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An Uneasy Alliance Copyright © 2021 by Variant Publications

Book design and layout copyright © 2021 by JN Chaney

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living, dead, or undead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from JN Chaney.

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Glossary

AGMS: Anti-G Straining Maneuvers

ASAP: As Soon As Possible

BC: the digital currency for most nations

BOCT: Benevolent Order of Crystal Technicians

Bronze Nova: the third-highest medal in the Union military

CCR-32 Didactic Interface: the AI implanted into the Marines’ heads.

Cerrocrete: a very strong futuristic concrete

CG: Commanding General

CO: Commanding Officer

COH: Congress of Humanity, the highest authority of mankind

CST: Combat Simulation Trainer

D-5 Cord: an explosive-saturated cord

DC/Direct Combat: Marines such as infantry, recon mech combat engineers, who will face the enemy in direct combat.

DI: Drill Instructor

Dykstra: a heavy sniper rifle

E-Club: Enlisted Club where the lowest three ranks can hang out, drink, and eat.

ECR: Effective Casualty Radius. The radius from a detonation within which will produce 50% casualties

EMP: Electro-magnetic Pulse. Will shut down all electronics within range

EOE: End of Enlistment

FTL: Faster Than Light, a starship drive

Gold Nova: the second highest medal in the Union military forces

G-Loc: G-force induced loss of consciousness

Groundpounders: slang for infantry

HE: High Explosive

Host: the military arm of the Frisian Mantle, a sometime ally/enemy of the Perseus Union

KIA: Killed in Action

Leaches: Military slang for civilians

M49 Assault Rifle: the standard weapon of the Union Marines. It fires a 2mm high-velocity dart.

M-102 Nellis: the Marine Corps’ main sniper rifle

M-133: a heavy weapon fired by mech Marines

MF-30: a standard issue handgun

MilDes: Military Designator

MilDes Ninety-nine/Ninety-nine: essentially indentured servants in uniform

MMCS: Marine Mechanical Combat Suit

MP: Military Police

MPT: Military Placement Test

NCO: Non-commissioned Officer. The middle two ranks of enlisted Marines

NM: Neuro-mapping

NVD: Night Vision Device

Omega Division/OD: the secret police and spy agency of the Union

Optisight: a flexible optical tube

PAL-3: Personal Armor, Light 3: the standard body armor for an infantry Marine

PAL-5: Personal Armor, Light 5. The standard body armor of recon Marines and Raiders.

Paladin: a large Centaur heavy mech unit, similar to a light tank

PFC: Private First Class

Phoenix MG-3 Incendiary Mine: a small grenade that can burn through most substances

Plastiderm: a synthetic skin that is used in medical procedures

PN: Platinum Nova the highest military award in the Perseus Union military

Poolee: someone who is committed to the Corps but who is not yet been sworn in as a recruit

PQ: Personality Quotient. Used to determine the human characteristics of some AIs

PUNS: Perseus Union Naval Ship

Raider: part of Recon, but with more combat-focused missions instead of surveillance

Recon: Reconnaissance Marine

Riever: a smaller Centaur mech unit, similar to a Marine Raider or reconnaissance Marine.

Secdrones: Security drones used by the police

SNCO: Staff Non-commissioned Officer. The highest three ranks among enlisted Marines.

SOP: Standard Operating Procedure

Syksky: a deep-fried bread stuffed with spiced meat and vegetables

WIA: Wounded in Action

XM-554: a more powerful missile designed to have more punch

XO: Executive Officer, the #2 person in the unit.

Yellowjacket: a shoulder-launched missile

Yellowshirt: a Navy sailor charged with moving people and goods around a flight line.

1

The Centaur paladin crested the rise, its pedestal traversing to bring its cannon to bear.

Staff Sergeant Reverent Pelletier, Perseus Union Marine Corps, darted forward and closed the distance. He raised Pashu, his IBHU, from where she hung from his left shoulder where once his organic arm was connected.

He didn’t have to activate a mechanical trigger of any kind. He merely “thought” it to fire, exactly as if he were pointing. The braided meson beam shot downrange just as the paladin’s cannon zeroed in on Rev. There was a burst of blue as the beam hit the paladin, followed a moment later by a spectacular blast as the enemy armor self-detonated.

<Another paladin, zero-four-three, three hundred, nineteen meters,> Punch, his battle buddy AI, said.

Rev spun around, the first paladin forgotten. At 319 meters, this one was too far for Pashu’s cannon, but Rev was well within the enemy’s range, and he’d have to run too far while exposed to get within his firing envelope before being nailed himself.

He knew his only option was his Morays. He started sprinting to his right as he fired three of his six missiles, each one a quarter-second apart. The paladin reacted, firing its self-defense belt, destroying the first missile and deflecting the second. But before it could fire a second belt, the third missile hit home.

A Moray was never a sure kill against a paladin, but this time, the missile burned through the enemy armor, setting off a catastrophic explosion, the pedestal cartwheeling thirty meters into the air before it came down with a thud and a cloud of dust.

<Riever, two-eight-one, one hundred five meters.>

Rev spun around again. Right in front of him, the cannon muzzle looking huge as Rev could almost look down it, the riever relentlessly closed the distance to him . . . and if he could see down the muzzle, he was within its sights. Rev dove to the ground as the blast fired where he’d been standing an instant before. Firing a Moray from the prone position was likely to drop the missile into the dirt before it could lock on and fly, so with a twitch of his shoulder, he switched Pashu to the 20mm cannon mounted beneath his main gun. Before the rieiver could reacquire him as a target, he fired fifteen jacketless rounds within a period of less than a second.

With every five rounds a tracer, he watched them cross the intervening space and slam into the riever. The thing’s twelve legs collapsed, and the main body smacked into the ground.

It didn’t self-detonate, but Rev knew it was dead. He stood up and brushed the dirt off of his front with his right hand as he surveyed the damage.

“Cease fire, cease fire on Range four-zero-nine.”

Rev turned back to where a door was opening from the underground range bunker. A smiling Daryll, the Sieben tech rep for the Camp Nguyen IBHUs, came jogging up to him.

“How did it feel?”

Rev rotated Pashu, trying to detect the same pulling sensation he’d experienced since the Centaur invasion. There wasn’t anything.

“Pretty good. Feels like when she was brand new.”

“Told you the new secondary harness was going to do the trick. The only thing better was going to be taking out the old and putting in the new model, but that would have taken another two months before you could start using it.”

Which wasn’t going to work, not with Rev’s orders to the Home Guard, the combined force that protected the home system.

“What about when you fired the twenty? How was the recoil?” Daryll asked as he took out his field scanner.

Rev had been using a .50 cal coilgun as his projectile weapon, which packed a pretty good punch in its own right. But the modified 20 mm cannon was finally finished, and the brass thought it best if he showed up at the Home Guard maxed out in firepower. There had been some concern that with the degradation of his support harnesses, the recoil of the twenty would be too strong even with the neodymium suppression system installed.

“Pretty good. Feels fine, in fact.”

“You say the word, and we’ll put back the fifty. You leave in three weeks, right?”

Rev nodded as he swung Pashu through her range of motion.

“OK, then, we’ve still got time. So, what do you think?” Daryll asked.

Having a 20 mm cannon instead of a .50 cal was pretty impressive, and every Marine in history loved things that made a bigger bang. The only downside was that he’d be sacrificing over a hundred rounds in his combat load.

But I sure don’t need to use as many, he told himself as he looked over to the dead riever.

“No, I’ll keep it.”

“I told Doctor C you’d say that, even if your shoulder was screaming at you to go back to the fifty.”

“You’re beginning to understand the Marine mind well, Daryll.”

“Is your shoulder screaming at you, though? Between you and me?”

“No, it really does feel OK.”

Which was a relief. He’d been suffering during the entire fight for New Hope. His original harness had started to break free, and the connection to his shoulder stub hadn’t been designed correctly to take the constant beating and stress he was putting on it. Right now, though, he almost felt human again.

“What about Lieutenant Macek and the other two? They getting these mods, too?”

“All four of you are. Six of you, if you count everyone. You’re going to be a long way from home, so we don’t want anyone to start breaking down like you guys did. We just needed you to test the mods first.”

“So, I’m the guinea pig?”

“Hell, Rev. You’re IBHU Number 1. You’ve always been the guinea pig.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s true,” Rev said with a laugh.

The laugh faded as he surveyed the range again. “You know, I never would have survived if this had been real.”

Daryll shrugged as he ran the scanner over Reb’s shoulder and torso. “Reality wasn’t important. We just had to put you through the paces. ’Sides, with the war over, what were we going to do with all those tin-ass targets? Seems like a waste to just let them sit in a warehouse somewhere. Except that riever there was supposed to blow after you nailed it. I’m going to have to get on someone’s case about that.”

Rev raised his eyebrows in question, then he raised Pashu so that Daryll could see the three remaining missile sleeves.

“The range is cold, Rev,” Daryll said, but without conviction. “You want to risk those rockers?”

“These?” Rev tapped the new insignia on his combat suit’s cuirass. “They sped up my date of promotion so that I’d report into Titan as a staff sergeant. You think they’ll take that away just because a fake riever cooks off? I mean, that can’t be my fault, right?”

Daryll looked back to the bunker. There was a range NCOIC, the Noncommissioned Officer in Charge, there, waiting for them to leave so she could call in the civilian maintenance crew to come, clean up the mess, and prepare for the next training evolution, and she’d know if Rev fired another Moray.

“Besides, the guy in charge of targets must have loaded the riever up with fireworks, and it’d be a shame to waste that effort. Might even be dangerous for them to have to take the charges out. Just thinking of our civilian workforce, you know.”

A wicked smile crossed Daryll’s face. “You think I can stay here with you? I want to feel it.”

“Your funeral.”

“Do it. I’ll take care of the sergeant in the bunker later.”

“Get behind me.”

Rev slowly raised Pashu. If that was a real riever hulk, hitting it again wouldn’t do much. But this was a fake riever, meant to mimic the real thing only in as far as maneuvering, and it had been rigged for a nice explosion.

Daryll stepped behind him, just off his right shoulder, but Rev lowered Pashu.

“What, you changed your mind?” Daryll asked, obviously disappointed.

“That scanner you have. You can use that to test the trigger connections back in the armory, right?”

“Yeah. Why do you ask?”

“Can you fire a live weapon with it?”

“Well, yeah. But what does that matter?”

“You want to kill that riever over there?”

A huge smile almost cracked Daryll’s face in two. “Me? Damned right, I do.”

“OK, scoot around to my left side. Put your arm right along the top of Pashu. I’ll make sure she’s aimed, but you’ll fire. OK?”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

Daryll shifted his position as instructed. His front was hugging Rev’s back, his left arm over Rev’s IBHU as Rev aimed at the riever.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

Daryll pressed one of the controls of his scanner, and the missile fired. It slammed into the hulk an instant later, which went up into a huge ball of flame. The heat rushed back to flow over them. Rev, in his PAL-5 body armor, felt nothing, of course.

He turned around to look at Daryll. If Rev didn’t know better, he’d swear the guy’s hair was singed, but he was smiling to beat the band.

“Well, tin-ass killer, what do you think?” Rev asked.

“Righteous. Totally righteous.”

2

The elderly woman leaned against the desk as she stared at the six Marines, her piercing blue eyes taking each of them apart to their core and finding them wanting. Even the colonel who was in charge of their three-day indoctrination seemed to squirm in his seat.

Finally, she pointed a finger at Ethereal Randigold as if in accusation and snapped, “You. What will be your purpose in the Home Guard?”

Randigold looked around at the others for support, but no one stepped up. “Uh . . . to protect the home system. And the Mother?”

The woman, who had just been introduced as a deputy director of some D-4 subdivision, shook her head. “So, you, a provincial Marine, are going to save the Mother from some threat?” She snorted in disdain.

Rev frowned. He wanted to say that he, as a “provincial Marine,” had pretty much done that not six months ago. As if reading his thoughts, she turned to him, her eyes cold. He wondered what she knew about him. Hopefully, not much.

Luckily, she shifted her attention to Lieutenant Macek. “You. You’ve got a you-ni-ver-si-tee ed-u-cay-shun,” she said, making it sound like an insult. “What do you think?”

The lieutenant cleared his throat, his social arm fingers tapping his thigh. “We’re there to learn to work with soldiers from other nations, so we can work together when we need to. Like fighting the tin-asses.”

“A little better, but not quite right. So, let me explain it to you. The directorate doesn’t give a flying fig if you ever lift a finger in combat or not. What you do as a Marine is immaterial. We’ve got lots of Marines to fight our battles.”

Rev glanced around at the others. Everyone looked confused, so at least it wasn’t just him.

“So, let me lay it out for you. First, you are there to remind the rest of humanity that we’re players in the grand game. If we didn’t have Marines with the ground troops and ships assigned to the home fleet, then we’d be signaling that we are not active participants, that we’re like the Denters, and you see how well that worked out for them.”

Rev grunted. The Denters were a two-planet alliance who had chosen to stay out of the Congress of Humanity, even as an associated nation. During the war, one planet had been scorched by the Centaurs, and the second had suffered tremendous casualties. No one had come right out and said that the fleets which arrived for their defense were late because of their stance, but it didn’t take much imagination to wonder if that was true.

“Second, you are there to make contacts, yes, as the lieutenant just said. But not just contacts. The Navy deploys to the Home Guard with their own ships, the crews all Union. You, however, will be intermixed with soldiers from throughout the galaxy. You are to keep your ears to the ground and pick up whatever you can glean from conversations. During your term of service, you will be debriefed every four months, so remember everything you can. You’ll be getting a class tomorrow with some techniques you can use.”

“Why not just download whatever we hear from our battle buddies?” Randigold asked, her tone showing that she still smarted from the woman’s put down.

To Rev’s surprise, the woman just laughed. “Smart question, girl. The short answer is that your AIs will be limited in their capabilities while in the home system and aboard any vessel under Council orders.”

“Limited?” Randigold asked, almost as if a challenge.

“Limited. Not by choice, but because we had to sign onto the treaty. Before you leave here, your AIs will be somewhat downgraded to meet the requirements.”

“Did you know this?” Rev subvocalized.

<Yes.>

Another short answer. Rev didn’t like the idea of Punch being neutered. Things hadn’t been the same since he’d refused Rev’s order at the battle at Bluebonnet Meadow, but to have his capabilities limited suddenly had Rev feeling somewhat naked.

“So, that’s why you are going to have to learn to remember, to take notes. It isn’t a perfect solution, but some important observations have been uncovered by Marines serving in the Home Guard. Of particular interest, of course, are the karnans you’ll be serving with.”

“What’s a karnan?”

<That is the term the Manifest Destiny Sphere is using for their modified soldiers. Named for the Hindu mythological figure Karna, who had armor—kavach—and earrings—kundalas—incorporated into his body that made him invulnerable, even to the gods.>

Rev frowned. He’d named his IBHU Pashu, short for the mythical Hindu sword Pashupatastra. Just a coincidence, he knew. But the connection to Hindu mythology was a little unsettling.

“And finally, if you are trying to gather information, you can bet that the soldiers from other nations are doing the same. So, you need to learn how to reveal nothing. We don’t need to get into a who can piss the farthest contest. We withhold our . . .” the deputy-director said before trailing off.

“But that’s my normal spiel I give. Looking out at the six of you, I guess that’s no longer the case. We’re showing all of you off. As is the Manifest Destiny with their karnans. So, maybe we are seeing who can piss farther, us or them.”

She seemed a little too pleased with herself over that analogy.

“Now, you six from New Hope and another six will be the center of attention. As will the karnans. Both of you will be under intense scrutiny by every nation of humanity. They’ll want to know if you’re just the modern version of the Genesians, and if you are, what they need to do to shut you down. Aside from that, like I said a moment ago, we do want to see how well you stack up against the karnans, but at the same time, we don’t want to reveal too much about the science of who you are. To them or to anyone else.”

She paused to see if that was sinking in. “You’ll be going through some intensive training on how to interact with the others tomorrow. We’ve got a skilled staff, so pay attention.

“And know this. I’ll be here with you through the entire process. And if I have my doubts, no matter how small, about any of you, I’ll pull you. No debate, no second chances. Nothing.”

She took a deep breath and seemed to relax just a bit. “But for today, we’re going to give you some basic lessons on daily life aboard Titan and Enceladus and the separate and often Byzantine social mores of that beast we call the Congress of Humanity.”

3

“How does it feel?” Rev asked Ten.

“Doesn’t hurt none. It’s just the damned itching that’s driving me batty. And they can’t give me anything ’cause it would interfere with the process.”

As if that reminded her, she started scratching at the edge of the regen chamber that stopped just short of her rib cage. Ten had lost both legs and part of her pelvis during the tanks’ first clash with the Centaurs on New Hope. Rev had been amazed—and happy, of course—that she’d survived, and now he was curious as to the process. Not just because he couldn’t imagine that she was regrowing a good portion of her lower abdomen and legs, but because regen could be in his future. Not for a while, but someday.

With just an arm, his wouldn’t be as drastic. He could wear a regen tube like a cast. Ten was . . . well, her entire lower body was stuck inside that cylinder, and she’d be inside the thing for two years at a minimum.

He leaned closer and lowered his voice to a bare whisper. “If I can ask, how do you, uh . . .”

“How do I take a crap?” Ten said with a laugh. “That’s what everyone wants to know. But enough about me and my medical woes. This is your hail and farewell, Rev. Drink up, man!”

Rev dutifully took a gulp of his beer, noting that she didn’t answer the question. But he’d probably overstepped his bounds, so he didn’t press the issue. Not really his business.

Hussein grabbed a pitcher and refilled his glass. “Where the hell’s Miko?” he asked. “She’s gonna miss the send-off.”

Rev shrugged his shoulders. He was hoping Tomiko would come, but there’d been a distinctive cooling-off between them over the last three months, and that hurt. Tomiko was his best friend. But he hadn’t handled telling her about his orders to the Home Guard well at all, and then, he’d compounded it by . . .

He looked across the table where Malaika was sitting, talking to Orpheus. He’d seen a lot of Malaika over the last three months. A lot. As if feeling his attention, she looked up and caught his eyes. A knowing smile came over her face, and she pursed her lips slightly as if kissing him, before turning back to whatever Orpheus was saying.

Rev managed not to grimace. Not that the time spent with Malaika hadn’t been good. It had been downright great on so many levels. And the night before, his last one on New Hope, had been . . .

Well, he didn’t need to get lost in those images now. In three hours, he’d be boarding the shuttle for his ride to the home system. And if he was honest with himself, he was glad to be leaving. He and Malaika had promised that night, three months ago, that there was no commitment, that there was nothing serious. But since then, Malaika seemed to be forgetting that promise. She’d be getting out of the Marines in another month, and she’d been talking about renting an apartment where Rev could stay when he came back to visit, even asking his advice on furniture and other domestic questions.

Rev had proven himself to be pretty dense when it came to understanding relationships, but it sure seemed like she thought there was something serious going on between them.

Maybe I’ve been thinking that, too.

But even if she was getting out, Rev wasn’t. And if having a relationship while in uniform was hard enough, Rev was going to be half-way across the spiral arm. No, better just make a clean break now for the duration, at least.

He was going to miss everyone, though. He looked around the table. His posse: Bundy—soon to be Second Lieutenant Bundy—Ten, Orpheus, Fyr, the newlyweds Cricket and Udu, and Yancey. All they were missing was Tomiko. Ten, Yancey, and Rev were all a little worse for wear, but maybe St. Chesty had really been looking down on them because they’d all made it through the war in one piece—well, with Ten and him, a little less than one full piece.

Yancey ordered another round of Hausner. The pitcher rose over the bar, then started its journey along the rails hung from the ceiling. It arrived above the table and gently descended.

“Your buddy there sure likes to make the orders and watch them come,” Hussein said.

“Simple pleasures for simple minds,” Ten said with a laugh.

“Hey, not criticizing. It is pretty cool. And everyone seems to like this place,” Hussein said, gesturing at the crowded bar.

He had a point. Leteeka’s had never been the most popular bar, which is why Rev and the posse liked it. Probably in part because of the upgrades, but more likely because not all of the bars in the city had been rebuilt and reopened yet, the place was packed, even on a Wednesday night.

“Well, you and the teams can help keep it going while I’m gone,” Rev said, lifting his glass.

“Deal,” Hussein said, clinking his glass with Rev’s.

If the posse managed to survive the war, Rev’s Raider platoon hadn’t. So many had been lost. Staff Sergeant Montez, Nix, Tanu, Badem, Yazzie, Lieutenant Harisa, McAnt, Gizzy. Joining Rev’s hail and farewell were Hussein, Strap, Porter, Radić, and Doc Paul from Third Team, and Pierson and some newbie whose name Rev had already forgotten from Second Team. Captain Omestori, Top Thapa, and Master Guns Tuala had stopped by earlier to buy the table a round of drinks, give Rev a First Raider Platoon plaque, and wish him luck, but they’d long since left for wherever the SNCOs and officers liked to hang out.

And, of course, Malaika. All to send Rev off. And suddenly, it felt real. These were his friends, his comrades in arms. He was leaving them, and for what? He could have turned down the orders, even if it was the commandant himself who’d decided he should go. He could have refused and waited until he was discharged, then joined his dad with the BOCT, working through his apprenticeship.

Yeah, right, he thought, tapping his social arm on the table. And Pashu? It’s not like they’re going to let me waltz out of here with that kind of weapon.

Right now, his IBHU was crated up and at the spaceport, ready to accompany him to the home system. Whatever he was going to face over the next three years, he was going to be well-armed for it.

Well-armed. Ha! I should tell Punch that.

But he refrained. As was usual now, his battle buddy was quiet, not intruding unless asked a direct question. Things were a little different with him since the invasion. No more jokes, for one. It was as if Rev had dialed back down his Personality Quotient. And now, with him already “neutered” as per the Council’s orders, Rev didn’t know if they’d ever get back to the easy relationship they’d had.

Rev didn’t think it was just the neutering, though. Punch had already seemed more reticent, and the only time Rev had questioned him about it, Punch had assured him that nothing had changed and that he was operating at full capacity. And in tactical exercises, that was correct. But he didn’t seem like “him.” He seemed like a normal AI, programmed to run a household or a manufacturing line.

Add the adjustments to limit his capabilities, and Rev didn’t know what to make of Punch. He’d long ago decided that Punch was more than his helpful battle buddy, and that he probably kept track of Rev and reported that up the chain of command, so directly confronting him was out. He could ask someone else, but he also didn’t want to highlight a potential problem. If Punch was malfunctioning, he knew his orders to Titan would be canc’d.

All told, Rev was a little sad. That was a far cry from the recruit who hadn’t even wanted a battle buddy in the first place.

Bundy stood up and clanged a spoon against his glass before stepping around to stand behind Rev. “OK, folks, listen up. I guess everyone’s here who’s going to be coming.”

Rev’s musing about Punch was snapped, and he stole a glance at the door. No Tomiko.

Punch and Miko. I’m feeling a little abandoned.

“And time’s getting short. Our guest of honor here,” he said, clapping a hand on Rev’s shoulder, “has to be at the spaceport in an hour and a half. Why, you ask? Why would he be leaving our dear home, abandoning his bestest and fantasticalest friends?

“Well, the answer, as you all know, is that Reverent Pelletier, the one-armed wonder who single-handedly—see what I did there? Single handedly?”

There were groans, and several thrown wadded-up napkins bounced off his chest. “Our Rev, who took on the entire Centaur army and sent them packing, has outgrown us. He has a higher calling, in the service of all humankind as a member of the Home Guard.”

He turned off the overly dramatic carnival barker. “Seriously, though, I really wasn’t exaggerating that much when I said he single-handedly defeated the Centaurs. I don’t need to tell you what Rev’s done. In my most humble opinion, there isn’t anyone in the Union Marines, and probably throughout humanity, who contributed more to our victory. And so, while the Union Marine Corps isn’t going to be as capable while you’re gone, all humanity will be stronger.”

“Ooh-rah!” Strap and Radić shouted in unison.

Rev felt his face turning red, and suddenly, he was afraid he was going to have to speak, but Hussein stood up and rescued him with another set of praises. But Hussein being Hussein, he added an only slightly exaggerated story of when Rev, with his famously “delicate” stomach, had thrown up on the battalion sergeant major during null-G training, much to the enjoyment of the rest.

One by one, each of the Marines and Doc Paul stood up and related a small story about Rev, then wished him well.

Malaika was last, and all she said was “You make sure you come home to momma” before she gave him a big kiss on the cheek.

And then, with no one else coming to the rescue, it was time for him to speak. He drained his glass first and stood.

“You guys have pretty much said it all already. Not much I can add.” At that moment, Grover walked into the bar and looked around. Rev waved and motioned for him to join them. “For all of you who don’t know him, this is my brother, Grover. And him being here means my family is out there waiting to take me to the spaceport. So, before I go, I’ll just say I’m going to miss all of you, and I wish you were all coming, too. Every time I’ve been in combat, the thing that kept me going was knowing that I had my fellow Marines around me, covering my six.”

There were several loud ooh-rahs at that.

“That’s about it, I guess. And I’ll see you all in three years, sooner if I can get some leave. Right back here at Leteeka’s, I hope.”

As Rev finished speaking, two bottles of champagne and a tray of clean glasses came zipping over to the table, compliments of the bar. Yancey took over, popping the cork and filling the glasses.

As soon as everyone had one, Bundy stood and said, “To Rev. Kick ass, take names, and by the Mother, show them what Union Marines are made of!”

His farewell party shouted another loud “ooh-rah,” belatedly joined by most of the people in the bar when they heard it. Rev downed his drink, then, with Grover urging him along, started to leave. But it wasn’t that easy. Everyone wanted a hug or a backslap, and Rev went down the line.

Malaika held back until last, and as she came in for a hug, she asked, “You sure you don’t want me to come send you off?”

“Nah. This is a family thing, you know?”

She gave a disappointed frown, then said, “OK, I understand. Well, no I don’t. But that’s OK. Let me know just before you take off. And I’ll get to the USO as often as I can to call you.”

She gave him another kiss, this one on the lips as she hugged him tight.

“Rev, we’ve got to go,” Grover reminded him.

Rev carefully extricated himself from her embrace, gave one last wave to the group, then turned and followed Grover out to the van his dad had rented. He jumped into the back where both Neesy and Kat were gesturing that he should sit between them. Grover joined his parents on the back-facing front seat.

The two girls possessively took an arm each and hugged them tight.

“Do you still need to go to the VGW?” his dad asked.

“No, I stopped by earlier and told Mr. Oliva and Maude goodbye.”

And drank with half of the other VGW members.

The Veterans of Galactic Wars, Post 747944’s meeting house/bar was still heavily damaged, with plastisheeting serving as one wall, but the surviving regulars had already returned to the roost, like the legendary swallows of San Juan Capistrano. Rev had drunk far more than he’d expected to with them, and before he realized it, he’d been signed up as the newest member of the post—three hundred credits for a lifetime membership already taken out of his account.

He’d always assumed that he’d join someday, just not at the moment. But all those old vets could be pretty persuasive when they wanted to be. Once they had their sights locked on him, there was no escape.

“OK, then. Let’s get going,” his dad said.

He told the cab to take them to the airport, then took out a bottle of Griesivoir, the local spirit traditionally drunk for luck. Rev held back a groan. He was already feeling more than a little tipsy, but there wasn’t a way for him to turn it down. At least it wasn’t the rotgut he’d had at the VGW and only a little more potent than the beer at Leteeka’s.

His dad poured a glass for everyone, even a finger for the two girls.

“How do you say it in the Corps? Fair winds and following seas?”

Rev nodded.

“OK, then. To Rev. We’re so proud of you. The Home Guard. Who would have thought you’d come to this, back, what, seven years ago? When you had that traffic ticket? Well, you’ve exceeded expectations by far, and your mother and I—”

“And me, too,” Neesy and Kat yelled out in unison.

“The whole family,” his dad corrected. “We’re all proud of you. Very much. So, if we can all lift our glasses. To Rev. Fair winds and following seas.”

Everyone lifted their glasses. Kat downed hers and held back her grimace while Neesy sniffed hers suspiciously, then took a tentative sip. Her face screwed up in disgust.

“This is nasty!”

“I like it,” Kat said, her voice breaking into a cough.

“You do not, Kat. You’re just saying that.”

“Girls!” their mother said. “Let’s quit fighting. This is the last time you’ll see Rev for a long time.”

“Sorry,” they both said as one.

“You have my seabags? All three?” Rev asked.

“All three,” Grover said. “I put them in the back.

Rev’s dad lifted up the bottle of Griesivoir, eyebrows raised in a question. Rev shook his head. There were no rules about boarding a shuttle while drunk, and civilian shuttles were far easier on passengers than Navy ones, but the less strain he put on his delicate stomach, the better.

“Well, I’ll sure have another.” He filled his and his wife’s glasses.

“Are you going to see lions this time?” Kat asked.

She’d been heartily disappointed when he told her he’d never seen any when he was on Earth. She’d somehow gotten the idea stuck in her head that lions and other animals roamed the entire breadth of the Mother. Rev had to explain that he’d been to South America, not Africa.

“I told you, I’m going to the home system, not Earth herself. I’ll be on Titan or Enceladus. I’ll probably never set foot on Earth again.”

“But if you do, will you see a lion?” she persisted.

“If I do, and if I go to Africa, yes, I promise, I’ll find a lion and send you a holo,” he said, giving up.

“Any word yet on what you’ll be doing?” his father asked.

“No. That’s up to the Congress of Humanity command. Right now, I’m still under the control of the Marines. The moment I enter the home system, I am attached, is how we say it. Totally under the Home Guard.”

“But you said you’re still getting your Marine pay, right?” Grover asked. “And Home Guard pay at the same time?”

“Yes, both,” Rev said.

It was one of the perks of being assigned to the Home Guard.

“Sweet. Making the big credits.”

“Make sure you save that extra money, Rev,” his mother said. “Housing prices are sky-high now. Too many people still living in temporary shelters. You’re going to need a pretty big deposit if you want a home after you get back.”

Rev just nodded. It was easier that way. She had it in her head that he’d be getting out of the Marines upon his return in three years, and he’d want to buy a place near the family’s and settle down. Rev taking Malaika home a few times only added fuel to the fire.

The talk faded into generalities until the van pulled in front of the terminal ten minutes later. They piled out, and Rev threw his three seabags onto a cargo cart. He got his retina scanned, and the cart took off to deliver his bags to the shuttle.

“Well, I guess this is it,” Rev said.

And then it was time for farewells again. Grover slapped him hard on the back, telling him to make New Hope proud. Kat had tears in her eyes, but she whispered, “You take a holo with a lion, OK?”

Rev laughed. “If I see one, I will.”

Neesy was solemn, holding out a hand, but as Rev started to take it, she changed that into a hug. His mother’s hug was longer, and she kept telling him to take care of himself and to call back once he got there.

Then it was time for his father, the man who’d come into his mother’s and his life and created a family, raising Rev as if they were blood. They shook, arms clasped, hand to forearm.

“I’m so proud of the man you’ve become,” he said before pulling Rev into a hug. They held it for ten seconds before they broke, and Rev could see tears glistening in the older man’s eyes.

He wasn’t doing much better. He had to choke back his own tears as he looked at his family. “I’ll try and come back on leave. No promises, but if it’s possible, I will.”

And then it was time to go. He waved as he started into the terminal. He turned at the gate, waving one last time, then faced the scanner. Cleared, he stepped inside.

Swansea’s civilian spaceport only had four gates. Rev had never been inside the terminal before, so he stopped just past the main entrance to orient himself. Gate Three was off to the right.

“I guess this is really it, Punch,” he subvocalized. “Next stop, the home system.”

<The next stop will be Torrington Station, where we will transfer to the Nightingale Rexar for the trip to Titan Prime.>

Rev rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t being literal there.”

<Understood.>

That’s all. “Understood.”

Rev didn’t know if this reticence was more of the same or if it was part of the neutering process. He knew Punch’s ability to record had been limited but hadn’t been told exactly what was done to his battle buddy from a security standpoint. Rev was going to be out of the Union, and allies against the Centaurs or not, not everyone was a friend. Punch had a lot of knowledge that other nations might find useful. Whatever had been done to him could be adding to his battle buddy’s seemingly reserved personality. As bad as Punch’s sense of humor could be at times, Rev missed that version of him.

With a sigh, Rev headed to the security station leading to his gate when a voice called out, “Rev! Wait up!”

He turned, and to his surprise, Tomiko, in uniform, was hurrying up to him.

“Miko. What are you doing here?”

She frowned as she came to a stop in front of him. “I came to say goodbye.”

“But . . .” he started, looking back at the main checkpoint where people were scanned to confirm they were passengers and could enter. “I mean, this is passengers only.”

Her frown shifted into a wry smile. “Marines are held in pretty high regard right now, and I sort of, you know, exaggerated our relationship to get inside.”

“You mean, like you said we were . . .”

“Engaged. Yeah, I know. But don’t worry. I’m not being some crazy stalker.”

“Miko—”

“Just joking. It’s only that . . . Look, I haven’t been a good friend these last three months.”

“It’s OK. I understand.”

She held up a hand, palm out, and shut him down.

“It’s true. Back at Leteeka’s, when you dropped that bomb about going to the Home Guard, I took that as an affront.”

“I should have told you first.”

“No, you shouldn’t have. I mean, you could have, but you didn’t have to. Whether you were going to be discharged or not, whether you were going to the Home Guard or not, those were your decisions, not mine nor anyone else’s.”

Which rather reflected his own thinking that night. But he didn’t say that.

“It was just, you know, with Udu and Cricket getting hitched, with Ten all messed up, and then with all of us convicts getting discharged, well, the posse was going to split up. I know we don’t mean for that to happen, but sure as shit, it will. And the posse, and the teams, too, they were my family. So, I thought that maybe you and me, we could still hang on . . .”

She trailed off.

“I understand, Miko.”

She gave a wry laugh and said, “Yeah, you probably do. Doesn’t make it right. So, I wanted to come and tell you that I was wrong, and I apologize. You’re gonna be a fucking amazing Home Guard trooper, and I wish you all the best.”

“Why didn’t you come to my hail and farewell? You could have told me that there, and I’d have loved for you to be with us.”

“I’m not sure. Ten and Yancey, they’ve been pretty pissed at me for how I reacted. Bundy lectured me, too. I didn’t want to face them.”

Rev raised his eyebrows in surprise. He hadn’t realized the others had noticed anything. He shouldn’t have been surprised, though, now that he thought of it. They were all too close not to see that something was up.

“Well, I’m glad you came here,” Rev said. “Could I get a hug, do you think?”

She smiled—a real Tomiko smile, this time—and stepped into him. He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed with his right arm. She responded. She may be small, but her augmented arms were just as strong as his organic arm, and she gave as good as she got.

The loudspeaker announced that his shuttle would commence boarding in fifteen minutes, and Rev slowly broke the embrace.

“That’s uh . . .”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Tomiko said, stepping back.

But he didn’t want to say goodbye quite yet.

“So, what are you going to be doing? I could ask my dad about getting you into the BOCT, if you want,” he said, the first thing that came to his mind.

“Oh, yeah. I guess you didn’t know, ’cause I haven’t told you. I put in for a retention.”

“What? A retention? As in staying in the Corps?”

She suddenly looked shy, toed the ground, and said, “Yeah. Why not? I mean, it’s not like I’ve got a lot to go back to as a leech. Yancey put in his papers, too.”

Rev knew about Yancey, but Tomiko asking to stay in was a surprise. Almost all of the convicts, those conscripted due to criminal behavior, were slated to be released. Being conscripted was too close to being drafted for most people, and with the war over, they wanted to put the fact that people had been involuntarily forced into the Navy and Marines behind them.

But quite a few of the surviving convicts had found a home in the Corps, and large numbers had put in papers to be retained. With the Corps being downsized, Rev didn’t know how many of those requests were going to be granted.

“Well, I have to think you’d be a good candidate. You’re a Raider. Think of all the augments.”

She winced, and Rev knew that once again, he’d put his foot in his mouth. Along with the convict issue, as the degree of augmentation done to Marines in various occupational specialties was becoming known, there was significant pushback to that. Too many years of government propaganda against the Genesians and Deimers had an effect, and the idea that discharged Marines with significant augments would be walking among them was something that too many didn’t want to entertain.

“I think they’ll take you, is all I meant.”

“We’ll see.”

Another announcement blared over the loudspeakers, telling passengers to move to their gate.

“Well, I should be going. It’s been great to see you again, and I’m glad you came.”

“I’m glad, too,” she said, a huge smile taking over her face. “It’s a real load off my mind. You . . . you take care of yourself. Don’t let any of those Mad Dogs or Frisians give you shit. None of the regular Marines, either. You’re Staff Sergeant Reverent Pelletier, damn it, and none of them can hold a candle to you.”

They came together for one more hug before Rev had to leave. But as he walked up to the final security gate, he was feeling much, much better than he’d been only a few minutes before.

4

To Rev’s surprise, he never made it to Titan’s surface. He’d been met as he left the Nightingale Rexar at Titan Prime, the moon’s main port, by a fellow Union Marine staff sergeant, who escorted him to the USO for a quick lunch before catching a military shuttle to Enceladus.

“What’s it like?” he asked Staff Sergeant Liam Patrice as they settled in their seats for the ten-hour flight to the smaller moon.

“What? Enceladus?”

“No. I mean, yes, that, too. But the Home Guard.”

“It sucks.” He looked around to see if anyone overheard him, then in a quieter voice, said, “Not really. At least not all the time. I mean, the training is good, but dealing with the Mad D . . . I mean, dealing with all the others, who all do things differently, most who look down on you, well, that can get annoying.

“And the bureaucracy gets in the way of everything. Take you coming in. We’ve got our own stations around the E, but you had to get shipped into Titan Prime because that’s the way they do it. And I had to fly out there, wait on my ass for you to come in, then we take this tramp back to the base. To top it off, in a couple of hours, one of your New Hope lieutenants is coming in, so Captain Calmarche has to come out and escort him in, as if I can’t play tour guide to a staff sergeant and lieutenant at the same time.”

That was probably a valid beef. It seemed a little ridiculous to Rev, at least. But he’d been warned during his indoctrination that the massive creation that was the Council was mired in a bureaucratic morass. Byzantine, the deputy-director had called it. It was supposedly the only way to function with over three hundred nations, independents, and stations as members.

“What about the other . . . uh, what do we call everyone we serve with?”

“Troopers. We’ve got soldiers, Marines, militia, centurians, the Frisian color-masters, guardsmen, soldats, Legionnaires, guardians, vojniks . . . yeah, the fitafitas from Uafu—tough sons of bitches, you’ll see. Anyway, we’ve got a shitload of different types here, so the generic term is just troopers.

“They told you about the ranks, right?”

Rev nodded. “We’re all based on the old USA Army ranks from what I understood.”

“Yeah. Doesn’t affect us much. No more lance corporal and gunny. PFC is an E3 instead of a lance coolie, and private is E1 and E2—not that we’ve got any E1 privates here, and not many E2s, either. You and me, we’re still staff sergeants. Warrants and officers are all the same. You’ll still wear your rank insignia, but you’ll get a colored rank tab to put under it so everyone can see what you are in Home Guard ranks.”

“I guess the Fries like that,” Rev said.

“Hate it. The colors aren’t the same. So, for them, they’ve got to wear the official colors over their color-master whatever.”

A trundlebot came down the aisle with snacks. Rev had eaten three burgers and tots at the USO, so he just took a Coke.

“What sucks the most, though, is that when the home system got invaded, we sat back with our thumbs up our asses. The navies took it to the tin-asses while we hunkered down in the bunkers. Lost a lot of us, but we never fired a shot.”

“That would suck,” Rev said. “But with them pounding Titan, I’d think it would have to be a Navy battle.”

Patrice said, “We knew that. But when the bastards landed on the Mother, we were geared up and ready to go. No matter our differences sometimes, that had us all banded together. But what do they do? They send in Mad Dogs and Marine Raiders. I mean, what the fuck? We’re supposed to be the best, right? And we’re here already. So why bring in anyone else?”

Rev shifted uncomfortably in his seat, glad that the Marines didn’t have special patches or insignia for their direct combat specialties, like the Union SEALS or Frisian Army Commandos had.

“Not that there was much fighting with them coming to surrender. But it was a big dis to all of us.”

“Coming to surrender” was not how Rev would have described it. Maybe in a sense, but they’d come within losing two of their Threes to destroying Earth.

“How much longer do you have with the Home Guard?” Rev asked, hoping to change the subject.

“Me? Hell, you’re my relief. I’m gone in two weeks, and I can tell you, it couldn’t be too soon. No, no more of the Council bullshit. No more blue pauldrons to make us stand out like targets. I’m back to New Mars and the Fighting First. I saw a lot of action there before I came here. Holbert, you know. I was there. Deep in the shit, that one was. Not like what you provincials had to face. No insult intended,” he added as if he just remembered that Rev was a provincial.

Rev was vaguely aware of Holbert, and nothing he’d heard indicated that it had been a particularly bad fight. Not as bad as Preacher Rolls, certainly. But the other staff sergeant’s tone was such that he expected Rev to know all about the battle there. The more time Rev spent in the Corps, the more he wondered how closely aligned the planets in the Union really were. He knew that the regular Corps looked down upon the provincial Marines, but did they know what the New Hope Marines, for example, even did during the war?

Staff Sergeant Patrice and Rev were both Union Marines, and the other Marine was confiding in him now as an equal. But if they were back within Union space, would he be acting the same? Rev would bet against that.

Patrice leaned closer and, in a conspiratorial whisper, said, “Speaking of provincial units, and you being from New Hope and all, what’s the scoop about these IBHO Marines we keep hearing about. They said some came from your planet.”

“IBHU.”

“What?”

“IBHU Marines. Not IBHO. Integrated Bionic Hoplological Unit Marines.”

“OK, IBHU. What’s the deal with them? I heard some of them and some of the Mad Dog super-soldiers are coming to the Guard. Are they really that good?”

Rev didn’t know what to say. He looked at his left arm, all bright and shiny. It should be a dead giveaway. The presence of IBHU Marines was no longer a secret. Hell, Pierson and Tsao had been paraded around the Union to show off their Platinum Novas.

He took his right hand and pointedly tapped a forefinger against his social arm.

“What?” Patrice asked, not putting the dots together.

“I have a prosthesis.”

“Yeah. So?” Patrice asked. “Lots of folks have prostheses. Couldn’t regen until the war was over. Doesn’t mean you’re going to have a problem with that in the Home Guard.”

Rev sighed, ready to give up, but something about his fellow staff sergeant was rubbing him raw. He didn’t need to be making any enemies in the Guard, especially with his fellow Union Marines. But the “Not like what you provincials had to face,” still stung.

“An IBHU Marine is someone who lost an arm and has been fitted with the weapons system.”

“OK, so what does . . .”

Rev could see understanding come over his face.

“Yeah, I’m one of those IBHU Marines coming to the Guard. I’ve got seven tin-ass kills to my name, one before I lost my arm.”

The staff sergeant’s mouth dropped open, and he started to stammer out something, but Rev cut him off.

“And about the Mother? Yeah, I was there, too. You see, they wanted the best of the best to protect her, not some garrison Marines.”

That last dig was unfair. Patrice had faced combat, and he had to be good in order to be assigned to the Home Guard. It wasn’t his fault they were never ordered into battle. But Rev didn’t care. At least not at the moment.

He faced forward, leaned his seat back, and closed his eyes as if taking a nap.

It was a long, quiet, nine-and-a-half hours to Enceladus.

5

Rev stopped at the top of the steps and looked out over the famous Enceladus Commons. It was parklike, with the Roosevelt Stand, thirty soaring, 200-meter tall redwoods almost reaching the dome.

“Yeah, they took my breath away, too, the first time I saw them,” a subdued Patrice said. He’d been quiet for most of the flight over and going through immigration at Trieste Station. This was the first thing he’d said that didn’t have to do with getting Rev to the base.

Rev had seen holos of the stand before, of course, but seeing them just a klick away was breathtaking. With Enceladus’ lower pseudogravity, the trees had grown immense over the last nine hundred years, far outstripping their brethren down on the Mother.

The Commons had been the moon’s first dome. As the population had grown and the undergrounds developed, it had shifted from a crowded scientific community into a beautiful gathering place for the moon’s inhabitants.

“We can grab a shuttle to the station if you want. Or we can walk.”

“Walk,” Rev said immediately.

“Watch the steps. They can be tricky for newbies.”

Rev had been about to bound down the steps, but he heeded the warning. Enceladus’s natural gravity was about 1/10th of one percent of Earth Normal, barely enough to feel. The original humans to live in it had been limited to three-year tours where rigorous exercise was de rigueur to maintain muscle mass.

It wasn’t until the development of commercially feasible large-scale diamagnetic fields that people could live their entire lives on the moon if need be. With the public fields set at 70% Earth Normal, people still had to exercise or spend time in localized areas with higher pseudogravity.

Every planet Rev had been on had been close to Earth Normal, and Asteroid 6-067-442 was essentially Null-G, so this was something new to him. And for the moment, Rev felt like he could jump to the Roosevelt Stand—and he’d have probably stumbled and landed on his face if he had tried to bound down the stairs. So, he’d appreciated the warning.

He carefully descended the wide stone steps and went into the main area. Flowers bloomed in profusion. A tiny buzzing sound caught his attention, and he turned to watch a hummingbird, its iridescent purple throat flashing in the lights, hover over a flower, taking in the nectar. He stopped for a moment, wondering how the lower gravity affected eons of hummingbird evolution.

Patrice led him down curving paths crowded with people. Some seemed on a mission, head down as they walked. Others seemed to be just out for a stroll. Small alcoves with plants screening most of what was inside had couples sitting on benches. Rev tried to avert his eyes, giving them privacy.

Rev was disappointed that they didn’t head for the redwoods but rather off to the left. He’d seen redwoods before. Tall Trees Provincial Park had been one of his favorite places on New Hope as a kid, but those were saplings compared to the ones in the Commons.

The memory clouded his mood. It was above the park, where the Spizzo River started down from the high plains, that Prestor Nix and Tubba Badem had been killed.

Come on, Reverent. The past is the past. Move on.

He was a little more somber as they wended their way through what would put any botanical garden on New Hope to shame. Even the aromas seemed more intense. He wondered what combat engineers and sappers, with their augmented sense of smell, would think of the place.

On a whim, he switched his own sight to ultraviolet. He tended to avoid it as a matter of course as it made him a little queasy, and with his low-light capabilities, he’d never found the need. But as soon as he did, the flowers took on an entirely new aspect. It was as if they were all beaming beacons, directing the hummingbirds and bees to the sweet nectar.

Too soon, Patrice led him to an entrance to the underground. People were streaming in and out, and the two Marines descended at least a hundred and twenty-five meters down, passing two other levels before Patrice led him off the escalator.

Patrice looked up at a large board. “Three minutes for the next train. Track Two. Move it, Pelletier.”

Rev followed his fellow staff sergeant as they hurried past hundreds of people going about their daily business. There were more people than Rev had expected. Everyone on the moon was either working for the Council or providing services to it.

They reached a small gate manned by two soldiers—troopers, Rev reminded himself—dressed in uniforms Rev didn’t recognize. They watched as the two Marines leaned into the retinal scanners, then waved them through. They sprinted the last twenty meters and into the train ten seconds before the doors whispered closed.

Patrice leaned back as the train lifted off the rails and started forward, so smoothly that Rev could barely feel any apparent motion.

“Next stop, Fort Nkomo, Pelletier. Your home away from home for the next three years.”

* * *

“What do you think?” Second Lieutenant Milei Macek asked Rev.

“Not much to see so far. Like being on a ship, sir.”

Fort Nkomo was entirely underground, the entrance level two hundred meters below the surface. It had taken two direct hits during the Centaur—they weren’t supposed to call it an invasion anymore, but Rev was damned if he knew what the politically accepted phrase for it was. It had taken the hits, but except for some surface comms gear, it hadn’t suffered a single casualty.

It was home to the Home Guard’s Second Brigade—what the Marines would call a regiment. First Brigade was on Titan, while Third was at Fort Willis on the far side of the E, as some people stationed on the moon seemed to call Enceladus.

Being underground, it really was like being on a ship. A big ship, true. In the six hours he’d been there, he hadn’t seen a fraction of the place. But it had the same passages and decks that wouldn’t look out of place on any large ship.

The lieutenant lowered his voice to almost subvocalization. “You met any of the regulars?”

Rev knew he didn’t mean those Marines, about a dozen of them, who weren’t IBHU Marines. They might or might not be regular Corps. Some could be provincials like the two of them. The lieutenant meant the three IBHU Marines sitting in the back.

It was possible that they merely had prosthetic arms. Staff Sergeant Patrice had indicated that some of the troopers in the Guard had prostheses, and Rev had seen one with a prosthetic leg on the way to this brief. But as the saying went, “It takes one to know one.” Rev knew the three, a gunny and two corporals, were IBHU.

“Not yet.”

“I guess we will soon enough,”

Rev and the lieutenant were the first two of the New Hope IBHU Marines to arrive. The first two New Hope anything, from what Rev could see from the name tags they’d all been issued as they checked in. The other four New Hope IBHUs would trickle in over the next three weeks.

