The Price of Honor

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  No one knew how many Dictymorphs were out there. What they did know was that there were far fewer Klethos warriors than anyone would have guessed, possibly 50,000 or so. If mankind had known that previously, then things might have gone differently between the two races.

  With the Brotherhood’s alliance pulling out of the war effort, that left the human force woefully undermanned. The Federation had 816 ships and three million-plus sailors, 260,000 Marines, five million FCDC troops (who were closer to paramilitary forces), and another million militia. The Confederation had two million legionnaires and 430 capital ships. Combined, the remainder of the UAM forces had fewer than a million men and women under arms.

  While Sky knew that all military and paramilitary forces would do the best they could, it was taken for granted that the effective forces were the Marine, the Confederation’s Batavian Cohort, the New Budapest Rangers, and the Klethos. That was fewer than half a million souls to fight toe-to-toe with the Dictymorphs. The Marines were in surge-mode to increase their numbers, but that would be a long process, one that the Dictymorphs might not allow. Battle-tested Marines were a valuable commodity, and they couldn’t let the Brotherhood remove 9,000 of them, along with the six ships and sailors assigned to them.

  Hell, Sky, you’re getting hard-hearted. “Remove?” Just say it like it is; it’s kill.

  “Remove” or “kill,” however, had the same result. There would be that many fewer numbers to face the enemy.

  But which enemy? Dictymorph or Brotherhood?

  The UAM and the Brotherhood’s alliance were not exactly at war . . . yet. There had been the fighting on Krakow, but since then, it had been mostly posturing until yesterday. That was when the Brotherhood Navy had essentially drawn a plane through space, telling the UAM that they would not allow any military vessel to cross that plane and into Klethos space.

  Sky wasn’t a military expert, but it didn’t take one to know that fighting on two fronts would be disastrous. The Brotherhood and its allies were essentially a match for UAM forces. The Dictymorphs looked to be stronger than any of them, even with the Klethos added to the equation.

  She had no idea what was going to happen. Her focus was on the Dictymorphs, and she had to put all her energy there. She couldn’t ignore, however, the human-against-human conflict that threatened to break out at any minute.

  Her head felt like it was filled with cotton. She knew she needed sleep—sleep, not stim—if she was going to be able to function. She was about to leave the room and head back to her condo when the scene over the projection base shifted. Six Klethos stood back-to-back, facing at least a dozen Dictymorphs who were closing in on them.

  Sky knew the Klethos didn’t stand a chance, and her staying and watching safe and sound from Pittsburgh wasn’t going to change anything. She really should leave and rest.

  Should and would rarely coincided.

  Pulling another Joltz out of her bag, she popped the top and guzzled the nasty-tasting liquid, then settled in to watch the inevitable.

  AEGIS 2

  Chapter 6

  Hondo

  “Sergeant McKeever, you’ve got an untenable gap. Fix it now,” Second Lieutenant Armando Abrams passed on the P2P.

  “Roger that, sir. I’m on it.”

  “You should have been on it five minutes ago when you emplaced Second Team.”

  “Yes, sir, I should have.”

  Shit, Al-Atrash! I’m going to fucking kill you!

  Fuming, Hondo ran back to where Second Fire Team had somehow oriented itself at an angle to the other teams, leaving the gap in the lines about which the lieutenant had just reamed him. This week had been a disaster for Hondo. Nothing had gone right, and he was sure the lieutenant thought he was an unsalvageable shitbird. Ninety percent of all the fuck-ups could be attributed to Second Fire Team, and Hondo had had it with Corporal Silas Al-Atrash, his new team leader.

  To top it off, the corporal was a “real” Marine, someone who’d enlisted before the Grubs changed the Corps. Only one of the other replacement Marines was a volunteer; the rest were draftees, or in Lance Corporal Hanaburgh’s case, a transfer from the FCDC. Hondo had thanked his lucky stars when First Sergeant Nordstrand had told him he was getting Al-Atrash to replace Takimora. Now he wanted to curse those stars.

