considering how to reply.
“Your orders are on the way for Gateway on Monday,” he says. “We have absolutely no time to waste. Prepare yourself, Lieutenant Grayson. This may be the most important operation you’ll ever be a part of.”
He disconnects the link, leaving me to look at the momentarily dark screen of my PDP.
“Aren’t they all,” I say to the battered little device.
My LDO Academy class ends with a fizzle instead of a bang. We’re all experienced former NCOs with a low tolerance for dog-and-pony shows, so there’s no corny motivational ceremony, no formation in dress uniform under the eyes of the academy commander with guidons flapping in the wind and long-winded speeches about duty and leadership. Instead, we have a quick little step-out-and-shake-hands affair that lasts all of three minutes, as if our instructors are fully aware of the fact that we are itching to get back to work after a week of learning stuff that’s of very little importance to the war effort. I say a quick good-bye to my infantry running mates, and we dissolve and head out into the weekend quickly and separately, just the way we arrived. I’m on a shuttle back to Luna not forty minutes after I received my official blessing to go forth and be an officer in the NAC Defense Corps, and I feel that I’ve mostly wasted a perfectly good week.
The shuttle schedules are once again all fucked to hell, so it’s Saturday morning before I get back to Luna and the married quarters I share with my wife.
When I unlock the security pad at the door and walk into the place, Halley is asleep in the bedroom, with the sliding door to the sleeping berth open. I put down my gear quietly and step into the kitchen nook to coax a c
up of soy coffee out of the personal brewing unit on the counter, a small, officer-only luxury perk Halley got from the supply group a few months ago. There are only a handful of coffee capsules left in the little drawer underneath the unit. As shitty as the military coffee is, we’re running short even on that horrible stuff. Too many mouths to feed, not enough to feed them with.
“You’re home,” Halley says in a sleepy voice from the bedroom as I sit down at the kitchen table. The table is piled high with stacks of printouts and other instructor paraphernalia, and I shove it aside to carve out a little bit of real estate for my coffee mug and my PDP.
“Good morning,” I say. “Coffee?”
“Affirmative,” she answers.
I get back up and drop another capsule into the brewing unit. Halley’s mug is on the kitchen counter, half full of cold coffee. I dump her mug out into the sink, rinse it, and place it underneath the brewing unit.
“Almost out of coffee,” I say.
“No need to try and order more.” Halley comes traipsing out of the bedroom, dressed only in her PT shorts and a green flight suit undershirt, her hair tousled and as unruly as her short cut ever gets. She hugs me from behind and kisses me on the back of the neck.
“Look at you,” she says. “Second lieutenant. I’m no longer poaching among the NCO corps.”
“One week of shake-and-bake school,” I reply. “And I think I may have been asleep half the time.”
“Well, we gotta celebrate tonight while we can. Maybe I can talk the handsome corporal in the O Club out of a bottle of fizzy stuff. He’s been checking me out coming and going for weeks now.”
The coffee brewer spits out its finished product into Halley’s mug. I take it out of the brewer and hand it to her. She takes the mug with both hands and sits down at the kitchen table. I sit back down in front of my own mug.
“Want to do breakfast?” she asks. “It’s 0730 already, but if I get ready quickly, we can catch the tail end of morning chow.”