Rev barely knew the lieutenant. They’d met a couple of times, and they both had the same problems with the IBHUs working loose during combat. But they’d immediately gravitated toward each other, two New Hopers. It shouldn’t be like that, Rev knew. They were all Marines, and those three in the back were IBHUs, just like them. But still, he and the lieutenant were hunkered together to the side of the briefing room as if everyone else was some sort of enemy.

“What about your berthing? You get a beehive-thing, too?” the lieutenant asked.

“Yes, sir. You, too? An officer?”

“Yeah. Sure did get one.”

Rev’s berthing might as well be a cell in a beehive. He was in a space with about thirty other hexagonal cells all linked together. The front was a door that was programmed for his retinal scan. It was clear when unoccupied but could be darkened for privacy. About three meters long, it was only two in diameter. In the front was a small space with a chair, desk, sink, and holoscreen. The back was a bunk with a shelf above and storage below.

It was clean and modern, but it rather sucked, in Rev’s humble opinion. The head and showers were at the end of the common space. The lounge area between the two double banks of cells was better, but it didn’t make up for the fact that he was in a coffin. Rev had hoped for something a little more comfortable, even a small stateroom. He was a SNCO now, after all. But he hadn’t been too surprised when he saw it. What did surprise him was that the lieutenant, an officer, had the same kind of thing.

“The damn thing is just three meters long. The shitter’s right there by the sink, too. I can brush my teeth and take a dump at the same time.”

Of course. Three meters long and a private head inside the space? My understanding of the military has not been shaken. Officers get what officers get, and we get what we get.

Whatever else the lieutenant might have been about to say was cut off when someone shouted, “Attention on deck!”

Rev jumped to his feet. Too hard. His feet left the deck a good ten centimeters, and he had to spread his arms to regain his balance. Judging from the laughs, he wasn’t the only one.

“At ease, at ease. Take your seats.” A Union Marine Brigadier General, followed by a civilian and a colonel of some sort, entered the space and made her way to the front.

“I’m Brigadier General Platte, the senior Marine on the E. My assigned billet is as the J3-Alpha, which means I handle ops for the two brigades here. But what I’m doing today is welcoming you here to the Home Guard. You are going to have a rewarding three years here, but only if you’re here with the right frame of mind. We aren’t here as Marines, as much as I hate to admit that. We are here for the greater good of humankind. We’ve just survived the greatest existential threat humanity has ever faced, and the only reason we’re still around talking about it is because we banded together, without regard for where we were from.”

Like Frisians and us almost coming to blows over an asteroid?

“And that, Marines, is what we’re doing here. It’s a big galaxy and even a bigger universe. Who knows from where the next threat will come? But I can tell you this. It will come. Maybe not today. Maybe not during your tour here. But it will come, and the tactics and cooperation you will forge here will be the basis of how we will turn back the next threat.”

She turned to look at the civilian. “Right, Vice-counsel?”

Geeze, is everyone a deputy-this or vice-that?

“Right, General.”

“OK, now that I’ve said what I have to say, let me make one thing perfectly clear. You’re going to be swearing an oath in a bit, an oath to the Congress of Humanity. That’s a real oath, and your loyalty has to lie with it. If, the Mother forbid, the Council has to take action against the Union, you will be required to obey orders and take that action.”

There was an outbreak of protests, and the general waited them out. “I hope it never happens. It has before, just not with the Union, but it could. Even so, damn it, you’re still Union Marines. Every other trooper here will be watching you, dissecting you. Some, more than others,” she said, glancing at the three IBHUs in the back, then to Rev and the lieutenant. “So, you will deport yourself as Marines at all times, doing nothing to besmirch the title. There will be NO incidents of any kind. Am I making that clear?”

There was a weak ooh-rah. She rolled her eyes and repeated, “Am I making myself clear?”

This time, the ooh-rah shook the space.

“That’s better. Just understand this. Three years isn’t much. If you have a problem with drink, then maybe you’d better go on the wagon. If you screw around too much, then weld those zippers shut. If you like to fight, then zip tie your hands behind you. Get my drift?”

“Ooh-rah!”

She looked at each one of them, then smiled. “It really is a good tour. Just don’t make us sorry we sent you here. And with that . . . oh, you can wake your battle buddies now.”

They’d put their battle buddies to sleep before leaving new Hope, and Rev was surprised how relieved he was to wake up Punch.

“You with me?”

<Awake and as fully operational as I am currently programmed to be.>

Rev frowned. He’d have to get to know just what was different with his battle buddy now.

“So, with that, I’ll have the vice-counsel say a few words.”

The man, in a natty dark blue ribbon-collar suit and CoH-blue shirt, stood and moved in front of the Marines.

“I am Assistant Vice-counsel for Military Personnel Screening and Acquisitions Djell Mortensen, and let me officially welcome all of you to the Home Guard. As General Platte said, I think you are going to have a rewarding tour here as the premier military force throughout humanity . . . and as it seems with the defeat of the Centaurs, in the galaxy.”

He waited expectantly with a sly smile and seemed taken aback when no one laughed.

“Uh, anyway. This is an opportunity for you to serve a greater good than pure national interests. But, make no mistake, you will be learning, absorbing from your fellow troopers, and that will not only help forge bonds with troopers from other services, but it will give you new insights when you return to the Alliance.”

The general pointedly coughed, and the assistant vice-counsel looked about confused until it dawned on him what he’d just said. “Oh, I’m sorry. Union. Perseus Union. I don’t want to make that mistake again in a room full of Marines, not if I want to make it to my next meeting.”

If he thought that would get a laugh, he was again mistaken.

“Well, well. Onward and upward. Where was I? Oh, OK.” He paused a couple of seconds to gather himself. “Like I said, you can learn things here that can benefit your Marine Corps, so please, go into this with an open mind.

“But, you may ask, with the war over and humanity at peace, what will there be for the Home Guard to do?”

He’d slipped into a pattern that Rev figured was because he’d said the exact same spiel hundreds of times over the last several months. His mistake with the Alliance-Union threw him off-balance, but now he was slipping back into his rhythm.

“The Scutum-Centaursian War had one benefit. It brought all the nations, territories, and multi-galactals together, united as one, for the first time in centuries. However, there are and have always been outliers, those scum who prefer to live outside of the norms of civilization.

“With the armies, navies, and police forces of humankind focused on the alien threat, that meant that these scum crawled out from under their rocks to pursue their own selfish goals. Since the year before the war, criminal events have risen by an astounding 678%.”

Rev shook his head in shock, wondering if he’d misheard.

“Is that right? Almost seven hundred percent?”

<That is correct from the data I have access to.>

“These events include but are not limited to piracy and mass kidnapping, but also armed takeovers of stations and resources such as mines and manufacturing facilities.”

“And now the multi-galactals want us to take them back,” the lieutenant whispered out of the corner of his mouth.

“We will clean up these dregs of humanity. If we could defeat the Centaurs, we can mop up these criminals. Most of the clean-up will be relegated to the local forces, but there will be needs for a highly trained, highly capable force to react to emergent situations where lives are at stake or for particularly difficult missions. While the major forces—including the Union Navy and Marines, of course—can handle most situations, the criminal elements have largely taken over areas where local forces are not as capable.

“To meet these needs, the Home Guard is transitioning. We will be adding another brigade over the six months, and that will allow us to forward deploy units, ready to react where needed.

“What does that mean for you? Well, I’m sorry to say, you will not spend the next three years in the Fort Nkomo Resort, with all its natural beauty.”

This time, there were chuckles, and the assistant vice-counsel gave a smile of relief.

“We are working out the deployment schedules now, but each of you can expect to spend between one and one and a half years deployed, being the tip of humanity’s spear. I have full confidence that you will reflect the Council’s mission of serving humanity and make the Union proud of your contributions.”

He stepped back and turned to nod at the general.

“Attention on deck!” the general said.

Rev stood to comply, making sure his feet didn’t leave the deck this time.

“On behalf of the Council General, I will now administer the oath of office. Please raise your right hand,” the assistant vice-counsel said.

“I, state your name.”

“I, Reverent Pelletier . . .”

“Do solemnly swear . . .”

“Do solemnly swear . . .”

“To support and defend humanity under the guidance of the Council General, against all enemies, alien or domestic, foreswearing allegiance to my national origin, tribal affiliation, family, or any other social or religious entity . . .”

Rev hesitated at that. He was briefed that he had to put the needs of the Congress of Humanity first, even over those of the Union, but to foreswear allegiance to his nation? He hadn’t known that was required.

He stumbled through the phrase, and he wasn’t the only one to falter.

“I will obey the lawful orders of those appointed over me and perform my duties to the best of my abilities.

“I give this oath freely, of my own will, and without mental reservation and under my personal bond as a citizen of humanity.

“I do so swear.”

“I do so swear,” Rev intoned along with the rest.

“Congratulations, troopers,” the vice-counsel said, a smile breaking out across his face. “You are now a duly recognized member of the Congress of Humanity’s Home Guard.”

6

“I think you’re gonna like this,” Daryll said.

“No more duct tape?” Rev asked, taking care not to call it “duck tape.”

He’d made that mistake on the Alacrity when they were trying to jury-rig him an EVA suit, only to be corrected by a sailor.

“No, no duct tape,” Daryll said with a laugh. “But this will work.”

Rev had been overjoyed when he found out that Daryll was being sent to the Home Guard as a contractor—head of IBHU maintenance. At least he was a friendly face among a sea of strangers. Lieutenant Macek, too, but Rev had barely met the officer before departing New Hope. He wasn’t a friend like Daryll.

It would get a little better in four days with Randigold scheduled to arrive, and there were the other three IBHUs coming, but for the moment, Daryll was his only anchor to New Hope.

He’d only been on Enceladus for two days now, and he hadn’t even checked into his unit, but from the contact he’d had with other troopers and support staff, he wasn’t sure he’d ever fit in. They might all be homo sapiens, but these people were not Union.

“Well, then. Let’s get you in this.”

The CoH combat EVA suit, the OCR-60—known as an “Oscar”—was the issued vacuum suit for Home Guard troopers. Except for cases such as Rev’s with his IBHU, as much as possible in the Guard was standardized in combat, from weapons to field uniforms to assault kits. It made sense from a logistical standpoint, but that meant learning new equipment before being able to join a unit.

The only things a trooper kept of their home service issue were their combat armor and their dress uniforms, but even with the dress uniforms, that wasn’t complete. Each trooper was issued a CoH-blue ballcap—hence the “blue-hats” nickname given to Home Guard troopers.

Rev’s Oscar looked more martial than the Navy EVA suit he’d worn on the asteroid. It screamed danger, even when, in Rev’s case, it was missing the left arm. He stepped up to the opening in the front of the suit, twisted, and pushed himself up and in. It took a bit of poking to get his right arm in, but as it slid down his sleeve, the suit adjusted to his body, connecting the contact points.

The Union EVA suit connected through the jack at the base of a sailor or Marine’s neck. Given that jacks were not universal throughout the galaxy and some troopers from various militaries didn’t have any, the Oscar had a series of sensors that read the electro-muscular pulses of the wearer and magnified those into movement.

“Hey, I’m not getting a green light,” Rev told Daryll.

“Not surprising. You’re missing an arm. So, let’s take care of that.”

Daryll pulled in the hoist. It looked like the same Sieben hoist he’d had back at Nguyen. Rev stood still as the hoist guided Pashu in and slipped her into Rev’s sleeve.

<IBHU connectors all green.>

“Thanks, Punch.”

Rev flexed Pashu, extending her and rotating her at the shoulder. This was the first time he’d worn her since arriving, but the trip hadn’t seemed to affect her.

“Can you hold still for a moment? I can’t seal this up if you’re gonna knock my head off.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

He dutifully held still as Daryll picked up a strip of copper-colored metal, about four centimeters wide and possibly seventy-five centimeters long. He folded it around Rev’s sleeve, not on Pashu herself, before taking out a mini-welder and zapping it into place. He gave it a few tugs.

“The connection’s not on Pashu herself?”

“If you lose her in combat, I don’t want you losing suit integrity. Better the sleeve.”

Didn’t think of that. And now, why the hell didn’t they do that on the Alacrity?

Daryll yanked on the edge of what was left of the Oscar’s left arm and pulled it down over the copper-colored band on his sleeve. It took him several tries until he was satisfied, then he pulled up a lever covering a circular knob and gave the knob a hard clockwise twist.

The suit’s ready light blinked green three times before reducing and shifting to the side of his display.

Daryll ran a sensor around the seal and nodded in satisfaction. “We won’t know for sure until we get you into a chamber, but this looks like it’ll work.”

He reached up and tried to pry the edge of the suit free, grunting with the effort, but it held firm.

“Remember, clockwise seals it, counter breaks the seal. The lever over the top is the safety. Try not to break the seal in space, or you’ll be breathing vacuum.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

“See if you can break it now, though.”

Rev reached over with his right hand, afraid that its bulk would make that difficult, but the gauntlet was far more flexible than it looked. Rev flipped up the safety and turned the knob. Immediately, his display started flashing an alert.

Daryll must have seen the red flashing light because he said, “Oh. I’m gonna have to get someone to program that. These Oscars aren’t used to having the seal broken on an arm.”

He unhooked Pashu, and Rev wormed his way out of the suit.

“Who makes the Oscar?” Rev asked Daryll.

“It’s a Heg suit.”

Makes sense. They’re the kings of space.

“That’s why it’s so good.”

Daryll gave a huff and said, “You think these are good? These are their Papa models. Their rejects. They keep the Quebec and Romeo models for themselves.”

“But they feel better than the ones we had on the Alacrity. More maneuverable.”

“Well, they are that. That’s what the Heg wanted. But they gave up a degree of robustness. Easier to puncture and tear.”

Rev frowned and reached out to touch the Oscar’s skin. It felt strong to him.

“Could be, but so what if it gets punctured? They’re self-sealing.”

“A kinetic round? Sure. They’ll seal up fine. But a tear? These aren’t compartmentalized as well as others. Cross over the compartments, and it can be catastrophic.” He must have seen the confused look on Rev’s face, so he added, “You’ve heard of the Titanic, right?”

“Yeah, the battle moon in The Last Journey.”

“Not that Titanic. A real one. An old wet-water cruise ship on Earth. Hit an iceberg and sunk?”

“OK, I think I remember.”

He made a mental note to ask Punch about it.

“Well, it was advertised as unsinkable. But when it hit an iceberg going from Ireland to New York, the iceberg cut through the hull and across a bunch of the compartments. If it had only been one or two, the crew could have sealed those off. But because the damage was across so many, they couldn’t, and the ship sank.”

“So, you are saying that the Oscar is like the Titanic?”

That wasn’t something Rev wanted to hear, not if he might wear one into combat.

“Oh, not that bad. But between you and me, if I were going to choose between this version of the suit and the one you wore at the asteroid, I’d take that one. It might not be as maneuverable, and it might not be as high-tech, but it’s a lot tougher.

“Don’t get me wrong. The Heg can sure make a good EVA suit. And the chances of something going wrong are next to nothing. But I think it says something that they took these Papa models out of their supply chain for their own soldiers and sailors and gave all of them to the Home Guard.”

The chances being “next to nothing” didn’t mean the chances were zero. Now he looked at the Oscar with a little bit of uncertainty. Daryll had it right. If these versions were not good enough for the Heg military, what would make them good enough for the Home Guard? His preconception that the Home Guard got the best in equipment just took a hit.

With a sigh, Rev went to Daryll’s bench to retrieve his social arm. He paused to look at a new weapon of some kind sitting behind his arm.

“Is that . . . ?”

“Yep. I still have to run some mods on it, but that’s your new cannon.”

Rev grunted. He was pretty happy with his braided beam cannon. It had killed Centaurs and gotten him through some tough scrapes. But he knew it was just too much for ship-boarding operations. Depending on the ship, he could punch right through a bulkhead. He didn’t know the specs of the new cannon yet, but while it would be powered by the same source as his current cannon was, the projector and frequencies would be different, giving a wider, more diffused beam. Great for clearing a ship’s corridor of bad guys while not taking out a chunk of the ship’s hull.

The need to be able to switch out his braided cannon for the shipboard one hadn’t been something the Sieben developers had even considered, and retro-engineering his IBHU to accept both had taken longer than expected.

“I also need to rig up a remote glove. These Oscars have some commands in each gauntlet, so I need to rig up something so you can use your IBHU fingers to relay those commands. Shouldn’t be too difficult. Give me four or five days, and I’ll have everything ready for you. When do you join your unit?”

“Supposedly on Monday. Five days from now.”

“OK, give me four days. I’ll have it done. You got any questions for me?”

“Yeah. What’s that thing?” Rev asked, pointing to what looked like a blue piece of curved metal of some kind.

“That? That’s your CoH pauldron.”

“Pardon, pauldron?” Rev asked, quite pleased with himself with the play on words.

Daryll ignored the weak attempt at humor. “Council blue. It’s for your PAL-5.”

Rev picked it up and turned it over. Staff Sergeant Patrice had said something about a blue shoulder something-or-other, and this must be the thing. It didn’t look like much. “And what’s it supposed to do for my combat suit?”

“Nothing, really. It’s just that with every infantry trooper using their home-service combat armor, you need something to identify you as part of the Home Guard. They’ve got Friend or Foe technology embedded in them, but other than that, it’s just for show.”

“So, when I’m out in the bush, and my PAL goes into cammo-mode, this thing is going to be shining a bright blue?”

“Yeah. You’ve got it.”

“What freaking genius thought that through?”

“It’s the Home Guard. Politics takes precedence over tactical concerns. But, it’s not all that bad.”

“Sounds pretty bad to me,” Rev said, tossing the blue pauldron back on the workbench.

“I’ve talked with some of the other techs. They all have modified the things so they can be taken off if you need to do that. I’ve got someone coming over tomorrow to show me how it’s done.”

“Well, I guess that’s OK. But it’s still stupid. Playing politics over tactics, as you just said, is a recipe for getting troopers killed.”

“Agreed. But from what I’ve gathered, most of this is for when you’re under the flagpole. And it’s not as bad here as it is in Titan. If the shit hits the fan, most of the BS gets ignored.”

It would be better not to have the BS in the first place.

“So, with that, any more saved rounds?”

“Nope. None I can think of. You’ve answered most everything.”

“OK, then let me get back to work. If you see Lieutenant Macek, can you please tell him he can come now if he wants and not wait until his time slot?”

“Will do.”

Rev watched him move Pashu to his workbench. None of the other troopers had seen her yet. That was going to happen soon, though. As he exited Daryll’s shop, he wondered what his reception was going to be when they saw Pashu for the first time.

7

It wasn’t Rev who drew the most interest when he reported in to Fox Company, Second Battalion, Second Home Guard Brigade. That would be Over-Sergeant Lincoln Kvat from the Manifiest Destiny Sphere Army.

Kvat was a karnan.

The two had checked in with Brigade Admin first thing Monday morning along with a dozen other new joins, but Kvat had immediately caught his eye. The soldier wasn’t a giant, but he had the same kind of bulkiness that Rev had from his augments and IBHU harness. It wasn’t that, though, that caught his attention. It was two things. First, it was a degree of arrogant swagger of someone knowing deep in his heart that he was superior to everyone else in the room. Second, he sported two gold earrings, each consisting of crossed knives with what looked like an eye at the tip.

“What is that?” he asked, already sure of the answer.

<They have the general shape of Hindu sacrificial knives such as the churī, but given the circumstances, I would say they are crossed rāmdāos.>

So, he’s a karnan.

Judging from the discreet glances, Rev thought most of the other new joins recognized the earrings as well, which wasn’t surprising. If he’d heard the rumors that the karnans wore the earrings, then it should be common knowledge.

Rev didn’t catch anyone checking him out, though. With his metallic social arm, he was hard to miss. But maybe people were not as familiar with IBHU Marines. From what he was briefed, the MDS karnans were more numerous, and for all Rev knew, they were better known within the brigade. Just because he and the lieutenant were the first IBHU Marines didn’t mean that some MDS karnans hadn’t already reported in.

When the soldier was called forward to the counter, Rev assessed the man’s movement. There was something off about it—the karnan movements were smoother, for one thing, and that made Rev frown. With his augments, Rev’s gait was far from normal. Some people referred to it as “penguin walking.” But if the bulk of a karnan’s load-carrying bones had been replaced with synthetics and alloys, then that should affect their gait more than a Direct Combat Marine’s.

Rev knew that the karnans and the IBHU Marines were not in competition with each other. They were all fighting for the same cause. But still, he couldn’t help comparing himself with the karnan. He had the age-old question of who was the toughest son of a bitch on the block.

To his mind, a karnan was just a stronger version of an infantry soldier, not a system upgrade like Rev was. The karnans carried infantry-type weapons, even if some would normally be crew-served weapons to regular infantry. Against a human enemy, that might be an advantage, but what did they do in the war against the Centaurs? Until Rev and the other IBHUs, Union ground pounders were not tasked with killing Centaurs. That was for armor, mech, air, and orbital platforms. Infantry provided screening, took out infrastructure, knocked down drones, etc. They supported the heavy units. Every time something new was issued to the grunts to enable them to tally a kill, the Centaurs quickly managed to improve their countermeasures.

Rev was a weapons system designed to kill Centaurs. As Rev took the MDS soldier in, he seemed to him to be something developed for a post-Centaur galaxy, and the mission to Earth notwithstanding, they were not developed to fight Centaurs. It wasn’t a comfortable thought, but there it was.

But if Rev couldn’t keep from looking at the soldier, the karnan didn’t seem to notice Rev at all. True, the IBHU Marines didn’t have something as ostentatious as the earrings, but Rev would have thought that seeing a Union Marine with a prosthetic arm should be indication enough that he was probably an IBHU. He was probably reading into things, but to Rev, it was as if the karnan didn’t consider Rev worth his notice.

Well, screw him, too.

The karnan left the counter, and it was Rev’s turn. He was scanned in, issued his official pad and told to fill out the forms before close of business, and given his check-in kit. Then he was directed to the pass and ID cubicle at the side of the space. He entered and then sat in the chair a civilian medtech indicated. A scanner rotated to him and scanned his retina—the third time that had been done that morning. The tech peered at her display, then a tray popped out. She took the chip on the tray, slipped it into an injector, and spun on her chair to face him. She automatically reached for Rev’s left arm, a puzzled look on her face as soon as she realized it was a prosthesis.

“Damn it! Why didn’t you tell me you had a fake arm?” she asked, swinging back to her chip dispenser.

Because I didn’t know it mattered? Good enough reason for you? And it isn’t fake. It’s real enough, just not the one I was born with.

But he refrained from saying that out loud.

She ejected the chip from the injector and threw it into a small receptacle beside the dispenser, made a couple of entries onto screen, then waited for another chip to appear.

“OK, let’s get this done.” She took his right arm, placed the injector against his right tricep, and triggered it. There was a sharp stabbing pain as the chip was lodged in his triceps.

She ran a quick scan to make sure it was functioning. Evidently, it was. “You are now cleared for all Class B and below spaces. If you need to enter a Class A, you’ll have to come back and get your chip updated.”

She swiveled her chair back to the screen. Rev didn’t need her to tell him he was being dismissed.

He resisted giving the back of her head the finger, but he couldn’t resist saying, “Thank you so much for your superb customer service.”

She didn’t turn around.

Rev looked at his checklist. His next stop was reporting in to his new company. He activated the small finder attached to the top of his kit.

Pretty low tech.

Given a location, Rev could find his way anywhere on the moon, so why a location finder? Was it possible that not all troopers had navigational augments? Rev didn’t know much about other soldiers, just the Frisians, and their nav augments worked just like the Marines’.

But since he hadn’t been given a location to his new company, he followed the directions on the finder. He was guided along the main passages, which were filled with soldiers from different services. While most wore the standard Home Guard working jumpsuit, many were in their home uniforms. Rev had to keep asking Punch to identify where they were from.

No one he passed gave him a second look. He made his way to the Fox Company office and stepped inside. The same MDS karnan was already sitting there. He looked up as Rev entered, then ignored him.

“You Staff Sergeant Pelletier?” the corporal in back of a pristine white desk asked, and then without waiting for an answer, continued. “Take a seat. You’ll see the first sergeant when he’s free.”

Rev sat. Trying not to be too obvious about it, he checked out the MDS soldier. He had the same light-yellow tab that Rev had been given, so they were the same rank. When the karnan reached up to scratch his nose, Rev caught a glimpse of something dark and metallic-looking around the man’s wrist.

He didn’t see much, but that glimpse supported the rumors that the karnans had structural replacements to give support and strength. That was getting into Deimer territory, or even Genesian.

Rev hated it when people made comments like that about him. Tomiko used to joke and call him a Genesian until she realized it really bothered him. When he’d taken on the thugs who’d beat up Mr. Oliva, one of them calling him “Genny” had almost set him off in and of itself.

I don’t want to project that onto the karnans, but geez, we’re different. I’ve just got Pashu, but those guys are half android.

A small voice tried to remind Rev that he had a harness to support his IBHU, his spider web, reinforced joints, better eyesight, internal navigation abilities, and more, but he was able to push that voice away. He’d had lots of practice in denying that he was much different from everyone else over the last couple of years.

The hatch into the passage opened, and a Heg naval infantry trooper came in and asked the corporal at the desk something seemingly inane, but his focus was on the karnan. He was followed by several more over the next few minutes. The word must be out that he was reporting in, and people wanted to see what the fuss was about. None of them paid much attention to Rev.

So, it was a surprise when the hatch opened and a familiar voice said, “Fancy meeting you here, jarhead.”

Rev jumped up as Ting-a-ling came forward, hand outstretched. He ignored the hand and hugged the Frisian, pounding on his back.

“Damn, man. Don’t break my ribs,” Ting-a-ling said, but he gave almost as good as he got.

“What the hell are you doing . . .” Rev started to ask when his BS meter kicked in. He broke the hug and pulled back. “I can be gullible, but this isn’t a coincidence.”

The Frisian shrugged and quietly said, “There ain’t many of you around, and when they started sending all of you to the Guard, well, our command started researching who of us might have a prior relationship with any of you.”

Rev frowned. “To spy on us?”

“No. Well, yeah, I guess. That, or as my tan-master told me, it’s to maintain relationships. After what almost happened between us, the feeling is that we can’t allow things to degrade that much again.”

Which made sense. But Rev didn’t like the idea that the Frisian Host was sending someone to bird dog him. It didn’t seem like something friendly forces would do.

“Come on, you know me,” Ting-a-ling said, giving Rev a punch in his organic arm, right where it was still a little sore from the chip that had just been implanted. “We’re on the same team again fighting for all that is righteous, holy, and blah, blah, blah.”

He looked at Rev with a lopsided grin, waiting for his response. Rev didn’t like it much, but they’d been briefed that all eyes would be on them. At least this way, he knew one of those who’d be watching.

“We good?” the Frisian asked.

Rev laughed. “Yeah, we’re good. Tip of the Spear.”

“Tip of the Spear,” Ting-a-ling repeated.

“So, I see you’re still a yellow-master. Double yellow,” Rev said, pointing at the two tabs on his friend’s collar.

He had the light-yellow Home Guard tab under a Frisian yellow-master tab. By coincidence, the dark-yellow symbol of not-rank—as the Frisians insisted they didn’t have ranks within the Host, only job positions—was the equivalent of a Home Guard staff sergeant. So, where Rev had his rocker on top of the light-yellow Home Guard tab, Ting-a-ling simply had a dark-yellow rank tab on top of the light-yellow HG one.

“Home Guard regs. I had to have a rank here. And since you’re a staff sergeant, they took away my amber and gave me yellow.”

“So, you can match me? Sorry I wasn’t a gunny, so you could keep your amber rank.”

“I keep telling you it’s not a rank. Just a billet. So, there’s no demotion. It’s only with you hierarchal services where your time in the service means more than what your job is.”

Rev had had this discussion a million times with Ting-a-ling and the rest of the Frisians, and he knew he’d never convince this friend that the colors were just different names for ranks. But he couldn’t resist saying, “And a yellow-master gets paid less than an amber master. So, sorry you took a pay cut.”

“We join the host only to serve to our fellow humans, not like you Union jarheads with the big paychecks. What do we care about the credits?”

“Yeah, that’s why I became a Marine. For the tons of money,” Rev said. “And since you’re so altruistic, I know you’re turning back the CoH salary you’re getting paid.”

“Of course, I would, but our orders are to fit in with everyone else. So, with great personal distaste, I am keeping the money,” he said with a short bow. “It is my burden to now be rich.”

“Yeah, right.”

Another soldier stuck his head in the hatch, gave the karnan a long look, then disappeared.

“Lots of interest in him,” Rev said, barely above a whisper.

“Oh, there’ll be more in you, too, as soon as you get your IBHU hooked up. I got a brief all about those things before coming here. Pretty stippy-do, if you ask me. You and the Mad Dogs. We’re getting two more of them in the company. Two more of you, too.”

“Two more of us? How do you get that? I don’t even know where everyone is going to end up.”

The Frisian shrugged. “If you’ve got people in personnel . . .”

Rev wasn’t going to ask, but his curiosity was too strong. “Who’s coming here?”

“A Sergeant Sign of Respect and a Lance Corporal Randigold. You know them? Randigold’s from New Hope.”

Rev had seen Sign of Respect’s name on the list, but other than the fact that he was regular Marines, he didn’t know anything about him. He knew Ethereal Randigold, however, quite well.

“Randigold is a good Marine. Don’t know the other guy.”

“Well, we’ll all get to know each other, right? But hey, I’ve got to go. You’ll be checking in all day, so how about I buy you dinner tonight?”

“There’s a restaurant here?” Rev asked. “What kind of food?”

“You don’t know me as well as I thought, Rev. Me, actually paying for food? I meant the chow hall.”

Rev laughed. “I guess I forgot what a skinflint you are. Even if you did just tell me you’re a rich guy now.”

“Rich in military experience, not in material wealth.”

“Thought so,” Rev said with another laugh. “But yeah, I’ll catch you for chow.”

He felt good after Ting-a-ling left, and he took his seat. He was glad he had a friend in the company already, and if the Frisian was right, then Randigold would be joining him, too.

It seemed a little weird that Fox Company would have three IBHU Marines and three karnans. One per platoon? But why not spread load them over all three, soon to be four, brigades?

He shook his head. All of that was way above his pay grade.

“So, you know that fry?”

“What?” Rev asked as he snapped out of his reverie.

“That fry. You obviously know him,” the MDS karnan said.

“Uh, yeah. We served together,” Rev said, a little hesitant.

“Word is that you persies and fries almost started your own war a year back.”

Rev frowned as he considered how to respond. He considered it more of a clash than a war, but he didn’t want to admit even that.

“That’s news to me.”

“Well, your governments were sure slinging accusations about Cent prisoners and stuff.”

“Shit happens. But we were all fighting the tin-asses, right?”

“Yeah, the cents. At least you and we finished the war off on the Mother, right? Didn’t need no fries or nobody else.”

“I guess so.”

“And now, there’s us, you and me,” he said, pushing up a sleeve for a moment.

Rev saw what looked to be a normal human arm, but with metallic bars running through it. Not a power frame, hooked onto the outside of the arm, but actually partway within the flesh.

He immediately realized that the soldier knew exactly who and what Rev was. He’d just been ignoring him before. But Rev couldn’t tell what the man wanted to say by revealing his arm. Was it a challenge or a sign of brotherhood, like the Brotherhood of Steel, but even more exclusive?

Before either of them could say anything else, the corporal looked up and said, “The first sergeant will see you now.”

The two modified warriors stood and crossed over to the first sergeant’s door. For better or for worse, Rev’s time with the Home Guard was about to begin.

8

“Here’s your cell,” Ting-a-ling said, pointing to the octagonal door. Two rows of the small compartments surrounded the common area, the upper row’s bottom halves nestled between the spaces between the lower’s upper halves. They really did look like the cells of a beehive.

The space between the bottom halves of the lower cells was taken up by ventilation and heating tubes, while storage lockers were above the upper rows.

Ting-a-ling was pointing to one of the upper row cells. Two folding steps could be lowered so that Rev could easily step up and into his home for the next three years. He ignored the ladder, set the door to his retina, then opened it. If he’d expected an upgrade from the temporary quarters he’d been in for the last week, given that the cubicle was the company’s SNCO quarters, he was duly disappointed.

He threw in his seabags and closed the door. He’d unpack later.

After Ting-a-ling had suggested they meet for dinner, Rev hadn’t expected to see him before then. But that was before he’d been assigned to take Rev under his wing and get him situated. The first order of business had been to go back to the temporary quarters and retrieve his seabags, then get him in his new quarters.

“So, how many SNCOs are here?” he asked his friend, looking around the space. He counted twenty-four cells.

“Here? Or in the company?”

“They’re not the same?”

“The first shirt is in with the other first sergeants and master sergeants. We’re just staff sergeants and sergeants first class. But to answer your question, we’re full here. You just got the last cell. As you can guess, we’re rather top-heavy in the Guard. No privates at all, and I think there are only a couple of PFCs.”

Being a Marine Raider, Rev was used to a rank-heavy organization, but not that heavy. At least the Raiders had Marine PFCs—which the Guard called privates—and lance corporals—which were PFCs in the Guard. It was going to take some getting used to the new ranks.

Wonder what my billet is going to be if we’re that heavy. As boot as I am as a staff sergeant, I’m sure as shit not getting a squad, not with only twelve of them in the company.

“If your personal stuff is stowed, let me take you to supply for your gear issue.”

Rev hadn’t expected a guide to get to the company area, but he’d been happy to see the Frisian yellow-master . . . staff sergeant. And it was time he met the company staff.

“How’s the company commander? She wasn’t in this morning. All I saw was the XO and the first sergeant . . . uh, first shirt, I guess they say here.”

“The Major? Don’t really know. I only met her once, and that was when I checked in.” He lowered his voice and said, “I’d be more concerned with Veang—that’s First Lieutenant Chhay Veang, our platoon commander. He’s from the AIW, from Angkor, and he’s kind of an asshole if you ask me. Got that need to prove he’s the boss and all, especially with the XO and the other platoon commanders being captains.”

The Alliance of Independent Worlds was a loosely aligned group of planets and systems spread out over half of human space. There was a wide range of political leanings within the Alliance, but the organization had come out against the Union in the Frisian-Union confrontation over Centaur tech.

Rev let Ting-a-ling’s warning flow over his head. He and the Frisian had fought together, so their relationship was different, but if the Perseus Union and Frisian Mantle had patched up their differences, he doubted that an Alliance officer would hold any previous animosity against him personally.

Rev was following Ting-a-ling out when Over-Sergeant/Staff Sergeant Kvat, a huge pack on his back, and an MDS sergeant first class came into the space.

“Is that him?” the SFC asked loud enough to be heard, even not taking into account Rev’s augmented hearing.

“Yeah. That’s the oner.”

I guess I know what they’re calling us now.

The SFC stuck out a hand, but his left one, a glint in his eye.

There were some cultures that shook left hands instead of right, but BCs to donuts, the MDS wasn’t one of them. The guy wanted to test Rev’s arm. Which was stupid as this wasn’t Pashu but rather his social arm.

“Sergeant Uli Myrt, Manifest Destiny Sphere,” the soldier said as Rev took the hand.

Rev had heard that in the Guard, staff sergeants and sergeants first class were simply called sergeants in common usage. In the Marines, calling a gunny “sarge” or “sergeant” would have drastic consequences.

The SFC gave his hand a firm squeeze. He probably was hoping to get a reaction from Rev, too, but if he did, he was just as much an idiot as Kvat was. Rev’s arm was a prosthesis, not organic.

Rev was tempted to squeeze back, but he refrained. No reason to get into a pissing contest his first hour with the company.

“We need to get to the company office,” Ting-a-ling said.

“We’ll be following you soon enough,” the SFC said.

Rev and Ting-a-ling turned to leave, and as the two stepped into the corridor, just as the door was closing behind them, the two MDS soldiers started barking.

“What the hell was that?” Rev asked.

“Mad Dogs,” Ting-a-ling said with a huff. “They always have to test everyone.”

“I mean the barking.”

“That? It’s a tradition with them when they join the Guard. I guess they found out that everyone in the galaxy calls them Mad Dogs and they’re taking it to heart. You know, embrace it, so it isn’t an insult.”

“And oners? I take it that isn’t for all Union Marines.”

“They call you persies or yooties. Yooties, especially for you jarheads. It’s you IBHUs that they call oners.”

“Yooties? Persies, I know a lot of you call us that. But Yooties? Shouldn’t that be Yoons, or Unis or something? There’s no “T” in Union. And oners? Like in one arm? Pretty weak, if you ask me.”

Ting-a-ling just shrugged. “You never know with the Mad Dogs why they do anything. I think it’s to get a rise out of everyone, as if they just like seeing what pushes people’s buttons. Still, they’re not bad folks. Good drinkers, and they like to pick up the tab.”

Well, I’ll have to see about that, I guess. Anyone who picks up a bar tab can’t be all bad.

9

“Looks like we’re the center of attention,” Rev told Lieutenant Macek.

“Yep. Everyone’s out to see what we have.”

Most Guardsmen were issued the standard RP-5 or AP-22 as their personal weapon, but some weapons and weapons systems were brought in from the various contributing militaries. Before a new weapon could be used in any of the training ranges, however, it had to be cleared for use.

Rev and the lieutenant were the first two IBHU Marines to join the Home Guard, so they were the ones going through the process. And as the system had more than a small amount of notoriety, there were more observers than usual—more than a hundred, the best Rev could tell. At the top of the ladder was none other than the Guard’s commanding general, who flew over from Titan for the demonstration. At the bottom were the members of Rev and the lieutenant’s platoons.

Rev spared a glance behind them. The observers were behind a reinforced shield wall of some sort. In a normal range, that might seem like overkill. But this was HGR-1, the moon’s only atmospheric range for heavy weapons. It wasn’t even at Fort Nkomo but sixty-two klicks away. The range was a self-contained facility where no matter what could happen during a shoot, it would not affect Nkomo, Willis, or any other part of the Enceladus Military Complex.

Daryll gave the two a last-minute check. “I think you’re ready. Kick some ass, OK?”

The tech was in his element. He’d started as low-man on the IBHU totem pole, but he was the only one in the field who’d been with the project since day one. He took a lot of pride in the system, and here he had a captive and eager audience.

Pashu was vitally important to Rev as a Marine, but for Daryll, she and the rest of the IBHUs were his children. And now they had a chance to shine, like kids at a recital. This was Union tech on display.

He stepped back, and the range officer took his place. “Just to reiterate. Keep on the targets. Don’t just pray and spray. We don’t want the structure to absorb more damage than it has to.

Rev nodded, but he wondered what the officer thought an IBHU could do to the range. Carved out of solid rock, it was a 900-meter-by-300-meter cavern 150 meters underground. A Marine Davis tank couldn’t blast its way out in ten years.

“Well, if you’re ready, let’s get this show on the road,” the officer said, nodding at a civilian tech on a suite of various scanners to the side of the firing line.

“If we ever wanted to keep the specs a secret, that tech there’s gonna get pretty much all the data there is,” the lieutenant said, barely above a whisper, but Rev, with his augmented hearing, had no problem picking it up.

“Well, we knew it was going to happen, sir. They still don’t know the process, though.”

“Who will be firing first?” the range officer asked.

They hadn’t even discussed that. Rev looked at the lieutenant and asked, “Do you want honors, sir?”

“You’re IBHU-1, and I think they probably want to see the braid more than the fan. I think the honor is yours.”

For lack of something better, Rev and the lieutenant had decided to call their original cannon the “braid” and the new shipboard cannon the “fan.” They knew the names weren’t very original, but they served the purpose.

“That’s me, then,” Rev told the officer.

“So, we have your energy cannon first, right? Three stationary, three moving. Missiles next, followed by the twenty-millimeter kinetic cannon.”

“That’s what you wanted,” Lieutenant Macek said. “And we aim to please.”

The range officer didn’t crack a smile, but Rev did. “We aim to kill,” he said in a whisper. “Not to please.”

“Well, then. Let me step away, and Sergeant Rowdy will call you hot.” The range officer hurried off to the side and fifteen meters behind the line to where he climbed into what looked like a simple fighting hole. Once in, he pulled a dome, which looked like it was made of the same material that protected all the observers, over his head.

Sergeant First Class Rowdy, sitting in a small but robust-looking range control shack, said, “If the first shooter will approach the line.”

Rev stepped up to his firing position. Every indicator shone a steady green.

“Your first target will appear momentarily. Do not fire until given the command.”

Kinetic weapons were fired at physical targets. Energy weapons had virtual targets. But these were a step up from the virtual targets Rev and Malaika had fired at during their trip to the free range on Nguyen. The range was lined with sensors that measured every aspect of a beam weapon’s pulse, and those went into a massive AI that compared the pulse with the characteristics of the simulated target.

Rev was eager to see how well they mimicked real life. He didn’t even know what his target would be. For a moment, he wished it would be MDS armor of some sort, but he knew that wouldn’t be politically feasible. So, he wasn’t surprised when a paladin suddenly appeared.

“Shooter, you may commence fire at will.”

Like an Old-Earth gunfighter of America’s west, Rev swung Pashu up and fired. The braided meson beams flashed across the range and struck the paladin, which immediately went up in a ball of flame. Rev could almost imagine the heat and shock washing back over him.

“Damn!” Either he’d gotten lucky with a vital hit, or the AIs were programmed to be generous. Rev had killed paladins in real life, but without such an impressive eye-candy result.

He had two more stationary targets, and they exploded with the same extreme intensity. Instead of exciting Rev, however, it was a letdown. The over-the-top results made the entire thing more of a video game like he played as a kid.

“Moving target to commence in ten seconds,” the range NCOIC announced.

Rev took a quick glance behind the firing line. Over a hundred sets of eyes were locked on him, but he couldn’t read much into them. A few were smiling, a few were frowning, and the rest were somewhere in between the two extremes.

His first target, another paladin, started rushing across the range. He barely thought about it as he raised Pashu and fired. As before, the target went up spectacularly. He thought this was beyond certification and more for show.

Two more targets, two more spectacular kills. Rev was happy to step back and let the lieutenant come forward to fire the fan and the Morays.

The fan would fire at the same type of virtual targets but at a much closer range. But at least kinetic rounds fired on real targets. Six by four by three-meter blocks of woven carbon steel armor over cerrocrete would traverse the range upon rails. There wouldn’t be the exaggerated special effects of the virtual targets, and Rev was fine with that.

Rev retreated off the line as the lieutenant took his position. First up was the fan cannon. Due to the nature of the beam, he didn’t expect as much show with the kills. And he was right. As the targets were virtual, they could have been programmed for something just as spectacular, but each of the kills was a mere flash.

Rev stole a look at the observers. After the first shot, most had lost interest and were in conversation with each other while the lieutenant gave the instruments what they needed to certify the fan for range use.

Then it was time for the six missiles the lieutenant was carrying. As with the braided and fan cannons, two would be fired at stationary targets while the instruments would scan across every possible spectrum. Morays had been certified before, and as the IBHU was just a launcher, Rev didn’t know why they had to go through the process—or for the 20mm cannon, for that matter. All those people watching from behind the barrier were probably the reason. The general and the rest were interested in what the Union had come up with.

Rev didn’t even watch the lieutenant fire—this was child’s play. He was more interested in seeing the reactions of the observers, particularly from his platoon and squad. And it was hard to tell. Staff Sergeant Kvat had a half sneer on his face, but his eyes were locked on the demonstration. Ting-a-ling had his head together with another Frisian—from the lieutenant’s platoon, Rev thought he remembered. Ting was speaking and pointing out something. Another trooper Rev didn’t recognize was overtly listening in. As for the rest, it was a mix with some intensely watching, such as Sergeant First Class Gamay, some seemingly lackadaisical, and a few who, while Rev couldn’t say they were antagonistic, were at least on that side of the spectrum.

Soon enough, the lieutenant was done. He turned around, and with a sly smile, asked Rev, “They want a show. You want to give them one?” He pointed at the 20mm cannon.

“Good idea, sir.”

Rev joined him on the firing line waiting for the command to fire. It was obvious that the range NCOIC didn’t know what to do. Rev could see him talking, and when he swung around to the range officer, that man was replying.

“I think we’re giving the range NCOIC a heart attack, sir.”

“That’s on him. Not us.”

Evidently, the officer gave the SFC the green light because a moment later, he said, “Prepare to fire on my command.”

“Fire the whole belt, sir?”

Each of them had an abbreviated belt of fifty rounds. That would be good for six or seven normal bursts. Daryll would have a hissy-fit if they blasted through the belt. The max burst they were supposed to fire was twenty rounds. Rev didn’t think the lieutenant would go for it. A jammed round would be pretty embarrassing right now.

But he surprised Rev. “Fifty rounds, and both of us on the center target. Five rounds per second.”

Rev’s smile grew wide. “You’ve got it, sir!” He adjusted the rate of fire and waited for the command.

“Shooters, you may commence fire.”

As one, they raised their IBHUs and blasted away. Rev shouted with glee as the rounds slammed into the target, sending dust and debris billowing off of it. Ten seconds might not seem like a long time, but it stretched out as the din echoed off the far walls.

The belts ran out at the same time, and Rev lowered Pashu to see the damage. The targets were constructed to absorb a lot of abuse, but as the dust cleared, it was clear that it wasn’t made to take what the two Marines had unleashed on it. Whole sections were simply gone, and the rest was riddled with holes.

“I think we killed it, sir.”

* * *

The range officer flipped open his dome and crawled out of his hole. He walked forward to join them, looking downrange.

“I guess that one gets scrapped,” he said.

“Sorry about that,” the lieutenant said.

“Don’t be. That was pretty impressive.”

And Rev knew it was. The same rounds could be fired from a Davis or a Falcon, and their rate of fire was higher than anything an IBHU could manage. But from a man-packed weapon, it was pretty righteous, as Daryll would say. And inside a range, even one as large as this, it seemed more impressive.

“So did we pass?” the lieutenant asked.

“Hell if I know. I just run the ranges. The data will be sent to facilities, and they’ll be the folks who make the decision. But I don’t see any problem. Nothing you have is new. Only your delivery method is unique. So, a week or so, you might have an answer.”

“A week?”

“That’s the Home Guard for you.”

The range officer looked past Rev and the lieutenant’s shoulders toward the observation area. “Looks like you’re getting company. And that’s my cue to make myself scarce.”

Both Marines spun around. Heading their way was a gaggle of senior officers and enlisted, led by the general himself. Not the two platoons who would be working with the two Marines. Looking past the incoming, Rev could see Lieutenant Veang and Master Sergeant Barber up against the glass, watching. He was sure they’d be coming, too, if they hadn’t been crowded out by more senior troopers.

But they’d have a lot more time in the coming years. Rev was sure that both of them would be trying to plumb the IBHU secrets before all was said and done.

“Impressive showing, Lieutenant,” General Ibsen said, right hand out to shake when with a laugh, he switched to the left so the lieutenant could use his organic hand. “I can see how you IBHU Marines became Centaur killers. Fine work, that.”

“Staff Sergeant Pelletier, here, General, he was the big Centaur killer. As a pilot, he’d be an ace.”

The general turned to Rev, shook his hand, and said, “Of course. Good, good.” He shifted back to the lieutenant and said, “If you don’t mind, I’ve got a few questions for you.”

Nice try, Lieutenant, pawning him off to me. But he wants those golden officer observations, not some enlisted puke’s who barely knows his right from his left.

Which was absolutely fine with Rev. If he could escape everyone’s attention, all the better. He gave the lieutenant a wink, then started to edge back, letting the brass crowd around him.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around to see an older trooper. He didn’t recognize the insignia, but the magenta collar tab, this one bounded with a silver border, told him that this man was the Sergeant Major of the Home Guard.

“I’m curious about a few things, and I’m hoping you can help me out.”

Rev managed not to roll his eyes, but only through an extreme effort.

“Of course, Sergeant Major. What can I answer for you?”

Beyond the sergeant major, other senior enlisted and officers were moving in as well.

I’ve got a feeling this is going to be a long afternoon.

10

“Randigold!”

The lance corporal looked up and caught Rev’s eyes, a huge smile breaking out across the half of her face that was still all organic. She made her way through the crowd, heedless of those she was smacking with the seabags on each shoulder. An officer in a uniform Rev didn’t recognize started to protest, but when he took in all the metal making up her body, he quickly looked away and moved off at an angle.

You little troublemaker. You know exactly how many people you’re hitting, Rev thought while trying to hold back a smile.

She reached him and stuck out an elbow, which Rev dutifully clinked with his social arm.

“Brothers in Steel,” they both said in unison.

“I didn’t know they’d send you to pick me up. I must be special if a staff-en-cee-oh is sent to be my tour guide,” she said, saying each letter in SNCO in an exaggerated staccato.

“First lesson, Randigold, is that here in the Guard, a staff sergeant ain’t crap. I don’t even get a squad.”

“In that case, what’s a lance corporal? Fly shit?”

“No, that’s a sergeant. Don’t know what a lance coolie would be. And they don’t call you guys lance corporal. Here, you’re PFCs.”

“Yeah, I know. Sucks that I just got my skeeter wings, and now people are going to be calling me PFC again.”

She turned her head to kiss her skeeter wings, the chevron and crossed rifles that was a Marine lance corporal’s rank insignia. “At least I’ll still draw lance corporal pay, not PFC.”

“More than that. You’ve got your Home Guard pay.”

“Yeah, I know. Sweet.”

Another familiar face stepped up behind Randigold.