  Hondo ran past the prone Antman who studiously ignored him and reached the corporal, whose complacent expression changed to one of close to panic when he saw the look on Hondo’s face. Hondo grabbed his team leader by his weapons harness and dragged the man to his feet, his helmet slipping off to bounce on the ground.

  “What the hell are you doing? I gave you your position! Why did you change it?”

  “I didn’t change it, Sergeant! I’m right here,” the flustered corporal managed to get out.

  Technically, he was correct, but Hondo wasn’t going to cut him any slack.

  “And where are you oriented?”

  “Right there,” Al-Atrash said, waving his arm to indicate the direction.

  Hondo took three deep breaths, then asked, “And why did you choose that?”

  “Because that gives us the best fields of fire, Sergeant.”

  God save me from idiots like him.

  “And what is in front of you? Over there?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  Hondo let go of the corporal, bent over, and picked up the man’s helmet, slamming it down on the bewildered team leader’s head so he could pull up his display.

  “Just look . . .”

  . . . you complete fucking idiot, he added in his mind.

  The corporal fumbled with the straps, and Hondo lost patience.

  “Pickerul, stand up,” he passed over the squad net.

  Forty meters away, directly in Second Fire Team’s line of fire, PFC Pickerul stood. She turned and waved at the two of them.

  “So, Corporal, you thought you’d orient so you could light up First Team? Are they the enemy?”

  “Oh, no, they’re not. I just thought—”

  “That’s the problem. You didn’t think. Now take your team and rotate it to the right and tie into First so you don’t kill them while creating a gap big enough for ten Grubs to waltz through.”

  “Ten Grubs? There not enough room for ten—”

  “Can it, Corporal. Ten or one isn’t the problem. You are my fucking problem! Just do it!”

  Hondo spun around and stormed off before he said anything else. He knew he shouldn’t have blown up like that, but his frustration level had peaked. Deep inside, he knew he was at fault, too. He’d seen Al-Atrash position his team, and he should have corrected him at the time. He’d been on the corporal’s ass for the last two days in the field, and he was simply tired of it. With this being a hasty defense that would probably last ten minutes max before the lieutenant put them on the move again, he’d just let it go.

  And got his ass handed to him as a result.

  Not that the lieutenant had called him a “fucking problem,” Hondo ruefully admitted to himself. No, the lieutenant didn’t show much emotion, which made him hard to read. He watched silently, his thoughts hidden, before he spoke out. Hondo didn’t know what to make of the man. All he knew was that he was not impressing his new platoon commander, something he vowed he’d change.

  He pulled up his own display to check on Al-Atrash, and Second Fire Team was slowly shifting into a better position. They were still in motion when the lieutenant gave the order for the platoon to move out again.

  Hondo shook his head.

  Five minutes here, just enough time to catch shit.

  They had another day in the field, and Hondo vowed that was the last time he’d get corrected by the lieutenant if he had to ride Al-Atrash like a broken-down donkey. The team leader wouldn’t be able to fart without Hondo’s OK.

  EARTH

  Chapter 7

  Skylar

  “How was your gazpacho?” Grigor asked.

  “Uh . . . which one was that again?”

>   “The soup? The cold vegetable soup?”

  “Oh, that one?” Sky asked. “I liked it.”

  “I thought you would, based on what you’d told me.”

  Sky had liked it, despite her initial misgivings when he’d described it. She didn’t recognize most of the food on the menu of the small, out-of-the-way restaurant outside the university and a block away from the Carnegie museums. Unlike Grigor, who evidently was a foodie, she tended to eat whatever the fabricator spat out at her, usually one of her limited dozen or so usual recipes. But she’d gone along with the flow, letting Grigor order the entire meal. She’d given him her major dislikes, then sat back, thankful that for once, she was not making policy-altering decisions. For once, she could let someone else take over, even if only for an hour.

  It didn’t hurt that Grigor was some serious eye-candy. He was a low-level bureaucrat in the foreign aid division, and Sky had barely known who he was when he approached her this morning to ask her out on a . . .

  . . . on a date? she wondered. Is this a date?