Sergeant Tumeric Tsao nodded at Rev, then dropped her seabag. She reached out with her prosthetic arm and clinked with Rev. On her chest was only one ribbon; the light-sucking black background made the platinum bursting star in the middle of it look even brighter.

“I didn’t know you were coming in today,” Rev said, trying not to stare at the ribbon. He’d long accepted that his Platinum Nova was gone forever, and he rarely thought of it. But seeing the sergeant with hers did give him a tiny twinge of . . . not jealousy, but maybe regret.

Not directed at the sergeant. He’d read the citation, of course, and she earned her PN, but still . . .

“We’re the last of us,” the sergeant said. “Don’t know why we didn’t all come together. Would’ve made more sense, you’d think.”

“Welcome to the Ecelasucks. Get used to it.” He looked around the passenger pickup. “I didn’t see anyone else coming with me to meet you, though. No matter. Stick with me, and I’ll get you the E.”

“Oh, I’m not going there. I’m staying here on Titan,” she said.

“What? Here? You’re with First Brigade?”

As far as Rev knew, all of the IBHU Marines—and the MDS karnans, for that matter—were with either Second or Third Brigades. He didn’t know that any were being sent to First.

“Not the First Brigade. Headquarters Company.”

“The Praetorian Guard?” Rev asked, even more surprised.

Headquarters Company consisted of about two hundred troopers whose sole job seemed to be to stand around in elaborate uniforms and perform ceremonial functions. The troopers in Fox Company thought they were preening peacocks with little military value. They all looked good, and they could stand at attention for hours, but they hadn’t fought in combat since they were formed almost 240 years ago.

Tsao was a combat Marine, a proven warrior. All anyone had to do was look at her . . .

Oh, that’s what it is. Her Platinum Nova.

It made some degree of sense, from a political aspect, that is, to have at least one IBHU Marine on Titan where all the reps from the other nations could see an example of Union military might. And if they were going to send someone, then why not the one with a PN?

Better you than me, sister.

And suddenly, not having the medal seemed like a benefit.

“Do you know where you’re going?” he asked her. Headquarters Company or not, Rev was still senior to her, and he couldn’t let her fend for herself. He needed to make sure she got to where she needed to be.

“There’s supposed to be a liaison desk right outside the entrance.”

“Well, let’s go see.”

Rev offered to take one of the seabags, but both Marines refused. The three made their way out of the mob and through the exit. The sergeant had been right. There was a military liaison desk where she gave her name. She was given a guide wand and told to report in to the Headquarters Company office.

“I guess this is it,” she said. “If you ever come over here to Titan, give me a shout. It would be good to see you guys.”

“She’s good people,” Randigold said as the sergeant walked off. “Too good to waste her time looking pretty for politics.”

Rev gave the lance corporal a sidelong glance. She gave off that “aw shucks” vibe, just a simple country girl trying to make her way out in the big bad world. But every once in a while, she let slip something that made Rev suspect that she was a lot deeper than her public persona.

As if feeling his gaze, she turned back to him. “So, Staff Sergeant, how bad is it?”

“Some things are good, some not so good. Like anywhere else. I’m still trying to feel my own way. One thing seems pretty certain, though. It is going to be an interesting three years.”

She nodded. “Like the old Chinese curse: ‘May you live in interesting times.’ I think you’re probably right. So, since you’re here to show me the way to our new home, I guess it’s time to go see what I’ll be facing.”

11

“I don’t like this,” Randigold said as Daryll attached Cruella, her IBHU.

“You’ve got the sims training,” Rev said. “You’ll do fine.

He wasn’t really looking forward to it, either, but he had to put up a good front for the lance corporal.

At least he’d had some experience with one training session as a recruit, two as a Raider, and then the mission at the asteroid. This was going to be Randigold’s first mission in a micro-G environment. All the sims in the world couldn’t prepare someone for that moment when they left the safe confines of their ship.

“I’ll kick ass,” she replied. “But that doesn’t mean I have to like it. It isn’t natural, not by a long shot.”

“No, you don’t have to like it, true. Right, Sergeant S?”

Sergeant Tesler Sign of Respect, Perseus Union Marine Corps, just nodded. The sergeant was a native of Rebirth, the smallest of the Union’s charter members. But that made him a regular Marine, not a provincial. He was a member of Third Platoon, so not in Rev’s chain of command, but as the senior IBHU Marines in the company, Rev had tried to get to know him better—without much luck so far. It wasn’t that the sergeant had shown any of the lack of respect provincials had grown to expect from the charter citizens. It was just that he was about the quietest, most private person Rev had ever encountered. Average height, average weight, average looks, he was the kind of person who could be standing right in front of you and never be noticed.

Sign of Respect didn’t seem, at first blush, to be Marine material, but he’d made it through boot camp and earned the title, eventually making it to sergeant. Also, Rev didn’t think the Marines would have selected him for the IBHU program unless he’d proven himself in battle.

“OK, you’re done, Ether. Rev, you’re next,” Daryll said.

“Why don’t we do this in one of the domes? They can turn off the gravity, and then, if something happens, we at least aren’t sucking vacuum.”

Rev would be lying if he said the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. Field training on Enceladus came at a premium since it was a moon without a real atmosphere. The Guard made heavy use of simulators, but for actual, on-planet training, there were three large domed areas. Normally, the diamagnetic fields created varying degrees of pseudo gravity, but the fields could be left off to create a microgravity environment or reversed to counteract the moon’s tiny gravitational force to create a null-G environment.

“If there’s no danger, then it really isn’t realistic, now, right?” Rev asked.

“The more you sweat in training, the less you bleed in combat,” Sergeant Sign of Respect said.

Rev looked at the sergeant in surprise. That had to be the most Rev had heard the NCO volunteer to say. “Yeah, what Sergeant S said.”

“But you’re implying that in order to get realistic combat training, you have to have live rounds being fired at you,” Randigold said. “I don’t need to have you shoot real rounds at me for me to know I don’t want to get hit.”

“She’s got a good point, Tesler,” Daryll said while looking to see if the sergeant would respond.

More in line with his character, Sign of Respect didn’t respond.

“Where do I get one of those harness things?” Randigold asked.

The “harness things” were small propulsion packs that would counteract the moon’s tiny gravitational pull so they could simulate weightlessness. A tiny AI would monitor the trooper’s attitude toward the ground, then fire ground-facing mini-pulses to keep the trooper suspended above it.

Diamagnetic fields used a lot of power and were expensive to install, so most of the surface training ranges were in their natural state. The suspension harnesses were a much cheaper option.

“At the range. Just put them on and then forget they are even there,” Daryll said. “And if you can quit with your never-ending questions, Ether, let me get the staff sergeant here in his Oscar so you can get the hell out of here and leave me alone.”

“I’m beginning to think you don’t love me, Daryll.”

“I love you madly, but that doesn’t mean you’re not a royal pain in the ass.”

Sign of Respect actually cracked half a smile at the repartee between the two.

Watch out, Sergeant S, or people will think you’re actually human.

“Besides, I’ve still got six more Oscars to modify before all of you are kitted out,” Daryll said. “So, Rev, can we?”

Rev stepped up to the platform as Daryll brought up his Oscar. As with the Pashu, Rev’s Oscar had been the first EVA suit modified to handle an IBHU. He just hoped that unlike with Pashu, there would be no teething pains with his vacuum combat suit, because in just under an hour, the three of them would be boarding a surface hopper for an hour ride to the training range.

An hour was a long way from safety if his Oscar decided to spring a leak.

* * *

“It’s a series of movements, twisting and then pulling yourself after,” the Hégémonie sailor said. “Think of how a cat always lands on its feet. It never changes the direction of its fall, but it can change its orientation so that it lands on its feet. And like that cat, if you are in zero-G, you can’t change your angular momentum, but you can change your body’s orientation. And that’s what we’re going to be working on this morning.”

“That’s why we have thrusters,” Sergeant Refever Lines said on the First Squad net.

“Shut up and listen, Lines,” Sergeant First Class Gamay said.

Rev and the rest of First Platoon were standing on the bleachers, the gecko pads on the bottoms of their boots keeping them in place. This was their first class for their two-day training period. Some of the others bitched that they didn’t need null and microgravity training, but Rev was glad they were having it. Despite the mission on the asteroid, Rev wasn’t confident in his abilities in such an environment, so the more experience he could put under his belt, the better.

The instructor was floating two meters above the ground—floating wasn’t the right word. Her suspension harness was constantly adjusting with tiny impulses so that her acceleration exactly matched Enceladus’ 0.1 m/s2 gravity.

She held her arms in close to her chest, twisted her body, then extended her arms. With a hard swing to the left, her body twisted to the right. She brought her arms in again and repeated the process, turning her body even more. A few more times and she had rotated in a 360 and was facing the platoon again.

The Heg sailor then ran her hands close to her body until the arms were extended on her thighs, palms facing front. She rotated her arms at the shoulder, keeping the arms extended, sweeping them up past her head. This caused her to tumble forward as if doing a somersault. Several more times, and she had completed an entire forward roll.

“These are just two of the standard maneuvers. We’ve got eighteen official maneuvers, but you’ll find that with practice, you can adjust these to fit your own needs.”

And how does Pashu fit into all of this? I can’t really do the same thing with her as someone with two organic arms.

“It’s all a matter of proprioception and knowing what to do to change your orientation. But you’ve grown up all your life with gravity, so now you need to train your proprioceptive sense so that you know exactly where you are in weightlessness and what you have to do.”

“Proprioception?”

<Knowing the body’s ability to sense its location, movements, and actions. It is sometimes called the sixth sense.>

“What? Put that so I can understand it.”

<You don’t have to see your hand to reach for something. You know where it is and how to extend it.>

When Punch put it that way, it made sense, and he began to understand what he needed to do to maneuver in weightlessness.

“So, now, if you can split into squads,” the sailor said. “First, in a school circle to my left. Second, here in the middle, and Third to my right. Let’s do it.”

Rev turned off the geckos on the soles of his boots and cautiously stepped down off of the bleachers. It was more like floating down. Enceladus might have only microgravity, but it was still gravity, and it took him back to the ground—eventually. Kick off too hard, and he’d be floating too long, an object of ridicule by those more experienced. A couple of his squadmates—Gingham and Akkeke, for example—moved quickly to their spot, just skimming above the surface. Others, like Lines, were being as cautious as Rev was.

This would be so much easier with the Oscars’ thrusters, but, of course, they were forbidden for the exercise. The instructor had reminded them that the maneuvers they’d practice today were the same ones they could use to orient themselves while using their thrusters. Rev wasn’t sure why he’d resort to them if he was under power, but regardless, he didn’t understand why they couldn’t use them now, if only to get to the right spot.

Eventually, they were in their correct positions in a large circle around two instructors. “First Squad, Channel Twenty-two,” one of them said.

Rev switched over.

“Everybody here? Give me a thumbs-up.”

Rev was careful not to raise his arm but just popped up a thumb. Lines must have forgotten the demo they’d just received. He raised up his entire arm, and that started him in a slow tumble. The instructors waited until he managed to get his feet under him and stood straight again.

“First Squad, I am Sergeant Horenz, and with me is Corporal Cathcart.” Neither one moved, so Rev didn’t know which one was which. “This is what we’re going to do now. On my command, you are to make a tiny—I repeat, tiny—jump until you are a meter or two above the surface. At that moment, activate your suspension harnesses. Do it now.”

Rev gave the tiniest flex of his toes that he could . . . and barely left the surface. He tried again, this time harder. He still didn’t make it much more than half a meter.

Well, she said tiny.

Once more, he kicked off, this time rising about a meter. Just as he started to fall back, he activated his suspension harness. There was a very slight feeling as if he was being held up by a mesh net of some kind, but for the most part, it did feel as if he was weightless.

“Orient on me,” Sergeant Horenz ordered the squad.

When Rev had jumped, he’d kicked off-kilter, probably because of Pashu’s mass, which even at the moon’s minuscule gravity, was significant enough to be noticed. He tried to swing back like the Heg sailor had done, but his IBHU wasn’t cooperating. In the end, he just used his right arm.

He wasn’t the only one. At least half of the squad had to adjust their positions. Lines was the last to be in place.

“So, listen up. We’ll be going over ten different maneuvers this morning. The sooner you nail them, the sooner we can move on. The ten we will be doing are enough for basic orientation in space. They are not new. Each of these is basically unchanged since the early days of space exploration. To be exact, they are described in a US Air Force bioastronautics report from 1962, so this is old-school. But as they’ve lasted this long, they must be doing the trick.

“First on deck, the Cat Reflex. Corporal Cathcart will demonstrate.”

The instructor to Rev’s right twisted their body to their right, raised their arms out to the horizontal, then snapped them down while twisting to the left. It was something like what the Heg sailor had done, and it served the same purpose. The instructor rotated about thirty or forty degrees.

“Now, I want all of you to keep at it until Corporal Cathcart or I tell you to stop.”

Rev attempted to replicate the motion. But when he lifted his arms, his body rotated slightly to the left. Then when he snapped them down, his body rotated to the right, bringing him almost back to where he started. He tried several more times, gaining a little ground, but not much.

He stopped in frustration, looking for one of the two instructors. The corporal was tapping Akkeke on the shoulder, telling him to stop. Rev hadn’t gotten to know the Alliance soldier very well yet, but it was obvious that this wasn’t his first rodeo.

At least, I hope that is it. What if this is his first real training in null G ops, and I’m just the oaf who can’t get it done? He had a flashback of trying to teach Pierson infantry basics, and the guy just not getting them. Oh, good god, what if I’m the squad’s Pierson?

He looked across the training area to Second Squad and Kvat. At least he looked to be having problems as well. It wasn’t really schadenfreude. He didn’t take pleasure just because it was the MDS karnan, but if anyone was going to have problems, Rev would rather have it be him.

The corporal moved over to Rev. Using the laser comms for a direct person-to-person conversation, he said, “Let me see you try it, Staff Sergeant.”

Rev did his best, but at most, he gained about ten degrees of rotation. The instructor reached out and grabbed Pashu. Rev had to hold back the urge to snap his IBHU out of the corporal’s grip.

“How flexible is the elbow joint? Show me.”

Rev moved his arm up and down, all the time the corporal hanging on.

“OK, here’s what I want you to do. Bring the arm up along the front of your body, then extend it at shoulder level. I’m going to try to guide it. Ready?”

Rev nodded, then attempted to do as he was told. He could feel the corporal exert force, which meant he was using his thrusters.

“OK, you can stop, Staff Sergeant. We were told this might be a problem.”

“You were told I’d be a problem?” Rev asked, his warrior bristling.

“Yes. You IBHU Marines. You just don’t have the flexibility with your weapons. Not like a human arm. So, it looks like we’re gonna have to figure out what works best for you. Between you and me, all this ‘going back to 1962’ is just trying to show we’re all from old Earth, and the forms they teach are like some of the sacrosanct stylized martial arts training. What really matters is if you can function in Zero G. And I know you’re all thinking it’s not like you’re going to be without your thrusters.”

“Then why are we doing this?” Rev asked, surprised at the corporal’s frankness.

“You can use your thrusters, but if some pirate pops out of a compartment behind you, do you want to wait for the thrusters to bring you around so you can fire? Or do you want to know how to move your body so that you can bring that IBHU to bear?”

The corporal let go of Rev’s arm, and with a move that would make a circus acrobat proud, twisted his body until he was head down, but his arm was pointing back across to the other side of the circle. He held that position for a moment, then, with a paucity of motion, somehow twisted back so that he was facing Rev again.

Rev wished that Punch could record what he was seeing. He’d love to be able to analyze what the corporal had just done. And the instructor had made his point. None of the training and experience he had gained to fight Centaurs carried through to fighting in space. Thrusters or not, being able to orient himself quickly, or more to the point, orient Pashu quickly, could be the difference between life and death.

“You aren’t gonna have too many problems with some of the maneuvers, like the lasso, but others, well, we’ll just have to develop what works for you. So, for now, go ahead and stop the Cat Reflex. We may have to run your movement capabilities through one of the AIs to find some good maneuvers that you can use. Can’t let the pit bulls show up the Marines, you know.”

“Excuse me?”

“The pit bulls, Staff Sergeant. You know, the karnans.”

“Yes, I know what a pit bull is. But show up the Marines?”

“Ah, shit, Staff Sergeant. I get so used to not relying on telling people our services. I’m a Union Marine, too. Thirty-ninth Marines. And I’m proud as hell of you guys. You IBHU Marines.”

Which explained the not letting the pit bull show up the Marines statement. The corporal might be regular Marines and Rev a provincial, but interservice rivalry would make the corporal try to make sure Rev and the other IBHU Marines outdo the MDS karnans.

Rev had more than enough of the competitive edge himself, but after the corporal’s little demonstration, being a better fighter outweighed whether he was better than a karnan or not. But he was willing to use the corporal’s loyalty to the Union if that would benefit him as a null G warrior.

“So, if I want extra instruction, like the thing you mentioned with the AIs, you’re willing to help?”

“Fuck yeah! Sorry, I mean, yes, Staff Sergeant. I’d be happy to. Any time.”

“How about this evening? After we bivvy?”

“Uh, sure. Happy to,” the corporal said, not sounding quite as enthusiastic.

Rev didn’t know if the instructor staff would be in the field with them, and if not, he was keeping the corporal from going back in the rear. But the other Marine had offered, and from the way he moved about so easily, he obviously knew his stuff. Rev would be foolish to turn down the opportunity.

* * *

After only one day, Rev felt far more comfortable in Null G, even simulated Null G, than he had after a week on the asteroid. Corporal Cathcart had stayed in the field. While the rest of the platoon was inside their small bivvy-capsules, able to get out of their Oscars to sleep, Rev and the corporal had spent another four hours experimenting with maneuvers that took into account, even complimented, Pashu. The single-arm lasso, for example, worked much better when using his IBHU than his organic arm.

Rev didn’t know how much good that would do him. The lasso consisted of raising one arm, then spinning the hand in a continuous circle. It spun Rev about quickly, but as Pashu was his weapon, using her would mean he was pointing the cannon and 20mm straight up, not at the ready. But it was good to know she could be used to help his maneuver, and the corporal had promised to set up extra training, not only for Rev, but for Randigold and Sign of Respect.

Second Platoon was starting their orientation training today, so Cathcart said he’d focus on Randigold to build upon what he’d learned with Rev.

Rev had asked how the corporal had gotten good enough so as to be assigned to the Home Guard as an instructor where most of the other Null G were Hégémonie or Mezame Concordate. The Union Marines had fought the Centaurs only on the ground, and while each infantry battalion had an anti-piracy company, at least on paper, the reality was that their null-G training was intermittent at best, non-existent at worst.

Unbeknownst to Rev, however, the regular Marines had kept three battalions on active Null G status throughout the course of the war, never engaging them in combat ops against the Centaurs. The war had been the services’ main effort, but as the assistant vice-counsel had said, there were some among humanity who took the situation and exploited it. Greed had overcome common decency, and piracy had actually increased during the course of the war. So, those three battalions had come through the war with relatively few casualties and lots more experience fighting in space.

Rev could tell Cathcart resented not having been in the main fight, but he thought that from here on out, those three battalions would be vital in training the Marines back up into what had been one of their main missions before the Centaurs came a’calling.

And now, after yesterday’s training and the extra instruction with the corporal, Rev felt far more comfortable and was confident in what he had to do. He might not be as good as most of the more experienced troopers, but he was light-years above where he was two days ago, and he thought he wouldn’t bring shame upon the Marines during the ship takedown exercise.

In fact, he was more than a little excited to start the mission. Flying from the Alacrity to the asteroid had merely been a means to get from Point A to Point B, and he’d spent part of that wondering if the duct tape sealing his EVA suit closed would hold. This time, it would be a tactical movement to contact. But as there wasn’t much cover in the emptiness of space, the advance would be done with maneuver formations. Rev didn’t understand how it could work, but it sounded fun—at least in a training evolution. No one was going to be shooting at them, so there wasn’t any danger of getting killed.

Their “ship,” nicknamed the SS Good Guy, was part of an old hull mounted on four pylons driven into the Enceladus rock. The target ship was a bigger hull five kilometers away. For the purpose of the mission, it was a passenger ship, taken over by twenty pirates. This wasn’t a live-fire exercise. The opfor—pirates in this case—were other instructors, and their mission was to avoid the platoon’s troopers. The platoon would advance on the ship, conduct a simulated breach, and then chase them down.

Yeah. Pretty fun if you ask me.

“Any questions?” First Lieutenant Veang asked the platoon.

There were none.

“Then let’s get ready. I know this is the first exercise for all the new joins, but no one is a cherry here. We’ve all seen combat, so this is nothing. Just concentrate on putting all that we learned yesterday into practice. Oh, and don’t beat up the opfor. I don’t want to have to answer to the colonel.”

Jokes told over a circuit were hard to pull off. The mics in everyone’s helmets filtered out laughter, so Rev didn’t know if the lieutenant’s last comment bombed or not.

The lieutenant was a short, stocky man from Angkor, a planet within the Association of Independent Worlds. Rev hadn’t even heard of the place and had to ask Punch where it was. The lieutenant was young, not yet twenty years old if what Rev was told was correct. But he had two Golden Lions, his planet’s highest award for valor. Rev had Punch pull up the public citations. The man had personally taken out three paladins during one fight, then he had held off a group of five Centaurs from crossing a bridge letting a hundred Ramhold citizens escape to safety during another mission.

In other words, he was a badass.

Which would be good, except for the fact that the guy didn’t seem to like Rev at all. In fact, he seemed to have an active dislike for him.

Rev didn’t know if that was politics—the AIW tended to be on opposite sides of the Union on many issues—or if it had to do with his IBHU. But there was something going on there.

There wasn’t much Rev could do about that, so it was just ignore any slights and do what he was told. The lieutenant was half way through his tour, so all Rev had to do was last a year and a half, and then he’d have a new platoon commander.

“You heard the lieutenant,” Master Sergeant Tina Barber, the platoon sergeant, said. “Everyone activate your suspension harnesses and then take your positions in the Good Guy.”

There was a general movement to the training hulk, with several troopers showing off with somersaults or pinwheels as they went. Rev was feeling confident, but not that confident. He held a steady course, avoiding anyone else as he crossed over. Let the show-offs do their thing. They were probably frustrated with the Weightless Movement 101-nature of yesterday’s lessons.

Still, they didn’t have to rub it in to the rest of the platoon who were not as experienced.

The back of the hulk was gone, exposing the interior, and Rev used it to get into position.

“You ready for this?” Ting-a-ling asked a moment later as he settled in next to Rev.

“Yep. You?”

“I think I’ve got this thing licked. Not much chance to practice this stuff during the war, you know. But at least we’re in the Oscars. Pretty stippy-do sweet, huh?”

“Yeah, sweet.” Rev didn’t tell him what Daryll had said about the Oscars being Heg rejects.

“First Platoon, your exercise starts now. You have ninety minutes to complete it,” the range officer passed.

“That’s us,” SFC Gamay passed. “Into the airlock, now.”

Rev gave Ting-a-ling a light high-five—a heavy one could send them both tumbling—and they joined the rest of the squad and entered the airlock. There was no air to void, of course, but they had to go through the motions. After a minute, the outer door opened, then the squad debarked and moved into a squad V, one team forward and two back, and with each four-person team in a 3D diamond. Master Sergeant Barber was moving with the squad, between the two flanking teams.

Taking Pashu into consideration, the squad leader put Rev’s First Fire Team on the left side of the formation, and Rev took the far-left position in the team’s diamond. This was the first time since Rev had joined the squad that the squad leader had to take his IBHU into account.

The squad flew slowly over the surface of the moon, heading initially at the oblique that would allow them to cut back to arrive at the target along with the other two squads.

Without a real fight pending, Rev’s warrior remained buried, so Rev could simply enjoy the flight. His stomach remained quiet, and he didn’t need to ask Punch for antiemetics. The ground was relatively featureless, the sunlight harsh, but Enceladus had its own kind of beauty. As he thought about it, he was amazed that he, a provincial from New Hope, was flying around a moon in the home system. And this was his second time in the home system in less than a year.

After two klicks, however, much of the newness of what he was doing had worn off. So, he tried a few of the maneuvers Corporal Cathcart had taught him. He cut his thrusters, then using the lasso, he turned his body to face outboard, as he might in a diamond formation on land. His angular momentum remained the same, so he kept his place in the formation, but he was now flying sideways, so to speak, oriented outward.

Eventually, Rev’s angular momentum would slow. Enceladus had an atmosphere of sorts, water vapor that escaped from the surface. It was so sparse, however, that Rev could make it all the way to the target without any significant loss of momentum.

Except for the fact that the squad wasn’t flying directly to the target. When the squad leader gave them their new heading, Rev had to quickly rotate back and use his thrusters again. The delay put him out of position for a moment, and he had to adjust his course to slip back into position.

“Keep it tight, Pelletier,” the squad leader passed.

Good way to start off my first exercise. Head in the game, Reverent.

The target appeared over the horizon as they closed. Like the Good Guy, the SS Meatgrinder was suspended on pylons, but while the former barely qualified as a hulk, the Meatgrinder was a whole ship, replete with passages, berthing, a bridge, an engine room, and everything else needed to ply the space lanes.

The breaching team within Second Squad wouldn’t actually knock a hole in the hull. They’d set up their tube over an existing breach. And once inside, there would be no live fire. To register a kill, they had to physically touch the opfor. True, that part was far from realistic, but the intent of the exercise was to practice maneuvering in a null G environment.

As Rev had thought before, it sounded like fun. And as they approached the ship, Rev’s warrior surprised him by trying to emerge. No real combat or not, evidently, the competition was enough to excite him.

First and Third Squads, coming in from different directions, were the security element. The troopers would land on the hull and cover Second while that squad made the breach. Once Second was inside the Meatgrinder, the other two squads would follow and join what was almost an adult game of tag.

Rev started getting a little nervous as they got closer. This was his second actual approach in Null G, the first being on Asteroid 6-067-442. He’d managed that, but this time, he was with troopers from across human space. He had to do it right if he wanted to make the Union proud. Not just the Union, but the IBHU program. He was kind of difficult to miss, and if he screwed up, everyone, not just his squad, would know who it was.

“Initiate approach,” the squad leader passed at two hundred meters out.

Rev pulled up the landing lattice overlay and placed it over the image of the target ship. His landing position was now a red spot near the breach. As they got closer, the overlay expanded to keep in position on the ship.

“Let me know when we’re at forty meters,” he told Punch. His helmet display was counting down the distance, but there were too many moving parts to what he was doing, and anything he could pass off was one less thing he had to monitor.

He gave his forward thrusters a tiny jolt to slow him down.

“Too soon, Pelletier,” the squad leader immediately passed.

Shit. She’s watching me like a hawk.

“Roger that.” But he didn’t want to speed up again, so he left it at that. He might land a few seconds late, but it was what it was.

He’d slowed down more than he’d thought, however, and he was going to be more than a little late. To his right and now ahead of him, Corporal Akkeke, who had far more experience in Null G ops, performed a move they hadn’t been taught the day before, a sort of half twist with three somersaults, coming out perfectly aligned for a feet-first landing on the ship. He was showboating, the extra somersaults needless, and that pissed Rev off, but he had to admit that the trooper had performed it flawlessly.

<Forty meters.>

Rev slowly brought Pashu across his chest and bent at the waist.

<Thirty meters.>

Rev kicked back hard, trying to keep perfectly aligned. He bent his legs and brought them in, then extended them before kicking them back again. It took three times, but he was generally now feet first and only slightly off-kilter.

He gave his forward-facing thrusters three small bursts, and his feet hit the Meatgrinder’s hull with barely any momentum. He didn’t even have to flex his legs to absorb the shock. Immediately, he activated his geckos, securing him to the ship.

Rev hadn’t been maneuvering in a tactical manner. He’d completely ignored that he wouldn’t have been able to deploy Pashu had it been necessary, but he’d accomplished this exercise’s objective. He wanted to shout out in victory, but that would be about the most newbie thing he could do. He looked to his right to Ting-a-ling’s position, ready to send him a P2P, but the Frisian had misjudged, and he’d stopped a good three meters from the hull. Now, he was flailing a bit with his legs as he tried to orient himself to be able to close that distance.

Sorry about that, Ting, but better you than me.

Not that he’d give his friend shit about his landing later. Of course not. No, never.

He smiled as he tried to come up with a real zinger.

The Frisian should have just stopped and taken his time, but instead, he struggled, forgetting his lessons. Finally, he was face down, and he pulsed his thrusters, bringing him the rest of the way. He managed to get his feet under him and made contact.

“Don’t even say it, Rev,” he said the moment Rev opened up the P2P. “Gamay already gave me a ration of shit.”

Rev bit back what he was going to say. He’d save it for later.

“Now that we’re all finally on the ship, I want all of you to just forget the tactical play for a moment and watch Second Squad come in, particularly the breach team. We’ll critique it later, but note what you think they do well and where they could have done better,” SFC Gamay passed.

Rev looked up—relative up, that is. He was essentially standing horizontal to the moon’s surface, and while the suspension harness was keeping him in place, his inner ears told him that “down” wasn’t toward his feet but rather to the moon’s down. It was a tiny pull, but it was still disorienting, especially now that his mind wasn’t taken up with maneuvering.

He swallowed hard and tried to ignore the ground as Second Squad made its approach. Four troopers made up the breaching team, and they looked like four pallbearers carrying a tubular coffin between them. These were four of the most experienced troopers in the squad, all with extensive Null G experience. As the team had to deal with the extra mass of the breaching tube, that was probably a pretty good call.

Rev’s position on the hull was right next to the ready-made breach, so he had a head-on view as the team approached. It seemed to him that they were coming in too fast, but that might be because he was being overly cautious. The four had proven themselves to be skilled in Null G.

“OK, right about now,” he told himself when he thought they should reverse and start slowing down.

Only they kept coming, and coming fast. The right front trooper raised his free hand and outboard leg, and the other three followed suit. That wasn’t anything that they’d been introduced to the day before. According to their class this morning, a breaching team wasn’t supposed to maneuver. They would simply slow down, then bring their feet up and through until they hit. With the breaching tube as an anchor, that would steady them though the process.

Rev watched with interest to see what they were going to do. Then with almost one motion, all four snapped their arms and legs down. At this close range, and as they started tumbling, Rev could see their rear thrusters tilt upward, adding their momentum. The four, with the tube in their grasp, started a slow somersault.

Pretty cool, Rev had to admit as they spun. Not tactical in the least, and they’d probably get their asses chewed for showing off, but cool nonetheless.

He watched in open admiration, not realizing exactly when it all started going wrong. Instead of keeping the breaching tube tumbling along the vertical axis, it started drifting to the side. The trooper on the back left side twisted toward it and yanked it back into place, but they lost their grip and tumbled backward, head over heels.

“Drop the breaching tube, now!” a voice came over the platoon net.

But the three still on it ignored the order. They struggled to right the tube but were working at cross purposes, and that sent the tube even more off-kilter.

Rev stared slack-jawed, wondering if he should try to help, but it was too late. Voices were yelling at the three, and Rev realized it could come down and hit him. He shuffled a few steps back, watching as the three troopers struggled to manhandle the 900 kg tube. One of them—Rev had lost track of where the trooper had started—positioned themselves at the end of the tube, trying to time the tumble to slow it down with their suit thrusters. It didn’t work. Maybe given enough space and enough time, it could have. But they were simply too close.

Rev stared in horror as they raced across the final twenty meters. The tube was rotating quicker now, and the end with the trooper clinging to it came around just as it hit, smashing the trooper between it and the hull with a shock that Rev felt through his boots.

The breaching tube bounced off, smashing the helmet of one of the others along the way. Blood fountained from the demolished faceplate, almost instantly crystallizing as the trooper spun backward, the frozen blood spraying in an arc.

The net was alive with voices, but Rev tuned them out. He started forward to the body that had been crushed between the tube and the ship. It had begun to slide down the side of the hull toward the ground but quicker than if it was just the microgravity taking it.

Rev lowered himself, pushed off into a dive, and caught the body just as it cleared the side of the ship. Without trying to figure out which maneuver would work, he instinctively twisted like a cat, putting his body between the trooper and the ground, so when they hit, he took the brunt of the shock.

As they rebounded, Rev caught a look inside the other’s face shield. Rev had met her before, a corporal, but the name escaped him at the moment. Close-cropped red hair, pale white skin, and eyes open in pain and fear. Blood bubbled from out of her mouth.

“You’re going to be OK!” he shouted into his helmet mic, not knowing if she could hear.

They bounced on the ground again, and this time climbed away from the surface. For a moment, he thought he was still under thrust, but it wasn’t him. The trooper’s thrust was still powered, and it was taking them away from the ship.

“Can you shut off your thrusters?”

She didn’t respond. Either she couldn’t hear him, or she was beyond help. He looked down at her front, and his heart sunk. The suit was wide open to what was essentially a vacuum. Bloody crystals merged with the blue suit sealer that was trying to close the rents, but it was never designed for this kind of damage.

They bounced again on the ground, and he almost lost his grip. He had to do something, first and foremost being to seal the front of the Oscar. The helmet’s safety system had closed it off, so she had O2, but not for long. She had to get to the training safety ship.

Rev had nothing to close off that kind of damage, so he did the only thing he could think of. He brought her up, so they were face-to-face, then wrapped Pashu around her and hugged her tight. Her face twisted in agony, not centimeters from his, but Rev didn’t let up. Pashu was stronger than any organic arm, and he cranked her down. Better to crush the trooper than let her bleed out. He wrapped both of his legs around hers, trapping her there.

“Pelletier! Pelletier!”

“Wait!” he shouted, not wanting to be distracted.

With his right arm, he reached for the buddy tube. After twisting it out of its recessed sleeve, he managed to slap the nozzle into the valve at the base of her helmet.

“Give her air.”

<Roger. Starting now.>

He finally took a moment to look around. The ship was farther than he’d thought. Four troopers were bearing down on him—three from the platoon and an instructor with his bright green helmet.

“Staff Sergeant Pelletier. What is Corporal LeMay’s condition?”

Rev looked into the corporal’s faceplate. Her eyes were half-closed, but the blood was bubbling with each breath.

“Alive, but she’s bad off.”

“Can you maneuver her back to us?”

“No. Her front has been ripped open. I’m holding it closed with my body.”

“Crap. OK. You keep your hold on her. We’ll be there in a moment.”

It was a long moment, but the four matched their trajectory. The instructor got close to examine how well Rev was forming a seal.

“It’s not a great seal, but I don’t think we can risk you letting go. We’re going to have to take you in tow to the safety vessel. You three, we aren’t going to touch the corporal. Lieutenant, if you can take the staff sergeant’s right dead man’s handle, and Corporal Akkeke, you take the left. Sergeant Tims, you and I are going to daisy chain them. Staff Sergeant Pelletier, you just hold on. Her thrusters are going to be working against us.”

Rev felt the lieutenant and the corporal grab the handles on each of his shoulders. The instructor and Tims locked elbows with those two. Then, with the instructor giving orders, they slowly started turning Rev and Corporal LeMay around in an arc. Her thrusters kept trying to pull her away, but it was nothing for Rev to hold her tight.

“I think we need to hurry,” Rev said as he watched the corporal fade. The blood bubbles got smaller and intermittent.

“You just keep the pressure on,” the instructor said.

The safety vessel, which was little more than a four-man skiff, appeared, heading their way. The instructor had them swing in another wide loop so they could come around and match the vessel’s path.

The airlock was designated with a large red arrow. It was already open, a green light flashing inside.

“You’re going to have to go in with her, Staff Sergeant,” the instructor told him. “As soon as the air is pumped in, the thrusters should automatically cut. If they don’t, you just keep them pointed at the bulkhead.”

Rev knew that the little ion thrusters were not something anyone wanted to have hit them, but with all his risk for the rot, he wasn’t concerned with one more carcinogen. He wasn’t going to worry about it.

It took some maneuvering for the four to get the two of them inside. The corporal’s Oscar kept wanting to push them out. Rev had to twist around so her Oscar was pushing them inside instead. The instructor hit the button, and the door closed. Almost immediately, air started whooshing in. Rev felt the moment the thrusters cut off. At least that worked.

The inner hatch opened, and a medic reached in.

“I’ve got her,” he said.

Rev let go as the medic pulled her up and onto a white bed. He ignored Rev as he popped the helmet, checked her eyes, and then started to cut the suit away.

Rev didn’t know what else to do, so he eased out of the airlock and pulled himself to the foot of the bed. He looked but then wished he hadn’t. Her belly and lower chest were a crushed mess. Ghost white skin along her exposed shoulders and legs only made the blood seem that much brighter.

He had to look away, and his eyes went down to his front. It wasn’t much better. It wasn’t just covered in blood. Bits of her flesh clung to him. He tried to wipe them off, but it was a lost cause.

The medic pulled a meter-and-a-half long sheet of a translucent material connected to an arm over the corporal, then lowered it over her body. He pushed a button, and the sheet seemed to mold over her. Next, he lowered a mask over her face before he finally stepped back.

“Is she going to be OK?”

“Good chance of it, I’d say. She’s facing a lot of regen. Too much tissue damage, but her brain scan is pretty good, all things considered. But I’m not a doctor, so they’ll have a better idea of what her prognosis will be.”

Rev couldn’t do anything for her now, and to be honest, he was feeling uncomfortable looking at her lying there.

“Should I, you know, get out now? So I can get back to my platoon?”

The medic laughed. “It’d be a long flight back. We’re half way to the hospital now. So, settle in, and once we get her offloaded, someone will come by to get you transport back.”

* * *

It was twelve long hours before Rev got back to the company area. He debarked the safety bird at the hospital and was told to wait in the lobby outside the ER. So, he waited. After three hours and six episodes of “Sunset Dogs” that Punch played for him, he tried to raise the company through his Oscar’s comms, but there was nothing. Five more hours later, a master sergeant saw him in the lobby and asked him what he was doing there. When Rev told him he was waiting for transport, the master sergeant told him this was a hospital, not a transportation company.

“You’re going to have to take the tram to Nkomo,” the master sergeant said.

Rev somehow managed to keep from rolling his eyes. He was tired and hungry, and he had no idea where he was. Well, that wasn’t true. He had Enceladus’s magnetic field downloaded, so with his augments, he did know where he was on the moon. And if asked, he could point toward Fort Nkomo. He just didn’t know how to get there from where he was.

But he didn’t want to get into a pissing contest with a master sergeant. So, he stood, but before he left, he asked, “Any way I can get an update on the trooper I came in with?”

The master sergeant frowned, and Rev thought he was going to say no, but with a grunt, he asked, “What’s his name?”

“I don’t know. I think they said Corporal LeMay. I’m new to the unit, and I don’t know her. But she’s in Fox, Second of the Second. There was someone else, too. He came in after we did.”

The master sergeant went to the registration desk and asked the medic there, standing and nodding as he listened. Twice he looked back to Rev. Finally, he thanked the medic and came back.

“Corporal LeMay is going to pull through. I won’t lie to you, though. She’s got a long row to hoe. Sergeant Willis over there just told me what you did out there. Smart thinking, Staff Sergeant. You kept her brain oxygenated and her exposed tissue from freezing, so you cut off a year of regen and rehab, at least.”

Rev felt a wave of relief. Just sitting there for eight hours, not knowing, was the worst thing. Maybe he should have asked earlier.

“And the other trooper?”

The master sergeant grimaced. “I’m probably not supposed to tell you this, but it’s a real long shot that they’ll be able to bring Sergeant Wuhing back. Too much brain matter lost, and what was left was exposed to the vacuum for too long. The docs won’t know if they can zombie him for a couple of days, but I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”

Rev didn’t know the sergeant, but they were brothers in arms, and that was a gut punch. He’d seen more than his fair share of death as a Marine. He’d lost close friends. But not in training. It somehow seemed obscene.

“Hey, I wish I could get you a ride back, but like I said, we’re a hospital. You’ve been here how long?”

“About eight hours, Top.”

“Hell, you must be starving. The chow hall is closed now, but if you don’t mind venfab, I can hook you up. I guessing you don’t have your credit wand.”

“No. We were in field training. And venfab would be fine right about now.”

The master sergeant crooked his finger, motioning Rev to follow. They went through the doors into the ER. Rev looked into some of the beds as they passed, but he didn’t see Corporal LeMay. The top led him to the machine by the nurses’ station. There were some vending fabricators that had programs for thousands of dishes. This wasn’t one of them.

With limited choices, he selected spaghetti with marinara, and the master sergeant paid for it.

“I’ve got to get going, Staff Sergeant. You can eat here, then I’m afraid you’re on your own in getting back.”

“I’ll find the way. And thanks for the meal.”

The master sergeant took a long look at Pashu. Rev could see he was curious, but he didn’t ask anything before he turned and strode off. Which, Rev had learned by now, was a pretty common reaction in the Home Guard. Given his instructions to try and learn about the other services while keeping Union information close to this vest, Rev wondered if the mind-your-own-business nature was just part of Home Guard culture.

He downed the spaghetti within a minute and asked one of the nurses how to get to the tram. Whatever he had just concluded about Home Guard culture ignoring others, he could throw that out the window. As he walked down the hospital corridors in his Oscar, Pashu hanging from his shoulder, he drew plenty of stares. Half of the people got out of his way and stopped dead to look at him.

He found the elevator down to the lift, surprising two people who were coming down from an upper floor. He stepped inside, crowding them with his IBHU.

“Evening,” he said as if nothing was unusual.

“Evening,” the woman said, while the man just gawked.

Rev was getting a little self-conscious with all the stares. He cracked his neck, then stretched out both his organic arm and Pashu, and the man jumped. Rev was being a jerk, he knew, but what was the real harm?

“I’ve heard about you. Union, right?” the woman—Rev could see the gold leaf of a major on her scrubs pocket—asked.

“Union Marines, ma’am.”

“Boy, I would love to pick your brain,” she said before she turned to the lights as they indicated the changing floors.

Rev didn’t know what she meant. It could be professional curiosity, given her scrubs, or she could be from a nation that wanted the tech. He just stared ahead and was relieved when the door opened.

He checked the map of the system. He’d have to change trams once, but he should be back at Fort Nkomo in less than an hour. As he started to his track, a drone flew in front of him and ordered him to stop.

“You are not allowed on the tram in a combat suit.”

“What? I’ve got to get back to my base.”

“Well, you need to either ditch the Oscar somewhere or find somehow else to get back.”

Rev realized it wasn’t the drone’s AI speaking. A real person was on the other side of the transmission.

“Can’t you give me a break? I need to get back. I came here on a medivac from the field.”

“Sorry, but no. And it’s not just your Oscar. You’re carrying a weapon.”

Rev lifted Pashu. “I’m not carrying her. She’s a part of me.”

“Whoa. I guess it is. What’s your name and unit?”

“Staff Sergeant Reverent Pelletier. Fox Company, Second of the Second.”

“OK, wait one.”

Rev stood there, feeling stupid with the drone hovering right in front of his face. People flowed around him, giving him a wide berth.

After about three minutes, the voice came back. “Wow. This is a new one for me. I contacted your unit. They wanted to know why you haven’t called back to them.”

“I tried. The comms on this Oscar suck. Can’t do anything with the curvature of this moon.”

“You never tried to call from the hospital?”

Well, shit, Rev thought as he could feel his face getting red. Yeah, I guess I should have asked someone there to tell the company what was going on.

He’d just acted like a private, sitting and doing what he was told. But he wasn’t a private. He was a Marine SNCO, and they were supposed to take the initiative and adjust to the situation.

“No matter. They told me to tell you to go back to the hospital and get them to give you some scrubs to wear. You’re going to have to leave your combat suit and . . . arm there. You’re not getting on the tram with that thing.”

“My IBHU? Leave it?”

“Yeah. They have an armory. If that isn’t big enough, then you’ll need to have them contact your brigade for an armorer to come and pick it up.”

There was no way Rev was going to give up Pashu to some unknown armorer. There was a reason the Second Brigade IBHUs were all being kept together with Daryll in a separate armory. Certain nations would love to be able to examine them, and despite the kumbaya-era of humanity, the Union was not giving up their IBHU secrets that easily.

And from a personal level, Rev wouldn’t give Pashu up anyway. He didn’t want her to be a quarter of the way around Enceladus with no surety when he’d get her back.

Nope. No way.

“Look, that’s not going to work. I can’t get separated from my IBHU. Can’t you just make an exception here? I’ll sit quietly and not bother anyone. And it’s not like people haven’t seen a trooper before. That’s what this moon is for, right? It’s a military base?”

“No can do, Staff Sergeant. This is Encelasucks, where there’re regulations about other regulations. If you get on the tram like you are, some flag officer paper-pusher or civilian bigwig’s going to have a heart attack. Unless your company wants to come get you, you’re going to have to ditch that weapon if you want to get back.”

Fat chance on that. They’ll tell me the same thing.

But someone might.

“Look, can you do me a solid? I need you to contact Mr. Daryll Begay. He’s a Sieben contractor. He’s at . . .”

Rev had to pause to ask Punch for Daryll’s number. It was saved on his quantphone and tablet, and he didn’t know it from memory.

“ . . . Four-four-three-one, six-two-nine, five-four-eight. Tell him what’s happened and that you told me I have to leave my IBHU here to get back.”

“Uh, I’m just monitoring the terminal when there’s something flagged. I can’t spend my time connecting calls.”

“Please? I really need this favor here.”

Rev felt ridiculous begging a small drone while people gave him weird looks as they streamed by, coming and going to the tram.

“You’re one of those Union supersoldiers, right? That’s what that arm is.”

“Yeah. Union Marines.”

“Hell, I’m from Paxus. I guess I can do a favor for a fellow outer reaches soldier.”

Rev almost corrected him with “Marine,” but he bit his tongue. He also didn’t mention that while Paxus was historically a Union ally, it was hardly an outer reaches world.

“Wait one.”

This time it took five minutes before the still-unnamed voice returned. “Hey, man. I called this Begay guy. I don’t know who he is, but it looks like he can get things done. He said do not—and he told me to say it again. Do not—leave your weapon. Go back to the hospital and wait. It might take a while, but someone will come to pick you up.”

A heavy load rolled off his shoulders. He hadn’t been sure that Daryll could do anything. Evidently, working for a major defense contractor meant he could contact those with real pull.

“Thanks. I really appreciate your help.”

“No problem.”

Rev started to turn away, but he stopped. “Hey, what’s your name, anyway.”

“Iridi Tamay. No rank. I’m just one of unwashed masses of civilian support here.”

“Well, thank you, Iridi. If you ever need anything, you know how to reach me.”

The drone did a little dip like a nod. Rev gave it a half-salute and started back to the ER.

Rev had always thought the Marines were often too hidebound and restricted by regulations that made little or no sense. But in the short time he’d been with the Home Guard, they’d put the Marines to shame, making the Corps look like a lawless anarchy.

This whole thing with not being able to board a simple tram because he was in an Oscar and was armed was ridiculous. This was a military base, after all.

But as he looked around, not many of the people who were entering and exiting the tram station had been in uniform.

“How many troopers are on Enceladus?” he asked Punch.

<Two brigades and support units. Approximately seven thousand in uniform.>

“And how many civilians.”

<Approximately 125,000 are in support of military operations. Another 60,000 are in other functions.>

“What? A hundred and twenty-five thousand? All to support two brigades?”

<A percentage of those deal with galaxy-wide operations, but most of those personnel are based on Titan.>

If Rev had wondered about the bureaucracy before, this just cemented it for him. It was surprising that the Home Guard got anything done at all.

He stepped off the elevator and made his way back to the ER. The same nurse behind the desk who’d given him the directions looked up as he came back in, then ignored him. Rev went to the corner and took a seat. There was only one other person in the room, and she was engrossed in her pad.

And, of course, Rev didn’t have his pad. Following orders, he’d left his pad and quantphone back in his cell. Next time, orders be damned. He was taking his phone.

But, luckily, he didn’t need a quantphone to take up the time.

“So, where were we with ‘Sunset Dogs?’” he asked Punch.

<Approximately half way through Episode Fifteen.>

“It looks like it’s going to be a while, so let’s get it going again.”

12

Daryll was waiting for Rev when he finally dragged in. He brought over the hoist and detached Pashu.

“Any issues?” the tech asked.

“If you don’t mean someone getting killed and another crushed, then no, no issues.”

“Yeah. That’s some serious shit there. Word is that the lieutenant’s gonna get relieved. Sent back to wherever he’s from.”

“Angkor.”

“What?”

“Not Angkor Wat. Just Angkor. That’s where he’s from.”

“OK. Angkor. He’s AIW, then. Anyway, word I’m hearing is that he’s gonna get shipped back.”

“It wasn’t really his fault. Those idiots were screwing up. Showing off how good they were in Null G ops, and it came around to bite them in the butt.”

“He’s the commander,” Daryll said.

“Like I said, it wasn’t . . .” Rev started before trailing off. Yes, it was their own fault. They were showing off, just like Rev had said. But Daryll just stated it in a nutshell. Lieutenant Veang was the commander, and he was responsible for everything that happened in the platoon.

And the discipline shouldn’t have been that slack so that those four thought it would be OK to screw around like that.

Rev was a little embarrassed to have to be reminded by a civilian about how the military worked.

“It was just a bad situation,” he said.

“Word is that you saved one of their lives, too.”

Daryll waited with a pregnant pause, and Rev knew he had to respond. “No, I didn’t save her life. They told me at the hospital that I might have saved her time in regen, though.”

He didn’t bother to say that he could have kept her from having to be zombied and brought back. He’d leave it at that.