  She’d been about to give him a perfunctory no when something about the twinkle in his eyes caught her attention, and she hesitated. Somehow, within a minute, he’d changed her mind, and she’d said yes.

  She’d almost changed her mind again that afternoon as her workload piled up, and she’d been about to call and cancel when she realized she needed the time off. She needed a mental break. She had to eat, and she’d head back to the office after dinner, but for a few precious hours, she could escape.

  Grigor picked up the bottle of wine and tipped it slightly over her glass, his eyes questioning her. She started to put her hand over her glass to stop him. One glass was probably enough if she was going to get back to the office, but once again, his eyes stopped her. She took her hand back and nodded. With a satisfied smile, he poured her a second glass.

  Look at that expression. This guy knows his way around a woman, and he’s a little cocky about it.

  Surprisingly, she didn’t care. He was pleasant company and damned fine looking, and if he wanted to play the macho man in charge, then she was willing to let the theater play out. This was only a short diversion, so what did it matter?

  The waiter rolled out a cart on which a steaming black pan, like a huge wok, sat. Inside was yellow rice with various pieces of seafood mixed in: she could see shrimp, crab claws, black mussels (the shells barely opening), and calamari. Fabricators could shape food to look like anything, but Sky had a feeling this was the real deal. An enticing smell wafted over her as the waiter took her plate and started to spoon her meal onto it.

  Sky might not be a foodie, but at least she knew what paella was, even if she’d never tasted it before. The waiter put the plate in front of her, and she couldn’t help herself; she leaned forward and took in a deep sniff, letting the aromas fill her senses.

  “Do you approve?” Grigor asked, after the waiter left.

  Part of her wanted to say no, just to wipe that self-satisfied smirk off his face, but she did approve. The paella smelled wonderful. And it felt good to have someone being so very attentive as to what she might or might not like.

  “I’ll tell you after we finish,” she said, though, with what she hoped was a mysterious-looking smile.

  She was enjoying this, but that didn’t mean she had to just roll over on him. Let him wait.

  “Well, then, a woman who wants to be sure before she commits,” he said.

  Is he flirting now?

  “Then we shouldn’t wait. Bon appetite!” he said, motioning to her plate.

  Sky took a forkful of the rice first, blowing on it as it steamed, then taking a bite. The musty taste of the saffron was interesting—good, but perhaps not quite as good as she’d hoped. She liked it, though.

  A huge shrimp stuck out of the rice on her plate, and she stabbed it, wondering if it was fab or natural, not that she thought she could tell one way or the other. She brought it to her mouth just as her PA buzzed. Putting the fork back down, shrimp still impaled, she glanced at the PA.

  She was barely aware of Grigor’s PA buzzing as the message registered. The Brotherhood dreadnaught Galilee had fired upon the FS Great Bear Lake. The shot had not been powerful enough to destroy the Federation ship, but there had been casualties—many of them.

  Sky rose from her seat, her meal forgotten. Across from her, Grigor rose as well. Without a word, Grigor swiped the payment, and the two left the restaurant to go back down the hill to the ministry headquarters.

  The situation had just escalated.

  AEGIS 2

  Chapter 8

  Hondo

  “So, where’s All Trash now?” BK asked.

  “UA.”

  “Really UA, or just hiding out?”

  “This is the Egg. Where’s he going to hide out in the Armpit of the Federation?”

  “You need to take care of that, Hondo, or it’ll bite you in the ass.”

  She was right, Hondo knew. Newly promoted Sergeant BK Dobbs was one of Hondo’s closest friends not just in the Corps, but anywhere. They’d gone through the shit together, and they’d emerged closer than brother and sister. They were ready ears for each other when needed, despite the vast distance that now separated them.

  “I will. I’ve still got time, though.”

  “Not as much as you think, bro. Shit happens, you know?”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “So, what about the rest? How’s your fuckdick?”

  “Hanaburgh? He’s OK. The guys call him ‘Burger.’”

  “I don’t want no fuckdicks in my squad. The draftees are bad enough.”

  “No, really, he’s not bad. He was a Spec 5 before he transferred, and I think he’ll do fine.”