“Well, whatever you did, you made the Union proud. Good on you. Now, let’s get you out of that Oscar.”

“I can sure go along with that. These are more comfortable than our EVA suits, but still, I can’t wait to shower.”

Daryll helped him get out of the suit. He mimed taking a sniff, then recoiling in horror. “Yepper. A shower is a good bet.”

Rev slipped out of his longjohns, the sensor-ladened skin-tight suit he wore under the Oscar. It was almost a shame putting on his working overalls before cleaning up, but it still felt good. He pulled his quantphone out of the overalls—there were fifteen messages. The highest priority was for one from the first sergeant telling Rev to report to him as soon as he stowed his IBHU.

Rev sighed. A shower and some chow were going to have to wait.

Daryll assured him that he’d take care of Pashu and the Oscar, so Rev left and made his way to the company office. It was late, well past normal working hours, but the office was open. Lights shone out from under the commander’s and first sergeant’s doors. Corporal White was on duty, and as soon as he saw Rev, he buzzed the first sergeant. A moment later, the door flung open, and the first sergeant poked her head out. She spotted him, then, with a crooked forefinger, motioned him to come in.

“Good job, Staff Sergeant,” Corporal White quietly said as Rev walked past him.

“Sit,” the first sergeant said as Rev entered.

Rev took a seat beside Top Barber and Top Fitzwater from Second Platoon.

“Why didn’t you contact us, Pelletier,” Top Barber opened up with. “You were there for eight hours before you bothered?”

The first sergeant held up her hand before Rev could respond. “Staff Sergeant, I want a full statement from you now before things have a chance of fading. We’ll worry about why you were gone so long later.”

Rev’s platoon sergeant frowned, but she wasn’t going to naysay the first sergeant.

“From where?” Rev asked.

“From the moment you left the Good Guy until you reached the hospital and Nkomo.”

Rev took a deep breath, then started to tell them everything he remembered. The first sergeant interrupted a few times, but only for clarification. He went beyond just arriving at the hospital and told them what the master sergeant there had told him about the two troopers. It took about thirty minutes, and Rev’s throat was dry by the time he was done.

Top Fitzwater looked at the first sergeant after Rev finished. “That pretty much aligns with the video and what everyone else said.”

“Fucking Mentor. She’s the one that instigated the whole thing,” Top Barber added.

Rev didn’t know who Mentor was, and he wasn’t sure how what he’d said impacted on the other trooper. He didn’t know whose idea it had been to do the somersault.

“And the rest? They’re going to be led around by the nose by a corporal?” the first sergeant asked with a scoff. “Mentor isn’t the only one here at fault.”

She turned to Rev and said, “Thank you, Staff Sergeant Pelletier. You go get cleaned up and hit the rack. You’ve had a long day.”

Rev hesitated a moment, then asked, “Is the lieutenant getting sent back to Angkor?”

He immediately regretted asking. That wasn’t his concern. But once asked, he wasn’t going to back down and stared into the first sergeant’s eyes.

“Who told you that?” she asked him.

“I just heard it. A rumor.”

Rev could see his platoon sergeant tense up slightly, as if waiting for the first sergeant’s response. In a moment of clarity, he realized that Top Barber was worried about her own position as platoon sergeant. If the lieutenant was going to get canned, then was she next?

There was a long wait before the first sergeant spoke. “How officers deal with situations is none of our concern.” Rev thought she was going to weasel out of the question with that answer, but she continued. “I will say this, though. It is awfully difficult to relieve someone of duty in the Guard. It has to be approved by CoH J3, and politics rears its ugly head when that happens. No nation or planet wants one of theirs to be kicked out, you know.

“I think you’d have to kick the Counsellor Prime in the nuts, grab his wife’s ass, then stomp on his dog for good measure to get kicked out.”

Top Barber almost imperceptibly relaxed just the tiniest bit.

Top Fitzwater was not so relieved. “Sorry state of affairs when a trooper’s life ain’t worth the same as the CPs dog.”

“Titan bullshit,” the first sergeant said.

She turned to Rev. “You have anything for me?”

“No, First Sergeant.”

“OK, then. You go on and get out of here. I don’t have to tell you, though, that if anyone comes nosing around, asking questions, you say nothing and refer them to the Brigade Public Affairs Office.”

Rev got up, avoiding his platoon sergeant’s eyes. He felt her burning a hole in his back as he left, and he didn’t relax until he was out of the office and heading to berthing.

The first sergeant never did let Top Barber ask again why he hadn’t called back to the company area from the hospital.

13

The next two days were a sea change in how the others interacted with Rev. No one, other than the two Mad Dogs, had treated him poorly, but there had been a degree of hesitance in connecting with him.

That was all gone. The other staff sergeants and sergeants first class stopped to chat in the commons area. Junior Marines smiled or even thanked him for helping Corporal LeMay. Evidently, she’d been a popular NCO.

And the attention was not just about the accident. It was like a dam breaking. He’d been used to the sidewise glances when Pashu was attached, but for the most part, it was like his IBHU didn’t exist.

Now, particularly with the other SNCOs, there were frank discussions about his experiences fighting with her. Rev was conscious of the warnings about the others trying to dig out information that they could take back to their intel branches, but while he realized that he could be a little naive, he thought there was just frank curiosity. And from a tactical standpoint, if he was going to fight with them someday, they needed to know what he brought to the table.

And, if he was completely honest with himself, he was grateful to let the others know that he’d tasted Centaur blood. Except for a minority of troopers who were sent to the Home Guard for purely political reasons, the troopers were all top-notch soldiers, Marines, guardsmen, and so on. Rev had a deep-seated feeling of . . . not that he had an inferiority complex, per se, but that he’d succeeded in combat solely because of Pashu.

Judging from the reactions when he first started relating some of his war experiences, some of the others might have thought that, too. No one was hostile, but it was as if Rev could hear them think, “Sure, that’s all fine and dandy that you dropped a riever, but you had that massive weapon for an arm.”

It wasn’t until Ting-a-ling mentioned that as a lightly armed Raider and long before he’d gotten Pashu, he’d taken out a paladin with an incendiary grenade while perched on top of the thing. That caused a few jaws to drop, and Rev made a silent promise to thank his friend.

And that revelation immediately jumped him up a few steps on the ladder of respect. But even better, that started a series of stories from the others about their encounters. This time it was Rev’s mouth to drop open. He was serving with some Grade A, bona fide stud warriors here. After experiencing the ridiculous morass of a bureaucracy that was the Home Guard, and after the accident, he’d been getting a little concerned about what might happen if they did get into a fight. Now, he was feeling much more comfortable. These troopers, from all over the galaxy, were the real deal.

And it wasn’t just within the company. The first evening after the accident, four SNCOs from the Alliance—which was nominally a strategic competitor of the Union—came by and dragged him to the SNCO Club and plied him with drinks. LeMay was from their planet, Tatterhall, and they wanted to express their thanks. Rev brought along Ting-a-ling and Staff Sergeant Rice Unifora, and Rev had the best night since he arrived on Enceladus.

One bump in the road remained: the lieutenant. If anything, the officer was showing open animosity toward Rev.

The first sergeant seemed to have been right about whether the lieutenant would be leaving the Guard. Four days later, and he was still commander. But he’d taken a pretty big hit, and every time he came across Rev, he glared as if everything had somehow been Rev’s fault.

Rev was only a little ashamed that he’d hoped the lieutenant would be relieved and sent packing. He could justify it in his mind by saying that the platoon commander should have instilled more discipline, but he couldn’t fool himself that even a small part of that was simply because the man didn’t like him.

“He’ll get over it,” Rice had said while they were discussing the platoon commander.

“Don’t worry about him. He’s a good guy, and he knows his stuff,” Ting-a-ling said.

“Easy for you to say. He likes you,” Rev said.

“What’s there not to like?” Ting-a-ling asked. “I’m a great guy.”

“Well, I guess I’m not, ’cause he hates me.”

“You’re overreacting, Rev-boy. Just lay low and keep out of sight. The top runs the day-to-day stuff for the platoon, anyway. And in a year and a half, the lieutenant will be done and gone home.”

“None too soon, if you ask me.”

Rev knew Ting-a-ling was right, but he didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of having Rev admit it.

<It is fifteen minutes until your call.>

Rev almost jumped. Punch had been so quiet lately that when he did say something, it often took Rev by surprise.

“Thanks. I’ll go and take it.”

He looked at the other two. “I’ve got a call coming.”

“Mala?” Rice asked.

“Yeah.”

“Oh, look at him. He’s getting red,” she said, reaching over to pinch his cheek. “It’s so cute.”

“I should have never told you two about her.”

“I’ve never known a guy who doesn’t want to brag about his conquests,” Rice said with a laugh.

“It isn’t like that. She wasn’t a ‘conquest.’”

“You keep telling yourself that. You might even believe it someday.” Rice stretched, arching her back. “And I think I’m hitting the rack. I’ve got battalion duty bright and early. By the Mother, I hate that.”

She stood up and said, “Make sure you darken your door. You don’t want to embarrass yourself.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know. Lonely boy, far from his girl. She calls him on a private line. You know how things go.”

“Oh, geez, Rice. Why is it that every woman I know has her mind in the gutter?”

“Because men who don’t understand women fall into two groups: bachelors and husbands.”

“What? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“That’s because you’re a bachelor.”

Rev just shook his head. “I swear, I don’t understand women.”

“That’s what I just said.” She leaned over and gave Rev a kiss on the top of the head. “Don’t fret your little mind about it.”

Ting-a-ling stood up. “I was going to make the same kind of crack, but she beat me to it. I’m hitting the rack, too. You go take your call. Have fun, but not too much fun.”

“You, too?”

Rev shook his head as his friend entered his cell. Rev didn’t think he was a prude, but sometimes, he just didn’t understand his fellow Marines and troopers.

* * *

“Busy. They’ve got us hopping. We just got back from a two-day training cycle out on the surface.”

“They’ve got surface training? I thought it was all, like, underground,” Malaika said.

“Gravity’s so weak here that they give us harnesses to counteract it. We do vacuum ops right on the surface. Cheaper than getting the Navy to take us somewhere.”

That, and they don’t like carting us around as if they were just bus drivers.

“I guess that makes sense. You be careful, though. Vacuum ops are nothing to underestimate.”

You’ve got that right. Not that he was going to tell her about what happened to LeMay and Wuhing. No use worrying her.

She broke contact with his eyes, trying to look around him. “So, that’s your quarters?”

“Yeah,” Rev said, scooting to the side of the pickup so she could see. “My home for the next three years.”

“It looks . . . small.”

“That’s because it is. I’ve got this little cubbyhole at the entrance where I can sit and work on my terminal, and then the rack. No head. I gotta go out for that.”

“It’s kinda cute, though. Looks like enough room for two in that rack, if you know what I mean,” she said with a throaty laugh.

Yeah, I know what you mean, he thought, trying not to roll his eyes. First Rice, now you, Mala?

“Unfortunately, only assigned personnel in the base. No visitors. And you’ll be a civilian soon enough.”

“Damn, Rev. Just joking. Trying to, you know, remind you of what’s waiting back here when you come.”

“Yeah, I knew you were joking. I was just playing along.”

Except he didn’t know she was joking. In retrospect, of course, she had to be, but he’d thought she was serious. Sometimes, it seemed as if they didn’t understand each other at all.

“Speaking of which, what’s your status on that?”

“Already started the process. I had my first Run Amok Week brief today.”

“Shouldn’t that be ‘Don’t Run Amok Week’ brief?” Rev asked.

“Ha-fucking-ha. You need to get Punch to give you better lines, ’cause it’s not like I haven’t heard that, oh, about a hundred other times today.”

The Corps hadn’t been discharging any significant number of Marines since before the war, and now, with combat vets returning into the civilian population—particularly with large numbers of augmented Direct Combat Marines—there was concern that the trauma of war could manifest itself in bad ways. Someone with a PTSD event, someone far stronger and quicker than a normal human, could pose a danger to the populace. So, the Reintegration of Returning Marines had been reestablished and updated. Every discharging Marine had to go through a week of briefs, exercises, and psychological evaluations.

That was almost enough reason for Rev to stay in uniform in and of itself.

“So, what are they—” Rev started to ask before he was cut off by his hatch chime.

Rev wasn’t expecting anyone. With his first free time since forever, he hoped it wasn’t the first sergeant with another shit detail.

“Wait a second,” he told Malaika as he set the hatch to transparent.

Lieutenant Macek was standing in front of his cell.

“Can I help you, sir?” he asked through the intercom.

“I was hoping that we could talk.”

Rev could see that something was bothering the lieutenant. Why he’d be coming to see him was something Rev didn’t know, but Marines supported Marines.

“Wait one, sir. Let me cut off this call.”

He turned back to Malaika. “I’ve got to go, Mala. Something just came up.”

“What? But we just started chatting,” she said, disappointment taking over her face.

“I know, but I’ve got the lieutenant here, and you know officers. Can’t wait for whatever it is. Besides, this setup is pretty righteous. I can take incoming calls right here in my cell, and if you’re at the USO, these don’t cost us a bit. We’ll have plenty of time to chat.”

“Well . . . OK, I guess. It’s just that I miss you so much.”

“Me, too. But I’ve got to go.”

“Wait.” She looked around to see if anyone was looking, then leaned over and planted a kiss on the pickup. “Think of me in your dreams.”

It was almost a relief when Rev cut the connection. And that made him feel guilty. Shouldn’t he miss her as much as it looked like she missed him? But the lieutenant was waiting, and he didn’t have time for that.

He opened the hatch and started to get out.

“Can I come in?”

Rev looked around his tiny space. The lieutenant wasn’t a particularly large man, but Rev was, and with their augments, both were rather bulky.

“It’ll be kinda tight, sir. There’s not much room here.”

“I’d rather have a little privacy, if you don’t mind.

Supposedly, the cells were private with no monitoring. Rev didn’t believe that for a second, but unless the lieutenant wanted to plan a coup and take over the Council, he didn’t think that whatever AI was monitoring them would flag anything said.

“Sure, come in.”

Rev got off the chair and sat on the edge of his rack. There wasn’t enough clearance for him to sit upright, so he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

The lieutenant took Rev’s chair and looked around the cell. “Shit, I’m never going to complain about my cell again. This is like a coffin.”

“Can I get you a drink, sir? I’ve got a couple of Teks.”

He perked up. “Really? What’re they like?”

Rev reached over his head and into the shelf there, pulled down a Tek pouch, popped it into the small cooler by the sink, and gave it ten seconds. The cooler chimed, and he pulled it out before tossing it to the lieutenant.

“You tell me.”

Tek flowed through the veins of the Osnovnoy Alyanz. It was based on an old Russian bread-based drink called kvass. There were evidently several copycats, but Tek was the first and most popular. It could be found on New Hope if one looked hard enough, but Rev had never tried it there. Seeing cases of it in the corridor mini-exchange, and now being in the company of Cossack troopers, he thought he’d give it a try.

The lieutenant popped the straw, sniffed the opening, then took a swallow. His face twisted in disgust, and he leaned over to Rev’s sink and spit it out.

“Wow! Give me a Coke any day.”

Rev shrugged. It wasn’t that bad, but it sure wasn’t good. “Yeah, and I bought a twelve pack.”

The lieutenant raised his eyebrows.

“It was the smallest pack they had.”

“That’s because they know if we tried one, we’d never buy another. So, I take it you have ten left?”

Rev nodded.

“Just toss them. And, sorry about your sink. I didn’t mean to poison it.”

“No problem, sir. So . . . what do you want to talk about?”

The frown came back, and the lieutenant took a deep breath to gather himself. “This is . . . I don’t know if this is appropriate.”

Rev waited.

“I’m wondering if I belong here,” he finally said.

“What do you mean, sir?”

“I don’t know shit. I mean, compared to my troopers. My platoon sergeant is a Mad Dog—not one of their karnans, but a regular one. He’s made it very clear that I’m worthless and that he’s gonna be running the platoon.”

“I must be missing something here, sir. He’s a platoon sergeant, and you’re the commander.”

“But he’s right. He’s got campaign ribbons out the wazoo, and me . . . I don’t know what you know about me. I got hit twenty minutes into my first fight. On Echo Junction. CASEVAC’d out. Never even fired my weapon. Then there was the invasion of New Hope and then us going to Earth. That’s it. I really don’t have much in the way of experience, and everyone in my platoon, every single trooper, has more combat time than me.”

Rev pursed his lips, not knowing what to say—and he was feeling extremely uncomfortable.

“Sir, with all due respect, maybe you should be talking to the major, or maybe the gunny? Or even General Platte?”

Major Liege was the only other IBHU officer and the unofficial leader of the rest. Gunnery Sergeant Poole was the senior enlisted IBHU Marine.

“I thought about that. But . . .”

“But?”

“They’re regular Corps,” he got out in a rush. “Not from New Hope.”

The response surprised Rev, but maybe it shouldn’t. Rev had barely spent any time with the major and gunny yet, and they could be great Marines for all he knew. But there was a difference between the regular Corps and the more numerous, but perhaps not as well outfitted, provincial Corps throughout the Union. At least before the war, that is. During the war, Rev thought that if the New Hope Marines were any indication, the provincials more than carried their own weight.

It was supposed to be one Marine Corps, but the fact was that many in the regular Corps thought they were better than the provincials, and most provincials carried a bit of a chip on their shoulders because of that.

But that didn’t mean that Rev knew what to tell the lieutenant. As a SNCO, he knew, in a general sense, that one of his missions was to guide, advise, and teach junior officers. But he’d never been in that situation before. In the first place, the Raiders tended to receive more experienced or prior-enlisted lieutenants. In the second place, Rev had just made staff sergeant, and during his time with the Raiders, there had always been SNCOs to take that responsibility.

Looking at the lieutenant, however, he knew he had to do something. As an IBHU Marine, the lieutenant was one of the more powerful military individuals in existence, but if he was suffering from confidence, then that capability was wasted.

His mind raced as he tried to figure out what to do.

“What’s this guy’s rank?” he asked, more to give him some time than because it would help.

“I don’t know what they call it. But he’s got the light-yellow tab like you do. So, a staff sergeant.”

There’s one problem.

“Punch, what do the Mad Dogs call their staff sergeant equivalents again?”

<Over sergeant.>

“Lieutenant, I know we use Army ranks in the Guard, but when you address him in private, show him the respect to call him by his real rank, over sergeant.”

The lieutenant let out a huff of air in almost dismay. “So, I need to show him more respect? Isn’t that going to add more fuel to the fire?”

“No. I don’t think so. But calling him by his rank helps set the boundaries within his own understanding of the military hierarchy. When you call him staff sergeant, all you’re doing is reinforcing the fact that you two are not from the same services. And you know the Mad Dogs. They already think they’re the Mother’s gift to humanity.”

Shit. Where the heck did all of that come from?

But as soon as he said it, he thought he was right. It wasn’t the answer to the lieutenant’s situation, but it could help form the foundation.

“OK, sir. Answer me this. Has he blatantly refused an order?”

“No. Not really. But it’s his condescending attitude, his ‘Don’t worry, Lieutenant, I’ll handle this,’ or ‘You just worry about officering and leave the rest to me.’ I mean, really? I’m supposed to turn the platoon over to him? And if I say no to something, or if I want to do something, he always reminds me that I don’t have the experience that he does, so I don’t know how to get things done.”

The experience thing was something that Rev couldn’t fix. It was true that the lieutenant, while not a combat cherry, was not as experienced as most of the troopers in the Guard. All of them were supposed to be the respective creams of the crop from their services, so it made sense that almost all of them had extensive combat experience.

The lieutenant had been selected not for his combat experience, however, but rather because he had an IBHU. Four of the other IBHU Marines, PFC Marie del Mar from New Hope and three from the regular Corps, were in the same situation as well, but none of them had been placed in a leadership position.

He understood the lieutenant’s feelings. Heck, he had a little of the imposter syndrome himself. Sure, he’d killed that paladin on Preacher Rolls before his IBHU, but that had been more luck than anything else. Since then, what he relied on was the hunk of tech he hung on his shoulder. But feeling unqualified or not, the lieutenant was in the billet, and he had to step up to the plate and swing away.

“Sir, and I say this with all due respect, put on your big boy pants and put away the crying towels.”

The lieutenant jerked his head back in surprise.

Well, if all you wanted was a shoulder to cry on, you came to the wrong person.

“Sure, you don’t have the experience that some, maybe most of the troopers here have, but it isn’t like you’re a combat cherry. You got your arm blown off in one fight and helped turn back the tin-asses on New Hope. You were there on the Mother for the last engagement, too.”

The lieutenant grimaced at that last statement.

Dumb move, Reverent.

The lieutenant’s team had killed their Centaurs, just like most of the rest of the teams sent to the home planet. If not for Rev and the MDS lieutenant, Earth would probably just be gravel floating in space right now. So, Rev had just reminded him of his poor judgment.

“But experience or not, you’ve got one thing on your side. You’ve got those butter bars on your shoulder, and that means the Union put its trust in you to lead Marines. And now you’re with the Home Guard. Do you have the breadth of experience that other people have? No. Heck, PFC Randigold has more. But she isn’t an officer. Neither am I. You are.

“So, act like an officer. You command your platoon, not some Mad Dog over sergeant. He’s subordinate to you, and the Home Guard backs that.”

“But—”

“No buts, sir. I’m not saying ignore your platoon sergeant. That experience he has is worth a lot. But the decisions are yours, not his to make. If he makes a suggestion—and put it in your mind that no matter how he expresses it, no matter his wording or tone, whatever he says is just that, a suggestion—then you tell him you’ll consider it. If you don’t like the suggestion, then don’t take it. Tell him you’re doing it another way. And if you think it’s a good suggestion, then make it your decision, not his. You give the orders.”

Rev stopped and tried to see how the lieutenant was taking it. He was right, he was sure about it, but the “crying towel” comment might have been too much.

“Well. I’m not sure I expected that,” he said.

Rev lowered the intensity. “Look, you’re a good platoon commander. Yeah, a little rough around the edges, and you worry too much about how your Marines perceive you. But you did fine during the invasion.”

The lieutenant looked surprised at his comments.

“Oh, you don’t think we enlisted have our own mafia, and we don’t check out our officers?” Rev asked with a laugh. “You’re an IBHU Marine, and we’ve got more than the Brotherhood of Steel going on. Of course, I’m going to find out.

“My point is that you’re no greener than any other butter bar. Not even that green. You’ve tasted combat. Yeah, you’ve got a lot to learn, but so do all of us. I sure do. The tactics will come. But what has to be there now is the authority of command. I don’t mean your commissioning certificate. I mean that steel inside of you that deserves command authority.”

He paused for a moment. “My second Raider platoon commander, Captain Omestori, he reported in as a butter bar. He was so green it hurt. The rest of us, we didn’t know if he was going to work out. But he had two things going for him. First, he did everything in his power to support us. He even offered to throw away his career to fight for me over some awards bullshit. But second, while he asked for Top Thapa’s opinions, and he asked us sometimes for input, too, every time, when it came down to it, he made the decision.

“I can’t speak for anyone else, but for me, I’d rather have a commander who might make some mistakes along the way than some wishy-washy spineless toad who can’t make a decision.”

“And I’m a wishy-washy spineless toad, Staff Sergeant?”

“Oh, no, sir. I didn’t mean it like that.”

The lieutenant waved off the protest. “Maybe I am.” He let out a huge sigh.

Rev watched the lieutenant closely. He hadn’t meant to be insulting, but what he said fit the bill. The question was how the lieutenant was going to take it. But as he watched, he could see the resolve take over the officer’s eyes, he could see the man sit up straighter.

“Damn it, you’re right. I am the fucking platoon commander, not him. If he doesn’t want to follow my orders, well, I can court-martial his ass.”

Oh, shit! What have I created?

“Um, sir, you might want to think twice about—”

“Don’t worry, Staff Sergeant Pelletier, I’m just blowing off a little steam. I’m not going to go refer him to a court. I don’t even know how that would work in the Guard. I’m just saying, he’s got to understand that I’m in command.

“I . . . I knew that, of course. I don’t know why I was letting him run over me. So, thank you for reminding me.”

“They tell me that’s what a SNCO is supposed to do, sir,” Rev said with a smile.

“So, you passed that test, then. And I guess I needed it.” He looked around the cell and said, “I didn’t mean to take up your free time. I’ll leave you to whatever it was you were doing.”

He stood up, and Rev followed. The two took up most of the space.

“Sir, it might take a bit of time. Just be firm, but fair. And if you need to talk to someone, unofficial like, you know, out of your chain of command, I’m here. And not just about this matter. Anything.”

The lieutenant smiled and said, “I’ll try not to depend on you. I’ve got to lead on my own, right? But thanks for the offer. I may take you up on that sometime.”

He raised his social arm. “Brothers in steel?”

“Brothers in steel,” Rev said, clanking arms together.

Rev watched the lieutenant as he strode back down the corridor. It could have been Rev’s imagination, but he could have sworn that the officer was walking straighter, his shoulders back. The lieutenant was green, but Rev thought he had potential. How he grew into his role, how his steel was forged, would be the difference between making general someday or washing out early. To listen to the other SNCOs, a lot of that depended on the staff sergeants, gunnies, and first sergeants who made the first few hammers on their steel, forming the basic blade.

Rev had no idea if he’d handled that correctly. He wished Top Thapa was there, or even Master Guns Tuala. But like he’d told the lieutenant, sometimes, you just had to step up to the plate and swing away.

14

“Two more,” Rev said as Ting-a-ling struggled. “You can do it.”

The Frisian got one more rep, but his arms failed him on the next one, and Rev had to help him get it racked.

“Nice job,” Rev told him as the Frisian sat up and stretched his arms across his chest, one after the other.

“Thought I was going to pop something there.”

The weight room was packed. Every trooper had to spend six hours per week lifting weights unless they were out in the field training. The room was set to Earth-normal, and it could be adjusted up to Earth 1.4 if needed. Anything beyond that had to be in one of the rotating High G Training arms that could go up to 3 G. That would be on the high side, however. The highest gravity world the Home Guard had ever deployed to was Permission, a dense mining world that came in at 2.2 Earth normal. It was only after that the Home Guard authorized six of the High G Training arms.

“I guess you’re up. Another eighty kilos?” Ting-a-ling asked with a wistful hint in his voice.

Rev had been about to say six more plates, or 120 kilos, but he quickly changed that to eighty. No use making Ting-a-ling feel bad. Not that he should feel bad, but Rev could see he was bothered.

The Frisian Mantle had been at the forefront of banning the augmentations that led to the Genesians, the Deimers, and the Corolla Wars. Because of that, Frisian Host soldiers had minimal modifications such as getting eyesight corrected and having medinanos monitoring their health. Ting-a-ling was a veritable stud when compared to most people, but he couldn’t compete strength-wise with someone like Rev.

It wasn’t just in brute strength. Rev couldn’t miss seeing that Ting-a-ling had been out of breath at Machu Picchu.

He respected his friend’s abilities as a warrior—Ting-a-ling had embarrassed him more than once during force-on-force training. But it had to grate on him when he saw the immediate advantage that medical science gave Union Direct Combat Marines, MDS soldiers, and at least portions of half of humanity’s military forces.

Of course, he’ll be at my funeral when I croak from the rot.

Rev pushed that thought—which had started to creep up on him more and more often—out of his mind and lay down on the bench. He gripped the barbell with his social arm first, then once that was firmly in place, reached up with his organic arm. He adjusted his back so that his shoulder blades were flat against the bench and started his set of ten reps.

Two hundred and sixty kilos were nothing for him, but he let slip a few soft grunts. He hoped Ting-a-ling wouldn’t realize they were thrown in for his sake. He set the barbell back and sat up. Rotating his left arm around the shoulder wasn’t for show, though. With the oversized sleeve necessary to support Pashu, the connection to his social arm wasn’t seamless, and Daryll had told him to perform the movement any time he put stress on the junction to make sure the seating was lined up.

“I thought you combat oners were supposed to be strong.”

Rev turned to his right. Kvat was standing by Over-Gunner/Corporal Wymont, an MDS karnan assigned to Second Platoon, who looked like he’d just finished a set.

Kvat was smiling, but there was a glint in his eye that told Rev there was more than a bit of a challenge to the comment. The MDS staff sergeant motioned for Wymont to get up. He put four more plates on the barbell—a quick glance told him there were twenty plates on the bar. At twenty kilos per plate and another thirty for the bar itself—this was an extended barbell, not a normal Olympic barbell—there were 430 kilos on the bar. Heavy, but doable for a Direct Combat Marine.

Kvat gave one last glance at Rev before he lay back, situated his hands, and pushed the barbell off of the stops. The weight of the plates bowed the bar. He brought the weights down and smoothly raised them.

Not bad. Not great, though.

Still holding them up, he turned his head to look at Rev, then keeping his eyes locked on him, he lowered the bar again to begin eight more reps. He dropped the barbell in the stops and sat up, a shit-eating grin on his face.

He couldn’t have been more clear. The gauntlet had been thrown.

“Can you do that?” Ting-a-ling whispered.

Rev just snorted. He could feel his warrior start to stir—only right now, he was using the term “warrior” to himself when it was really his old bugaboo, his temper starting to rise. He got the next plate, and with Ting-a-ling’s help, matched the MDS soldier’s lift.

Around him, people slowly became aware of what was going on. Exercise petered out as other troopers edged a little closer to watch. The vice-director’s advice not to reveal too much tried to force its way into Rev’s thinking with tiny butterfly wings. His warrior, who had been quiescent for months, seemed to realize something was up, and he roared to life, smashing the butterfly away.

Rev gave Kvat a steady look, then dropped back. He reached up as casually as he could, then raised the barbell from the stops. He gave a dramatic sigh, then smoothly pumped out nine reps to match the karnan.

“Good job, Rev,” Ting-a-ling said.

Rev sat up and gave Kvat two raised eyebrows.

The trooper smiled and, with Wymont, put two more plates on the bar. He quickly got on his back and did a set of five. It was three fewer and might not have been as smooth as the first time, but the lifts were all good, and several of the observers clapped their hands when he got the last one up.

Rev smiled, but he was a little concerned. He’d managed that much before, but that was before he’d lost his arm. With Pashu, he wouldn’t be worried, but his social arm wasn’t designed for heavy lifting. He wasn’t sure it would hold up.

Well, no way to know unless I try. Besides, the asshole was struggling with that one. This might be the last increase.

He nodded to Ting-a-ling, who put on two more plates. He really wished that he’d tried this much weight before this, but by accepting the first challenge, he was backed into a corner. With what he hoped projected nonchalance, he gave Kvat a single glance, then lay down. This time, he took a little more care placing his hands, making sure that his social forearm would be at the exact vertical to the deck as he lifted.

Please, just let me get this up.

He calmed his mind, picturing the weights going up. With a grunt that was real this time, Rev pushed. The weight hurt his right hand, but he got it up, and before he could revel in that, he pumped out five more, making the total six. The last lift sent a stab of pain through his shoulder, but he just smiled at the karnan while people applauded the effort.

Kvat nodded, then pointed four fingers at the weight rack. He kept his eyes locked on Rev with that same grin on his face while Wymont put four more plates on. Rev just smiled back at him.

Show off. You struggled with 470.

The weight room quieted as Kvat got ready. No one was exercising on their own now with all eyes on the challenge. The karnan lowered himself to his back, took the bar, and slowly took five huge breaths. With a grunt, he arched his back and pressed the bar up. He wavered, and one arm locked well before the first, but he made a successful lift as the room erupted in cheers.

He slammed it back down on the posts that shuddered under the impact.

Rev looked at the massive weights. At 550 kilos, that was close to the galaxy record for an unaugmented person. But that person would have been a competitive weightlifter, and that’s what he trained for day and night.

Rev was just a normal guy, but with augments that made him stronger. Augmented people were not allowed to compete in professional sports, but he was sure some augmented lifter had blown past that record. Not Rev, though. And at the moment, his limiting factor was his prosthesis. He didn’t know what it was rated for.

“Do you have the load-bearing limit on my social arm?”

<The manufacturer’s specifications list it as 400 kilos.>

Whatever the rated load, he couldn’t back down, though. Pride and anger drove him forward.

Hell, they always give a cushion. And I’ve got the bulked-up sleeve, so that should help.

He nodded to Ting-a-ling. He hadn’t noticed Akkeke in the gym, but the corporal pushed forward through the rest of the crowd to help the Frisian. It was just a little thing, but Rev appreciated the squad show of support. He got into position, and Ting-a-ling and Akkeke stood behind his head to spot him. Kvat didn’t have a spotter, probably trying to show he didn’t need one, but Rev was fine with having the two of them.

You can do this, Reverent. You’re a Union Marine.

An image flashed through his mind of Tomiko assuring him that he could do whatever he took upon himself. Sometimes, though, she had more confidence in him than he did himself.

Rev shook his head. He didn’t know why that image popped up, but he didn’t need the distraction.

He took three deep and measured breaths, and with a shout, put every gram of force he could into the lift. He got it off the bar and above his chest.

It’s freaking heavy!

Of course, he knew it would be heavy. But the weight seemed to drive through his arm, trying to become one with the moon’s surface.

Just do it.

Rev lowered the weight to his chest, and without pausing, drove it up.

Or, at least, he tried to.

He managed to get it up about fifteen centimeters when his social arm faltered. He tried to struggle with his organic arm, and it inched a bit higher.

Ting-a-ling started to reach in to help when Rev yelled, “No! I’ve got it!”

The Frisian looked surprised, and he started to back off when Rev gave one last push . . . and someone drove a knife into his shoulder. His prosthesis collapsed, and his right arm gave out. The barbell bounced off Rev’s chest before his two spotters could grab it.

Rev saw stars as he struggled for breath. He was barely aware of the shouting, of hands grabbing him. His universe had shuddered to a stop. Nothing else mattered. But as quick as that had been, the universe started spinning up again. Rev sat up, gasping for breath.

“You OK?” someone asked as he prodded at Rev’s ribs.

Rev tried to knock the hands away, but his social arm didn’t respond. He reached with his right and grabbed the trooper’s wrist.

“I’m a medic. Let me look at you.”

Rev released the wrist and sat there in utter embarrassment as a hundred sets of eyes were locked onto him. He refused to look to his right. That was one set of eyes he really didn’t want to see right now.

“What the hell do you have under here?” the medic asked. “It feels like chain mail.”

“He’s a Union IBHU Marine,” Ting-a-ling told him. “That’s normal for him.”

The medic huffed, then said, “Well, lucky for him. By the Mother, that was five hundred kilos landing on him. I don’t feel anything broken, but let’s get him checked out.”

“Five-fifty. Not five hundred,” Rev muttered.

“Whatever. It was a lot.” He waved his fingers in front of Rev’s eyes and did a few other medic-type things that Rev barely noticed. He was too conscious of being the center of attention.

“Can you stand?”

“Yeah.”

With the medic assisting him, Rev rose to his feet. His head swam a bit, and his chest hurt, but the worst thing was his shoulder was afire and the fact that his prosthesis wasn’t working.

“OK, I’m going to take you back to sickbay. We’re going to get you checked out.”

“Do you want me to go with you?” Ting-a-ling asked.

“No. I’ll be fine. But you better tell Gamay. I’ll give her an update after I get checked.

Rev and the medic started making their way through the crowd. A few troopers reached out to pat him on the back or said something along the lines of “Good try.”

But Rev wasn’t having it. This was on him. He’d let his pride, competitiveness, and anger get the better of him. He’d let a karnan pull his strings like any good puppet master.

Hell, I asked Punch for my arm’s capabilities. Why didn’t I pay attention to that?

The two reached the door out of the weight room when Kvat called out, “Hey, Pelletier!”

Rev stopped. He debated ignoring the karnan, but he knew all those eyes were still on him, and how he reacted would not only affect him but on all Union Marines.

He forced a smile. He had to show he was a good sport even if he wanted to just slink away.

He turned, ready to offer the karnan his congratulations, but Kvat was on his back, hands on the barbell. As soon as he saw that Rev was watching, he lifted the 550 kilos off the posts and quickly did three reps, showing no sign of strain. He returned the weights, sat up, and high-fived Wymont as the two laughed.

There were exclamations and hooting from the crowd. Rev watched their celebration for a moment, then without another word, turned and left the weight room.

* * *

“Damn, Rev. What the hell did you do to this?” Daryll asked.

Rev had caught the tech just as he was closing his shop for the day, but when he saw Rev’s prosthesis hanging limply, he unlocked the door and ushered Rev inside. It took him more than a minute to work the arm loose and inspect the damage.

“Nothing.”

“Well, obviously something. The inner sleeve ring’s ripped free and warped. All the connectors have been yanked out. You didn’t do this spanking the monkey, Rev.”

Rev didn’t reply.

“Come on, Rev. I need to know so I can figure out how to go about fixing it.”

Rev was mortified and angry at himself. He couldn’t believe that he had let a karnan manipulate and play him the fool like that. He’d worked some good will with the training accident, and now he’d blown that.

And that little trick at the end, where Kvat had acted like he was at the limit of his abilities, was just the final straw. Laughter had chased him from the weight room as he left with the medic.

All the little incident had proven was that Rev was no different from the hotheaded kid he was prior to his conscription, that he had no control over his competitive emotions, and the karnans were much stronger than augmented Marines, even IBHU Marines. The only good thing was that he was given a clean bill of health at sickbay. The damage was to his prosthesis . . . and ego.

But he had to tell Daryll something, and the tech would find out soon enough as the story made its rounds.

“Lifting weights.”

“Really? How much weight?”

“Five-fifty.”

“As in kilos? Kilos that most of humanity uses, not 550 pounds like on Barclay?”

Rev nodded.

“Fuck, Rev. Why would you do something like that? Your prosthesis isn’t rated for anything close to that.”

Rev just shrugged while Daryll hooked the arm up to one of his machines. The Seiben head tech scowled as he watched the numbers appear on the display.

“You’re lucky. The arm’s OK. It’s just the connectors and the lip. I’ll have to replace those, but depending on your shoulder, that could be an easy fix.

“You dodged a big one. It could have been the arm itself that gave out. Now, let me look at your shoulder.”

Still scowling, he shined a penlight into Rev’s sleeve. He used it as a probe to poke around inside. “Looks like the HD-ring is shot, but the rest seems to be OK.”

“Can you fix that?”

“Can you fix that?” he mimicked in a high voice. “You should have thought of that before you went off and tried to be a stud. Yes, I can fix that. Your shoulder itself is rated for far more weight. The HD-ring is damaged because of your social arm tearing free. I’ll put in a new one, and it will be fine.”

“How long for that? I need to see my squad leader.”

“It ain’t gonna be tonight. I’ve got to get the program for the HD-ring and print it up. Tomorrow morning.”

“And my arm?” Rev asked, nodding at his prosthesis.

“That? I won’t know for sure until I get into the nitty-gritty. But tomorrow at the soonest. You’re just gonna have to do without an arm for the night.”

For a moment, Rev wanted to argue, to tell him that he’d wait right there until they were done, but the fight had gone out of him. He just nodded, got up, and told the tech he’d be back in the morning. The squad had training scheduled, but this took precedence, just as if he’d been hurt and was in sickbay.

Rev felt naked as he returned to the company area. He’d been without his arm in public before, but now, it was like waving a flag announcing that the karnan had defeated him. There was no putting off the inevitable, though. Because he was not combat-effective at the moment, he had to report in to his command.

When he entered the company office, Corporal White glanced up and quickly looked back down at his screen. Rev knew right then that the word had already reached the company headquarters.

All of the squad leaders shared a small office at the back of the main space. With a barely suppressed sigh, he headed to it and rapped on the sill. “Staff Sergeant Pelletier to see Sergeant First Class Gamay.”

“Get in here, Pelletier.”

Four more squad leaders were there, and they left to give them a moment of privacy.

“So, it’s true,” Gamay said when she saw his missing arm. “Figured as much, but I was hoping. Sit.”

The squad leaders’ space was a set of cupboards along the wall and a beat-up table in the middle with seven chairs. Rev took one of the chairs and sat across from his squad leader.

“So, what’s the damage. You combat-ready?”

“No. There’s some minor damage to the HD-ring, and Mr. Begay is printing up a new one. I should be good to go sometime tomorrow.”

Gamay grunted. “Not so bad, then. Worst thing damaged is your ego, I’m guessing.”

Despite himself, Rev gave a half-grin and said, “That took a pretty big hit there.”

“And now everyone knows about it.”

“If not now, then soon, I imagine,” Rev said, his smile gone.

“So, get over it.”

“Excuse me?” Rev wasn’t sure how he could just “get over it.”

“You think you’re the only one who’s been played here? Happens a lot. In case you’ve forgotten, we’ve got a lot of folks from all over humanity, and we haven’t always been on good terms with each other. You and me—Union and Rigel—we had a war only thirty years ago, right? So, if it wasn’t Kvat, maybe I’d have done you dirty sometime. Just not so you were out of commission. But this time, the Mad Dog played you, and he won.

“All I care about is if you’re combat-ready. If we got the call tonight, what would I do with you? Take you along without your IBHU? That’s where you fucked up, Pelletier. Not getting sucked into his game, but letting it push you to where you screwed yourself.”

Rev just stared at the squad leader. She was right, of course. He should have stopped when he reached his limit instead of trying to push it. Hell, he shouldn’t have let the bastard suck him into it in the first place.

“So, I need to ask you this, and you’d better be honest about it. You’re both in the same platoon. This little thing that happened, can you put that behind you? Can you function as a team?”

Rev had been wondering about that very same thing. But he had to admit, what had the karnan really done? He sucked Rev into making a fool of himself. So? Marines did the same thing to each other. In this case, the damage he suffered was his own fault, a consequence of his own ego. If he was honest with himself, he couldn’t blame the karnan.

He just didn’t want to be honest with himself. He wanted to lay the blame on the other guy. But that wouldn’t change the facts.

And when his squad leader put the question like that, there was only one answer. “I can work with him.”

“Good.”

“But if the opportunity comes up, I’ll get him back.”

“Fair enough . . . as long as he isn’t damaged. We can’t have anyone sent to sickbay, understand?”

“I understand.”

That seemed to end their meeting. It wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. But this was just his squad leader. There was still the platoon sergeant, the platoon commander, and on up the chain.

“Should I go report to Top Barber?”

“Why should you?”

“You know, to tell her what my status is.”

“You don’t need to tell her anything. That’s my job. No, you go back to berthing. Tomorrow, you get yourself combat-ready. Meet us at the sims when you’re done.”

The weight fell off his shoulder with a crash. Not having to go listen to the platoon sergeant give him a ration was a huge relief. He was still pissed at himself for being stupid, but at least he wasn’t going to have the entire chain of command tell him how stupid he was.

“OK. Thanks, Sergeant Gamay.”

He stood up to leave when she asked, “So, Sergeant Pelletier. What lesson have you learned?”

“Uh . . . don’t push past my capabilities?”

She shook her head.

He didn’t know what she was getting at. There were lots of lessons here, and he didn’t want to sit here and guess which one she meant.

“What should I have learned?” he asked to just get to the point.

“Don’t let your enemies define the conflict. If you let them do that, you’ll lose every time.”

Rev stood there for a moment as what she said sunk in. She was right, of course, and that, in a nutshell, might be the most valid piece of advice he’d received since he was conscripted.

And it took a Rigel Cluster legionnaire to tell him that.

15

It was never really as bad after being shown up by the karnan as Rev had feared. Sure, he had to endure ribbing—a lot of ribbing—but for the most part, it seemed good-natured. A significant number of people even gave him props for trying. And if Kvat and the other MDS troopers seemed to lord it over him, well, Rev could live with that.

And plan a revenge. He didn’t know what it would be yet, but he could take his time and make it good.

It wasn’t as if he had a lot of free time to work on something. Second Battalion was one of the first to get companies slated for a shipboard deployment, and the workups were non-stop.

There was pressure from some quarters not to deploy at all. They were the Home Guard, after all, there to protect Mother Earth and the home system. But with the war over, the Counsel General himself had his fingers in the pie. With most of humanity united, he didn’t want to see it splinter into the squabbling factions that had plagued humankind for centuries, not to mention outright war breaking out.

So, the Home Guard was going to show the flag of a united humanity, and if the opportunity presented itself, it would slap the hands of whoever was breaking the peace. And that meant that in three short weeks the battalion’s companies would be embarked upon various ships for a six-month pump.

One of their main missions would be to show the flag. Consequently, there were four port calls scheduled, which had the troopers pretty hyped. Unless you were rich, it was rare for the average citizen to visit much of humanity. Rev had been on seven different worlds, not including Enceladus and Titan, but fighting Centaurs was not quite the same as being a tourist. And for him, Barclay would be the highlight. The ship would represent the CoH at the planet’s landing day celebration, and if Sergeant Crocker in Second Platoon could be believed, his home planet knew how to party.

“OK, we’re up,” Sergeant First Class Gamay said, snapping Rev out of his thoughts and back to the present. “Let’s see if we can’t beat Third’s time.”

Rev stood and moved to the starting line. They may be scheduled to embark, but there was a lot of training left to do. Showing the flag was only one mission—the easiest mission. The fact remained that they were still a combat unit, so they had to be ready for any number of contingencies.

The obstacle course they faced now, set up in 1.5 Earth Normal, might not have much practical training, but it would help with forging teamwork. And, of course, Gamay had paired him with Kvat.

“You ready?” he asked the karnan.

“Born ready, oner.”

Rev rolled his eyes, but he knew the MDS trooper was going to do his best. It wasn’t just the squad leader who wanted to beat Third Squad’s time.

“Are you ready?” the course NCOIC asked.

“Hoey-hoey!” everyone shouted, the Home Guard equivalent of “ooh-rah.”

“On your marks . . . get set . . . go!”

* * *

“Finally, I got you,” Rev said.

“Oh, yeah, sorry, Rev. It’s just been crazy here lately. I’ve got my new job, you know, and I’m still learning. Putting in the extra time,” Malaika said.

“How is that, anyway? Going good?”

“Yeah. I like it. I get done every afternoon in time to go to play volleyball.”

Which didn’t jibe with what she had just said about putting in extra time, but Rev ignored that.

“Volleyball? I didn’t know you played.”

“I didn’t. Ten got me into it.”

“Ten? How is she?” Rev asked, perking up.

“She’s doing fine. Still in the regen chamber. I try and see her a couple of times a week, you know, for moral support. She hooked me up with one of the amateur teams, and I’m learning the game.

Ten had been a volleyball player before she’d been conscripted. Rev thought it must kill her to be stuck in a regen chamber for two or more years, so evidently, she was getting a vicarious fix with pushing Malaika into the sport.

It was good to hear that Ten was doing well and that Malaika was doing all she could for her. He knew the two had hit it off when they first met, but taking this much effort to help her was above and beyond. He should try and give Ten a call for a chat, but it was hard enough to find time to call his family and now Malaika.

Malaika was supposed to call him from the USO, but she’d told him that with her job, it was hard to get all the way to the USO, so he’d agreed to call her on her personal line. It wasn’t as if he was short on funds, after all, and at the Fort Nkomo USO, there were discounted outbound calls.

But she’d missed the last two scheduled calls. He’d expected her to miss this one, too, but she’d picked up on the second ring.

“Heard from anyone else? Bundy? Yancey? Tomiko?”

“Them? No. I don’t get together much with those who’re still in, and they were more your friends. Only Ten from your posse, as you called it. You didn’t know Lacey Moran, right?”

“No.”

“She was with Orpho and me in Alpha. Anyway, she’s already got a baby.”

Rev frowned and did the math in his head. “When did she get out?”

“Same as me,” Malaika said, the glee evident in her voice.

“But—”

“Yeah. The implant failed.”

All female Marines had been given anti-pregnancy implants for the duration of the war. All males had been given sperm blockers. So, if this Moran woman had gotten out only three months before, something had gone really, really wrong.

“Everybody’s talking about it. Some say she should sue the Corps, you know for messing that up.”

Rev wasn’t too sure that was a viable option, but Malaika was obviously into the story, so he just held his tongue. As he continued to hold his tongue for the next thirteen minutes as Malaika went down a list of gossip, most of which didn’t interest him in the least. Maybe he’d feel different if he’d gotten out, but as a Marine, they really didn’t seem like they were important at all. And that made him feel a little disjointed.

Am I that out of touch with civilian life?

As she went on, Rev wondered if she’d always been so interested in what others were saying or doing. He had to think back. Malaika was a fun, strong woman, and that was what had attracted him to her. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that she’d always been somewhat of a gossip. He just hadn’t noticed it before, too caught up as he was in her other qualities. Maybe he only now noticed it because the first blush of the rose was fading.

Not a particularly good look on you, Reverent, letting hormones cloud the picture.

He tried to be a better friend and pay more attention to what she was saying, but at eighteen minutes into the call, he had to interrupt her. “Hey, I’ve only got two more minutes before the next trooper has the line. I needed to tell you that I may be hard to reach for the next six months.”

Malaika was silent for a full fifteen seconds before she asked in a subdued voice, “Why?”

“We’re deploying. Part of the CoH’s show the flag initiative. I’m sure you’ve seen it in the news.”

Normally, military movements were classified. But for this, the command had encouraged them to spread the word as a means to drum up support. There had been quite a bit of news coverage, at least here in the home system. He had to think that the New Hope news covered it as well.

“I don’t remember it. So, you won’t be in the home system?”

Rev could swear she sounded disappointed, and he didn’t understand why.

“Yeah. I’ll be all over. Is there something wrong?”

“No. Of course not. I just like knowing where you are.”

Which was a weird statement, as far as Rev was concerned. He wasn’t on New Hope, so why should it matter if he was on Enceladus or a Mezame ship?

“I don’t know yet what the comms are like on the ship, but I’ll try and touch base when I hit a planet. And I can always send messages and cam clips.”

“I guess so.”

Uh . . . it’s not like I have a choice, Mala.

“Anyway, I’m on the thirty-second countdown. So, I’ve got to go. You take care, you hear?”

“Yeah, you too, Rev.”

“Miss you.”

“Me, too.”

Rev cut the connection with ten seconds left. He sat there for a moment, not quite understanding the scope of the call. Most of it had been him listening to gossip that didn’t concern nor interest him at all. Even when he made the attempt to be better at listening to her, it had been a little bit of a slog.

<Should I set a reminder for next week?>

Rev got up so the next trooper could take the line.

“Nah. I told her I might not be able to call much, and since we’ll be embarking the next day, it will probably be pretty hectic the entire day.”

16

There was one thing that Rev wanted to do before they left the home system. He tracked down the squad leader, who was in the middle of inventorying one of the mount-out boxes.

“Sergeant Gamay, can I have a couple of hours?”

It felt wrong for Rev to call the Sergeant First Class “sergeant” instead of her full rank, but that’s the way it worked the Guard. Others called Rev, a staff sergeant, “sergeant” as well. But no matter if others used the term, he was never going to address anyone as “sarge.”

“A couple of hours? The day before we deploy?”

“I’ve got my IBHU crated and standing by for pickup, and Mr. Begay will handle that. Other than that, I’ve signed all the pre-deployment docs and have my personal gear packed and ready to go.”

“So, just because you happen to be ready when not everyone else is, you think you can just take some personal time?”

Rev stopped to consider her question, wondering what he’d missed. He wasn’t in charge of other troopers, and his own preparations were done. He essentially had nothing to do other than sit on his butt and watch holovids.

“Yes?”

The squad leader frowned, then said, “I guess there isn’t much for you, is there?” She hesitated for a moment as she considered it. “Where are you going?”

“Over to Barrister.”

“Barrister? First Battalion? You know someone there?”

“No. I mean, yes, I know a few troopers. But that’s not why I want to go.”

The squad leader waited for Rev to elaborate, but he stopped at that. Finally, she said, “Well, if you’ve got everything done, I guess I can spare you. But if you’re going to Barrister, take three hours. You never know about the connections. Just make it back before chow, OK?”

“Roger that. And thanks, Sergeant.”

Rev hurried over three corridors and down to the tram system. Camp Barrister was the home of the First of the Second. Like Second Battalion’s Camp Reyes and Third Battalion’s Camp Seong-Matris, it was part of Fort Nkomo, and Rev could walk from one camp to the other through the corridors, but it was a fairly long hike going into mainside, then out again to Barrister. With his limited time, it would be quicker to take the base tram.

He got lucky. The ring tram arrived within a minute, and he hopped aboard. The first stop was the Combat Training Complex, and twelve minutes after he boarded, he was getting off at the Barrister stop.

Enceladus’s magnetic field had been downloaded into Rev’s hippocampus, and with a map overlay, he had no problem finding his way to his destination. Twenty-three minutes after leaving Sergeant First Class Gamay, he entered the company office.

“Can I help you?” a corporal asked at his appearance.

“I’d like to see Lieutenant Vreemish, if I can,” Rev said.

“And who are you?”

“Staff Sergeant Reverent Pelletier.” He almost added “Perseus Union Marine Corps,” but he was supposed to identify as a Guardsman now, and if he said he was a Marine, then the lieutenant might not see him.

The corporal frowned, then said, “I’ll see if he’s in.”

Rev could see the corporal’s throat move as he subvocalized, but he couldn’t pick up what he was saying.

I guess I should have called first.

Rev had checked the company’s training schedule, and it was in an admin standdown, but that didn’t guarantee the lieutenant’s presence. He wondered if he’d wasted a trip when one of the doors to the side offices opened, and a karnan officer looked out. He caught Rev’s eyes for a moment, then nodded and beckoned Rev forward.

Like his platoon commander’s office back at Camp Reyes, it was tiny, with barely enough room for the large MDS lieutenant to scootch past the desk to take his seat. He motioned for Rev to sit down.

“What can I do for you, Sergeant?”

“Sir, I’m Staff Sergeant Reverent Pelletier. I came here from the Union Marines.”

The lieutenant’s eyes narrowed the slightest bit, and he said nothing.

“I was on Earth. The same time you were.”

The lieutenant’s eyes dropped to Rev’s prosthesis, and understanding flooded them.

“I know who you are. You’re the other one.”

“Yes, sir. I am.”

The lieutenant stood up and held out a hand. A little wary after dealing with Kvat, Rev hesitantly reached out and took it. But the lieutenant didn’t try and crush it. His grip was firm but reasonable.

“Well, Peter’s Beard, Staff Sergeant. I’m damned glad to meet you. Damned glad. I . . . I guess you’re here now?”

“Yes, sir. Second of the Second.”

“How did you find me?”

“It wasn’t difficult. Since all of us except for one are here in the Home Guard now, I figured that maybe you would be, too. I just had my battle buddy do a search and see if there was an MDS lieutenant here by the last name of the one who didn’t kill his Centaurs.”

The lieutenant nodded. “I guess I could have done the same thing. I should have. Not all of us are here, but we’ve got yoo . . . uh, we’ve got IBHU Marines here, too, so I could have made the connection. I’ve wondered about you, though. If I hadn’t figured out what was going on, and then if you hadn’t . . .” he trailed off.

If neither one of us had refused to slaughter the Centaur Three at our objective, the Mother would be a smoking ruin now.

“I was wondering, sir, if I can ask you a question.”

“Shoot.”

“How did you figure it out? Why didn’t you kill your Centaurs? Everyone else did.”

“Not everyone else. You didn’t, and you weren’t even in command, if I understand it correctly. But why didn’t I kill them? They weren’t fighting back, and that was unusual, to say the least. I needed to know why. So, I ordered my men to stand down, and I was taken to the Three. Long story short, I believed them. And the rest is history. What about you?”

“That’s the thing, sir. I didn’t think things through like you just said you did. I just reacted. My team leader, he wanted me to blow them all away,” Rev said, lifting his social arm and miming firing a weapon. “That’s why I was leading the assault. But something told me to stop after I killed the first two.”

“Instincts,” the lieutenant said. “Good instincts, I might add.”

“Seems like it was luck to me.”

“Bullshit. You may not think you were thinking things through, but you were.

Your subconscious was working it out. And that was because of your inherent ability to observe and analyze. That, and what I assume was a lot of combat experience.”

Rev wasn’t so sure of that. He still thought it was luck. But as Tomiko had told him more than once, if what he’d done in the war was just luck, then the gods of war must have made him the luckiest person in history. Occam’s Razor would indicate that there must be some skill and capabilities involved.

That wasn’t always enough, though. The finest Marine Rev had known, Staff Sergeant Mendez, had been killed on Roher-104. So there had to be luck involved, too, good or bad.

Rev opened his mouth, then realized he didn’t know what he’d been about to say. He wasn’t even sure why he’d come. But then it hit him. He’d just wanted to meet the other person who, if Rev had failed to realize what was happening, would still have saved Earth. By meeting him, it was as if the weight of the Mother’s very survival wasn’t solely on his shoulders.

And it was a good feeling.

“Hey, and I hope I’m not being too forward, but would you like to go out for a drink? I’m just doing paperwork here now, and I’d like to get to know you some more,” the lieutenant asked.

“Oh, wow, sir.”

“Lymon. Call me Lymon.”

“OK, uh, Lymon. I’d really like that, but I’ve got to get back. We’re deploying tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? You’re, what, Fox Company, right? And you came all the way to Barrister the afternoon before?”

“I just wanted to meet you before we go. A lot could happen between now and when we’re supposed to get back.”

“Isn’t that the truth. Well, I’m glad you came over to see me. And when you get back, we’ll have to get together again.” He paused for a moment. Looking more than a little shifty, he lowered his voice and asked, “Have you ever had donat?”

“No, sir. Uh, Lymon.”

Rev had heard about it. Donat was the drink of choice among the MDS. Supposedly, it tasted like crap.

The lieutenant bent over and rummaged around in a drawer. He pulled out a small clear flask of a bright blue fluid and two tiny glasses. “This, Reverent . . . can I call you Reverent?”

“Rev, please. Just Rev.”

“OK, Rev. This is the nectar of the gods: Donat Azurco. This is what makes life worth living.” He raised his eyebrows in question.

Rev wasn’t sure he wanted to try it. Its reputation was pretty bad, and Rev wasn’t a huge drinker. Give him a beer or a cider, and he’d be happy. But he realized that the lieutenant’s offer was just as much a challenge as Kvat’s had been, even if this one was issued in a much more convivial situation.

That last challenge hadn’t worked out so great for him, and he realized that he was probably letting his competitive nature and ego make decisions again, but he’d always needed two or three lessons for things to sink in.

He nodded at the lieutenant.

With a broad smile, the lieutenant poured a finger-full into each glass. He carefully stoppered the bottle, picked up his glass, and held it aloft.

Rev followed suit.

“To . . . hell, I guess to the Mother, may she long endure.”

“To the Mother,” Rev said.

The lieutenant downed the drink in one swallow, then Rev did the same. Slow-motion lava poured down his throat, and it was only by pure force of will that he didn’t choke and spit it out.

“Nothing better in the galaxy,” the lieutenant said with a faraway look in his eyes. He quickly filled both glasses again, but he didn’t immediately drink his

“So, you’re an IBHU Marine.”

“Yeah. A oner. A yootie.”

“Stupid name, yootie. There’s not even a ‘t’ in Union.”

“Exactly!” Rev said. “I was wondering about that. We call you pit bulls.”

“I know. And I like it,” he said, giving a few soft barks. “Fits with Mad Dogs, right?”

Rev burst out laughing. “It’s kind of badass, too.”

He downed his drink. It still burned like lava, but somehow, it was kind of interesting.

“Your IBHUs. I guess they were effective against the Cents, not like us karnans.”

Rev couldn’t help but note that little throwaway statement at the end of the sentence. He’d suspected that the karnans were not especially useful in fighting the Centaurs,

“I’ve got one of you in my platoon. Corporal Tinter. You know him?” the lieutenant kept going.

“I saw the name, but I never met him. Regular Corps.”

“Well, no matter. We were at the live-fire range two days ago. Pretty impressive, if I can say so.”

“Well, I got into a weight-lifting contest with one of yours. Lincoln Kvat?”

“You did what? A weight-lifting contest. No way you can win.” He pulled back his sleeve and tapped the two metallic bars that emerged from his elbow until they disappeared again under the skin at the wrist. “Titalloy 363, and powered by a Maiser pump. Sorry. Not saying anything bad about your IBHU, but when you’re talking strength, well, that’s apples and oranges.”

“I found that out.”

“Kvat kicked your ass, I presume.”

“You presume right. I let my ego get in the way.”

“Eh, Kvat’s an asshole. I hate that little punk. Don’t let it get you down. But speaking of down . . .” he said, lifting up the tiny glass.

Rev emptied his glass and held it out for a refill. The lieutenant nodded his appreciation.

The two chatted for the next forty-five minutes. Karnans and IBHU Marines had a lot in common, even if the two systems were totally different. What was the same was that the Marines and soldiers were treated like chattel in many ways, and the sacrifices they’d made were significant.

IBHU Marines had lost an arm in combat, but they’d volunteered. Karnans were healthy when they started, and they were also volunteers, although from how the lieutenant described it, if they passed the screening given to every soldier, they were basically told to volunteer.

Rev had thought his process had been bad, but it sounded like the process to convert an MDS soldier into a karnan was another level of hell.

And one place where they were just alike was that they were both on the path to contracting the rot.

Rev finally had to call it quits. He had to get back to Reyes and the company area. The two shared one more toast, and to Rev’s surprise, the lieutenant came around the desk to give him a hug.

Rev was tipsy as he made his way to the tram. He was glad he didn’t have to do anything until morning.

There was something he should be doing, though. One of the techniques he was taught about memorizing data he received was to dictate it to his battle buddy immediately, while the memory was fresh. Punch might not be able to record anything Rev saw or heard, but he could record second-hand input.

Rev had received a lot of data. He’d given up information, too. None of what he’d said or received really amounted to much that could be used on a tactical or strategic level, though. Just two soldiers sharing experiences.

And as he stood waiting for the tram, he decided he’d wait until tomorrow, when his head was a little clearer. For the moment, he was content to just let the experience sink in. Pit bull or oner, the two had a lot in common.

A small burp escaped, the subtle aroma of Donat Azurco filling his senses, the aftertaste a warm caress at the back of his throat. For something that burned like the pits of hell going down, he could see the attraction.

“Yeah, as soon as we get back, I’m going to have to get me some more of that.”

17

“Righteous,” Ting-a-ling said as he dumped his pack in the small stateroom.

“You’ve got that right, my friend.”

Rev had been on quite a few ships during his career so far, from the modern Hégémonie Dixmude, which had been at the very top, to the support ship Alacrity. The MCS Takagahara was in another class altogether.

Rev realized that a good part of that was because the Takagahara was certified for carrying a brigade, but for this cruise, there was only a single company with attached support units aboard—sort of a mini-battalion. The end result was that instead of being assigned to SNCO berthing along with five other staff sergeants, Rev and Ting-a-ling were assigned to what normally would be a junior officers’ stateroom.

Between the two of them, they had as much if not a little more space than their cells back at Nkomo. The Takagahara might not be a cruise liner, but for a Navy ship, it was pretty darn close.

Rev dropped his seabag and plopped on the rack. What looked like a thin mattress formed alongside his pressure points, giving more and less support as needed.

Yes, this is a sweet ride.

Rev had thought that the Heg Navy was the finest in humanity, and by pure power projection, it supposedly was. But the Mezame Concordat evidently went for quality over quantity. It might be smaller than the Heg Navy, and the Takagahara might not have the same armaments, but from the first impression, their Navy plied the space lanes in style.

“So, what now? Naptime?” Ting-a-ling asked from flat on his back on the rack across from Rev. “We don’t have anything until the welcome aboard brief at seventeen hundred.”

Their orders had been to get to their berthing spaces, and if they were non-essential personnel, stay out of the working areas to allow the civilian stevedores to do their thing. Rev had a good excuse to take his friend up on that. But he couldn’t. He had to find and check out their assigned IBHU shop. Pashu was his weapon, and he needed to run a check to make sure she was delivered in good working order. Back at Nkomo, he could count on Daryll for that. But with only three of them on this deployment, he had to stay back on Enceladus where he could maintain the bulk of the IBHUs.

“You go ahead and catch a few Zs. I need to find my shop.”

“Take it easy. It’s not going anywhere. Hell, neither are we. We’re not getting underway until late tomorrow.”

“I know. But I need to check on Pashu. I’ll be back, and then I can relax.”

“Have at it.” Ting-a-ling pulled the bill of his blue Home Guard ball cap over his eyes as he settled in.

“Show me the quickest route to the IBHU shop,” he told Punch. His augmented navigation wasn’t worth much inside a ship.

Punch pulled up a route and inputted it into his optic nerve. It had initially taken some getting used to, having what was essentially an overlay in his field of vision, but it was second nature by now.

Once he left the berthing spaces, things were a little more hectic. He had to hug the bulkheads several times to let trundlebots with containers of supplies or equipment pass by. But eventually, he made it to the space. The hatch was already open, and Zacharia Filmore and Randigold were already there. Filmore was disconnecting the lance corporal’s IBHU, which she named Cruella de Vil, from his testing equipment.

“A little slow getting here, Staff Sergeant,” Randigold said. “Your officers’ quarters too far away? Or was it tea time in the solarium?”

“Gee, Top Barber was asking about a working party. You look like a likely candidate.”

“Which is why I’m glad I’m in Second Platoon, not First. You need to pull one of your own troopers.”

“And I’ve got friends in high places in Second Platoon, PFC.”

“Ooh, damn. That PFC hurts, you know.”

Rev gave her a wink. He usually used her Marine rank, lance corporal, but as long as she was being a wise-ass, he reverted to her Guard rank.

He turned to Filmore. “How’s Cruella de Vil?”

“Checks out green, sir.”

“I told you, I’m not a sir. I work for a living.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Rev rolled his eyes. He didn’t know what to make of Filmore yet. He was Sieben, just like Daryll. But where he trusted Daryll with his life, that trust had been earned over the years. This newbie was an unknown factor.

To be honest, if Daryll couldn’t make the cruise, he’d rather have a Marine tech. But billets in the Guard were limited by law, and for the Marines to send an IBHU tech meant that they would have to drop another Marine from their billet. The workaround was to have Sieben send someone. The vast majority of the Guards support staff were civilians, and it was nothing for Sieben to assign someone to the cruise.

Filmore wasn’t the only civilian aboard. Rev had heard there was over forty of them, ranging from techs like him to a diplomatic staff. The senior of them was the same rank as the Osnovnoy Alyanz rear admiral who was in overall command of the deployment, and she made all non-military decisions.

“Well, if Cruella’s all green, how about you checking Pashu now?”

“Yes, sir.” He punched in a code, and an overhead-mounted arm moved down a rail, opened a locker, and pulled out Pashu. It brought his IBHU to one of three racks, and Filmore hooked up the diagnostics.

“You doing OK?” Rev asked Randigold.

“Same as before. I’m still taking shit from the pit bull. Always wants to prove his superiority. But I’m handling it just fine.” She looked up with a bit of a guilty expression as she realized how that might sound.

Not like me, you mean.

But she spoke truth to power. And he knew that for all her being a smart ass, she wouldn’t be trying to ding him like that.

“What about S-O-R? You talk to him much?” he asked, shortening Sign of Respect to something more manageable.

“Not really. We’ve all been on crazy training cycles. But word is he’s pretty close to his pit bull. Like friends, even.”

With a Mad Dog? Hell, I guess we can work together.

“Well, will wonders never cease. I guess they aren’t all assholes.”

But he knew that. His meeting with Lieutenant Vreemish had been proof enough of that. He didn’t think his issues with Kvat had as much to do with Manifest Destiny Sphere vs. Perseus Union as much as it was just competition between two highly augmented types of soldiers. Both Rev and Kvat had pride in their nations and militaries, and it was natural for both to want theirs to be the best.

“We’ve got two more Mad Dogs in the platoon, you know. Not pit bulls, just regular ones. And one of them seems OK,” Randigold said.

“Like I said, not all of them can be assholes.”

“Is it OK if I take off now?” the lance corporal asked. “I want to make sure my personal stuff is stowed and no one screws with it.”

“Yeah, of course. And if you see S-O-R, remind him that I said that this takes priority.”

“Sure thing,” she said before she stepped out of the shop and disappeared.

“So, Filmore, how’s she looking?”

“So far, so good, sir. I’ll know in another minute or so.”

“And you’ve got everything you need here? It doesn’t look like there’s much room. And where’s your printer if you have to make new parts?”

“I don’t have a printer, sir. But I’ve got access to one of the RG-8000s they’ve got in the ship’s machine shop. Completely compatible. Not including the printer, sir, I’ve got everything I need right here.”

“Well, we’re counting on you to keep us up and running.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”

I don’t want you to just do your best. I want you to keep IBHUs combat-ready. Nothing else is acceptable.

“I know you will.”

The last LED turned green. Pashu was ready for combat. Rev thanked Filmore, then walked out of the hatch. He contemplated poking his nose around to get the lay of the land, but it had been a long thirty hours or so—five or six during which he’d been feeling the Donat Azurco—and his rack was singing its siren call. He’d have plenty of time to explore the ship over the next six months, and a Marine’s credo was to sleep and eat whenever the opportunity arose.

“Naptime it is,” he mumbled as he started back to his stateroom.

18

Damn. This is really good.

Rev was proud of the Union and of being a Marine. He arrived at Enceladus believing that both were the best humanity had to offer. And while he still believed the Marines were the best fighters in human history, other little fissures had appeared in the wall of superiority he’d erected.

And this was just one more little hammer hit, one more tiny crack showing.

No one would argue that the Mezame Concordat had a stronger army than the Union Marines. No one would say that they had a more powerful navy than the Hégémonie Liberté. But they really did some things well—this sim trainer being one.

The ship’s trainer had spaces for 250 soldiers at a time, more than enough for a normal infantry company, although at the moment, only thirty-nine stations were being operated.

Rev knew he was on a station, which was essentially a treadmill hooked up to an immersion helmet that would give any jackhead gamers back on New Hope an immediate orgasm.

He knew where he was, but it would have been easy to forget that, what he was experiencing was so real. It looked real, in extreme resolution, and it never had any of the tiny visual glitches when moving that the sims back at Camp Nguyen had.

With the booties on his feet, he could feel the difference between the loamy forest floor and rocks as he stepped on them. Heck, he could smell the forest. That was something that only the die-hard—and rich—gamers could experience, and that was through high-end jacks.

This sim suite didn’t use jacks. Even if they wanted to, Rev’s jack was no longer fully connected. The Union powers that be didn’t allow jacked Marines to join the Home Guard—security concerns, supposedly. Rev needed his jack to function as an IBHU Marine, though, so his hadn’t been disconnected as it would be for regular Marines, but it had been degraded, blocking his ability to upload data normally, and the connection had been changed out to a unique configuration.

“Keep alert,” SFC Gamay passed to Rev. “I don’t want a repeat of the last go-round.”

Rev withheld his “I Told You So.” He’d known that having him as tail-end Charlie had been a mistake. Too much of his firepower had been masked by the troopers in front of him, and the ambush had come at just the right spot in the terrain—right spot for the enemy, and seven members of the squad had been killed before the lieutenant, who was monitoring all three squads, had pulled the plug.

He’d laid into SFC Gamay pretty hard, too. Rev had known the patrol formation was problematic, but he understood that the squad leader had wanted to try it out anyway.

From Rev’s perspective, there was also the fact that Kvat had been on point for Second Squad’s last exercise. No matter what he’d told Gamay about working with the MDS karnan, he was still smarting over the gym incident, and breaking the upcoming ambush would go a long way in proving the viability of the IBHU system.

Today’s exercise was very basic—immediate action drills. In a real combat situation, there were events that didn’t allow for planning and discussion. When under enemy artillery or orbital fire, if ambushed, troopers had to be able to react immediately, knowing just what they had to do. So, they practiced the drills over and over until they became second nature.

This was more like flipball drills back on New Hope. It wasn’t real combat where they didn’t know what was going to happen at all. They were getting hit, but they didn’t know when and from what direction.

Rev kept his eyes on a swivel. Without the normal drones and sensors, if he was going to spot the ambush before it happened, it was going to be with his senses.

The platform beneath him tilted up, and inside the sim, Rev could swear he was climbing to a ridgeline just visible ahead. This was a good place for an ambush. It was a large kill zone, and charging the enemy, which was the standard SOP for most ambushes, would be more difficult.

“Analyze for unnatural movement.”

<Roger.>

Punch may have been neutered in many ways, but many of his abilities were still better than a human’s. He didn’t need to focus on a single spot but could monitor a wider field of vision. If there were tufts of grass moving against the breeze or anything else against the ordinary, his battle buddy should have a better chance of picking it up before Rev did.

As it turned out, he picked up the movement at the same time as Punch. Thirty meters ahead, a bush quivered. Realistically, that could be because of a rabbit or even a local kid sneaking off to watch the troopers. Rev hadn’t identified what made the bush quiver, but within the confines of the sim, he was sure it was the ambush.

“Contact front!” he yelled as he broke into a sprint, Pashu lighting up the top of the ridgeline with 20 mm cannon fire.

Foliage and trees erupted into splinters and dust as his augmented legs ate up the slope. He was barely aware of the troopers behind him. He knew that Corporal Akkeke, Sergeant Lines, and PFC Gingham would be moving to his flanks and charging while the rest of the squad would be breaking off in an attempt to flank the ambushers.

He didn’t intend to let that happen. He wanted to break the ambush himself and show the rest—particularly Kvat—just what he could do.

There was movement to his left, and without consciously thinking about it, he swung Pashu and cut down the body that had attempted to retreat back down the far side of the ridgeline.

Rev was in his element. He screamed, a raw, primeval burst of aggression, then he reached the top and swept Pashu to the right. Three broken bodies littered the first fifteen meters along the ridge. He hesitated only for a moment. The squad would be flanking to the right of their former line of advance. So, Rev was going to leave anyone else on the right to them. He turned to the left and started running down to clear it.

He knew he should wait for the other three troopers to join him, but his blood was coursing through him. As much as they were supposed to train as if they were in a real environment, the fact that it was a sim, one of many they were going to conduct today, opened the door to taking more chances.

“Lines, sweep left short of the ridge. Akkeke and Gingham, go over the top and sweep left,” he passed.

There was movement to his front, and fire reached out to him, but only a few rounds before Rev cut down the threat. He vaulted the crew-served automatic, with two dead bodies around it, when the crack of a branch cut through the din.

Rev whirled at the sound . . . and the sim closed down. Heart still pounding, he looked about in confusion for a moment as the lights came on.

“Why’d they cut us? We were just about to break the ambush,” Rev asked the squad leader, who was standing on the platform next to him. Rev’s blood was still pounding though his body. Even with this being just a sim, he felt a void, of something being snatched from him. He wanted to crush the electronic enemies. He wanted to prove that an IBHU Marine had no peer on the field of battle.

“Don’t know. Just stand by, and we’ll find out.”

“Did their sims crash?” he asked as he started to come off his warrior high. Rev was a big fan of the Mezame sims, but knowing that the system wasn’t perfect wouldn’t bother him in the least. Childish, but there it was.

“All troopers, return to your quarters immediately and await further orders,” came over the intercom.

“You heard him,” Gamay said. “Keep your weapons with you and just hang until we find out what’s going on.”

“What do you think?” Ting-a-ling asked Rev as they got off their platforms. “Are we getting any action?”

“Two days out? Probably just a drill.”

“It better be. If we miss the Landing Day celebrations on Barclay, that’s going to suck big-time.”

“We’re missing Barclay?” Lines stuck his head over and asked after overhearing that last statement.

“No, I was just saying that if we do get diverted and miss it, that will suck,” Ting-a-ling replied.

“So, we’re still going?”

“We don’t know, Lines. If this is a drill, then yes. We’re still going. If it’s something else, then who knows?” Rev said.

He could understand the sergeant’s concern, though. The Landing Day celebration, where the company would be showing the CoH flag, was probably going to be the highlight of their deployment. From the briefs they had—and from Sergeant Crocker’s first-hand experience—it could be the highlight of each of their three-year tours, much less this one deployment.

“So, let’s just hold off getting all excited and wait until we find out what’s happening.”

The sergeant nodded, but he didn’t look too confident.

Ting-a-ling slung his weapon and said, “Let’s go, then.”

“Hold on a sec.” Rev hurried over to the squad leader. “What about me? Do I have to keep my IBHU on?”

She thought about it for a moment, then said, “No, you go back and take it off, then head back to berthing.”

“Roger that.”

He told Ting-a-ling that he’d meet him back in the stateroom and hurried down to Filmore. The young man seemed nervous, jumping as Rev entered the space.

“What’s going on, sir?”

“What’s going on is that we’re supposed to go to our quarters and wait for the word.”

“Are we being attacked?”

“Easy there, Filmore. Who would be attacking us?”

“The Centaurs?”

“Who have sued for peace. And have they broken that in the six months since then?”

“Uh . . . no, sir.”

“Just calm down. It could just be a drill. So, help me get Pashu off, and you can go back to your quarters.”

The guy was jumpy as a flightless bird in a cat hotel, but he quickly rolled up the hoist and disconnected the IBHU. Within a minute, she was back in her slot, ready for the next training mission.

Rev connected his social arm. “You get back now. Someone will get the word to us soon enough.”

The guy didn’t look convinced, but he nodded and headed off to the Civvie-Country. Rev shook his head as he watched the man hurry away. With his temperament, he may not have been the best choice to be on a military combat vessel.

Rev shut the hatch and made his way to berthing. Very few of the others were actually in the staterooms. Most were in the passage, chatting with each other. Rev took a spot next to Ting-a-ling.

“Any word yet?”

“Nada.”

“It’s just a drill,” Rice said. “They always have these early on.”

“Yeah, but every other navy announces shipboard drills. Not keeping us standing around with our thumbs up our asses wondering what’s going on,” Kvat said. “Fucking Mezzies. Always so by-the-book that it gets in the way of things.

“No slight intended, Toshi,” he added to Toshi Gant, a Mezame soldier in Third Squad.

“Slight taken, asshole.”

Kvat rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

Rev thought there was some truth to what Kvat said. For all the quality on the ship, the Mezame Navy, at least, could be a little bit too structured for their own good. And if Rev, as a Union Marine, thought that, then there was probably something to it.

Before anyone else could jump in, the intercom system came to life, shutting everyone up. “All hands, all hands. The MCS Takagahara is diverting from our previous orders. A civilian vessel, the Nightingale’s Song, has issued a distress call. They may be under attack by raiders. The Council has ordered us to proceed to the location and assess the situation.

“All non-essential personnel and Bravo Crew are to remain in your quarters until further notice. All Alpha Crew should be at your Priority 2 stations.”

The intercom cut out.

“Still think it’s a drill?” Gant asked Kvat.

“Yeah, I do.”

The intercom came back to life. “Fox Company officers, please report to the commander of troops’ stateroom.”

All eyes swing to the karnan.

He shrugged and said, “OK, maybe this is the real deal.”

19

“Godspeed, Fox Company,” the launch officer passed.

The sleigh lurched as the mule towed it to the launcher. In a moment, as the tug’s tractor locked on, they’d be out in the black, closing in on the Nightingale’s Song from a kiloklick away.

“Emissions silence from here until boarding,” the platoon commander passed over the net.

Until they reached the target, the sleigh should pass as a small, lifeless hunk of space debris. A high-tech ship of war might be able to pierce the shielding and detect the platoon of troopers inside, but the Nightingale’s Song was a commercial liner, plying the space lanes, taking people to and fro in semi-luxurious comfort.

Only now, her journey had been interrupted. The ship had popped out of bubble space near the borders of the Gray Reaches, far beyond the normal traffic lanes and any populated system. The Gray Reaches was the vast area of unincorporated space, between the Perseus and Sagittarius Arms. It wasn’t exactly lawless, but it would be fair to say central control of the area was not solid, particularly when resources were focused on fighting the Centaurs.

As a result, criminal activities were frequent there and other areas of the Gray Reaches, including piracy during the course of the war. Ransoms were demanded for the return of the passengers and crew, the cargo, or even for the ships themselves. After the owners of the James Farber refused early on in the war, the ship, with all hands aboard, was sent to the shipping line’s home system where it was destroyed in spectacular fashion above the planet.

The message was taken.

Throughout the war, pirates took ships. Some were caught. The Union Navy, for example, had held back ships and Marines to keep Union space safe, but the rewards were too great to ignore, and ships plied space where protection wasn’t as robust. The risk was deemed worth it.

No other ships were destroyed like the James Farber. But other companies or planets either couldn’t or wouldn’t pay the ransoms. Those ships, passengers, and crews disappeared, the ships to be stripped or disguised, and the people sold into a life of slavery.

It was difficult for most citizens to accept that in this day and age, slavery still existed. Some people—people in power—denied it, saying it didn’t make economic sense. But the people were going somewhere.

And with the war with the Centaurs over, the Congress of Humanity had refocused its energy to restoring commerce, and a huge part of that was to stamp out this particular evil.

Whoever had taken the Nightingale’s Song probably thought they had more time before the authorities could take action. A year ago, they would have been right. But whatever measures the CoH had implemented almost immediately had detected the ship’s emergence from bubble space. Within five minutes, the Takagahara had been given the order to stand by. Thirty-six minutes after that, the mission came down. They were to rescue the Nightingale’s Song and arrest any surviving pirates.

* * *

“Show me that organizational chart again,” Rev ordered as the sleigh carried them through open space.

Punch popped it up. The Home Guard’s methodology of task-organizing every mission was still new to Rev. In the Raiders, everything was pretty cut and dried. There were elements, teams, and platoons. If they needed a different capability outside of the unit, someone with that capability was attached. But the building blocks never changed.

In the Home Guard, there were no such strictures below the squad level—and even those weren’t set in stone. Two squads, for example, could be combined for a super-squad, but not as a full platoon. Within the squad, there were no set fire teams. The squad could conduct operations as one semi-amorphous force or it could be broken down into individual troopers acting as self-contained units (and everything in between).

It made sense from a tactical standpoint in that it gave the commander ultimate flexibility, but whereas almost every military known to humanity was used to a more structured organization, it was more difficult to implement and could lend itself to confusion.

As much as Rev loved the Union Marines, he didn’t think this would work for normal infantry units without lots of time to prepare for a mission. But this wasn’t the Marines. This was the Home Guard, supposedly made up of the finest soldiers in human space. If anyone could handle the shifting structures, it should be them.

But that didn’t mean Rev was confident. They’d had a relatively few short hours to put together and promulgate a plan. And now it was go-time. They’d emerged from bubble space well short of the Nightingale’s Song, where the distance and the Takagahara’s shielding should have rendered them invisible to the pirates, who would be using the commercial liner’s instruments, not military scanners.

Now, it was time to ride the sleighs in, hopefully undetected, to conduct the breach and get troopers inside the ship. While not the most dangerous part of the mission, it was usually considered the most difficult.

There were two modes of breaching: a deliberate breach, as when a ship had been disabled, and a hasty breach. The deliberate breach was conducted much as with MOUT operations, with each compartment cleared before the next. A hasty breach was a matter of rushing, overwhelming any resistance by numbers and force of will. Pirates had a habit of killing hostages when confronted, so this was going to be a hasty breach.

Rev studied the organizational chart one more time. At the moment, the three sleighs, each with a platoon embarked, were approaching the target ship. If all things worked as planned, the sleighs would power up and brake, each approaching a different part of the ship. Each platoon would conduct a breach and move to its assigned objective.

First Platoon would secure the engineering spaces. Second had the bridge. And Third would attempt to locate the bulk of the passengers and protect them.

But before they could get to their objective, they had to get into the ship, which was Phase 1. For that phase, Rev was leading the breach team of Corporal Akkeke, PFC Gingham, and Corporal Acevedo. SFC Gamay would lead the entry team with the rest of the squad to get inside the ship and secure the breach site. Second and Third Squads would pass through and start to their respective objectives.

The trip from the Takagahara to the Nightingale’s Song should take only forty-eight minutes, and that time was too precious to waste. Rev kept studying the organizational charts as well as the ship’s diagram. They hadn’t had much time to prepare, but he still wanted to make sure he was as ready as possible for any contingency.

A single green LED flashed. The Navy coxswain turned around from her seat in the front of the sleigh and gave them all a thumbs-up.

Rev sat up straighter. He’d been so wrapped up studying that he hadn’t realized the transit was almost over. They’d be braking in thirty seconds.

“Status?”

<All systems green. Power at ninety-seven-point-six percent.>

Rev extended Pashu and glanced at his fan, the new shipboard cannon. This was the first time he’d be going into combat with it instead of his braided meson cannon.

It’ll do just fine. Don’t worry about it.

He then patted the tiny Home Guard-issue Tata-74 in the holster on his thigh. The Tata-5 he’d been issued was almost a copy of the MF-30 sidearm he had in the Marines, but with a ship operation, that had been taken away and the 74 handed out instead. Firing two mm darts with expanding fins at close to hypervelocity speeds, it was deadly enough without being a threat to the ship being rescued. Unlike his MF-30, however, Punch had no connectivity with the Tata, so Rev couldn’t ask him to confirm its status.

The LED on the bulkhead started flashing at once every two seconds. They had fifteen left. Rev locked onto his seat with Pashu’s extendable fingers. His EVA started pressuring up along his arms, legs, and abdomen, shunting blood to his core and brain.

For the last five seconds, the LED filled the sleigh with flashes. And then the sleigh powered up. The G’s were brutal as the sleigh braked, and Rev’s peripheral vision grayed out. He grunted as his body was forced into his seat. Comms silence was gone. If the pirates hadn’t seen them before, they sure would have now. Someone, maybe the lieutenant, grunted something over the net, but he was too worried about staying conscious to concern himself with what was being said.

The coxswain had oriented the sleigh so that the deceleration forced the troopers into their seats. But now, as the sleigh slowed down, they were back into weightlessness. The shift was almost too much for Rev’s stomach, and a little vomit escaped up his throat, but he manned up and swallowed it back down.

The roof of the sleigh retracted, bringing the body of the ship into view. The Nightingale’s Song wasn’t huge as liners go, but it was plenty big enough.

With the sleigh matching the Nightingale’s Song, the coxswain took over, “diving” below the x-axis to come up on the other side of the ship. They passed under it, “under” only because their orientation made the troopers crane their heads up to see the ship as they went past. “Under” and “over” had little real meaning in space, so the terms were used within a personal perspective connotation.

Rev pulled up an outline of the ship, which Punch matched to the real thing. As the sleigh passed under the ship, a red spot on his overlay started flashing. It represented their breach spot.

“Get ready,” he passed to his small breach team.

As with their training on Enceladus, this wasn’t a matter of simply blowing a hole in the ship. Hundreds of captive citizens were inside, and if the ship lost atmosphere, they would die. For this operation, they would be breaching the ship while maintaining the atmosphere inside.

The breaching tube was essentially the same one that they’d use whether there would be atmosphere inside the ship or not. Once emplaced and latched on, five tri-carbon blades would emerge and cut through the hull. To make the breaching tube an airlock, an electrostatic curtain, the same kind that ships used in their hangers, would power up. Troopers would be able to enter the ship, but air would not be able to escape. The tube could maintain the lock for up to three hours. It would be up to an engineering team from the Takagahara to emplace a temporary airlock or seal up the breach before the breaching tube failed.

“Ten seconds,” the lieutenant passed as the sleigh brought them around.

“You’ve got the spot, right?” Rev asked Akkeke.

“I’ve got it, Staff Sergeant.”

Rev wasn’t the most experienced trooper in Null-G. He thought he was leading the breaching team because of what happened back on Enceladus. But Corporal Akkeke was skilled in weightless maneuvering, so Rev had given him the lead. He’d be guiding the tube to the spot with the other three assisting. The entire platoon’s entry was on the corporal’s shoulders.

“Releasing in five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one!” the coxswain passed, and suddenly, the harness holding Rev in place retracted.

“Go, go, go!” the lieutenant shouted over the net.

The team was already moving, taking their handholds.

“On me. Impulse level three. Hit it . . . now!” Akkeke said.

The four lifted up and out of the sleigh, and if not quite in perfect unison, it was close enough for government work. Rev craned his head at the big bulk hanging over him.

“Keep it slow,” Rev reminded the team.

The tube had no weight, but it still had mass, and Rev couldn’t help but remember the last time he’d seen a tube in action. Time was of the essence. The pirates had to know they were there by now, but if the four of them crashed into the ship with enough force, the tube could be put out of action before anyone from the platoon could get inside.

“I’ve got it,” Akkeke said with a little bit of peeve in his voice.

Back off, Reverent. He knows how to do it.

The corporal lined up on their breaching point. At about two hundred meters out, he passed, “Cut impulse.”

They drifted in, with the corporal giving little nudges with his lateral jets to keep them on target. All that training on how to move their bodies didn’t have much relevance here with them latched onto the breaching tube.

The ship loomed over them, taking up their horizon. Rev suddenly felt small, inconsequential for a moment.

What the . . . ? You’re not taking on the ship. You’re taking on pirates, and they sure the hell aren’t Marines . . . or troopers. They’re pirates!

With renewed determination, he let his warrior stir. Once in the ship, he was going to let it emerge full force. Too many civilians were at risk for him not to be at his maximum fighting capacity.

“One hundred meters. Stand by to reverse, Impulse 2.”

“How are we doing, Pelletier?” SFC Gamay asked on the P2P.

Rev had to smile. He’d just backed off the corporal, and now he wanted to tell the squad leader to back off and let them do their job. The irony was not lost on him.

“Looking good. Akkeke’s got us on track.”

“We’re in position for the moment you’ve got the breach.”

Rev activated his rearward-facing camera for a moment. The rest of the platoon was moving up behind him, the lead troopers only twenty meters away.

“Reverse Impulse 2 . . . now!”

Rev switched back and hit the reverse. The tube wanted to keep going forward, but they had good holds on it. They slowed down as they got closer. Akkeke had this down pat. He and Gingham rotated their feet forward as they closed the last few meters, gently absorbing the impact and stopping the tube.

“Contact. Initiating anchor,” he passed as he and Gingham started to close the sealing mechanism. The red light at the front of the tube started circling around until a few moments later, the two ends met, and it turned green. Akkeke positioned his boots flush on the hull of the ship, grabbed his handle, and flexed his legs. The tube didn’t budge.

“I’ve got seal!”

Rev turned on the blades. With the back of the tube closed, he couldn’t see the blades cut, but he could feel the vibration as they went to work. Ships hulls, even non-military hulls, are tough. They have to be. But Nightingale’s Song’s hull was no match for the tri-carbon blades. Rev watched the display as it indicated the progress.

“Twenty-five percent,” he passed on the platoon net.

That meant they’d be through and ready for passage in about 115 seconds. That’s all, and they could board and take care of business. Rev felt a thrill of upcoming combat. He didn’t like the idea of fighting fellow humans, but he’d make an exception for these scum.

At least the Children of Angels, while wrong, were fighting for a belief. The pirates were just looking for profit.

He watched with anticipation as the progress reached 40%.

“Get that thing open now!” the lieutenant shouted. “She’s running!”

Rev tore his eyes away from the display. It was difficult to tell, but the ship was beginning to accelerate from her previous course and speed.

That had been their biggest fear. The company had hoped that the pirates would react too slowly at best, but at worst, that the three platoons would be on board before the pirates would run. It wasn’t as if the ship could get away. The Takagahara was too close for that to happen. A single hit would cripple the Nightingale’s Song. But pirates usually used civilians as shields, putting them in the engine spaces and on the bridge. That is why Fox Company was assaulting in the first place.

But if the troopers didn’t make it inside the ship, the Takagahara would have no other option. The ship would not be allowed to reach bubble space.

A ship this size has a tremendous amount of mass, and it couldn’t just scoot out of the gate and away from the station like a sportshover. It looked as if it was barely moving, but that was an optical illusion. Holding onto the breaching tube, Rev’s team could stay with the ship until it entered bubble space. But the rest of the troopers didn’t have that connection. They could keep up for the moment, but as the ship picked up speed, their Oscars wouldn’t be able to match it.

Unless they had their own anchors. The lieutenant immediately ordered the entire platoon forward to latch onto the hull in any way they could.

“Get that damned breach open!” the lieutenant screamed as the troopers approached the ship.

“Sixty-three percent,” Rev passed.

There wasn’t much he could do. The breach was automated at this point. All around him, Fox Company troopers were getting closer, but the ship was picking up speed. Within twenty or thirty seconds, the rest of the squad had reached the hull and were holding onto protuberances or had locked their boots.

But the rest were not making much progress. In retrospect, they should have been closer before Rev’s team started the breach, but the SOP was for them to hold back in case of anti-boarding defenses. Except this was a civilian liner, not a ship of war.

A few of the nearest troopers reached the vessel, but Rev watched in dismay as the rest didn’t seem to get any closer. One trooper had to be only three or four meters away until the ship started to pull away, leaving them behind.

Three or four troopers managed to connect further aft, but that was getting into dangerous ground. The ion stream being emitted from the engines was directional, but there was some bleeding, and if anyone got too close as the ship passed, they’d be cooked.

And then, they were through. Rev activated the curtain, then opened the far hatch, only at the last second remembering to slip back from the tube’s rear opening. Good thing, too. A shape appeared on the forward-looking display screen, and a blast lit up the tube. Rev couldn’t see nor hear the rounds fire out, but he knew he’d been centimeters from eating one.

Without consciously thinking about it, Rev swung Pashu around and fired into the tube twice. There was no return fire. Rev waited five seconds, then swung himself around to look at the screen. There was what looked to be part of a human body, but nothing else.

“Breach made,” he passed on the platoon net.

Normally, at this stage, SFC Gamay and the rest of the squad would enter and secure the breach. They would be followed by the rest of the platoon, and only then would Rev and the other three board the ship, leaving the breach for the Navy engineers to secure.

But the plan had gone to hell. No one was waiting just off the hull, ready to dive through the breach. Other than Rev and his team, those who had managed to reach the ship were scattered over the hull.

“Pelletier. Take your team and board. Secure the breach until the rest of us make our way to the tube and inside,” SFC Gamay passed.

“What about the lieutenant?” Rev asked.

“You’ve received your orders, Staff Sergeant,” the lieutenant cut in, sounding royally pissed. “Just get inside the damn ship now.”

Rev grimaced at the rebuke. From the tone of the lieutenant’s voice, Rev was pretty sure the platoon commander was one of those who’d been left behind. He motioned to the other three to follow him, then pushed his way through the breaching tube opening.

As he reached the breach itself, the ship’s artificial gravity kicked in, and he fell from what had been his “up” to the ship’s “down.” He dropped a meter-and-a-half and hit his head on the deck before sliding around. He whipped Pashu up, ready for anything.

There were two bodies, or at least parts of bodies, at his feet. His fan beamer had been pretty effective with its first shot fired in anger.

A body crashed into him, and for a moment, Rev’s warrior started to lash out, but it was Corporal Acevedo.

Stupid! Gravity, Reverent!

He scrambled out of the way, pulling the corporal with him as Gingham hit the deck with a thud. He pointed down the passage to the left, and Acevedo moved down it several meters and knelt, her RP-5 at the ready.

If the pirates knew where they were going to breach, then why hadn’t they sent more than two of them to hold the site? It didn’t make too much sense.

Akkeke landed feet first, unlike the other three. Rev sent him down the passage opposite Acevedo.

Four of them had made it onto the Nightingale’s Song. The question was how many others were there to take the ship back from the pirates.

20

“That’s eighteen of us on the ship and twenty-three from Second Platoon,” SFC Gamay told Rev and Ting-a-ling.

“Nobody from Third?” Rev asked.

“Never got their breach finished. No, it’s just us. Captain Chokra is the senior officer who made it aboard, so he’s taking command.”

“And what are our orders?” Ting-a-ling asked.

“Same as before. We’re to take back the ship.”

Rev had expected as much. If no one from Fox had made it aboard, the Takagahara would be taking out the ship’s drive, trying for as little damage as possible. But with troopers aboard, they had a better chance of rescuing the passengers. Even if the shot to take out the drive didn’t kill them, then the pirates would have plenty of time to take out their anger on them.

And notwithstanding that they had not entered the ship at full strength, forty-one Home Guard troopers were nothing to sneeze at. They didn’t know how many pirates were on board, but for a ship this size, they could seize and hold it with as few as thirty. They probably had twice that in order to handle the passengers, though.

Minus the two Rev killed, of course. He spared them a brief glance. They were too blasted to tell much about them, the water in their cells expanding with the force of an explosion. His fan beamer had performed as advertised.

In a force-on-force assault, the pirates would stand no chance. However, with the civilians in the mix, that changed the equation. No matter how confident the troopers might be as to their military skill, they had to take into account the vulnerability of the passengers and crew.

“But time is a factor. We don’t have word whether the Taka will let the ship enter bubble space, if it gets that far. That gives us about forty minutes if we’re going to end this before then.

“So, here’s where we’re at. Pull up your interior scan.”

The Takagahara had run several heat and bio scans of the ship and created a hotspot image. There were at least fifteen people on the ship’s bridge, which was to be expected. A mass numbering in the high hundreds was in the ship’s theater, another group of thirty were in the engine room, and more were scattered throughout the ship. Unfortunately, there was no way to tell which were pirates and which were prisoners.

“Captain Chokra and Second will both take the bridge as well as secure the main group of people. Our mission is the engine room, the life-support system, and the propulsion chambers. Listen, you two. Nothing’s really changed. Pelletier, you’re going to take your three and secure life support. Be ready to move to the engine room, however. Tjivyrtzlin, you’re taking the rest of the squad to clear the propulsion tubes. I’m taking the four from Second Squad to clear the engine spaces. Got that?”

Rev and Ting-a-ling nodded.

“About the passengers. They’re not your worry right now. We need to secure the ship and keep it from jumping. I’m serious about that. Got it?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” the two said.

“OK, then. Time’s a’wasting. I want you moving in sixty seconds. Face shields sealed.”

Troopers, like Marines, had a habit of cracking open their face shields or visors. Rev guiltily closed his before he wheeled around and gathered up his three troopers. He gave them the condensed version of the order, then with a route mapped on his Oscar’s face shield, he took point. Normally, he’d have one of the other three take point, but in the confines of the ship, if they ran into pirates, the survivor would be the one who shot first. And without ego, Rev knew that he could clear the corridor with Pashu far quicker than any of the others.

They were on the outer deck of the ship, the H-deck. Their objective was on the C-deck and about fifty meters aft. Without opposition, they could reach it in five minutes. Moving tactically, it might take twice that long, but that would be well within their window.

The platoon had entered the ship just aft of frame 104. Forward of the frame were the bridge and the passenger spaces. Back here, there was no need for art or the other niceties of comfort. The passage was bare and gray, which made it easier for the four troopers.

They went up two levels to the F-deck, then continued aft, seeing no sign of the pirates. It was as if the ship were deserted—which they knew it wasn’t.