  “Did he go to Camp Charles?” she asked, naming the Marine Corps Recruit Training Depot.

  “No,” he admitted.

  “Then he ain’t no Marine. Keep your eyes on him.”

  Hondo understood her point. Lance Corporal Robert Hanaburgh had gone through FCDC boot, and there wasn’t a Marine in the galaxy who thought that was as good as Charles. Still, he’d made E5 before he received an interservice transfer to the Corps, accepting a two-rank demotion. Hondo hadn’t too much time with the guy yet, but Ling had good things to say about him. Compared to Corporal Al-Atrash, who’d picked up the nickname of “All Trash,” Hondo would take Burger any day of the week.

  All Trash was going to be the death of him. It wasn’t only that he was incompetent as a leader, but he was also a shirker. He was constantly disappearing, for one. He seemed to know just how long he could push it. Yesterday, Hondo had been on the brink of officially reporting him UA to Staff Sergeant Roy Rutledge, the new platoon sergeant, but he was on bad enough terms with the lieutenant that he didn’t want Staff Sergeant Rutledge to think he couldn’t take care of things.

  Hondo took All Trash, along with Ling and Wolf, on a backpack run last night after chow, ten klicks with 50 kilos on their back, and seeing the corporal puke up his dinner after only three klicks had made it all worthwhile. Wolf was royally pissed to share All Trash’s punishment, but Hondo didn’t care. Maybe he and Ling could whip him into shape.

  “Hell, why’re we talking about my Marines, anyway?”

  “You called me, big guy.”

  “Well, yeah.”

  He had called BK, but not to discuss his issues. The problem was opsec. He couldn’t really come out and ask anything on the line. The comms AIs would shut him off in a nanosec.

  “Well, have you had a talk with Miss Mary-Sue-Ellen-Cheerleader-whatever?” he asked instead.

  “You mean Maria? She’s old news.”

  “Old news? Wasn’t it last week that you were declaring your everlasting love for her?”

  “Ah, that was just lust. Maria was hot as lava but about as smart. No, I gave her her walking papers. I’m with Glenifer, now. She’s the one for me.”

  Hondo shook his head. He had a hard time finding a simple date, but it seemed BK ra
n through love-interests on a weekly basis.

  “She’s the one? Every single girl you take to bed is the one, BK.”

  “No, this time, she really is.”

  “OK, she’s the one, I’m sure now. Then, have you spoken with Jennifer?”

  “Glenifer.”

  “OK, Glenifer?”

  “Not yet. But I will. Soon.”

  And that was the crux of his call. BK was in One-One, First Battalion, First Marines, “America’s Battalion.” Their patron unit is the old US Marines, and they thought they owned the right to be considered the best battalion in the Corps. They were also in the Inner Forces. With the still-limited shooting war started with the Brotherhood alliance, the entire Inner Forces along with three of the four Navy fleets were being deployed to meet that threat.

  One-Thirteen, Hondo’s battalion, was part of the Outer Forces, and they were business as usual—if you could call anything that was happening now “as usual”—still facing the Grub threat. The entire Fifth Division was ramping up, and they’d take over responsibility as the Alert Division in two short months, relieving the Confederation Legion that now held that position.

  Hondo had two months to work out his problems. He’d been worried that BK wouldn’t be so lucky, and now, with her comment about talking to her new love interest, he had that worry verified. The brass knew who was going where, of course, but that was rarely promulgated down to the grunts in the field. So now, there were thousands and thousands of Marines and sailors tying up the lines with calls like this, attempting to gather their own intel before the AIs cut them off. It was a fine line that couldn’t be crossed, but Hondo had his answer. He didn’t know where 1/1 would be going, but he knew it would be leaving Tarawa soon.

  “Hey, your time’s up. How about letting someone else on the line?” someone shouted from behind him.

  Hondo raised his hand and waved. He could have forked out the credit to make a commercial call, but that wouldn’t be cheap. The USO, on the other hand, provided lines for free, ostensibly for calls home. With the galaxy coming apart at the seams, those lines were in constant use.