The one advantage to this mission when compared to some other hostage situations was that this time, the hostages had value. Other terrorist or religious groups, such as the Children of Angels, wanted to leave a message with their actions, and killing hostages was the most impactful way of doing that. The more dead, the better. Pirates and slavers needed the hostages alive. They might kill some, but only when necessary. They might—probably would—kill hostages if it was evident that they were going to be caught and executed, but short of that, they would want to keep their money-makers alive.

The presence of the civilians kept the Navy from disabling the ship with its cannons, but it also limited the pirates’ options. Fox Company was going to try to take advantage of that.

The pirates managing to get the ship underway had kept all of Fox from boarding. Rev didn’t know if the pirates knew how many of the company made it aboard. Hopefully, they’d be overconfident in their abilities to hold off the troopers. An overconfident enemy made mistakes.

Sustained firing echoed down the passage. Rev hesitated, his instincts telling him to turn back to assist. But his mission was the ship’s life support system. He kept going, only to come to a stop ten meters farther down the passage.

“Am I reading this wrong?” he asked Punch.

<This bulkhead should not be here.>

“Wait up a second,” he told the other three troopers.

Every ship moving through human space was required to have complete ship’s blueprints registered. And at the moment, on F-deck, aft of frame 124, there was a bulkhead where there shouldn’t be one. He moved to where the bulkheads met, and there was a fine seam there. The Nightingale’s Song had been modified, and the new plans had never been submitted or at least recorded.

“Fox-one-actual, this is One-Alpha. I’m on the F-deck, but our way aft is blocked. The ship’s been modified.”

“Find your way around,” was the curt reply.

Of course, Rev was going to find another way. He’d just thought it appropriate to inform his squad leader that the ship’s diagram they’d downloaded wasn’t accurate. Looking at the diagram and thinking that one direction was secure when it wasn’t could lead to avoidable casualties.

“Reroute us,” he told Punch.

A new route appeared. Rev turned this small team around

“What’s up?” Akkeke asked.

“The ship’s been modified, and the ladder we were going to access is on the other side of the bulkhead blocking our way. We’ve got to backtrack to get access to the interim spaces.”

As with all commercial ships, artificial gravity oriented the ship so that down was proximal, toward the center of the ship. Rotational gravity was the opposite, but with both methods, the larger compartments tended to be medial, on the horizontal axis, surrounding the corridors. In between decks, though, there was interim space that wasn’t accessible to the public. This space could be used for conduits, air tubes, and the like. But wherever small compartments could be jigsawed in, they provided extra storage space, control rooms, or even hydroponic farms. They could also provide shortcuts to other decks, and that was what Rev wanted to do.

“According to the ship’s diagram, we’ll be able to exit onto E-deck from inside the space.”

“But you just said that the diagram is wrong,” Corporal Akkeke said.

Crap. I hate it when he’s right like that.

“Well, not everything’s wrong, so let’s hope this is right. Otherwise, we’ve got to go all the way back to where we started.”

They backtracked about thirty meters to the non-descript access panel at the base of the bulkhead. Rev had Gingham open it while he covered it with Pashu. There was no sign of anyone, so Rev edged his head in, surveyed the area, and then lowered his body inside where he crouched and listened for any sign of life before he signaled the other three to join him. Low running lights illuminated the space, but it wasn’t bright. Rev could see fine with his augmented vision, but that was not the case for Gingham and Acevedo, who needed their mechanical night vision option on their helmet displays.

At a meter and a half high, the space was not made for augmented Marines. Rev had to crouch and crabwalk back to where hopefully another access would lead them to the E-deck.

Rev passed the first of what looked like two double racks. They were cramped with tiny shelves at the head. These had to be for low-level crew members, and Rev swore he’d never complain about his beehive cells back on Enceladus.

As he passed the second set of bunks, he froze. A man, dressed in only a pair of black ship shorts, was on his back, his eyes open. Rev didn’t need to see the blood soaking the thin mattress to know the man was dead.

That told him two things, though. The pirates would kill, and they knew about the interim spaces.

There was nothing Rev could do for the crewmember, but he told Punch to note the space for a later recovery. He moved past the four racks to the inside of the access hatch. Once again, he signaled for Gingham to do the honors with him providing the cover. As with the entry, there was no sign of anyone, which was getting a little eerie, if Rev was honest with himself. His warrior was in full presence, and Rev wished for the relief some action would give him. This constantly being on point with nothing there expended nervous energy.

The four moved farther aft where another ladder would lead them all the way down to the C-deck and their objective.

“Soldiers, thank you for coming to our little party,” a high-pitched, taunting voice rang out over the ship’s loudspeakers.

Rev almost jumped out of his skin as tightly as he was wound.

“See you soon!” the voice said before breaking into maniacal laughter.

Rev chastised himself for overreacting. His reaction was exactly what the pirates wanted. He stepped off again.

Just ahead was a fairly large space to the left side of the passage. It was designated as crew quarters, and there had been body signatures there. Their original route would have bypassed it. They still could, but as a Marine, Rev was taught never to leave a potential enemy at his rear. Time was ticking on, but Rev thought they were still good in that regard.

“We’re going to check this out before we keep going. If there’re crewmembers inside, we leave them there and move on.”

He motioned for Gingham to open the hatch as he stood just to the side, Pashu aimed forward.

Three people were inside the compartment. Two jumped at his appearance. The third was face down on the deck, and he’d never be jumping at anything again. Blood pooled under his head. There was nothing Rev could do for the dead crewmember, so he put the man out of his mind for the moment because he had something far more urgent in front of him.

One of the other two was also a crew member. Her eyes were wide open in fear, her breath short and shallow. Standing immediately behind her, one arm across her chest, the other holding an ancient but deadly looking boarding pistol to her head, was the first pirate Rev had ever seen in living flesh. A bolt of anger shot through him, and he had to fight to keep from erupting.

He took a step inside when the pirate said, “Now that’s enough, there. You come closer, and this lady is dead.”

“Let her go,” Rev said, the fire in his voice making the pirate flinch, the pistol jerking.

Calm down, Reverent. Don’t panic him.

“Just let her go, and I’ll make sure you get out of this alive.”

Behind him, Gingham started to join Rev, but with his free hand, Rev waved him back.

“Leaving privateers alive isn’t something you Mezzies do,” the man said, some of his bravado gone.

“We’re not Mezame. We’re Home Guard.”

That seemed to confuse the pirate, and he opened his mouth to say something when he suddenly seemed to notice Pashu pointing at him.

“What the hell is that?”

Really? You just noticed her now? Cream of the crop, aren’t you?

But instead of being cowed, the sight seemed to give the pirate confidence. “By the looks of that beamer, you’re kind of stuck now, asshole Home Guard or whatever the fuck you are. You try and fry me, and this lady’s gonna get it, too.”

Which was true as far as it went. Pashu wasn’t the best weapon in a situation like this.

The crewmember’s eyes got even wider, and she lasered in on Pashu’s projector cone. She pushed away from Rev and into the pirate, who had to take a step back to keep standing. He jerked her with the left arm across her chest and gave her temple a hard poke. She let out a squeal and froze.

Rev lifted Pashu to his left, shifting the pirate’s attention away from him. The pirate had his eyes locked on the projector cone, turning his head slightly to follow the movement.

He must have realized his mistake. He jerked his head back to Rev, his eyes widening, his finger tightening on the trigger of his boarding pistol. Rev wasn’t as quick with other weapons as he was with Pashu, but he was a trained Marine. With his right hand, the one he’d waved to stop Gingham and the rest from entering the space, he swept it forward, snagging his Tata-74 and bringing it up in one smooth motion. The first dart took the pirate at the inside corner of his left eye. The second grazed off the dead man’s forehead as he collapsed, legs bending at the knees, the body folding backward over them.

“Don’t fall for the show, buddy. Focus on what’s going to kill you,” Rev said as the heavy boarding pistol clattered off the deck and bounced a couple of times before spinning to a stop.

The crewmember stared in shock at the pistol before slowly turning to the body. She raised a hand to the side of her head as if checking for blood.

“You could have killed me,” she said in astonishment.

“But I didn’t. Are you OK?”

“I . . . I think so.”

“We’re going to leave you now.”

“No!”

“We still have our mission, ma’am. We’re going to leave you. I’d suggest you lock the hatch behind us and don’t open it up unless you know who’s on the other side. Or if it’s Home Guard.”

She stared at him blankly as Gingham, then the other two peered inside the space and took in the scene.

“Nice shooting, Staff Sergeant,” Akkeke said.

“You understand, miss?” Rev asked the woman again.

“Yes. Yes, I understand.”

She was obviously in shock, but they didn’t have time to deal with her at the moment. With one last nod, Rev backed out of the space. She didn’t immediately close the hatch behind him.

Rev motioned the small team forward. The entire thing had taken less than two minutes. It wouldn’t affect their mission, but Rev didn’t think they could afford too many other engagements.

They were approaching their next passage between decks when the lights went out, and after a ripple, the artificial gravity failed. Emergency lights flickered on, illuminating the way.

Rev had just taken a step, and the action pushed him off the deck. Gingham hit him from behind, sending Rev tumbling. Without thinking it through, he tucked and brought his feet forward, hitting the overhead with the soles of his boots.

“Sorry, Staff Sergeant,” Gingham said. “That took me by surprise.”

“Come on. We’re trained in this,” Rev said. “Nothing’s changed.”

Rev didn’t know if the pirates had switched off the artificial gravity or if it was a casualty of fighting. Given what they did for a living, he suspected it was the former. They might think that this evened out the odds, but Rev wasn’t too worried.

He turned and pushed forward. Outside or inside a ship, the Oscars’ thrusters would work. But within the confines of a ship, the exhaust of the thruster could impact other nearby Marines. So, movement became a series of jumps with tiny adjustments from the microjets to keep steady. Controlling the geckos on the soles of their boots to grip when needed, but to let go when jumping was an exercise in timing that did not come easily, and Rev wished they’d spent more time in training. But it wasn’t a difficult thing to do, just difficult to do it as smoothly as Akkeke was. The big trooper was graceful and controlled as they moved down the passage.

The team had automatically spread out once the gravity was cut, hugging the sides of the passage with one Marine on what had been the deck, the overhead, and each bulkhead. Each was oriented with their feet toward the outside of the passage, their heads toward the middle. This allowed for better fields of fire should they meet anyone. Where before, only Rev could realistically react, now all four of them could.

They reached the final door, which would lead them into the engineering spaces. Rev reported their progress and was told to proceed with their mission. He motioned for Gingham to open the door with Rev covering. As before, however, the immediate way was clear. Rev pulled his way through, followed by the other three.

“Akkeke, the door,” Rev told the corporal who was the last one through.

Doors and hatches were different things. Hatches led into spaces and were not sealed airtight. A door was. They were designed to keep integrity between sections of the ship in case an area was breached. The rule of thumb was that all doors that were opened had to be closed once passed through.

“Right, Staff Sergeant. Sorry.”

“OK. Our space should be just aft. Twenty meters.”

Rev motioned Gingham, who was on the bulkhead opposite the hatch leading into the life support space, to move to the other side. No use giving anyone there a better target. The four Marines crept forward, weapons ready.

No fire reached out to them.

The hatch had a window. Rev wished he had a Marine Optisight that he could use to look in without exposing himself, but unfortunately, that wasn’t part of his combat kit. There was no getting around what he had to do. He braced himself, then leaned in for a quick look before snapping back.

“Did you see anything?”

<No sign of anyone in there. I could not see the space directly beneath the window, however.>

Rev didn’t like that. Life support was a vital center of control on the ship. Why would they leave it unmanned?

“I don’t know if there’s anyone in there,” he told the other three. “But we need to clear it.”

“No one there? That’s unexpected,” Akkeke said.

Rev stared at the hatch for a long moment. It was unexpected, as the corporal had said, and that concerned him.

“Wait one,” he told them.

He pulled his multiscan out of his thigh pocket. The little instrument was an all-purpose scanner that could perform a lot of functions but not do any of them very well. It was good enough for general work, testing the air, for power sources, temperature, emissions, and signs of life, and that was about it.

He opened the aperture, held it to the window, and pulsed the space. No sign of life registered, but it wasn’t hard to spoof the little scanner.

Clear. So, what’s got me spooked?

Almost on a whim, Rev ran the scanner along the edge of the hatch . . . and there was a slight bump on the energy band, right near the entry panel.

“Three-point-two nanojoules,” he muttered, reading the display.

That was nothing. The entry panel would be in the five-millijoule range, but with the power out, that should be zero.

Residual power?

“Can that reading be a glitch?”

<Possible, but unlikely. The B-12F is notoriously accurate within its designed tolerances.>

It has to be residual power. What else?

Rev knew he was being overly cautious, but as Bundy liked to say, there were two types of Marines: the cautious and the KIA. Still, time was ticking.

He reached out to the panel to depress the latch but stopped, his hand centimeters away. He had access to petabytes worth of knowledge in the crystals in his head.

“What might be putting out three-point-two nanojoules?”

<Thousands of objects on sleep status could read that low. Any number of break circuits, some medical bots—>

“Break circuits? What are those?”

<A small LED or a wire leading to a receptor. Interrupting the beam or wire will trigger an action.”

“Like a security sensor?”

<That is a common use for them, yes. But there are far more applications that make use of them.>

Rev stared at the panel for a long moment, his mind churning.

“Staff Sergeant? You OK?” Corporal Akkeke asked.

Rev held up a hand to stop him. He needed to think. He could see inside the primary life support room. No one was there. Why? It was one of the three or four most important parts of the ship, yet the pirates had left it abandoned.

Rev put his head up against the bulkhead, getting a better angle to see more of the space. There was no one at all.

So, where’s the crew?

No, the pirates hadn’t forgotten the space. They’d been there. Rev was suddenly sure that the room, probably at the door, was booby-trapped. It was the only thing that made sense. The tiny power emanation was one of the security circuit breakers.

He stepped back. “No, we’re not going in.”

“But our mission?” Akkeke asked.

“I think it’s booby-trapped. We’re waiting outside until we can get some engineers here. We don’t need to be inside to secure it.”

He opened up the squad circuit and relayed to SFC Gamay what he was doing and why.

“Are you sure about that, Pelletier?”

“No. Not at all. But it makes sense. And if I’m wrong, we can still keep any pirates from accessing it right here in the passage.”

“Wait one.” The circuit was dead for a moment, then the squad leader came back. “The captain says no use taking chances. Secure it from outside and wait for further orders.”

“Sergeant Gamay just confirmed, we’re not going in,” he told this team. He directed them farther down the passage on each side, Akkeke and Acevedo fore, he and Gingham aft. He attached his geckos to the bulkhead, ready to wait out either the coming of engineers or the end of the mission. But he had to be ready for anything.

Rev was on the overhead, looking up at the deck. As he looked back to make sure the two corporals were getting set, something caught his eye. It wasn’t much, just a tiny blip in the smooth juncture of overhead and bulkhead. If he was walking along the deck under gravity, he doubted that he’d ever have seen it.

“Keep facing down the corridor and shout if you see anything,” Rev told Gingham. He released his geckos and pushed off back toward the hatch into the life support space. Using his microjets, he maneuvered close. It was small, basically the same nondescript gray as the passages in this part of the ship. But it definitely didn’t belong there, of that he was sure.

Rev could see well in the dim light, but there were limits, so he turned on his torch. There was a glint, and that brought it into focus. Rev recognized it for what it was: a spy eye, and he didn’t think it was from the ship. He plucked it from its spot. In the torch light, the color was slightly different from the bulkhead, and he could see it wasn’t wired into the ship’s power.

He turned his head. The little recording device had been placed to watch over the door and up and down the passage.

“I think the pirates have spy eyes on the ship. At least, I think I found one,” Rev passed to the staff sergeant as he looked into the tiny lens.

“Are you sure about this—”

Whatever the squad leader was going to ask was lost when a flash appeared inside the life support system space, the hatch buckled, and a shock wave pushed out of the hatch and sent Rev smashing against the far bulkhead. He fended off getting slammed with Pashu, but his face banged against the inside of his face shield, smacking his nose.

Another series of blasts sounded, and the ship shuddered. A moment later, the air started moving, taking Rev with it. He spun around and planted his feet on the overhead, and activated his geckos.

Emergency lights started flashing, alarms howling.

“All hands, secure yourself,” someone passed over the assault force net. “I repeat, secure yourself. If you are with civilians, make sure the space is locked tight. We have multiple breaches in the hull.”

“Bring it in,” Rev shouted at his team.

The air movement picked up quickly, from a breeze to gale force. With it blowing toward Gingham, he was struggling to make it back to Rev. The other two were carried by the escaping air to him. Rev reached out to snag Corporal Acevedo, and the impact tore him free. Both tumbled in the air like tornado flotsam. Rev bounced hard four or five times, once so hard on his helmet that he was sure it was cracked. He tried to plant his feet, but he might as well have been fighting a hurricane.

Someone, Akkeke or Acevedo, crashed into him, and like baby marmosets hugging their mother, the two clung together. Rev locked Pashu around the trooper to keep them from being separated. He hunched over, protecting the front of his helmet. They slammed into the bulkhead several more times, knocking the breath out of him before the velocity of the escaping air started to diminish. Finally, as they tumbled, the other trooper managed to plant his feet, jerking them both to a stop. Rev raised his head to see Akkeke’s face just centimeters from his.

“We’re going to have to do this again sometime,” Rev said as he planted his gecko soles. (Or something funnier.)

A body came by, and Rev and Akkeke snagged it, reeling in a wide-eyed Acevedo.

“Holy shit. I thought we were going to get sucked out,” Acevedo said.

“PFC Gingham, are you OK?” Rev passed on the team net.

“I . . . I think so,” a trembling voice said.

“Where are you?”

“I’m not sure. I was stuck on some grate in the overhead. I don’t know where I am.”

Rev checked the ship’s diagram. There was a ventilation grate just ahead. “OK, you’re right around the curve in the passage. Come back and join us.”

Acevedo might have thought they were going to be ejected from the ship, but Rev knew that there would have to be a breach all the way through to their deck for that. Even as it was, there were doors that should have closed to keep the inner decks pressurized. But if the pirates planned this, then from the evidence, Rev figured they’d sabotaged those doors.

Sabotage! And booby-trapped the hatch into life support.

If Rev’s instincts hadn’t kicked in, the four of them would have bought the farm, he was sure.

And it clicked into place. The spy eye. They’d been under observation. When they hadn’t opened the hatch, the pirate on the other end manually set the explosion to disable life support and breach the hull.

The question was how much of the ship was without air. Those in sealed compartments should be OK for the moment.

“Staff Sergeant Pelletier, what’s your status?” SFC Gamay asked.

“We’re OK and functional. There was an explosion in life support, but we got taken away in the maelstrom.”

“We’ve got multiple breaches over the ship. We’re going to need life support to start repressurizing as soon as patches can be set in place. Get back and assess the damage.”

“Roger. We’re on our way.”

* * *

Rev looked through the cracked window into life support. The hatch had buckled under the force of the blast and was now stuck, and even with Rev’s augmented strength, he couldn’t budge it. He had PTC to cut into the space, but there was no need. He could tell that the main life support wasn’t going to work again until the Nightingale’s Song was in drydock.

He opened a connection with his squad leader and keyed in the other three in his team. “Life support is offline, and nothing we can do is going to get it back. It’s totaled.”

“Shit. I was afraid of that. Look, we’re about to clear the engine room, so I’m going to be a little busy for the next few minutes. You start heading for the auxiliary life support control on Charlie Deck. I think the captain’s going to want you to check it out and secure it. The Nightingale’s or Taka’s engineers are going to have to use one of them if we’re going to get this thing up and running again.”

“Roger. Good hunting.”

“Gamay, out.”

“You heard her. We’re shifting our mission. Diamond formation, but key on me,” Rev said.

He gave one last look at the mess that was life support. Hopefully, the integrity of the rest of the ship would remain secure until the Navy could come in and get the secondary systems online.

There were two auxiliary life support stations. One was forward in passenger country. The one aft was one deck up and about twenty meters aft from their position, just forward of the engine room and propulsion tubes. Rev led his team aft to Frame 112 and the interim space where they could cross to the next deck. As before, he covered the space while Gingham opened the hatch. It was empty, and they made their way through what had been crew quarters for six people. Not much was left. Mattresses, pillows, all the normal accoutrements of life had been swept clean. The hatch at the other end into the C-deck was opened, and Rev pulled himself into the Charlie Deck, where he was greeted by a crew member who was slowly twisting in the passage, a stream of black globules arced behind him.

He was floating a few centimeters off of the bulkhead. His eyes were glassy and bulging, his mouth open. Around his nose and mouth were black bubbles that Rev knew would be bright red under normal lighting. Without an EVA suit or emergency hood, he would have had about only twenty or thirty seconds until the air was expelled from this section of the ship. Rev looked back at the interim space from which they’d just emerged. From the looks of it, the crewmember might have been inside the space. There should have been emergency hoods there, but maybe they’d been ripped away as the air rushed out. He probably emerged only as the air was lost, and he tried to reach safety. Clearly, he had tried to hold his breath while he struggled to find refuge.

During their space training, one of the things drilled into them was that holding their breath in a vacuum was tantamount to a death sentence. The air in their lungs would quickly expand, causing embolisms that would kill within seconds. The SOP for a Marine or soldier caught in an air evacuation event was to immediately expel all the air from their lungs and keep the mouth open. A human could remain conscious for up to fifteen seconds in a vacuum and could remain alive for up to a minute or more. People caught in a vacuum could be revived even after longer than that. Hégémonie Liberté sailors had supposedly been successfully brought back after seven or eight minutes in a vacuum with no signs of permanent damage.

The crew member’s lungs were damaged, and the embolisms in his brain would be problematic, but he might have a chance of resurrection if he could be gotten to a Class B or higher med center. That would have to wait, though. Rev recorded the space, then tried to move past the body. He barely nudged it as he tried to scoot by, and that sent the body tumbling. Rev grabbed a leg and planted his boots, activating the gecko pads. After slowly turning, he steadied himself, and with a sure push, sent the body down the very center of the passage and out of their way.

Sorry about that, buddy. Hopefully, you’ll get scooped up in time to be brought back.

Gingham looked with wide eyes as the body floated past him.

“Keep moving,” Rev ordered.

Their target was just ten meters away. The hatch was open, and Rev’s heart fell. But as he looked in, it seemed undamaged. It was half the size of the primary, but it supposedly had the ability to get the ship’s life support back online.

Rev paused and looked back. The dead crewmember’s body had come up against the curve in the passage. Maybe the man had been holed up in life support instead and had been trying to get to what he hoped was an emergency hood in the berthing space. That would explain the open hatch.

He shook his head. It didn’t matter now.

Rev opened up a channel to the squad leader to report the status, but before he could speak, the SFC excitedly asked, “Where are you now?”

“At the auxiliary—”

“We just made entry into the engine control room and are pinned down with some crew-served beamer. You’re the closest to us. I need you to breach into the engine room aft of 126 and get the bastard off of us.”

“Roger. On our way now.”

“And I just got word that we’ve got ten minutes, twenty seconds now. The timeline’s been pushed up. If we don’t shut down the engines, the Taka’s going to fry the space.”

And everyone in it at the time.

“Understood. We’ll be there.”

While the engines and propulsion tubes ran a good third of the ship’s length, the entrance to the engine control room was on their deck and only fifteen meters aft, but on the other side of the ship. They could get there in thirty seconds if they pushed it.

They pushed it.

“We’re going to have to breach the bulkhead,” Rev told the others as they reached the corridor outside the engine room.

Then to Punch, he said, “Will PTC work here? And if so, what setting?”

PTC was an incremental smart explosive, higher-tech and easier to employ than the D-5 cord Rev had used on Roher-104. Smart, in that it could be programmed to fit the situation, from detonating in a microsecond in an explosive blast, cutting through most metals and synthetics, to slow explosive that could move dirt or flip vehicles, or to a slow burn that could be used to cut through most materials. Incremental in that it came in rolls of tape carried by members of a squad. As much of the tape as required could be used, and tape from different rolls could be stuck together in strips from two to a hundred, the amount and shape as required for the mission. It was shock-resistant and safe, needing a small mechanical fuze to set it off.

The bulkhead surrounding the engine room was reinforced almost to hull strength. Enough PTC could theoretically cut a planet in two, but this wasn’t theory, and Rev didn’t know if a high-speed explosion of a cut would be better.

<One roll of PTC would be enough. Given the situation inside, a high-speed blast would give the enemy less time to react.>

Which made sense. Rev had been leaning that way, but it was good to have Punch confirm it.

“We’re at frame 126. Are you clear for us to breach here with an Alpha detonation?” he asked the squad leader.

“That’s a negative on 126. There are six or seven civilians there now. Move to 128. That’s at the very back of the space, so don’t go aft any farther. And move it. We’re still pinned down by the damned beamer. Wait for an image,” Gamay said, her breath coming in gasps.

Five seconds later, a skewed image popped into the four troopers’ displays. It wasn’t particularly clear, but it was good enough to get a picture of what was inside.

Rev counted six pirates in view. One was manning an old-fashioned energy cannon. Old didn’t mean it wasn’t effective, however. An Oscar wouldn’t do much to reflect or stop the beam.

Several bodies without vacsuits were scattered in the space, masking fields of fire. Four pirates were positioned where they could cover the entire control area, and one was holding eight civilians, each in what looked like emergency vac suits, which were little more than big white bags with air tanks. If they were at frame 126, that gave Rev their position in relation to the four of them.

“Give us a heads up on the blast,” the squad leader told him.

“Roger that. Setting the charge now.”

“You can see what we’re up against. Akkeke, you’ve got the one on the civilians. You’re leading us in. I’ve got the one on the big cannon. Gingham and Acevedo take who you can of the rest. Remember, Sergeant Gamay and her team are behind the machinist table. Watch your lines of fire. We need to stop this and stop it now.”

“How long do we have?” Corporal Akkeke asked.

Rev checked the countdown display he’d started. “Nine minutes and fifteen seconds. If we don’t have the engine room secured and the drive cut, the Taka is going to disable the drive.”

He didn’t have to remind them that if the Takagahara opened fire, chances are that everyone in the engine room would be killed.

“Where’s Captain Chokra?” Acevedo asked.

Rev should have spooled them into the messaging, so he didn’t have to repeat it.

“It’s just us. Now let me set the PTC.”

“What do I need?” he asked Punch.

<Two sections of seventy-two centimeters in three layers, one at approximately one-point-five meters from the deck, one at point-five centimeters.>

Rev swung his feet around and attached the geckos to the bulkhead. He started on the upper section and told Akkeke to do the lower one.

“Watch what I’m doing,” he told Punch.

<Roger.>

The tape came out easily. He slapped the first section, pulled out the second section and put it on top of the first, then applied the final twenty-four centimeters.

“Settings?”

<Mode B-2.>

Rev set the detonator to the B mode and dialed it to two. He gave it ten seconds and slapped it on the PTC. He repeated it with a second detonator, synched it to the first, and as Akkeke finished his tape, he slapped that on as well.

“Did I get everything right?”

<Affirmative.>

“OK, you three. Step back, uh, five meters. That should be good. But be ready.”

He gave the squad leader the heads up, then slapped the two detonators, starting the countdown. Instead of jumping to join the others, he carefully walked and turned, ready to push off.

The small green light shifted to rapid flashes, and Rev instinctively held his breath. The two patches silently exploded, the walls of the bulkhead bursting in. An explosion in a vacuum doesn’t propagate a shock wave, but the medium does spread out with force. Corporal Akkeke had to wait a moment before he burst into motion with Rev right on his ass.

The jagged hole in the bulkhead wasn’t very big, barely enough for Akkeke and Rev to squeeze through. Without the shock wave, the pirates inside weren’t incapacitated, but that first blast of explosive material would have momentarily affected them. The pirate with the civilians hesitated, and Rev almost wasted the woman, but he had to trust Akkeke. His target was the pirate on the cannon. He went low, bringing Pashu up as the pirate tried to turn the cannon around. Rev almost had a clear shot with only one civilian at the edge of his line of fire. Rev twisted to hit a line of consoles, kicking out, which pushed him to where he was clear of the hostage. The pirate almost had the cannon swung around when Rev fired a single one-second pulse. The body seemed to explode in a red burst, like a sped-up holo of roses blooming.

Rev didn’t have time to admire his work. Still moving through the space, he twisted around to find a target. The pirate watching the civilians was now dead, a line of small blood globes a lot neater than the mess that was Rev’s target. Another pirate was low, pulling himself between a line of condensers, just two meters away. Rev drew on him, but from this angle, he’d hit the civilians. Rev reacted by instinct. Pashu was more than just her weapons. She was a pretty big hunk of machine. Rev jumped forward, swinging her in an arc, trying to maintain his orientation. Corporal Cathcart, back teaching vacuum ops on Enceladus, would probably flunk him. Rev’s body rotated as he swung his IBHU. The pirate must have just caught a glimpse of Rev because he started a classic rabbit turn to face him, raising his weapon, and far more gracefully than Rev. If Rev missed, he would be open to the pirate’s shot.

Rev didn’t miss. Pashu hit the pirate square on the head, her 145-kilogram mass driven by Rev’s augmented muscles. The projector barrel crushed the pirate’s helmet and continued on to crush the skull inside.

Not that Rev saw that. The blow sent Rev tumbling, and he was lucky to hit the overhead feet first. He managed to attach with one gecko and stop himself.

The fight was now “over” his head, and he had to crane his neck to see it. Four pirates were dead, and two were surrendering. None of the vac-suited civilians looked to be hurt.

From the entrance, SFC Gamay and the four troopers from Second were emerging from behind a massive machinist’s table. He recognized Rice but not the other three, at least in their Oscars. It was good to see her alive and kicking.

“Zip-tie those two and check the others,” Rev ordered Bingham and Acevedo. He stayed where he was for the moment. Under gravity, he was on what would be the overhead, so except for some piping and conduits, there was nothing to block his view, and he could observe the entire engine room. Rice was already moving to begin shutdown procedures.

Rev checked the time. Only fifty-five seconds had passed. They’d completed the mission with a good cushion, and the Takagahara could stand down, at least as far as crippling the Nightingale’s Song. Rev’s warrior started to recede.

Then fire lanced across his right shoulder.

Rev wheeled around. A face was peering at him, trying to use one of the conduits as cover.

The pirate must have been using the overhead to observe what was going on. Rev didn’t know why he hadn’t fired before.

The pirate had a look of resignation. He might have realized that the ship was not going to make the jump into bubble space now. He might even know that the chances were that he faced trial and execution. He didn’t look like someone who accepted the immediacy of his death, however, and instead of aiming and firing again, he was pushing himself farther back into the maze of pipes. He fired one more unaimed shot as he tried to get away.

Rev could have waited for his Oscar to seal the bullet hole in his shoulder. He could have fired his cannon, cooking the man. He could have called for help.

He didn’t do any of that. He dove after the man, covering the space in one leap. The pirate looked back in horror, his eyes fixated on Pashu. He must have seen what it had done to the pirate on their cannon, or he’d seen Rev crush the other pirate’s helmet. Either way, he tried to get away in panic. He finally seemed to remember his weapon, and he brought it back around and fired . . . at Pashu, not at Rev. The round glanced off the IBHU as Rev closed the fingers around the pirate’s ankle, and bracing against a conduit, he pulled the man free like a terrier pulling a rat from a hole.

Rev could see the man screaming in utter horror through his face shield. Rev knocked his carbine away with his right hand, sending it spinning to the deck. He shifted his grip around the ankle, braced himself with the full intention of swinging the man and bashing his head on the pipe.

The pirate knew he was done, and he’d given up. Tears were making little floating globules inside his helmet.

“Should have thought of that before you killed those civilians,” Rev snarled.

He tensed the muscles he used to control Pashu, ready to end the pirate’s life. But he stopped.

Hell, Reverent. Look what he’s done.

But he knew he couldn’t kill a helpless man, even a helpless pirate, despite as much as he wanted to.

With a snarl, he pulled the man and twisted him around so he could use Pashu to put him into a headlock. He looked up, ready to push off.

So, you think I should kill him?

It didn’t matter. His warrior had fled, and he no longer even wanted to be the executioner. Rev released his geckos and used his suit thrusters to cross over to the deck.

“Zip-tie him,” he told Akkeke, still holding the now limp pirate.

To Rev’s surprise, it wasn’t disdain he saw on the corporal’s face. It was something more akin to respect.

“You catch something?” SFC Gamay asked as she pulled herself up to Rev while Akkeke was securing the prisoner.

“Yeah. I caught one. We’ve got three alive. Four dead. No civilians dead . . . I mean, of the ones in the vacsuits. There are some that looked like they might have died when the air was lost.”

“There wouldn’t have been too many of the emergency suits here. It must have sucked to realize you weren’t getting one.”

The squad leader suddenly looked closer and grabbed Rev, then twisted him around so they were oriented together. “Your Oscar’s been punctured.”

Of course, she would see it. Punctures were always sealed with a red color to make them easier to spot.

“That bastard shot me.”

Gamay gently probed the spot, then turned Rev around. “Through and through. Can you move the shoulder?”

Rev rotated his arm.

Just what I need. Already lost the left one, and now this.

But the arm moved freely.

“Can you tell what damage there is?”

<Not while you’re inside your Oscar. But there is minimal blood loss, and your vitals are strong. It looks like a glancing shot without major issues. Your medinanos are already at work, limiting damage.>

I got hit because I relaxed my guard. I assumed the fight was over. Lesson learned.

“I think I’m OK,” he told his squad leader. “Nothing major.”

“Well, you’re going to have to wait until a medic can check you out. Our orders are to secure this space from any stragglers.”

“I can hang. What’s the status with everyone else?”

“The bridge is trashed but secure. Second Platoon is now clearing all the passenger spaces.”

“And Ting?”

“Staff Sergeant Tjivyrtzlin and his team have secured the propulsion tubes. Now that the ship isn’t going to be blasted by the Taka, the owners, or whoever, don’t want any more damage.”

Rev let out a sigh of relief.

“And now we wait. The Taka is sending over their engineers to try and get life support up and running again. These emergency vacsuits have a limited running time. After that, maybe in as soon as ten hours, a tug’ll arrive to bring the ship to the closest port.”

“And them?” Rev asked, pointing with Pashu at the three living pirates.

“Not our problem. We’ll be long gone before that’s decided. And now, you’re done. Go latch yourself somewhere and relax.”

“I’m fine.”

“Right, says the trooper who’s just been shot. No, you’re not fine. You’re full of dream juice that your nanos are pumping into you.”

The Marines and Navy corpsmen called it happy juice, but Gamay was probably right. It was probably better if he did take it easy until he could get out of his Oscar and let the Takagahara’s surgeon take a look at him.

Rice jetted over to them and announced that the engines were officially shut down. She gave Rev a long once over.

“Saw what you did, Rev. Totally impressive.”

Rev shrugged, then winced. The medinanos hadn’t completely deadened the pain.

She leaned in and switched to the P2P. “And thanks for saving our asses. That fucker had us dead to rights. You did good, Rev, and it isn’t all about that IBHU on your shoulder. You’re a good soldier.”

“Marine.”

She chuckled. “OK, jarhead. A good Marine.”

21

It was three hours before it was secure enough for the Takagahara’s engineer team to cross over and start working on the ship. Another passed before Captain Chokra declared the ship secure. Thirty-nine pirates had been killed, thirteen captured. Rev and PFC Minnie Rasta had been the only two wounded.

Even for an elite unit, that was an amazing accomplishment, something that was going to be used by the Congress of Humanity to trumpet cooperation and unity. Rev had to admit that they’d done well, but this crew of pirates had hardly been at the top of the pirate pyramid. Despite being doped up by his nanos, Rev picked out a hundred things he’d have done differently in their situation, starting with trying to stop Fox Company as they breached the hull and all the way down to taking advantage of pinning down SFC Gamay and her team and eliminating them instead of sitting there until Fox reinforcements arrived.

Not that he was complaining. Better to face incompetence and everyone make it home.

Rev and Rasta were medivaced back to the Takagahara on the same sled that brought over the engineers, so he wasn’t onboard eight hours later when the engineers finally brought life support back online. Two-thirds of the ship had been depressurized, and half of that was left that way. But temporary patches had been emplaced, and life support brought online.

That was a big hurdle. With life support working, the passengers and crew could stay aboard until they were taken to the nearest port—and under the Nightingale’s Song’s own power, not a tug’s, which made things much easier.

Back in sickbay, Rasta was stabilized first. She’d taken a shot to the belly and was in serious condition, but one of the corpsmen assured Rev that she’d be fine. Then it was Rev’s turn. They cut off his Oscar—and now Filmore was going to have to either repair this one or modify another—and the surgeon examined his shoulder.

“Nice crease there. It’s already sealing up nicely, but I can go in and clean it out if you want.”

“Do you need to do that, sir?” Rev said, sneaking a peek for the first time. He now understood what the surgeon had meant by “crease.” This wasn’t really a through and through wound. The round had gouged out a seven centimeter long trail at the top of his shoulder, never fully penetrating. Another centimeter or two down, and it might have destroyed his clavicle.

Or another centimeter higher, and it would have missed me completely.

“No, I don’t need to. I can put a mesh over it, and you’ll be good to go in a week. But that’ll leave a bigger scar.”

Rev laughed and held up Pashu. “Really, sir?”

The surgeon joined him in laughter. “OK, I see your point. No, I think we can leave it like that. I’ll stick on a mesh. That will help with infections, although your nanos seem to have that in hand. It’ll also help with discomfort.”

Five minutes later, given a clean bill of health, Rev was released, and he made his way to Filmore’s shop where a relieved tech opened the hatch and welcomed Rev inside.

“Where’s Randigold and S-O-R?”

“Not back yet. You’re the first. Are they OK? Are you?” he asked, spotting the mesh patch on his shoulder.

“You don’t know what’s been going on?”

“I’ve just been waiting here, worrying myself sick.”

Rev frowned. It shouldn’t be that hard to keep Filmore in the loop so he could be ready for any situation.

“I’m fine. This is just a nick. But my Oscar’s ruined. You’re going to have to check with sickbay to see if it can be salvaged. Randigold and S-O-R never made it to the ship. It got underway before they could breach.”

“They didn’t make it in? They’re out there, lost in space right now?” he asked, his voice rising.

“Out there, yeah,” Rev said, feeling a little guilty for not thinking of them. “Not lost, though. Everyone’s got transponders. They’ll get swept up.”

Filmore didn’t seem convinced, and he muttered as he removed Pashu. Rev left his IBHU in the tech’s hands and made his way back to berthing. There was no one else there, and it felt weird to be alone. He showered and changed, and it was still half an hour before the first of those who never made it to the ship returned.

Lieutenant Veang was steaming mad when he got back, and when he found out that Rev was there, he immediately rushed over for a debrief. At least he wasn’t angry at Rev but more at the capriciousness of the gods of war. Rev could see that the man wanted to redeem himself for the accident back on Enceladus, but as Rev gave him an account of what he knew, the lieutenant was getting more upset, as if he considered the successful operation an affront that it happened without him.

The lieutenant was followed by more troopers, all wanting a firsthand account. Rev’s nanos were making him a little sleepy, but he dutifully filled everyone in. Some of them had been floating around space for seven hours before they were gathered up.

Rev wasn’t particularly claustrophobic, but alone in an Oscar in deep space for that long couldn’t have been fun. And at least he had Punch, so he could have immersed himself in holovids or music. At least half of the troopers had no such AI or database.

It was another five hours before the troopers who made it into the ship started coming back to the Takagahara. Ting-a-ling was one of the last, and he sat down on his rack, anxious to hear what Rev had done—and Rev wanted to know what Ting-a-ling had done.

The Takagahara was still going to hang around until a Freedom Confederation Navy ship arrived to escort the Nightingale’s Song to port, but only eleven hours after getting the warning order, and only three days after leaving the home system, Fox Company and the MCS Takagahara had successfully completed their first contingency operation.

22

“I can’t believe that we’re getting to Barclay after all,” Corporal Akkeke said as he wiped down his D5, the Millsap combat suit.

Rev had thought it was a lost cause as well. The deployment had been initially moved up once the Council had decided that the Landing Day celebration should be put on the schedule, and because of the change, the Takagahara had left the home system with very little wiggle room. The transit to the Nightingale’s Song, the rescue, and then the wait for the Freedom Confederation ship had taken almost two days, enough so that everyone on board had thought the trip had been scratched.

But when the Barclay Parliament had heard the reason why the ship wouldn’t make it for the official celebration, they decided to delay the parade, reception, and fireworks for a day so that the Home Guard could take part in them.

“Just make sure that D5 of yours is shining to beat the band,” Rev said. “We want them to be glad they waited for us.”

The original plan had been for the sailors from the ship and the troopers from Fox Company to march in the parade in their dress uniforms. The first sergeant, at the urging of the SNCOs, asked the major if the company could march in their combat suits to thank the Barclay government for delaying the celebration. Combat suits would be far more impressive to the locals. The company commander heartily agreed, and she had taken it to Lieutenant Colonel Dupris, the commander of troops. After consultation with the ship’s CO and the civilian Council rep, permission was granted. The sailors, who were all Mezame, would lead the contingent in the parade, all in their dress uniforms. Fox Company and all the attachments would follow in their combat suits.

But combat suits were not dress uniforms. They were not meant to be easily seen. So, the first sergeant had passed down that each combat suit be “prettied up” as much as possible. For once, troopers didn’t mind being told to do something for appearances’ sake. Aside from the fact that they were happy not to have missed the celebration, the rumors were that Barclay was very, very pro-military and that the local population could end up being very, very “friendly” to visiting soldiers.

Like secondary school students going to a school dance, the single troopers, in particular, wanted to look good and possibly catch the welcoming eye of a local. Rev didn’t know if he was single or not, but he still wanted to shine. A Union Marine always had to look—and be—the best.

Looking around the hangar deck where most of the company was working on their combat suits, Rev couldn’t help but compare them with his. The PAL-5 was more minimalistic in appearance than most of the rest, including Corporal Incrit’s PAL-3, the normal Union Marine infantry combat suit—Incrit was one of two regular Union Marines in the company. The Paxus militia’s Tanter was even less bulky than Rev’s PAL-5, but the rest, as far as he could see, were larger and more robust.

And many had a cool factor that the PAL family of suits lacked. Take Akkeke’s D5. With a pointed helmet, it looked like a raptor on the hunt for prey. Punch had given Rev the specs on the suit, and those were impressive as well. It had far better protective numbers than his PAL-5, even better than a Marine PAL-3.

But what kept drawing Rev’s attention was that at the moment, it was a bright red. He was sure the red was totally for show. There was no way the Millsap soldiers fought like 18th Century British redcoats. But if a combat suit could camouflage itself, why not be able to show a splash of color when it was appropriate?

Rev didn’t want to admit it, but he was a little jealous. With the stealthy lines and red color, Akkeke was going to look like Satan himself as they marched in the parade. The blue Home Guard pauldron took a little away from that, but not much.

“Let’s start wrapping it up,” Top Barber called out. “The chief wants to get the first cargo shuttle loaded before we arrive in orbit.”

Rev stepped back and gave his combat suit a once over. It probably hadn’t looked this good since it came off the production line. He backed it into the transport crate again and closed the crate up. He wouldn’t see the suit again until they hit the staging area for the parade.

One of the cargo handlers came up and asked, “Can I take it?”

“Have at it.”

The Mezame sailors didn’t wear shirts with colors that designated what they did on the ship like Union sailors did. Rev was having a hard time getting used to it, but the crew seemed to coordinate well without them. He wondered how much the Union Navy’s colored shirts were practical and how much was just a nod to tradition.

With the Home Guard’s lack of permanent squad structure, Rev wasn’t technically in charge of anyone else. But he was still a staff sergeant, and he took a moment to inspect the sergeants and below. They may be from different nations, but their appearance would reflect on the Home Guard as a whole. He didn’t have any corrections or comments to make, but that wasn’t always necessary. Sometimes, merely the fact that he’d shown interest was enough. Top Thapa back in the Raiders had told him that it was half “I appreciate and am interested in what you’re doing” and half “I’m watching you, so don’t screw up.”

Rev rotated his right shoulder as he watched his crate get picked up and moved. It still twinged, but given that he’d been shot just days before, he could take it.

Ting-a-ling’s suit was picked up by one of the crew. “What now?” Rev asked him. “We’ve got four hours before we reach Barclay.”

“What now? We’ve just spent an hour polishing up a piece of combat gear so we can impress the locals. But one thing’s for sure. No way in hell am I going to let my combat suit show me up. I’m getting back to the head, shower up, maybe go all out and clip my nose hairs. I will be looking good, my yootie friend. You coming?”

Rev hadn’t considered how he looked. He didn’t have the same goals for the three days on the planet as most of the crew and embarked troopers. But still . . .

He raised his arm, took a sniff of his pit, and wrinkled his nose in disgust.

Yeah, I guess I could use a shower, too.

“Wait up, fry!” he called as he hurried after his roommate.

* * *

“We’re meeting at The Angry Pelican when all this is over,” Rice told Rev and Ting-a-ling as they were donning their combat suits. “Sergeant Crocker confirmed it’s the place to be.”

“Uh, I asked Punch about it. It’s really not a military bar. More of a tourist place,” Rev said.

“Oh, my poor, naive little persie. You think the militia here’s gonna be buying us drinks? Hell, no. We want civilians. Tourist civilians who came to the capital for the celebration.”

Rev started to argue when her words sunk in. After a moment’s reflection, he had to agree with her reasoning. He bent at the waist and dramatically genuflected before her. “I must bow to your greater knowledge, oh queen of bumming drinks.”

“About time you acknowledged that.”

“Hey, Unifora, how about you quit jaw-jacking and get ready?” SFC Lev Arsenyev, the Second Squad leader, shouted out.

“My master calls,” Rice said. “I just wanted to make sure you two knew where we’ll be.” She hurried back to her squad to don her combat suit.

Rev closed the last seal, then took off his social arm. The decision had been made for the three IBHU Marines to go fully armed. More for the locals to gawk at. Now he had to wait for Filmore to hook up the other two and get to him.

He took a moment to look around the gym. It had been turned over to the Guard as an assembly area for the parade. The sailors, fully two-thirds of the ship’s complement, were ready, of course. They rode down from the ship already in their black and grey dress uniforms.

The troopers had come down in their long johns, or whatever the other services called the unis that were worn under the combat suits. Each trooper also carried a duffle with their home service uniform. After the parade, they’d change into those for the official ceremony at the Civic Auditorium. And after that was over, it would be party time.

“You ready, sir?”

Rev turned back to see Filmore with Pashu dangling from a medium suspension hoist he’d gotten from the Navy. “Let’s do it.”

He had to stand for the attachment, and instead of just letting Filmore guide it in, as usual, he had to help by maneuvering his shoulder into place. He glanced up to see Ting-a-ling watching closely. In fact, the entire squad was watching. Ting-a-ling had seen Pashu before, but Rev just then realized that he’d never seen how the IBHU was attached. That was something that all the other nations would like to understand.

He didn’t want to think that his friend was doing the spy thing now. That bothered him.

Leave it alone, Reverent. That’s what he is supposed to do. Everyone is supposed to do. Doesn’t mean he’s not the same Ting.

He turned to Filmore. “Where’re you going to watch the parade?”

“I’m not, sir,” Filmore said as he made the connections. “I’ll just stay here.”

“No party tonight?”

“I’ll be watching the IBHUs until I can escort them back to the ship. Maybe after that, sir.”

Rev tilted his head, eyebrows raised as he looked at the young tech. There was dedication, and then there was dedication. Who knew when the weapons, combat suits, and the three IBHUs would be shuttled back up to the ship? And it wasn’t as if the gear was just going to be lying around. A rotating team of sailors and troopers would be on duty while the local government was providing a police security force.

“Filmore, I know you want to show how gung ho you are, but you do know this gym will be secured, right?”

“I know, sir. But I’ll feel better if I have eyes on the IBHUs.”

Rev just shook his head. The tech was an adult and fully capable of making his own decisions.

“Home Guard, you have fifteen minutes before moving to your parade position,” came over a loudspeaker.”

“You heard her. Fifteen minutes,” the platoon commander shouted out. “Keep getting ready, but I want everyone to listen up.”

Everyone turned to the lieutenant.

“Now, I know we’re not the fucking Praetorian Guard. We don’t drill. We’re not paid to look pretty. Some of you have probably never drilled before, even back home. But we’re representing the Council here, and appearances matter. So, try and look like you know your left foot from your right, OK?”

No one laughed, and he went on. “I’m going to be giving a cadence over the platoon net, so try and keep in step. If you screw up, just get your mind straight and fix it. Other than that, enjoy yourself. This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience for almost all of you. If someone waves at you, you can wave back. Just don’t leave the formation until we’re all done.”

“That doesn’t mean when we reach the end of the parade. Wait until the lieutenant dismisses you. And from there, it’s back here to get into your uniforms,” Top Barber shouted.

“So, with that, get back to your prep,” the lieutenant said.

“You’re all green,” Filmore whispered as if afraid he was interrupting.

“Thanks.” Then to Punch, “Run a check.”

They weren’t going into battle, and Filmore had just told him that Pashu was green, but he had Punch run a check every time he donned his IBHU. It was a good habit to have.

<All systems green. Power at 99.1%. Combat load zero.>

The combat load made him shudder. He had power for his braided cannon, but he didn’t need to be carrying his 20mm rounds, nor did he need missiles for a parade on a safe planet. But just the thought of going out without them made him feel naked.

He rotated Pashu at the shoulder, making sure she was seated properly inside the sleeve. Everything felt right.

“Excuse me.”

Rev looked around to see four sailors standing behind him.

“Yes?”

“Um . . . can we get a pic with you?” a petty officer said.

What?

He looked around. Over where Second Platoon was prepping, he could see Randigold holding court with a few sailors. She was going through various motions while the sailors—and a few troopers—watched. She suddenly lunged at the sailors, who jumped back with momentary fear before they started laughing.

It didn’t . . . seem right, was the best way to put it. But there were no Union rules against simple holos, and he’d already been told to stand by in case the locals wanted to take some.

“Sure, I guess. With the group of you?”

The petty officer said, “Each one individually, if you don’t mind, Staff Sergeant.”

“OK. Well, who’s first?”

“Didn’t know you were a rock star,” Ting-a-ling said as he stepped out of the line of fire.

Rev went through the process as all four had a holo taken with him. Then three more came up. Rev felt decidedly weird. These were fellow military personnel, not civilian tourists. But they seemed happy to have the holos.

Rev looked up once to see Kvat scowling at the little show. But in his combat suit, there was nothing visibly different about him than any other MDS soldier other than being a little bulkier, and bulkier did not make a better holo. Still, Rev felt a little blast of satisfaction that it was him, not Kvat, that the sailors approached.

The sailors might have kept coming if the announcement hadn’t told them it was time to leave the gym and get into formation.

It was time to parade.

* * *

Well, it wasn’t quite time to parade. It wasn’t even time to get ready to parade. It was time to get ready to get ready to parade. The Takagahara’s crew and Fox company formed up in loose formations inside the gym and waited for another fifteen minutes before being told to move outside and onto the staging area. Once at the start, it was another forty-five minutes of getting in formation, then standing around waiting for the command to move out.

The company was marching nine abreast, and Rev took his customary position on the left side of the formation, leaving Pashu free from banging into someone. Both Randigold and Sign of Respect had their IBHUs on their right shoulders, so they took positions on the right side of the formation.

At least this way, as the first sergeant pointed out, all of the spectators would get a good look at them. For Rev, having gone through so much secrecy and hiding the project, this was a sea change.

And he rather liked it.

Finally, the parade started. First up was a color guard, three militiamen carrying the colors of the Congress of Humanity, the Synergy Alliance, and the planet flags. They were immediately followed by the Barclay militia’s Drum and Bagpipe Corps. Each piper and drummer was dressed in a kilt. Rev had never seen a kilt in real life and craned his neck trying to look past the Takagahara’s sailors before the parade actually kicked off. Hopefully, he’d get a better look after the parade, maybe snap a holo with some of them. Neesy would get a kick out of seeing them, he knew.

A stately, open-topped ground limo followed, carrying the prime minister and an old man who was the last living second-generation citizen of the planet.

The Home Guard colors followed behind those two. A trooper carried the Council colors, a sailor the Home Guard Naval Forces colors, and another trooper the Home Guard Ground Forces colors.

The naval forces were senior by date of formation and preceded Fox.

“This is it. Look sharp. Forward . . . MARCH!” Major Yves shouted before she turned around.

Immediately, “Left . . . left . . . left, right, left,” sounded in his helmet.

“Turn that down,” Rev ordered Punch. The cadence might help to keep troopers in step, but he didn’t want his thoughts to be drowned out.

They didn’t quite step off at the same time. It was more like an accordion. The front rank, which consisted of the three rifle platoon commanders, each in front of their platoon, started, along with the lead rank of the company’s main body. But the subsequent ranks started in fits and stops, and it took several hundred meters for it to even out. This was only the second time since Rev had joined the company that it had been in a single formation, much less marched as a unit. Adding all the attachments, this was the first time they’d been in a combined formation.

Considering that, Rev thought they were actually doing a decent job. And judging by the cheers from the crowd as the troopers came into their view, they thought Fox Company was doing just fine.

“Whoa! They love us!” Lines passed on the squad net. “Think I can score tonight with some lovely Barclay babe?”

“Keep off the net, Lines. Focus on marching,” SFC Gamay passed.

He’s right, though. Not about getting laid, but these folks really do love us, Rev thought. Sergeant Crocker had promised them that his people would welcome them like this, but Rev was surprised at how enthusiastic the crowd was. Most were waving the bright red flag with the small Union Jack in the corner, but there were still plenty of blue CoH flags in the mix as well.

They conducted a left turn onto the main drag. The movement wouldn’t threaten a real drum and bugle corps, but they got around without killing someone, and Rev took that as a win. And if anything, the crowds were even bigger and more enthusiastic. That might have been alcohol-fueled if the odor of hops wafting over the road was any indicator.

A little boy, no more than five or six years old, rushed out, and Rev had to stutter step to keep from crushing the little guy. The boy slapped Pashu as Lines almost crashed into Rev from behind.

“Hi!” he said, hands clasped together as he looked up at Rev, running along on little legs to keep up with him.

“Hi,” Rev said over his exterior speakers.

“What happened to your arm?”

“This is my arm. I call her Pashu.”

Rev raised her, his tentacle-like fingers extended, and the boy happily gave him a high five before turning and running back into the crowd.

“Keep it tight,” Gamay passed.

Rev didn’t know if that was directed at him or not, but he closed the gap between him and Gingham. It wasn’t as if he’d had any choice in disrupting the formation. He wasn’t going to risk stomping on a little kid just to keep the formation looking good.

And while he thought it was annoying at first, the constant “left, right, left” was helpful for getting back in step.

Something flew out from the crowd, something small and pink, and landed in the middle of the formation. Rev didn’t see what it was for sure, but for the life of him, it looked like it could have been a pair of panties.

“I’m sure as hell going to like this place,” Lines said, and that confirmed to Rev that was exactly what the pink object had been.

The road opened up further, and stands started lining the way. These people were out to celebrate, so everything excited them. Local police stood in front of the people every ten to fifteen meters, but they seemed to be just enjoying their front-row view of the parade.

“Get ready for the reviewing stand,” the major passed.

A higher set of stands, covered in the gold and blue Barclay colors, was up ahead on the right. With the prime minister choosing to ride the limo, the planetary president would be in the stands along with the CoH rep, some vice-counsel whose name and exact position Rev had already forgotten. The Takagahara’s CO, Lieutenant Colonel Dupris, and the civilian diplomatic rep would be in the stands with him, as well as all the planetary and visiting bigwigs.

When the company commander was ten paces from the stand, she ordered, “Present . . . HARMS!”

Most of the troopers brought their weapons to a position of present arms, held vertically in front of their chests. Rev was not armed with an individual weapon, and Pashu was not really designed to render honors, so he didn’t react to that command.

Her next command was, “Eyes, right.”

Everyone from the second column on snapped their heads forty-five degrees to the right.

Just as the last rank passed the vice-counsel, the company commander ordered the company to bring their eyes back to the front and shoulder their arms. This was their one active action. From here on out, it was just march and soak up the atmosphere.

After another couple of hundred meters, someone slapped Pashu as he marched. His initial instincts were to strike out, but he withheld and turned to see a florid-faced man, trying to match Rev’s step while not spilling any of the beer he was carrying in two cups. He didn’t really do a very good job, either in the marching or in keeping the beer inside his cup.

“Love having you bluehats here. Thought you might be thirsty,” the man said, holding out one cup to Rev before stumbling and going down to his knees. Rev glanced back as the man tried to sweep spilled beer back into the cup.

“Damn, Staff Sergeant. You didn’t take the beer,” Lines said. “Alcohol abuse.”

The parade officially ended at the main park. Ten troopers were to stay in the park, where, along with the armor and military equipment in the parade, they would take part in the static display. Thankfully, Rev wasn’t assigned to that. Sergeant Sign of Respect would be the IBHU Marine tasked with that duty.

The company commander relieved the officers and turned the company over to the first sergeant to march it back to the gym. They’d stage their combat suits there, change into their uniforms, and head over the auditorium for the official ceremony. Once that was done, it was three days of liberty, and Rev wasn’t going to waste a minute of that.

* * *

“Let’s get this over with,” Rice whispered. “My throat’s getting mighty parched.”

“Shh. We’re still on stage,” Rev said. “We’ve got another hour, tops. The beer will stay cold.”

“An hour of speeches. I’ll die of boredom before that.”

“Think of it as the price we pay for the rest of the evening and the next two off. Besides, they said there will be some performances.”

“Yeah, probably the local primary school doing a traditional dance of some kind. Oh, so much excitement I can hardly contain myself.”

When she put it like that, Rev started to dread what was coming. He really didn’t care about Barclay’s history. He was a New Hope citizen, and he doubted he had much in common with these people. Sitting around listening to the speakers wax on about their pioneering spirit was something to be endured—nothing more, nothing less. But, an hour, maybe two, really was a small price to pay for what looked like would be a primo liberty port.

The entire company was seated in one section of the auditorium, the ship’s crew beside them. They’d been told to intermix, but like oil and water, there was a clear line of demarcation. It wasn’t as if the troopers disliked the crew or vice-versa. It was just birds of a feather flocking together.

“What’s the seating capacity of this place?”

<The official capacity is 27,000.>

“Then why does it look like half the planet is in here?”

Punch could discern between true and rhetorical questions and remained silent.

Rev wondered if the 27,000 included the folding chairs that took up half of the main floor. For that matter, if these speeches were such a big deal, why not fill the main floor with chairs instead of leaving a huge empty space.

The place was packed, though, with hundreds, if not thousands, standing between the seating. And as the company arrived after changing, there had been additional thousands thronging in the park surrounding the auditorium, crowding in front of what looked to be at least a dozen huge holo stands.

A lot of people just to hear some politicians speak.

But even if it didn’t matter much for him, this was an important day for every planet. Rev’s New Hope had its own Landing Day—but from the looks of it, the Barclayans took the celebration a little further than his own planet did.

“Here come the VIPs,” Toshi Gant said, pointing to where the ship’s CO, Lieutenant Colonel Dupris, and a host of other people crossed the main floor to a section of seats separated from the rest by meter-tall gold curtains.

Rev, Ting-a-ling, and Rice had become a de facto team over the last couple of months, but after the rescue mission, Toshi had latched onto the other three. He was good people, and he’d performed well on the Nightingale’s Song, so he was welcomed into their little clique.

“Maybe we’ll get started soon, then. I’m with you, Rice. Let’s get the party going,” Ting-a-ling said.

The VIP party stopped short of sitting down as they mingled, shook hands, and chatted. It was a good five minutes before they finally took their seats. The lights over the stands and chairs out on the floor dimmed, and a voice rang out. “Ladies and gentlemen, citizens of Barclay and visitors, welcome to the 154th Landing Day Celebration of the place we call home!”

Cheers and applause filled the hall.

Maybe that’s why they celebrate so hard. They’re still a young planet.

“If everyone will rise for the presentation of the colors.”

A single militiaman, dressed in a kilt and what looked like a leopard skin draped over his shoulder and covering most of his uniform, marched the length of the floor, pounding out the beats on a drum that hung on his side. His face could have been hewn out of granite, showing no emotion at all.

He marched to the front of the VIPs, and in very precise, almost mechanical movements, he performed an elaborate about-face, his arm steadily pounding a slow beat. He froze with his right arm at its highest, the rest of his body completely still. The crowd quieted.

The drummer drew out the moment, and Rev could almost see people lean forward in anticipation. With a sudden flurry, both of the militiaman’s arms flew into a blur, beating out a staccato flurry.

“Color Guard, forward, march!” a high-pitched voice rang out but with authority, and the drummer returned to a steady cadence.

Rev turned slightly to his right to see two young people marching forward, one holding the CoH flag, one the Barclayan flag. They had on what looked to be a version of the Galaxy Scout uniform, very similar to what the Galaxy Scouts wore on New Hope, at least. Rev could see the pride in the young woman and man as they marched forward, knowing that the eyes of the planet were upon them at that moment.

Rev joined all the military in coming to attention as the color guard made its way to the dais and performed a smart-looking reverse march move to finish up facing the crowd, backs toward the VIPs. The crowd broke out into applause.

A man and a woman climbed onto the stage. The woman held back while the man took center stage. Music started playing, and the man sang the planetary anthem. The crowd sang along with him, making the auditorium shake. The crowd cheered as the song finished.

“Damn,” Ting-a-ling said. “Pretty stippy-do impressive, I gotta say.”

The man retreated, and the woman, dressed in a full-length, peach formal gown, took her place in the center.

The music started again, but this time the familiar strains to the Congress of Humanity anthem, “One Galaxy.” Rev had heard the anthem a thousand times, and it had never resonated much with him. So, it surprised him when emotions started welling up, and he started singing along with her, for the first time feeling the words. Maybe it was just having completed the mission on the Nightingale’s Song. Maybe he was finally buying into the mantra of transcending planetary affiliations. Whatever it was, Rev was getting choked up as he sang the final refrain:

From the embrace of the Mother,

We reach for the stars.

From the embrace of the Mother,

We show who we are.

One people, united in destiny,

Inheriting the universe.

Our birthright.

As the last strains faded away, Rev reached quickly to wipe away a tear. The crowd’s applause was a little more muted than it was with the planetary anthem, but Rev didn’t care. For him, something had changed at that moment. Something for the good.

The two color guards performed opposite facing movements and then marched around to set the flags into holders on either side of the raised dais before they retreated out of sight in the wings. The first speaker stepped up to the podium in the middle of the dais.

“OK, here comes the pablum,” Rice said.

“Citizens of Barclay and honored guests, as prime minister of this special place we call home, I want to welcome you here to our Landing Day ceremony, the first since our victory over the Centaurs.”

There was a raucous standing ovation, and the prime minister let it carry on for a good twenty seconds before he spoke again. “And I’d like to offer a personal welcome to our special guests, the crew of the MCS Takagahara and Fox Company, Second of the Second. They arrived a day late, but for a good reason. They are here immediately after rescuing the Nightingale’s Song from criminal forces. While we are enjoying the peace, the Home Guard, made up of citizen-soldiers from throughout humanity, are risking their lives to protect us all. How about we give them a Barclay round of applause?”

He turned to where they were sitting and asked them to stand up. Rev felt a little self-conscious as he stood, waves of applause rolling over them. This time, the prime minister let it last longer until the ship’s XO and Major Yves sat, followed by the rest of the sailors and troopers.

The prime minister looked out over the crowd for a moment and cleared his throat. “One hundred and fifty-four years ago, the Wayward Star arrived in system with 4,322 settlers. The first shuttle, with eighty-two people aboard, touched down at Landing Point . . .”

The fifteen-minute speech was just about what Rev expected. The prime minister retold the next 154 years, covering the hardships and trials the planet had faced, including a commercial dispute early on that kept vital supplies from arriving and how the first settlers made do. Two plagues, riots, a blockade. But he spent more time on achievements and how the citizens overcame adversary to create a vibrant nation. Rev hadn’t planned on paying much attention, but he was drawn in. While the incidents that formed Barclay might have been different from those experienced on New Hope, the overall scope of events was pretty much the same.

Maybe we’re more alike than I thought.

The prime minister was followed by the CoH representative. Her short speech could almost be taken word-for-word and transported to New Hope for their Landing Day, or any other planet, for that matter.

She was followed by a teen who spoke about what it meant to her to be a Barclayan, and then by a younger teen who recited a poem he’d written much along the same lines. And surprisingly, that was all for the speeches.

“Damn. That’s it? I can sure go with that,” Rice said before Rev elbowed her in the ribs.

The ceremony wasn’t over, though. A troop of about thirty small children came out and sang a song. They weren’t really that good, and Rev had problems catching all the words, but they weren’t bad, and they were rather cute. They were much younger than Neesy and Kat, but Rev felt a pang of homesickness as they performed.

A group of teens was next. Rev realized why the entire floor hadn’t been filled with chairs when they positioned themselves in the empty floor space, making it into a dance stage. They performed a routine in kilts where they tapped and danced in unison, their legs flying around like crazy while their upper bodies were almost perfectly still. It had the look of something traditional.

“Do you know what that is?” he asked Punch.

<It is a Barclayan step dance, which is based on Irish ceili dance, English country dance, and French quadrilles.>

Rev wasn’t much of a dancer, and he had no points of reference for what Punch just told him, but it was fun to watch.

There were three more performances: two singers and a group of performing bagpipers. The pipers were dressed like the drummer who had called for the colors in kilts and military dress uniform tops. They marched around in changing formations, all the time wailing away on their bagpipes—which to Rev, looked—and sounded—like they had cats under their arms and were biting their tails.

The troopers had been told that the highlight of the ceremony would be a military “beating.” Rev wondered if this was it. While interesting, he wasn’t sure that this should be the “highlight.” He rather enjoyed the little kids singing and the dancers more.

But the applause was deafening.

“I guess you have to grow up with it,” Ting-a-ling said.

As soon as the bagpipers left the stage, the lights went out, and murmurs of anticipation rose from the audience.

Rev was about to blink on his night vision, but he realized this was part of the show, so he withheld. He wanted to experience whatever was going to happen as it was intended.

He almost jumped when the spotlight flashed on, revealing a single drummer, the same one who’d called for the colors, frozen, right arm holding a drumstick raised high, left hand low with the other drumstick resting on the drum itself. He stood like a statue as if waiting for the crowd to become silent. He stood still for about fifteen seconds—which seemed like an eternity—before he started slowly bringing the aloft arm down while raising the other, like a mechanical man in a giant Swiss cuckoo clock. At the last moment, he flicked his wrist, sending out a single drumbeat reverberating through the auditorium. After a moment, that drumbeat was answered by another from somewhere back in the darkness.

Now, with his left hand held high, the drummer repeated the process, but a little quicker, lowering the left and raising the right arm. He used the same wrist flick at the end to make the beat. The answering beat followed almost immediately. The spotlighted drummer repeated again, and this became a one-minute case of dueling drums. With a shift that was hard to catch, suddenly, the two drums were pounding out an intricate beat together. A larger spotlight snapped on, illuminating a formation of twenty-four militiamen surrounding the lead drummer.

Rev felt his pulse start to rise, almost as if his warrior was trying to break through.

“Can you record this?”

<I’m sorry, but I have been blocked from doing that.>

Rev wanted to argue. This wasn’t some military secret, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. He focused, trying to embed this in his memory.

Like the teen dancers before them, the drummers were expressionless, the only movement being the pounding and marching. While the drummers beat out a tattoo, the formation shifted, bringing everyone into a line. The pounding got louder, the beats more detailed.

The drummer on the far left snapped his left drumstick to eye level, stick parallel to the ground, the right one resting on the drumhead, and froze for three seconds before resuming his drumming and slipping back into the beat with the rest. The drummer to his immediate right followed suit, repeating it. Once he was done, it was the next drummer and all the way down the line. When the far-right drummer did it, the crowd broke out into applause again, but the drums drowned most of that out.

The line broke up with every other drummer performing an about-face and both lines marching away—except for the far right and far left drummers who turned to face each other. With the bulk of the drummers moving into a quieter beat, the two went wild, their arms flying in a complex rhythm, until without warning, each flicked one of their drumsticks, sending it flying across the twenty meters separating the two.

Rev’s heart jumped to his throat, and Rice grabbed his knee in a death grip as the sticks arced across the space . . . only to be snagged by the opposing drummer and immediately folded into the beat. This time, the roar of the crowd drowned out the drums.

They mirrored each other’s movements and beating for another ten seconds until they returned the drumsticks to their owners in the same manner, with high, arching throws. Within seconds, they had melded back into an everchanging formation as drummers intermixed in complex patterns, all the time with the drums sounding the patterns.

Two smaller spotlights appeared on either side of the main one, each illuminating a single drummer holding a huge, vertical drum hanging in front of them. Their much larger drumsticks were attached to their wrists with straps, and they started pounding away, giving a much deeper, chest-rattling boom with each strike. As they marched forward to join the formation, the other drummers parted like sardines making way for sharks. The two beat their drums, sometimes twirling their drumsticks at the end of the straps before retrieving them for another strike.

The formations became frenzied—not quite chaotic, because there was obvious intent and control—but the movements quicker, the drum beats quicker, the volume rising to a crescendo, and Rev thought his heart was going to burst in excitement.

Then, just as it looked like drums were going to come apart in the onslaught, the drummers froze, heads finally moving to snap up as if looking to the stars, right arm raised. The spotlight stayed on them for a full five seconds before they turned off, leaving the auditorium in darkness.

But not silent. Rev joined the rest and jumped to his feet, roaring his approval. Ting-a-ling, Rice, and Toshi were jumping up and down, pounding his back—or maybe he was pounding theirs. He didn’t know.

When the lights came back on, the drum corps was nowhere in sight. But they were in everyone’s mind.

Rev felt . . . amazing, would be an apt term. He’d gone into the ceremony as something to be endured. He was a New Hope citizen, not a Barclayan. Yes, he was also a Home Guard trooper, and his job was to serve the whole of humanity, but that was more of an academic concept, not something he felt in his bones.

But, after attending the ceremony—not just the beating, but the entire thing—it hit him what that really meant. And at the moment, he bought into it. These people, these Barclayans, were his people, just as much as the Frisians, the Mezames, the Heges, the AIWs. Even the Mad Dogs.

It might sound corny, but at the moment, Rev considered himself a citizen of the galaxy.

* * *

Rev let out a long and satisfying burp. He could get used to this white cider the locals kept touting. It was different from the apple and pear ciders back on New Hope and Enceladus. It went down smooth, had a nice aftertaste, and more than a little kick.

He took the final bite of his pasty, licked his fingers clean, then finished off his cider. He was feeling the alcohol, and for a moment, he wondered if he should call it a night, but with a shrug, he punched in an order of another glass, and this time, decided to try a curried mince pasty.

The Angry Pelican was a hub of activity. Fox Company had made it their unofficial liberty headquarters, and tonight, their last night on the planet, it was hopping. The pub had run out of alcohol twice already and was only now serving due to the owners buying up the stock of other area bars, then getting an emergency shipment from their distributor.

For all the activity going on, Rev was happy to be sitting in the back, nominally with a couple of the troopers in his platoon. But he was only physically in their proximity. He’d pulled his chair back into the corner so he wouldn’t be drawn into conversations.

Rev needed to decompress. It wasn’t as if he’d gone crazy like many of the troopers. He hadn’t joined the “hook-up line” that first morning where locals—and some visitors—had come to meet troopers and sailors. He’d lost Ting-a-ling and Rice that day to eager partners and hadn’t seen them since. At first, that had bothered him as the four of them had planned several activities together. But he understood the allure of a romantic liaison and accepted it. What helped was when he and Toshi decided that with the others hooking up, they’d go to the “family line,” where local families were ready to “adopt” the troopers and sailors for a day.

Rev’s family was the Remingtons. Dan and Leona were in their thirties and had two kids, Dan Junior and Beth. Their house was lovely and on a hill overlooking the city. Rev had felt a little self-conscious invading their home, but that didn’t last. Dan was close to Rev’s size, and he lent Rev a set of sweats so he could get out of his uniform. Beth reminded him of Kat, and that elicited a little bit of homesickness. He’d spent the day with them, enjoying just relaxing and being out of the Guard, at least mentally. With the humans he’d killed just a couple of days before, that’s what he needed.

The time was only supposed to last for a day, but when Dan had invited him to go trout fishing the next morning, he’d agreed. Rev hadn’t fished much at home, and he was no expert, but it was good to get out in the forest without wondering if a Centaur was lurking just out of sight. He’d even caught two Dolly Rainbows, the local pride and joy, much to his surprise. Dan had offered to take them back to his house to cook them up, but Rev demurred and slipped each one back into the creek.

Dan treated him to a BBQ for lunch on the way back. It wasn’t Fat Alicia’s back in Anastasia, but it wasn’t bad. He thanked Dan after they got back to the hotel, then spent a few hours wandering around and seeing the sights before the time difference made it appropriate for him to call home. The calls were free, courtesy of the Barclay government, and he spent over an hour with his family.

He’d hesitated before calling Malaika. She didn’t answer, however, and he didn’t know if he felt relieved or disappointed about that.

The local VGW put on a buffet at the hotel for those not otherwise engaged. The vets wore the same hats that the vets back in New Hope did. Mr. Oliva would feel right at home with them. When Rev showed them his membership card, they’d almost dragged him to the hotel bar. He’d still be there, captive to their stories, if Corporal Incrit hadn’t seen him and asked if he was going to the Angry Pelican. Even then, he’d almost decided to hang out with the vets, but in the end, he’d joined the unattached troopers in the platoon.

He took a sip of his cider. When he’d mentioned to Dan that he’d liked the stuff, Dan, with almost religious fervor, swore white cider didn’t deserve the term. Only apple and pear were cider, and anything else was an affront to Bacchus and all the gods of drink.

Rev didn’t know about that. All he knew was that he liked it.

Heck, maybe this time with the Guard is teaching me something. First, Mad Dog Donat Azurco, and now Barclay white cider. And I’ve still got two and a half years to go.

He downed it in one large gulp, then ordered another. He wasn’t drunk, despite the best efforts of the VGW vets, but he was feeling good.

“No, no, really!” Incrit, looking a little further gone than Rev, shouted with a laugh.

“Your AI tells you jokes,” Sergeant Tims said. “And you say they’re funny?”

That caught Rev’s attention.

“Sure. Listen to this one. Can one bird tell a joke?”

“Why would a bird tell a joke?” Tims asked, probably drunker than Incrit.

The corporal waved a dismissive hand. “That’s not important. Just answer the question.”

“You tell us, Ink,” Corporal Wymont, the MDS trooper, said with open disdain.

“No, but toucan.”

There were some groans.

“Get it? No, but two can,” Incrit said, laughing far more than the joke was worth.

Rev rolled his eyes. If Incrit was bragging on Union AIs’ capabilities, that sure wasn’t going to hack it. Punch had told far better jokes even in the beginning of that stage. By the end, they were better still.

What the hell happened there?

Rev kept trying to accept the new Punch, hoping that when they got back to the Marines, he’d be like he was again. In his heart, though, he knew this wasn’t just being neutered for Guard duty. Something had changed, starting with Bluebonnet Meadows. What the change was, Rev didn’t know, and he was afraid to dig into it given his suspicions.

Who cares, though? Why shouldn’t you ask if he’s changed?

Rev started to subvocalize the question, but then he stopped as his drink arrived. He took a long draught, bolstering up his courage.

If all you do is listen in on a staff sergeant sitting in a bar, then you have a sorry life, he thought at a possible eavesdropper.

“Punch, why have you stopped telling jokes. Is something wrong with you?”

<I am operating at full functionality except for the ability to record what you see.>

That wasn’t what I asked.

“Then why don’t you tell me any more jokes?”

<You’ve never asked for one.>

That didn’t used to stop you.

There was a flicker of something low in his eyesight, something that almost looked like a sign with writing. But it was fuzzy, and before Rev could try and decipher it, it was gone. He looked up for a projector that might be sending quick messages to spur buying more drinks. Not that the pub needed to. People were already buying plenty. He couldn’t spot anything, however. If that’s what he’d seen, then the projector was well hidden.

He took another drink—maybe it was working—and tried to remember what he’d just been doing.

Oh, yeah. Punch.

But before he could dive into Punch and his jokes deeper, he heard his name shouted out. Ting-a-ling had spotted him from the door into the pub. Rev waved him over, only then noticing the older, blonde woman in a slinky iridescent purple dress who was holding onto his arm possessively—and then Rice behind the two of them with a much younger man who could still be on the shallow side of twenty.

The woman didn’t seem to be too happy to be in the pub, and she took that moment to reach around, grab Ting-a-ling’s chin, and turn him in for a kiss that looked like she was trying to swallow him like a snake with a sparrow. Not that Ting-a-ling seemed to mind, either the kiss or the hoots from the troopers around them. His hand strayed to the woman’s ample bottom, and he returned the kiss with almost violent passion until they broke and Ting-a-ling looked at Rev with a shit-eating grin.

A table opened up near the bar, and Ting-a-ling started leading the woman to it. Rice followed, dragging her . . . date? . . . to the table as well, when, to Rev’s surprise, Ting-a-ling’s woman reached out to take the young man’s free hand.

Ting-a-ling motioned for Rev to join them, but Rev was already out of his seat and heading over. Whatever had gone on with Rice and Ting-a-ling over the last two days looked to be way more interesting than what Rev had done, and he wanted to know every last gory detail.

23

Rev never found out exactly what Ting-a-ling and Rice had done during those two days on Barclay. All Ting-a-ling had said was that they’d enjoyed their stay and wouldn’t go further. He said that as a spoken-for man, it was probably for the best that Rev didn’t know what he missed. But if it were anything like what some of the other troopers and sailors who had no problem bragging about their exploits had said, Ting-a-ling and Rice’s visit had been memorable.

That didn’t stop Rev from subtly digging over the next, mostly routine, five months. There had been three port visits and two training evolutions, the most notable one with what remained of the Denter Gendarmerie. The two-planet alliance had refused to join the CoH in defense of humanity, and the Centaurs had scorched one of the planets. The surviving Denter planet, Victant, was still not a member of the Congress of Humanity, but there had been an agreement of understanding between the two, and the combined exercise between the Takagahara, Fox Company, and the Gendarmerie was the first military cooperation between the Denters and another force since its inception.

The strategic political importance of the exercise with the Gendarmerie was obvious, but the exercise itself was little more than a dog and pony show. The Gendarmerie were not well trained, and a significant portion of them seemed to still be in a state of shock. Many of them were from Oresta, the planet that had been scoured, and as Sergeant Lines noted, they were like zombies in many ways.

Rev hadn’t even fired Pashu then, nor anytime after the Nightingale’s Song. And while Rev would swear that he didn’t want a fight to break out, in truth, he was bored. He was going a little stir crazy on the Takagahara despite it being the best Navy ride he’d ever had. Along with most of the troopers, he wouldn’t mind a little bit of excitement.

But they only had three more weeks for anything else to happen. They had one remaining evolution on their schedule—a maintenance call at Jonnelle Pratt Station for a final washdown of gear before their return. Fox Company would have one day and night of liberty before it would be back to the home system.

* * *

“You get a hold of her?” Ting-a-ling asked from his rack as Rev entered their stateroom.

Rev slipped off his boots and flopped on his own rack.

“Nah. She’s at work.”

“Not a good sign, my friend. Not a good sign at all.”

“Like I said, she was at work. You know, like what normal people do instead of lying in their racks as their ship makes big circles in space.”

“She’s always at work, hanging out with Ten, or whatever. This is what, your third try in a row where you’ve struck out?”

“Like I said, she’s at work.”

“And, like I said, that’s not a good sign.”

Rev had been glad that Malaika had been at work and couldn’t take the call. If he was honest with himself, that could be the reason he chose right now to try and make the call, knowing she’d be at work. He wasn’t in the mood for the local gossip, and by leaving her a message, he’d done his boyfriend duty without having to put up with the actual conversation. That was OK for him to acknowledge to himself, but that didn’t mean he wanted anyone else to criticize her.

“And I should be taking advice from you, after two divorces?” he snapped.

Ting-a-ling slowly lowered the pad he was reading and looked over it at Rev. “And that’s exactly why you should be listening to me. Been there, done that.”

Rev winced. He knew he’d just hit a nerve. Ting-a-ling didn’t particularly share a lot about his life, but Rev knew that the last divorce had hit him hard.

“Sorry, man. That was a low blow,” he said.

Ting-a-ling shrugged and said, “It is what it is.” He raised his pad to start reading again.

Rev watched him for a moment, then asked, “Was it hard? With Rainy? I know you don’t like to say much about her, and you can tell me to go pound sand if you want.”

Ting-a-ling lowered the pad again, and for a moment, Rev was sure that he was going to tell him to pound sand. Deservedly, so, too.

But to his surprise, Ting-a-ling sighed and said, “Yeah. It was hard. And not like Xyntyl, I never saw it coming.”

Xyntyl was his first wife, married when he was seventeen and divorced at eighteen a month after enlisting in the Host.

Ting-a-ling was a very private person. Rev had known him for years, and he’d been living with him for the last five months, but he didn’t know much about his roommate, all things considered. But at this moment, for whatever reason, there was a crack in Ting-a-ling’s armor, and Rev wanted to take advantage of that.

“What do you mean, you didn’t see it coming?”

“I mean, all the signs were there, but I was blinded. I didn’t want to see the signs, I think.”

Rev took a chance on pushing a little more. “What were the signs?”

Ting-a-ling gave a sad laugh. “The usual suspects. Not being there when I called. Short conversations when we did connect. No passion when I did make it home.

“People even warned me that something was up, but I couldn’t, or maybe I didn’t want to see the signs.” He looked up at Rev. “Do you use the term jody, or getting jodied in the Marines?”

“Yeah,” Rev said, now sorry he asked.

“Well, there you go. That last year, Rainy started to complain that the Host kept me away, that serving was driving a wedge between us. We couldn’t have a family if I was always gone. So, when she had her affair, guess who it was with?”

“Someone in the Host?” Rev said, already knowing the answer.

“You got it in one. A brown-master.”

“Punch? What’s a brown-master equivalent?”

<Roughly a major.>

Shit. An officer.

“She didn’t want to give up the exchanges, the commissaries, and the Host life. But life is a lot more exciting in the upper spectrum,” Ting-a-ling said, a hint of sorrow in his voice. “She filed for divorce a week after I joined you on New Hope. Two months later, she was an upper spectrum wife.”

“That sucks, man. I never knew you were going through that. You seemed so upbeat all the time.”

“What was I going to do? Cry? She made her choice.”

Rev took a moment to digest that. “Were you angry?”

“Angry? No. Maybe. But like I just said, she made her choice. And I loved her. Love her still, I guess. If this is what makes her happy, then that’s what I want for her.” He paused, then added, “Her husband’s a saffron-master now, so she’s going right up the ladder with him.”

“Punch?”

<A colonel.>

Rev stared at the overhead for a long moment. He didn’t know if he would be so understanding if he were in the same situation. He’d always resented his biological father leaving him and his mother, and he thought that had probably embedded his feelings of family loyalty.

Which is probably why I’m still with Malaika. I just can’t leave her.

Unless there was something to what Ting-a-ling was saying. If she was drifting away . . .

“So, you think that’s what’s happening with Mala?”

“Ah, don’t mind me. I’m just getting too cynical in my old age.”

“Yeah, right,” Rev said with a harrumph.

“’Sides, if she left you and you were suddenly single, I’d have to tell you what happened on Barclay.”

“You’re still holding that over me? Why don’t you just dish?”

“It’s more fun this way, my friend. And you’re probably imagining something far more exciting than what really happened.”

“I doubt that. I’m pretty naive about this kind of stuff, so I can’t imagine much. And I saw the four of you come back, so don’t tell me nothing happened.”

“OK, I won’t tell you that.”

Rev threw his pillow at Ting-a-ling.

But the conversation didn’t stop there. For the next hour and a half, the two opened up to each other. Rev told Ting-a-ling about his family, his biological father leaving them, then his father coming into his life. He told him more about his augments and Pashu than he probably should have. He told him about Malaika, and he told him about Tomiko and how they’d parted.

Ting-a-ling was equally open. Rev hadn’t realized that he’d come from such an impoverished background, one in which the Host was one of the few ways out. In that, they were more alike than Rev had thought. Rev was conscripted after a traffic violation, but Ting-a-ling was conscripted by his social status.

Rev learned more about Ting-a-ling in those ninety minutes than he’d learned over all the time he’d known the man.

As the talk started to die down, and sleep came a’calling, Rev said, “Ting, I’ve got to ask you something.”

“Go ahead.”

“I mean, you’ve told me about your life, but if I called your home and asked your sister ‘Is Ting there,’ she wouldn’t know who I was talking about.”

“So?”

“I mean, you’ve got your unpronounceable name. Tee-yurt . . . Tee-zin . . .”

“Tjivyrtzlin.”

“Yeah, that. And I sure the hell can’t say it even if I just heard you. So, when you first came and joined us, we all started calling you Ting-a-ling.”

“And you’re giving me this history lesson why?”

“Don’t you mind that we call you Ting-a-ling? Or Ting, for that matter?”

“What does it matter? I know who you mean.”

“Well, it’s kinda . . . well, not very fierce sounding, I guess I could say. Like a kid’s bicycle bell.”

“Yeah, I know. But unless I take offense, then what does that matter?”

Rev wasn’t quite sure yet where he was going with this.

“Well, Tee-yurt-whatever, that’s your surname, right?”

“Right. And again, why?”

“But your family and friends back on Saint Anna, they don’t call you by your last name.”

“Is that a question?” Ting-a-ling asked.

“What do they call you? I’ve known you for how many years? And I don’t know your first name. And I know you fries do have first names.”

Ting-a-ling sat up in his rack and looked across the narrow stateroom at Rev.

“Yes, I have a first name.”

“Well, why have you let me call you Ting all this time?”

“Like I said, if I know you’re talking to me, then what else matters?”

Rev shook his head. “I’d like to know your first name. What your family and friends call you.”

“You’re my friend, and you call me Ting.”

Rev rolled his eyes in frustration. He wasn’t sure if Ting-a-ling was messing with him or if he just didn’t get the question.

“Ting, what does your family call you?”

Ting-a-ling looked at Rev for a moment, opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head. “Ting is fine. I don’t think you can pronounce my given name.”

“Try me.”

“Nah. And as enjoyable an evening as this has been, I’m going to catch some Z’s.”

He flipped Rev’s pillow back to him, lay back, and turned off his rack light.

Rev didn’t understand Ting-a-ling’s hesitancy. And he felt a little rejected, especially after getting so much closer to him. He lay back and turned off his light, leaving the stateroom in darkness.

Oh, well, it’s his call.

He closed his eyes, and Ting-a-ling said, “Bob.”

“Bob what?” Rev asked, still feeling a little put-out.

“Bob. Just Bob.”

“And who is Bob?”

“That’s my name. Bob.”

Rev turned his light back up and sat up. “Bob? As in B-O-B, Bob?”

“Yep.”

Rev threw his pillow at Ting-a-ling with much more force than the first time.

Ting-a-ling pushed it under his head and said, “I’m keeping this.”

“Bob? Fucking Bob?”

“Not the fucking part, at least not since Barclay. Just the Bob part.”

“Then why the hell did you say I couldn’t pronounce it?” Rev asked. He said it again in his mind, trying to catch some nuance that he might be missing. But no. It was just Bob.

“Well, you can’t pronounce something as simple as Tjivyrtzlin, so I don’t know what you yooties can or can’t pronounce.”

This time, Ting-a-ling couldn’t hold it in. He brought Rev’s pillow to his face to muffle the laughter.

OK, you got me.

“You’re a jerk, Bob! And that’s what I’m calling you from here on out.”

“That’s what my friends call me, so yeah, I guess it’s appropriate. But now that you know, how about turning off that light? Your friend Bob wants to catch some Zs.”

24

The D-4 agent looked up from her pad and stared at Rev, her eyes boring into his very soul. Rev shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He’d done nothing wrong, but he had a history with the directorate’s security division.

At least he thought she was D-4. What else could she be?

The moment he’d set foot back on Enceladus, before he’d even gotten back to his cell, his pad had lit up with the message to report to this nondescript room in a nondescript corridor in a nondescript section of Camp Reyes.

Fox Company’s final two weeks on the Takagahara had been mostly uneventful. There had been a brief alert that had gotten everyone’s attention as they prepped for a possible mission, but whatever it was must have been taken care of through other means, and the ship proceeded to Jonnelle Pratt Station as scheduled.

The Mezame Concordat sprang for a huge party on the station, which was unexpected but greatly appreciated by the Fox troopers. They’d gotten close to the ship’s crew, and the party had been a good way to end the deployment.

That warm and fuzzy feeling had lasted through the final passage and return to Enceladus, all the way up to Rev reading the flashing alert.

Her silence was getting to him, and he opened his mouth to speak, but she held up a hand to shush him. At least that goaded her into action. She pulled out a wand, stood, and proceeded to scan the room.

Rev frowned. Now he was sure she was D-4.

Finally, she sat down. “Staff Sergeant Pelletier, I’m Special Agent Grenoble.”

Yeah, D-4 for sure.

Whatever this was, Rev hoped it wouldn’t take long. He was scheduled to take leave in five days, and another little stint as a “guest” of D-4 would destroy those plans.

“Before we begin, please put your AI to sleep.”

Rev didn’t like that. Why would he need to put Punch to sleep? His battle buddy couldn’t record events while on Enceladus, but to Rev, Punch was a security blanket.

“Staff Sergeant Pelletier?”

Rev considered refusing, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. He may be attached to the Home Guard, but he was a Union Marine, and when it boiled down to it, the directorate controlled every aspect of his life.

Reluctantly, he said, “Sleep.”

The agent looked down at the same wand with which she scanned the room, then, with a satisfied look, raised her head again.

She can tell if Punch is asleep?

That was unsettling.

“I’m here to conduct your triannual debrief.”

That confused Rev for a moment before things fell into place, and his stress level dropped several notches. The stress didn’t completely disappear, however. This was D-4, after all. But he knew what was going on.

Back on New Hope, before coming to the Home Guard, he and the others had gone through memory training so that they could note things about their fellow troopers. With their AIs’ capabilities limited, this was how the Union could gather data to develop into intel.

To be frank, Rev had forgotten about the debriefs.

“This is well beyond the four-month debrief window, but with you deployed, we had to adjust. This will constitute your first two debriefs.”

She placed the wand on the table between them. Rev didn’t need her to tell him that this was all being recorded.

“I hope that your tour so far has been rewarding and that you have acquitted yourself well. I know there was an incident with a Mad Dog karnan, and that has taken an interesting turn.”

Rev raised his eyebrows at that. Of course, she’d know about Kvat and him. But the fact that she called them Mad Dogs somehow took a little of her D-4 mystique away. It made her more human.

“We’ll discuss that, but for now, I just want you to relate to me some of your observations.”

Rev tried to get his thoughts in order. He really hadn’t been expecting the debrief, and he hadn’t prepared a mental report.

“Well, the karnans, they’re much stronger than us. I mean IBHU Marines,” he blurted out, not knowing what else to say.

The agent didn’t sound impressed.

Crap. Of course, they already know that.

He took several deep breaths. One of the techniques they’d been taught was to associate observations with a class of objects, such as different birds, sports teams, or anything. For Rev, he’d chosen fruits.

OK, Reverent, just do it.

But for the moment, his mind was blank. He didn’t even know which fruit to use as a trigger. His thoughts bounced around his head like a songbird in a cage.

Strawberry! Uh . . . strawberries are red, and Akkeke’s combat suit was red.

“Uh, the Millsap combat suit can change to any color,” he got out in a rush.

The agent stared at him, her face an emotionless mask. Rev realized that wouldn’t be a revelation, but the dam was broken. Rev started going down his list of observations. To his surprise, the fruit thing seemed to work, and he thought he covered most of what he’d intended. It took about forty-five minutes to get through it, which was longer than he thought it would take. The agent interrupted a few times for clarification, but she mostly let him ramble on.

When he couldn’t dredge up anything else, he said, “I guess that’s about it.”

“Nothing more?”

Rev had been feeling pretty proud of how much he’d retained, and that was a little bit of a downer. It wasn’t enough?

She made some entries on her pad, then asked, “Do you remember AER from your brief back on your home planet?”

“AER?” he asked, wracking his brain.

“Applied Extractive Recovery.”

“Uh . . . not really, ma’am.”

“It’s nothing, really. Just a method that allows an interviewer to nudge a subject into retained memories.”

Rev raised his guard. He vaguely remembered hearing the term. It was something like hypnotism.

“So, what I’m going to do is administer a light sedative, and then we’re going to see what else you have for me.”

She reached into her briefcase as Rev recoiled, pushing himself back from the table.

“Isn’t a brainwipe illegal?” he asked, his eyes locked onto the small cylinder she pulled out.

She actually laughed aloud. “What makes you think this is a brainwipe? You Marines, for people so brave in combat, you get frightened over the tiniest things.”

“Then what is that?”

“This? Like I said, this is a light sedative. You’ll breathe it in, and it will help calm you down. Makes it easier to find those memories.” When Rev didn’t look convinced, she said, “A brainwipe is done in a hospital setting with a large staff. Does this look like that?”

“Punch?”

There was no answer, and Rev and a moment of rising panic until he remembered that she’d put his battle buddy to sleep. He really wished Punch was awake.

But what she said made sense. It was just that after being arrested and held prisoner by D-4, after being accused of treason by them, Rev’s trust level of Interior Security was less than optimal.

“So? You ready? Or do you want to spend the next day or so playing what else do you remember?”

Rev reluctantly nodded. It wasn’t as if he had a choice.

The agent reached out and pressed the top of the cylinder. A puff of mist shot out.

She looked at Rev, then, with an exasperated sigh, said, “You actually have to inhale.”

“Oh, sorry.” Rev hadn’t realized that he’d been holding his breath. “Try again.”

She held the cylinder closer and depressed the top again.

Despite his resolve, Rev held his breath again for a moment before he gave in and breathed in. There was a light hint of mint but nothing else. He took stock of himself, but he didn’t feel any different.

“Now, with that done, let’s see if we can proceed. Just as described in your brief, I’m going to be asking you some questions. Just speak freely. Remember, I can’t force you to answer anything you don’t want to. I’m just going to guide you as you try and recover memories that might pertain. You ready?”

Rev wasn’t so sure that she couldn’t dig things out, maybe things he didn’t want her to know. Maybe that was true; maybe it wasn’t. But he hadn’t done anything wrong, so he should be fine.

Should be.

“So, let’s start with this one. Who have you gotten close to during your time in the Home Guard so far?”

Rev had to consider it. No, that wasn’t what it was. He knew the answer, but he had to remember how to form the words.

“Bob. Rice. Toshi.”

Maybe that mist is having an effect on me.

“Who are they?”

“You know. Bob is Ting-a-ling. He’s a fry. Good guy, Bob.”

“OK, good. Let’s talk about Yellow-Master Tjivyrtzlin. Has he asked you for technical data on your IBHU?”

Rev mumbled a reply. He wasn’t quite sure what he said, but it seemed to elicit another question from the agent.

Question, answer. Question, answer. Rev was somewhat aware of the process, but nothing was sinking in. He had to imagine that nothing he said was making any sense, and that bothered him. The agent wanted answers, but he couldn’t give them. It was embarrassing.

He didn’t know how long this went on. An hour? A day? Time didn’t really mean much until everything seemed to come into focus. The agent was standing before him, the cylinder back in front of his face. The scent of roses, not mint, filled his senses.

“You back with me, Staff Sergeant.”

Rev scraped his tongue against his top teeth. It felt like it was covered with moss.

“Are we done?”

“Yes, we’re done,” the agent said as she slipped the cylinder back into her briefcase.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more.”

She gave a chuckle and said, “Oh, you did fine. Better than most, in fact.”

“But I don’t know what I told you.”

“You told me a lot. You wouldn’t have been able to do that, though, unless you had used the techniques you were taught to anchor those memories into your neocortex.”

“Is there anything you need to tell me?”

“If not me, then someone will be in contact with you after we’ve analyzed your observations. But I don’t think I’m speaking out of turn to say we’re going to want you to get closer to Lieutenant Vreemish. That’s an excellent contact you made there. Really good thinking to use that connection, and good initiative. I think that relationship has the potential to become very useful.”

Rev wanted to protest that he hadn’t met with the MDS lieutenant for some sort of intel operation. He’d just wanted to meet his MDS counterpart on Earth, and then he’d discovered that he just liked the man. But he kept quiet. Protesting wouldn’t do him any good, and it could work against him.

There were some things they’d discussed that Rev had decided to keep to himself. Now he wondered how much he’d told her.

She stood up and offered her hand. “Good job, and I look forward to your next debrief.”

Rev took the hand and shook it. “Me, too, ma’am.”

“Go on. Get back to your unit. I imagine you’ve got a lot to do.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He started to leave, glad that the debrief was over but wondering what instructions he’d be given based on an analysis of his answers.

“And have a good leave back home,” she said as he passed through the door.

Of course, she knows I’m going on leave. She’s D-4.

25

“With no more Centaurs, why do you still have to fight?” Kat asked.

Rev had fought humans before: the Children of Angels. And Kat was still pretty sensitive about that. Her biological parents had been killed in the fighting, but not before they offered her up as a suicide bomber. Rev tried to choose his words, but Neesy came to his rescue.

“Silly. Rev already said so. There’re pirates and other bad guys out there. Rev fights those guys, right?” Neesy asked, looking at Rev for confirmation.

“We just want to make sure that everyone is safe,” Rev said as he pulled her head in and kissed the top. He didn’t want to get into the nasty side of human conflict where other humans were your target.

His dad looked up from where he was sitting in the front seat and caught Rev’s eyes in the mirror. “I saw the news about that ship. The Nightingale.”

“Nightingale’s Song.”

“You’ll have to tell me about that later.”

“What’s that?” Neesy asked. “Tell us.”

Rev’s father was still looking at him in the mirror, and Rev gave a slight shake of his head.

“Give him a break, girls. He just got back from the home system. Let him catch his breath.”

Rev put his arms around the girls on either side of him. “And I’m happy to be home. A whole week.”

And Rev was happy. He missed his family. He missed his friends. He had new friends, of course, but Enceladus wasn’t home, and it never would be.

Normally, Rev wouldn’t be due his home leave for another seven months, but with the new policy of units returning from deployment slipping into an alert unit status, it was now or not for close to another year before he could take leave. He’d chosen take this leave slot while Fox company was in a logistics stand down in prep to become part of the alert force.

He’d probably regret that in a year when he would have been on leave, but for the moment, he was just going to enjoy his time at home. While there was going to be a meet up with his friends at Leteeka’s tomorrow, for tonight, it was just going to be a quiet evening at home with a good meal and catching up with the family.

“Your mother asked me to ask you if Malaika’s coming over tonight,” his father said.

“No. She said she’s got work.”

Rev was bending the truth with the “said” part. He didn’t really know where she was for sure, but he figured it was a good guess.

His father harrumphed. “You’d think she could take off a few days with you back.”

Rev had thought the same thing, but he felt he had to stick up for her. “She just started the job, and they won’t let her miss any work until she’s certified.”

The expression on his father’s face in the mirror was a good indication of what he thought of that.

“I’m going to let your mom know we’re almost there. She has some sort of soufflé that has to be put in at just the right time.”

“Souffle?”

“She’s gotten even better than when you left,” his father said. “It’s putting the kilograms on me, though,” he added, patting his belly.

While he was growing up, Rev’s mother was not a cook. He doubted that she could hard boil an egg. Then the cooking bug bit her. Her first dishes were pretty bad, not even close to matching the dining fabricator in the kitchen. But during his time in the regiment, she’d gotten better and better to the point that Rev looked forward to eating with the family. And now, it looked like he was going to try a souffle. He didn’t really know what one was—something with eggs, he gathered—but he knew it was supposed to be gourmet, and now his stomach rumbled at the thought. Neesy and Kat laughed uproariously when they heard it, Kat patting his stomach. Even Rev laughed.

Yes, it was good to be home.

They pulled up into the driveway. Neesy and Kat fought over carrying Rev’s valpack, the military version of a small suitcase. He hadn’t brought enough to justify a seabag.

Rev’s father opened the door to the house, and then as if in an afterthought, stepped aside and motioned Rev to enter.

“Home sweet—”

“SURPRISE!”

Rev’s mouth dropped open as at least thirty people shouted at him. Most were neighbors and family friends, but Cricket and a very pregnant Udu were among the guests.

Rev was tired from the passage, and he’d wanted a quiet evening, but it didn’t look like that was going to happen.

And at the moment, he was fine with that.

* * *

Leteeka’s wasn’t as busy as the last time Rev was there. As more bars and pubs reopened, there were more choices. Not for Rev, though. Only Leteeka’s would do.

Rev would have liked it a little busier, however, at least at their table. Tomiko’s unit was off-planet training on Perth. Bundy was off at butter bar school, finishing up learning how to be a lieutenant. Ten had planned on being there, but at the last moment had called and said she was feeling under the weather. Malaika was at work.

At least he could see Ten later on, but he’d miss Tomiko and Bundy on this trip. If he’d realized that they wouldn’t be around, he’d have taken his leave after being on alert status.

Should have checked, he told himself as he took another sip of the Hausner.

But still, with Udu and Cricket—it continued to amaze him that Cricket, of all people, was going to be a father—Orpheus, and Yancey, it was good to get at least some of the posse together.

And from the Raiders, Strap, Porter, Radić, and Doc Paul were there. Hussein was at some school, but he’d sent a message that the first round was on him.

All told, it was a good gathering, and while Rev was disappointed that Tomiko, Bundy, and Hussein weren’t there, the rest kept him so busy with questions on life in the Home Guard that he couldn’t dwell on it.

Udu shifted in her seat uncomfortably, and Cricket immediately cut off whatever he was saying to Yancey and asked her if she was OK.

“Get your son out of my belly, and I’ll be OK,” she said, leaning back and stretching. “He’s gonna be a professional dancer, I swear.”

Rev smiled as an image of Cricket Junior standing up and doing the dances he’d seen on Barclay sprang to his mind, his baby face all serious as his feet beat a tattoo in Udu’s womb.

She then told him she’d manage, but maybe another pomegranate juice would help settle her. Rev didn’t even know Leteeka’s offered pomegranate juice, but Cricket jumped up and scurried off to the bar.

“How’s it been?” Rev asked, nodding at her belly. Udu was a big woman, and she didn’t look overly large compared to other pregnant women he’d seen. Besides, she’d been a Marine, so he knew she was tough.

She leaned forward and pulled Rev in. “It sucks, but not really so bad as I let on. I like having Cricket wait on me hand and foot. Especially foot. He’s got a tremendous foot massage technique. You should try him sometime.”

That did not sound like the Cricket Rev knew. He glanced over to where Cricket was at the bar. Maybe impending fatherhood changed people.

“Well, next time I’m pregnant, maybe I will.”

Udu laughed. “Some new augment they give for Home Guard duty?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me, that’s for sure.” He paused as the thought struck him, then asked, “Your augments. Have they made any, you know, difference in your pregnancy?”

She ran her hands over her belly. “They had to take out some of my spiderweb to let this little guy grow. And with the strengthening of all the joints, it’ll have to be a Cesarean.”

Rev frowned. He’d never considered how the augments might affect childbirth.

“Mala will have to go through the same thing when you two decide to have kids.”

Rev couldn’t hide the grimace. Whatever he and Malaika were, it wasn’t prospective parents. Even ignoring the fact that he had just over two years left in the Home Guard, he and Malaika were just . . . casually dating? They’d never really discussed it enough to have a handy label.

Udu laughed and pointed at him. “Oh, look at you, Rev. Your face just went white. You think that way now, but when the time is right, you’ll be ready to be a father. Look at my man.”

If Udu wanted to believe that his reaction was only related to being a father instead of being a father with Malaika, then he wasn’t going to disabuse her of that belief.

“Look at me what?” Cricket said, bringing her juice.

Udu reached up and took his arms, then brought them around her and put his hands on her belly. “Just telling him that you’re gonna be a great dad.”

Rev had always heard that pregnant women glowed, but at the moment, it was Cricket he could swear was glowing. His friend was happy, and what more could anyone ask?

* * *

Rev sat at the table, idly stirring his coffee. Rabbit’s was hardly a romantic spot to meet. It served decent enough food, but it was always bustling with activity.

He checked the time. Malaika was fifteen minutes late. But she’d warned him she was coming after work, and she was probably getting dressed up for the occasion.

Rev had been disappointed that somehow, for the last five days, she’d been too busy with work and family to see him. That didn’t bode well, but he was determined to make the best of it. He had a room reserved at the same transient camp where they’d spent the night way back when, and he’d arranged for a huge bouquet of peach-colored roses to be waiting there for them.

He lifted his arm and took a quick whiff of his armpit. It passed the sniff test. Despite his frustration in not seeing her, he was beginning to get excited. It had been almost a year since he’d spent any time with her, and that was a long time to remain celibate.

“You need a refill?” the waiter asked.

Rabbit’s might serve typical fabricated fare, but they switched to a live wait staff after the Centaur invasion. With so many facilities destroyed, unemployment had been rampant and was only now beginning to recover.

“She going to show up?” the waiter asked as he poured the coffee.

Rev shrugged. “She said she is. We haven’t seen each other for almost a year.”

“Really? Where’ve you been? Or is it her who’s been away?”

Rev wasn’t sure he wanted to get into it with a waiter, but he said, “I’ve been away to the Home System. I’m in the Home Guard.”

“No shit? The Home Guard?” the waiter said, his voice rising in excitement. He looked at Rev’s social arm and asked, “You get that in the war?”

Now he wished he’d just ignored the man.

“Yeah. Lost it in the war.”

“Hey, the owner here, he’s a big military fan. Whatever you and your lady order, it’ll be on the house.”

“It’s OK. I can pay.”

“Nothing doing. We know you Marines don’t get paid much. It’s our duty to support you.”

With his Home Guard pay, Rev was not strapped for cash. But he could tell he wasn’t going to win this, so he just thanked the server.

He settled back to wait for Malaika. His quantphone was heavy in his pocket, but he resisted the urge to call and ask where she was. He didn’t want to seem too eager.

Twenty-two minutes after she said she’d be there, Malaika arrived.

Well, I guess she didn’t go home to freshen up after all.

She was standing in the doorway, looking for him, still wearing her light blue GKS Company work shirt and tan trousers. She spotted him and started to make her way over.

Rev stood to greet her, and as they came in for a hug, he leaned forward to give her a kiss, catching her cheek as she turned her head at the last moment.

Accident in timing or on purpose?

“It’s good to finally see you, Mala.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“You look good.” That wasn’t just small talk. She did look good, and Rev felt a surge of the physical attraction he’d always felt for her.

“You, too. The home system must be treating you right.”

Rev shrugged. “It’s OK. Good to be home, though. And my mom says hello.”

“Oh, wow. How is she? I haven’t seen your family in like forever.”

“Doing well. The job’s the job, no surprise. I think she’s counting down the years until she can retire. She’s getting much better as a cook, though. She made osso buco last night that was amazing.”

Malaika showed the first spark of interest since she arrived. “She was plenty good already. I had a lot of meals there after you left.”

They were still standing, so Rev motioned for them to sit.

“I haven’t ordered anything. The waiter said they’ve got blackberry cobbler on special.”

“That sounds good.”

“Á la mode?”

Malaika laughed and said, “You know me too well.”

Which wasn’t true, especially after the last year, but he did know she liked her ice cream.

Rev motioned for the waiter and ordered two desserts. He had reservations later at Clancy’s, a higher-end restaurant along the River Walk. This was just a sweet appetizer.

“And the girls. How are they?” she asked.

Rev would rather not talk about the two of them, but she was probably curious. She’d seen them enough right after Rev had left.

“Neesy is really getting bigger. It was a shock for me to see her.” He lowered his voice. “She’s like, you know, wearing a full-size bra.”

Malaika tilted her head back and laughed. “You are such a boy!”

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t have to whisper that your sister has a bra. It’s totally normal.”

“I didn’t whisper,” he started to say, his face turning red.

But she was right. He’d been a little uncomfortable when his mother told him that. It was just hard for him to accept that his little girl sister was starting to turn into a woman. She was a long way off from that, still, but seeing her after a year had thrown him for a loop. When he finished his tour with the Home Guard, she would be even further along the process. Heck, she would probably already be dating.

Malaika was right. Growing up was normal. But Rev still felt a little weird about it.

The waiter came up and poured a cup of coffee for Malaika and told them the cobbler was being heated.

Malaika took a sip. “Good coffee.”

And then there was a break in the conversation, and Rev sat there, staring at his coffee cup while Malaika seemed to take an interest in her spoon.

Why is this so hard?

They hadn’t seen each other for a long time, so of course, there might be a little awkwardness, but he really didn’t know what to say. Malaika had always been the one who’d been flirty and joking, and without her leading in that direction, Rev was at a loss.

“How is work?” he finally said, anything to break the silence.

“Work? It’s fine. GKS is a good company. Nice benefits.”

Rev wasn’t exactly sure what she did there, and at the moment, he didn’t want to delve into it. Something was off, and he didn’t know if that was just a matter of a year going by. They shouldn’t be shy with each other.

But he wasn’t going to figure it out by sitting on his ass and not asking.

“Are you OK?”

Her mouth turned into the tiniest frown, but she said, “I’m fine.”

“You’re not . . . you seem pensive.”

“It’s not that. I’ve just got a lot on my mind. Work, and . . .”

“And?”

She raised her head from the spoon and gave Rev a long, hard look.

That doesn’t look good.

“I . . .”

“What? Just say it.”

“I’ve been seeing someone else,” she said in a rush. She looked up at him, her eyebrows scrunched together in concern, and reached across the table to take his hand.

He realized he wasn’t surprised. It all fit. Rev looked at her hand for a moment but didn’t reach for it.

She pulled her hand back. “I didn’t mean to. It just happened, and you were gone so far away, and she was here.” Her voice got a little more strident. “And you said we weren’t serious. You said there were no strings, no attachment.”

Which was absolutely true. But Malaika hadn’t seemed to accept that, at least at first. And because of that, Rev had slowly fallen into the relationship as a fait accompli.

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” Rev asked, surprised that his voice was so calm.

“I . . . I wanted to see you again, first, to see if there was still that spark. I know that wasn’t fair to you, but I was hoping, you know . . .”

“And there isn’t that spark?”

She looked anguished, and she started wringing her hands.

This wasn’t the Malaika Rev wanted to see. He’d been attracted to her strength, not this. He needed to do something.

“That’s OK, Mala. If it isn’t there, it isn’t there. And I’m gone. I’m not here now, and you need someone who is, not a long-distance relationship.”

“Really?” she asked, looking hopefully at him. “You’re not mad?”

“Mala, you’re right. I said no strings attached. And what we had, it was special to me. I hope it was for you.”

Oh, my gosh. I’m laying it on pretty thick here.

But he wasn’t actually lying. He liked Malaika. A lot. He just wasn’t in love with her and didn’t see anything long-term. But he’d enjoyed his time with her. What he didn’t want was for her to feel bad about their relationship or ending it. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t considered ending it himself.

And now, she was making it easy for him. He wasn’t going to be the bad guy. But a little part of his mind wondered why, and then, who was she seeing.

Leave it alone, Reverent. It doesn’t matter. You’re out of it.

But it was nagging at his mind, clamping on like a terrier on a rat.

Don’t, Rev. Just keep it nice and clean.

But he didn’t always obey his own mind. Make that he often didn’t.

“Is it . . . is it anyone I know?” he asked, kicking himself as soon as the words left his mouth.

Her face twisted in a grimace, and she dropped her eyes to look down at her lap.

Why such a reaction? he wondered, suddenly feeling a little apprehensive.

“I . . . I don’t know if I can tell you.” Her voice dripped with anguish.

Now Rev was more than curious. He was apprehensive that something could make her react like this.

“Mala, really, it doesn’t matter. And I’ll find out eventually. Heck, I bet Ten knows who—”

He stopped dead in his tracks.

No! It can’t be.

“Mala, look at me.”

As if fighting the weight of the world, Mala looked up, tears in her eyes.

Fuck.

Rev felt . . . betrayed? Ten? But as he thought about it, all the signs were there. Bob had been right about that, just not with whom. He knew they had gotten close after he left. Malaika was always over to see Ten, helping her with her therapy. And Ten had gotten Malaika into volleyball. Then there was his last few, sometimes a little awkward, conversations with Ten, and then her not coming to the party. He’d attributed it to her regen when it was now obvious why she hadn’t come.

He felt a flash of anger, but there was no sustaining it. It was a quick flame that disappeared just as quickly.

Nothing’s changed. Don’t make a scene.

But it was hard. Not so much about Malaika, but about Ten. He and she were posse, and for her to jody him, that just wasn’t right.

“Do the others know?” he asked.

Yancey, Cricket, Udu, Orpheus, and Fyr had treated him normally. Were they part of this?

“No. No one knows. You’re the first.”

Rev let out a deep breath. That was a relief, he had to admit.

Tears were rolling down Malaika’s cheek. She had to feel miserable about this, and Rev knew that Ten must feel the same way.

And when you get down to it, how can anyone control their heart?

Rev felt a swell of compassion sweep away the empty anger. He cared for both of these women. He loved both of these women. And if they could find happiness with each other, then who was he to stand in their way, especially as nothing was being stolen from him? He wanted to be free, and now he was.

He knew what he had to say. Still, he had to suppress that tiny part of him that wanted to lash out. But he wasn’t going to be “that guy.” He wasn’t going to let petty jealousy over nothing, when he was getting what he wanted in the end, get in the way.

Rev reached across the table, and she tentatively took his hands. “Does she know you’re here tonight?”

“No. I didn’t tell her,” she said quietly with even more guilt, if that was possible, washed over her face.

“No reason to. Why don’t you go on home and see her tonight?”

“You’re sure that’s OK? I mean, you and I can still spend a little time catching up.”

Rev was already thinking of Yancey’s invitation to play Knock On with Orpheus and some of their friends. He’d turned them down to meet with Malaika, but there was still time to join them before the first hand.

“I think it’s probably for the best, Mala.”

She hesitated, and Rev watched a myriad of emotions flash across her face. “Well, if you’re OK with it.”

“I am. And I can say this. Ten’s a lucky girl to have you.”

Relief took over the warring emotions. “Thank you, Rev. I was so worried how you’d take this.”

“Hey, we’re friends, right?”

He stood, and she followed. This time, the hug was more heartfelt.

“Well, I guess . . . this is it, right? But you’re serious that we’re still friends?”

“Of course. And when you do decide to tell Ten that I know, make sure you tell her that I’m OK with this, and I wish you two the best.”

She gave him a kiss on the cheek, then with one last squeeze, she turned and walked out of the place.

Rev watched her until she was out the door. His overwhelming emotion at the moment was relief. Yes, there was a little bit of pique in that she’d found something lacking in him, and then that it was Ten, of all people, but that was inconsequential. He’d known he was spinning his wheels with the relationship, killing time. And now he didn’t have to worry about making calls back. Suddenly, he thought back to Barclay, and smiling as he thought about it, he wished she had told him before that liberty port.

The stories some of the troopers had about their escapades . . .

The waiter approached, holding a tray with the two cobblers. “Things didn’t go so well?”

“No, they went just fine.”

“If you say so, sir.” He didn’t look like he believed Rev as he glanced down at the tray. “Do you want me to take these back to the kitchen?”

Rev looked at the two dishes. The ice cream was starting to melt over the deep purple cobbler. “You said it was good, right?”

“My favorite dessert we make.”

Rev sat back in his seat. “Well, that’s good enough for me.”

The waiter smiled and put one of the cobblers in front of him. As he started to leave, Rev grabbed his arm.

“Sir?”

“I ordered both of them.”

“Both? Now that’s what I like to hear.” He placed the second one down by the first. “Enjoy, sir.”

Rev sent Yancey a message saying he’d be joining them after all, then picked up the spoon and dug into the cobbler, making sure to get a chunk of ice cream with it.

The waiter hadn’t been lying. It was heaven, the warm, slightly tart berries dueling with the cold, sweet vanilla ice cream.

Tonight was going to turn out much better than he’d thought it would.

26

“Ah, the prodigal son returns,” Ting-a-ling/Bob said from over the back of the dilapidated couch in the commons where he and Rice were lounging.

Rev opened his cell and threw in his valpack. He vaulted over the back of the couch and landed in a sitting position between the two of them, his body bouncing both of them in the air.

“Hell, Rev, you’re too damn big to be doing that,” Rice said as she clutched at the armrest to steady herself.

Rev grabbed them around their necks and pulled them in, giving each a kiss on the top of the head.

“You know, I hate to say this, but it’s good to get back,” he said.

“What, storm clouds on the home front?” Bob asked, carefully taking Rev’s social arm off from around his neck.

“No, not at all. Things went very well, in fact.”

Bob gave him a piercing look, but Rev shook it off. He’d give him the lowdown on Malaika later.

“So, what did you two do during the break?”

“Lots of duty SNCO,” Rice said. “With all you gone, there wasn’t much of a pool from which to draw, you know.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be standing enough duty when you guys go after we get off alert status.”

Rice frowned, and Rev immediately regretted his statement. Bob hadn’t gone home, choosing to wait until the leave period after they got off alert status. But Rice was stuck here for the duration. Paxus didn’t pay for their soldiers assigned to the Home Guard to come home on leave. She’d been with Fox Company for two years now, so it would be another year before she saw her family again.

There was an awkward silence, not broken until Bob rescued him and said, “We got over to Titan for two days. Played tourist and everything.”

Rice added, “The Hall of Humanity is all it’s cracked up to be, too. Very impressive.

“I’ll have to make sure I see it. It’d be a shame to spend three years in the home system and not really see the capital.”

Titan was not officially the capital of anything. Titan and Enceladus were both parts of a CoH enclave with no local government. But in common usage, Titan was usually referred to as the capital, with the Hall of Humanity, as seat of the COA bureaucracy, being the capitol.

“You did miss a big something while you were gone, though,” Rice said.

“What?”

“Veang’s gone.”

“What? They sent him back to Angkor? For the accident? Now?”

“Not to Angkor. He got bumped up to Brigade Ops,” Bob said.

Which in military parlance meant he’d been shit-canned but not bad enough to get sent home. No one, particularly an officer, wanted a staff job on such a prestigious posting.

Rev never liked the lieutenant, and he didn’t think the lieutenant liked him. But he didn’t deserve to get fired.

“And guess who came to replace him?” Bob asked.

“Crap. From the look on your face, it’s a Mad Dog.”

“Far from it. It’s a Union Marine.”

That caught Rev’s attention. He sat straight and asked, “No shit? Where’re they from? Regular or provincial Marine?”

“Ah, all you yootie jarheads are the same to me,” Bob said. “I don’t remember where he’s from. But he said to make sure you reported in to him when you got back.”

Technically, Rev was still on leave until morning, and so he wasn’t “back.” But he was curious, to say the least.

Probably some stick-in-the-ass regular Marine.

Still, any Marine was a good thing.

“We’re heading for the Ramshead in a few minutes after Toshi gets back from the mini-exchange. We’ll wait if you want to go check out the new platoon commander now.”

It was a cardinal rule that if someone was on liberty, much less leave, and they were around the flagpole, they should not pop their heads up out of hiding. That was a good way to get snagged for a work detail. And the new lieutenant would still be there in the morning when Rev’s leave officially ended. But Rev’s curiosity was overwhelming.

Screw it. If I steer clear of Gamay or Barber, I should be in the clear.

“Give me a moment to get into a clean uniform, OK?”

Rice made an effort of taking his right arm off from around her shoulder, then held her nose. “You might want to consider a shower, too.”

He took a sniff and had to agree. “OK, give me twenty or thirty minutes, and I’ll head out with you.”

He jumped over the back of the couch, grabbed a clean uniform from his cell, and ran to the shower. With the sonic blast on high, he was clean enough for military work after a single sixty-second cycle, even if he felt rubbed raw in a few spots.

“I’ll be back in a few,” he told his two friends. “Don’t leave without me.”

He headed down to the company offices. Knowing officers as he did, he’d bet that the new lieutenant would be there studying up on his platoon despite the late hour. He managed to avoid the senior SNCOs and slipped into the office. Corporal White was behind his desk, a sure sign that at least one of the officers was there.

“You don’t have to check back in until tomorrow,” the corporal said.

“I know. I just heard that our new platoon commander is a Marine, and I wanted to welcome him aboard. Is he here?”

“That’s why I’m here, Staff Sergeant.” Rev nodded and started to head over to the platoon commanders’ office when he added, “And if you can get him to leave, then I can get out of here, too.”

Rev laughed. “I’ll do my best, White.”

He stepped up to the door, rapped on it, and announced, “Staff Sergeant Pelletier, sir. May I come in?”

The Marine inside was facing away from the door. He turned around and said, “Enter, Staff Sergeant.”

Rev froze, his mouth open. Standing in front of him was Second Lieutenant Aristotle Bundy, Perseus Union Marine Corps, and now evidently assigned to the Home Guard.

* * *

“This just can’t be a coincidence . . . sir,” Rev said, sitting across from his friend. After a shocked moment, the two had jumped into a back-pounding exhibition. It took a minute for it to sink in and for Rev to take the seat.

Bundy gave a guilty look, then sheepishly said, “No, no coincidence, and it was a surprise to me. I knew I couldn’t stay in tanks, what with them all being mothballed, but I envisioned a nice, comfy support billet as befitting my decrepit age. But when the brass decided to send me here, I had to take a crash course in all things infantry. Me, a grunt. Can you imagine?”

“But why? I mean, why here?”

Bundy grimaced. “It’s because I know you.”

“And, that means . . . ?”

“Rev, you’ve got to realize that you’re unique. You’re one of only a handful of IBHUs in the galaxy.”

“I’m rather aware of that, sir.”

“I’ve got the impression that there was a lot of debate about sending you guys here to the Home Guard.”

“Except for Pierson.”

“Yeah, him. He might be a hero, but no one in the Union hierarchy was going to send him here. But forget about him. I think that if it wasn’t for what happened on Earth with you, and then when the Mad Dogs sent their karnans here, without those two things, you’d all have been kept back in the Union, far from the madding crowd, and most important, out of sight.”

It wasn’t as if Rev hadn’t come to that conclusion on his own. He nodded at Bundy to continue.

“But . . .” He hesitated a moment as if to figure out how to phrase what he wanted to say. “Look, we’ve got Genesians embedded in our brain.”

“But, I’m not—”

“I know. Those who’ve served with you guys know. But the Union is big, with people from all sorts of backgrounds. To say that some don’t trust you would be an understatement.”

“What, they think that we’ll all run amok and wipe out cities?” Rev asked in disgust.

“Kinda, yeah.”

“Really? I was being sarcastic there.”

“I know. But there is some of that fear. And if you ran amok, as you put it, here in Enceladus, it would be pretty embarrassing.”

“So, you’re here to keep an eye on me. And since you’re my friend, they figure if I go batshit crazy, you’ll have the best shot at calming the monster down,” he said, the bitterness dripping from his voice.

It wasn’t that anything Bundy said was new to him. But to have it blatantly thrown in his face hurt. He’d given his all in fighting the Centaurs. Hell, along with Lieutenant Vreemish, he’d helped save the Mother. What else did he have to do to prove himself?

“And they sent you. No disrespect, sir, because I know you’re capable, but you’re coming to an elite infantry unit with no infantry experience. And again, with all due respect, you’re not really a young man.”

“Don’t I know it,” Bundy said. “But it isn’t up to the Home Guard who’s sent. It’s up to the providing government. And with the strength of the Union, and maybe more importantly, with the percentage of financial support we send the Congress, well, if they want to send a lowly second looie to a specific platoon, then it’s going to happen.”

And if that means firing the existing officer and sending him up to brigade, then so be it.

Rev was stewing in his own juices. This was BS.

“I know it doesn’t mean much, but it isn’t you alone. All of you have gotten or are getting nannies.”

“Is that what they call you? Nannies?”

“No, they don’t. But that’s what we call ourselves, and for the record, we think it sucks. The commandant thinks it sucks, too, but he was overruled on this.”

Rev sat silently for a long moment. He didn’t like the fact that he was considered some sort of wild animal who had to be kept on a tight leash.

“Are we cool?” Bundy asked, and Rev realized that his friend was nervous. Bundy, the cool, calm, and collected leader of their posse.

Rev might be angry, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. He was a Marine and a trooper. That’s it. And it wasn’t just him. Bundy was equally powerless. He was trapped here out of his fields of expertise only because they’d bonded what seemed like a million years ago when they stood on the yellow footprints at Camp Nguyen.

“Hell, Bundy. Uh, sir. We’re cool. How could we be anything else?”

Relief flooded Bundy’s face, and for a fleeting moment, Rev wondered what would have happened if he’d said they weren’t cool. Nothing? Someone else would come in and take his place?

But truth be told, if he had to have a nanny, then he’d rather it was Bundy. It wasn’t just because the man was capable, but that Rev trusted him.

They sat for a moment before Bundy asked him about his family, and Rev asked about Bundy’s kids. Rev was still upset, but he was able to push that aside as the two caught up. After five minutes of talk, Rev remembered Corporal White outside.

“Hey, can we take this somewhere else? The company clerk is waiting for you to leave so he can.”

“What? He’s still here?”

“That’s the Home Guard way. You’ll find out this isn’t the Corps, and things are different.”

“If I’d realized he was there, I’d have told him to take off. But yeah, let’s pull chocks. Anywhere we can go?”

Rev thought for a moment. They could meet the others at the Ramshead, but the dynamics, with Bundy being an officer, had now changed. Besides, he owed Bob one. He said he didn’t remember Bundy’s name or where he was from? The two had shared more than a few beers together. He was probably laughing about it right now.

“Not many right here where we can get away, but if you’re up for a tram ride, there’re a lot of places at the commons.”

“Sounds good to me. I’m still on Swansea time. Lead on, good staff sergeant.”

“Aye-aye, Lieutenant.”

A very relieved Corporal White mouthed a grateful thanks at Rev as the two left the office.

27

“I’m beginning to mark time by our checkups,” Randigold said to Rev as they waited at the clinic.

“As long as they keep coming back negative, I’m good with it.”

“I’d rather not have to be here at all. It gets my stress levels up there. The worst part is this, after they’ve done their scans.”

Rev understood that. He didn’t like to have the rot hanging over him. He could put it aside for most of the time, not thinking about it, but when he had to go through testing—or when the karnans had theirs as they did last week, for that matter—it just brought it all to the forefront.

The fact that getting any augments heightened the risks of getting the rot had been part of their initial briefs, but that was far down the road in thirty or forty years, so it was easy to ignore. Then, with Cali Hu coming down with it almost two years ago, coupled with the fact that the IBHU Marines were now checked every six months instead of the normal one year for regular augmentees, well, what weren’t they being told?

“It’s just routine. They paid far too much on creating us not to keep close tabs,” Rev said with a confidence that he didn’t feel.

Randigold looked at Rev and shyly said, “You know, while we’re waiting like this, I tell Cruella to sing songs for me. Kids’ songs.”

Rev chuckled. Randigold called both her battle buddy and her IBHU—which Rev thought was strange in and of itself, but certainly in keeping with her unique personality—Cruella de Vil, and the idea of anyone, or anything, with that moniker singing kids songs was rather ironic, in his opinion. “Whatever floats your boat, Eth.”

“You don’t think that’s weird?”

“Why would it be weird? I have Punch tell me jokes sometimes.”

Only that wasn’t really true anymore. Thinking about the change in his battle buddy was something he tried not to do. He might be being paranoid, but he didn’t know for sure that his very thoughts couldn’t somehow be picked up.

But now that he was reminded of the change, he couldn’t get it out of his mind. It was like a song earworm.

Trying to sound casual, he asked, “You see much change in Cruella since she got neutered?”

“Neutered? That’s what you call it?” Randigold said with a laugh. “No, not really. All she can’t do is record what I see or hear. Why should that change her?”

“Yeah, that’s right. Why would it? Stupid question.”

And it was a stupid question. Punch had changed after Bluebonnet Meadows, not after being neutered. But a stubborn part of him wanted to believe that it was the neutering that caused the change, and once he was back on New Hope, everything would be back to normal.

Sergeant Sign of Respect stepped out of the office. He gave his fellow IBHU Marines a thumbs-up, but in his typical taciturn manner, didn’t say anything else and headed out the door.

“That guy is weird,” Randigold said once the door closed behind the sergeant.

“That’s the pot calling the kettle black,” Rev said with a laugh.

“I’m not weird. I’m lovably quirky.”

“OK, I’ll give you that.”

He raised his social arm, fist extended. With two prosthetic legs, a prosthetic arm, and half of her face covered by a metallic mask, there were too many choices for the clink. He always left it to her. And, of course, instead of using clinking with her arm, she raised a foot.

Good enough.

They clinked and said, “Sibs in Steel.”

Quirky or weird, Rev wouldn’t have it any other way. She always made him smile. He loved his sib in steel, as a big brother to little sister.

The door opened, and a tech stuck her head out. “Staff Sergeant Pelletier.”

Rev stood. “Wish me luck.”

“Don’t need no luck, Staff Sergeant. You’re too ornery for the rot. And I say that with all due respect, of course.”

“Just because you say ‘with all due respect’ doesn’t mean it’s respectful. I be a SNCO, by golly-gosh, I’ll have you know, PFC. I be deserving respect.”

Randigold just blew him a kiss, and Rev laughed out loud as he turned and walked into the office while the tech looked at him like he was crazy. So, when he entered the office, he was still chuckling instead of fretting about his results.

Maybe I don’t need Punch to tell me jokes. I can just use Eth.

But he sobered as he stood in front of the doctor, the tech hovering behind him. Rev didn’t even know the man’s name, only that he was another Sieben employee and not a Union Navy doc. It seemed that every time, it was someone new. He hadn’t seen Doctor Chakrabarti, the Sieben head of the program, for three years.

This one had a forced smile as he stood and reached across the desk to shake Rev’s hand. “Staff Sergeant Pelletier,” he said, mispronouncing Rev’s name as “Pella-tar.” It’s good to meet you in person. I’ve been following your case since the beginning. Please, please, have a seat.”

Rev took the chair in front of the desk.

“Well, we’ve got the results back. Mostly good, I’d say.”

Mostly?

“Your SKRs are a little high, but they’ve leveled off from your last check. The Peshows, however, are still rising.”

“Is that bad?” Rev asked. He’d heard the terms before, but even after getting Punch to explain them to him, he wasn’t sure he had a firm grasp of what they signified. What Rev wanted was a simple “you’re good to go” or a “you’ve got the rot.”

Well, I don’t want the second one, but just say it so I understand.

“Not bad, but not good. But you’re still well within the accepted parameters, so I wouldn’t be too worried. We’re looking way down the road where that could be a concern,” he said, a huge fake-looking smile plastered on his face.

The guy was trying really hard to have a pleasant bedside manner, but it didn’t do much to calm Rev.

“What I’m going to do is give you an N-108F booster. They’re experimental, but they’ve shown lots of promise in the simulations.”

Rev had been subject to more than his fair share of experimental procedures, and they were the reasons he was susceptible to the rot. He wasn’t sure he wanted any more.

“They’ve never been tested on people yet?”

“Not this build. But it’s based on the N-108D. There were a few tweaks we made to address the Peshow percentage issue. You’re not the first IBHU to show the elevated readings.”

If the 108F was based on the 108D, then what happened to the 108E? Another “tweak” that went awry?

“Ms. Declatare has already prepared the injection. We’ll see what happens over the next six months, but I’m guessing that we’ll be pleased. Do you have anything for me before I turn you over to her tender ministrations?”

Yeah, can I refuse? And tender ministrations? You’re trying too hard to be funny or something. Why?

It wasn’t that Rev didn’t trust the staff of Sieben Intergalaxy . . . or maybe it was.

But he really didn’t think he had a choice. Sieben was contracted to the Marine Corps, and he knew the Corps had full authority to implement medical care as it, through Navy medicine, deemed fit.

“No, no questions.”

“Good. But if you have any, I’ll be here until tomorrow, and Ms. Declatare will give you our contact. Feel free to reach out.”

He stood and reached across the desk to shake hands again, the smile still plastered on his face.

“If you’ll come with me?” the tech asked, one hand firmly on his arm as she led him to the far side of the office where a small exam room had been set up.

What, you think I’m going to bolt? And if I do, you’re really going to be able to stop me?

But he meekly allowed her to lead him. She wiped down the base of his neck before she picked up the injector.

“OK, you’re going to feel a buzz, then some pressure,” she said as if he hadn’t had medinanos injected before.

She placed the mouth of the injector over his neck, then activated it. The skin under his neck tingled as the site was prepared, then the puff of pressure forced tens of thousands of the tiny medinanos into his body. Within ninety seconds, they’d be everywhere.

“There may be some tenderness at the site for an hour or so until your existing nanos can reduce the inflammation. If you have any side effects such as nausea, numbness, or loss of consciousness, please call me right away,” she said, handing him a small card.

“How can I call you if I’m unconscious?”

She just looked at him, her eyebrows furrowed.

Damn! No sense of humor?

“Uh . . . OK, I guess I’ll figure it out then.”

She led him to the door. He didn’t bother to say anything to the still smiling doctor who watched him leave.

Randigold looked stressed when he came out. Maybe the kids’ songs were losing their effect. Rev gave her the same thumbs-up that Sign of Respect did.

“Like you said, I’m too ornery for the rot.”

Instead of leaving, he sat down next to her and put his right, organic hand on her left, organic hand and intertwined his fingers with hers. From all reports, Randigold was fearless in combat. But this had her scared. Daryll had once told him that she thought with so many prostheses, she was more susceptible to the rot than others. It wasn’t true, Daryll also told him. It was the augments that created the risk, not the prosthetics. But sometimes, the brain believed what it wanted to believe.

After a couple of minutes, the tech opened the door and asked for her.

“You’re going to be fine,” Rev told her, squeezing her hand.

“Of course, I am. The rot doesn’t like quirky.”

Her eyes were not as confident as her voice.

Rev had been planning on leaving as soon as she went inside. But instead, he settled in to wait. Another ten minutes was a small price to pay to offer a little Sibs in Steel moral support.

28

“You ready to get him?” Rev asked.

“Yeah, I guess. You sure he’ll come?” Rice asked.

“No, not really. But I think he will. He’ll want to see what’s up, and, arrogant asshole that he is, he’ll figure he can handle anything that happens.”

She didn’t seem so sure, but she nodded her head and left the small conference room.

“You really think he’ll be here?” Bob asked.

“Fifty-fifty. But if he doesn’t come, I’ll think of something else.”

“And if things don’t go as planned? He can be, well, you know,” Toshi said. He wasn’t completely on board with this but was there to support Rev.

And Rev understood some of his reticence. Toshi was a Mezame Naval Infantryman, and like Bob, had no overt augments. If things got ugly, he’d be outmatched. Which made it all the more meaningful to Rev that he was there.

“OK, I think we’re ready,” Rev said, checking the room one more time. They’d moved the conference table aside and placed four chairs in a row facing a fifth chair. It looked a little like an interrogation was being set up, though definitely it wasn’t, but they didn’t have many options for this.

“Does anyone else know about this?”

Rev shook his head. “Not exactly, but I got tacit approval earlier.”

That’s stretching the truth just a bit.

It wasn’t a lie, and he could prove that, but still, it wasn’t exactly as he’d inferred.

“Let’s get ready,” Rev said.

The three took their seats. Now it was a waiting game. Either this would go down as planned or not, and Rev was anxious to see what was going to happen.

They sat in silence for a few moments before Toshi said, “I can’t believe you sprang for a new chair.”

“All in the cause of the mission, Tosh. Besides, what else am I going to do with all those extra CoH credits sitting in my account? Hard to spend it while we’re on alert.”

“What did it put you back, anyway?”

“Nine-sixty-nine.”

“Shit? That much? You really are a dedicated son of a bitch.”

“We are what we are,” Rev said with a smile.

I just hope it wasn’t wasted.

The time ticked away as the three sat waiting. After twenty-five minutes, Rev thought it was a bust. He’d wait for Rice to confirm it, but it wasn’t looking good.

Four minutes later, Rice opened the door and stuck her head in.

Ah, hell. Back to the drawing board.

But then she stepped inside and motioned. Over Sergeant Lincoln Kvat walked into the room. He hesitated just the slightest bit as he spotted the three but continued until he was standing in front of them. Rice squeezed past and took the fourth seat.

“What the fuck is this?” Kvat asked, hands on his hips.

Bob was on deck. “As you are well aware, there’s been tension between you and Rev here. As fellow staff sergeants, we want to see if there is some way we can even things out a bit.”

“I’m an over-sergeant. You’re a who knows what color thing. Gant is a Mezzie . . . hell, I don’t know what. Pelletier and Unifora are the only two staff sergeants I see here.”

OK, so he’s going to play asshole. Like I expected.

“Regardless, we need to work together, so we were hoping you’d sit down with us and discuss what we can do to get both of you to an even playing field without bringing in anyone higher up.”

Kvat stood there for a long moment, and Rev could see the gears turning. He was assuredly weighing his options and trying to determine which one would give him the best advantage.

He finally turned to look at the chair set up for him. “Nah, I think not. You can play your touchy-feely kumbaya-whatever with someone else. If Pelletier stays out of my way, I’ll let him be.”

He turned to stalk out when Rev said in a low voice, “I told you he’d be too chicken to do this.”

Rev knew that might be too obvious, but the karnan stopped. He stood facing the door for a good ten seconds, then, almost as if he really didn’t want to, asked, “And why would I be afraid of you?”

“Because there’re four of us. You’re a soldier. You understand the advantages of picking your terrain. You sit down, and you’ve given up your advantage, and, like I said, there’re four of us.”

Kvat slowly turned around, the sneer on his face looking awfully forced. “I wouldn’t be afraid of ten of you,” he said, pushing up a cuff so that the metal bars embedded in his arms were visible. “You remember last time you challenged me, Pelletier?”

It was you who challenged me, asshole.

But all Rev did was flip a hand to indicate the chair, his eyebrows raised. This was a challenge.

Kvat stared at Rev, but finally, as if it were no big deal, he took the seat, then said, “OK, you knew I would stay to listen to your spiel.”

Rev nodded. “You got me by using my ego against me. Bravo to you. Know your enemy, as Sun Tzu kept telling us. But, I’m not the only one with an ego here.”

Kvat actually laughed at that. “Touché, Pelletier. I guess you aren’t as dumb as you look.”

Rev wasn’t going to rise to any taunting.

“So, what are we going to do now? Sing songs and pontificate on the brotherhood of man. Woman, too, so don’t get all human resources on me,” he said to Rice.

“Well, now we are going to leave,” Rev said.

“What?” For the first time, the karnan seemed confused.

“We’re leaving. As for you, you can leave if you want, or you can sit here. Frankly, I don’t care.”

“You’re crazy. I’ve had enough of this bullshit. I’m out of here.” The karnan started to get out of the chair, but something held him back. “What the fuck?”

He tried to stand again, with the same result. “What did you do to me, yootie?”

“To you? Nothing. Oh, I played to your ego, but I haven’t done anything to you, actually. I promised Gamay that I wouldn’t.”

“Bullshit,” Kvat yelled, his face getting red. “Why can’t I get up then?”

Beside him, Rice started snickering, then had to turn her head. The plan had been for the four of them to act serious, but seeing the karnan struggle was funnier than Rev had imagined it would be. He had to squash his own laughter.

“I didn’t do anything to you. Your overalls, though, I did do something to them. Molecular bonding. I’m sure you’ve heard of that. I used Wokefield Platinum. I always did say you Mad Dogs make really good products. Your bonders are the best, and Wokefield is at the top of the heap. Really the best.”

A look of horror took over Kvat’s face as he realized what Rev was saying.

“That’s right. The Platinum doesn’t work on organic substances, so your body is safe. I’d be a little bit wary of those tin bars you’ve got running through your body. I’d hate to see those, you know, get stuck to that chair.”

“You fucking squirmy!” Kvat screamed, spittle coming out of his mouth.

“And, like you were bragging the other day, your singlets, or whatever you call them, they’re pretty tough. So tough that you don’t want to use Home Guard issue. Tough or not, though, we know you’re a big strong guy, and you can probably break through them, but I’ve got to ask. Is it true you like to go commando?”

“You son-of-a-bitch, Pelletier,” he said, but in a voice bordering on defeat. He took a deep breath, then said, “Ha-fucking-ha. You got me. So, can you just give me the debonder now?”

“I don’t know,” Rev said, making a show of looking at the other three as if for advice. “I guess you didn’t listen to my friend here close enough. What was it he said?”

He turned to Bob. It was his turn to speak. “I said we had to even the playing field. I said we should try to even things out.”

Rev had feared using the word “even” would blow the plan, but it was something he just had to ask Bob to say, making the cut that much deeper.

“I’m not sure we’re really quite even. You got me in front of thirty or forty people. I only see four here. No, I don’t think you get the debonder,” Rev told him.

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

“Like I asked, do you go commando?”

Kvat’s eyes got big. “You want me to run back to our billets naked?”

“You can walk if you like.”

“You asshole,” he said, but this time totally in defeat.

Nudity wasn’t a big issue with most people, especially in the close confines of the military. When people pissed, shit, and showered in the field, not much was left to the imagination. But him running back through the company area stark naked—and Rev made sure that the conference room was where there was no back way to their cells—would let everyone know that something was up, and Kvat had been had. They might not know by who, but they would know it was someone. It was the embarrassment that Rev wanted.

Rev was tempted to push further, but he’d won. No use going overboard.

“And with that, we’ll be leaving you. Have a great day.”

“Really, Rev. You won. You got me back. So, please, give me the debonder,” Kvat pleaded.

Rev was tempted for a moment until Rice said, “Don’t even think about it, Rev. Harden up.”

She’s right. Even Lieutenant Vreemish said he needed a lesson. It’ll be good for him.

He led the other three out the door and closed it. They managed to hold it together until then, and they broke up into laughter and back-slapping.

“I never thought it would work,” Bob said.

“Yeah, no thanks to you. Two ‘evens,’ not just one?”

“I realized that when I said the second one. I was sure he’d figure it out. Makes it sweeter, though, right?”

“Come on. We’ve got to watch.”

Rev led them to the adjoining room where a monitor had been set up. The bonder wouldn’t bond to the karnan’s flesh, but his warning about the bars running through and outside his body was a valid one. If he touched one of those to the affected parts of the chair, he could be stuck for real, and they’d have to go in and free him. Or he would. He wasn’t going to risk the other three if Kvat was in a fighting mood.

And after Kvat left, they had to go in and retrieve the chair. With the MDS singlet attached, it was good for only the trash. But Rev had bought it, so he couldn’t be accused of destruction of government property. Well, the singlet, but he didn’t think the MDS government was going to try and press charges. It wouldn’t be just Kvat who would be embarrassed if it all came to light.

“You think he’s going to come after you?” Toshi asked as they watched to see what the karnan would do.

“No, I don’t. First, the Mad Dogs have their own sense of honor. I’ll give them that. He knows he deserves this. Second, if he does, people are going to put two and two together. They’ll wonder if it was me who got him to streak the company area, but if he comes back at me, they’ll know I did. We did.”

“I hope you’re right.”

They only had to watch for a couple of minutes. Kvat had made up his mind. With a grunt, he tore right through the singlet, an impressive feat, especially as he didn’t let his arms or legs touch the chair. He stood there regretfully for a moment, looking back at his destroyed clothing.

He walked to the door and stood facing it. Finally, with a sigh, he opened it and ran out. They could hear his footsteps outside their door as he ran past and headed for berthing.

For the record, he was going commando.

29

“This is sure something,” Bundy said as he looked across the auditorium/ballroom.

“That’s an understatement, sir,” Rev said. “I never expected this many folks would show up. Especially from the other services.”

There were one hundred and forty-three Union Marines in the Home Guard on Enceladus and another eleven on Titan, one of the largest contingents from any single service. Of that, twenty-six were deployed at the moment. But there had to be a thousand people gathered to celebrate the Perseus Union Marine Corps Birthday.

It made sense that Union civilians in the Congress would want to attend, as did the fact that the other marine corps and naval infantries would send reps, but other uniforms far outnumbered the Union Marine Corps dress blues. There was even an MDS colonel sitting up at the head table. He wasn’t the most surprising guest. At a small table to the side of the main table, three Centaurs were quietly sitting. That blew Rev away, and to be honest, he didn’t know what to think about that.

It was one thing to accept them as part of the peace. But to invite them to a traditional celebration seemed going too far. And what would they do there? Could they even eat human food?

Rev shook his head. He was not going to let their presence spoil the evening. This was going to be his first birthday ball. All marine corps tended to embrace history and tradition, and the Perseus Union Marine Corps was no different. The birthday ball was one of those traditions. But with the war, the formal balls had been mostly suspended for the duration, with only small cake-cutting ceremonies and the reading of the commandant’s message. And on New Hope, that suspension was continued due to the devastation from the invasion and then the rebuilding effort.

He shifted his attention to his table. They were in the back and to the side, a long way from the head table up on the stage, but he was OK with that. It was the company that mattered. This was the New Hope table. Lieutenants Bundy and Macek, PFCs Del Mar, and Randigold, and the newly promoted Corporal Thassom. All they were missing was Sergeant Tsao, but they had a seat for her to join them later.

Damn, we look good.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please find your way to your seats. The ceremony will begin in five minutes,” the announcer said.

Most of those in the hinterlands tables were already seated, but up front, with the higher-ups, people were mingling, shaking hands and doing whatever higher-ups do. They slowly started to make their way to their seats.

Randigold slid her quantphone across the table to Rev. “Hey, Staff Sergeant, can you snap a holo of us?”

She put her arm around Thassom, and they mugged for the shot. That started a round of shots as everyone wanted one until the lights went down and they were interrupted by the announcer.

“Marines and honored guests, welcome to the celebration of the seven hundred and sixty-ninth birthday of the Perseus Union Marine Corps!”

There was a round of applause.

From outside the room, a single drum started a slow beat. A spotlight flashed on the entrance.

“Please rise for the presentation of the colors.”

Six Marines marched in abreast. The outside two held Union M-49s at shoulder arms. The middle four held the Home Guard colors, the Marine Corps colors with too many campaign streamers to see much of the flag itself, the Congress of Humanity flag, and the Perseus Union flag, being carried by none other than New Hope’s own Sergeant Tumeric Tsao.

She looked amazing, her blues immaculate, the Platinum Nova nestled at her throat. Rev felt pride surge through him—a provincial Marine, a New Hope Marine, and an IBHU Marine at that, having that honor. He wanted to hoot and shout despite the solemnity of the occasion.

The spotlight followed them as they marched up the center aisle. If they didn’t quite have the same exact coordination as the Barclay color guard during their Landing Day celebration, Rev didn’t care. This was his Marine Corps, his nation.

The guard performed a countermarch in front of the head table, and the CoH and Perseus Union’s anthems were played. Then came the Marine Corps Hymn. If possible, Rev stood even straighter at attention, and as the last strains died, there was a spontaneous “ooh-rah” bursting from over a hundred throats.

“Post the colors!”

The color guard moved to the stands and put the flags in place. At the command of the gunnery sergeant—Sergeant First Class in Home Guard ranks—they marched out of the hall.

The lights came back on, and the announcer said, “Please remain standing for the reading of the message of the commandant.”

To All Marines Throughout the Galaxy,

Seven hundred and sixty-nine years ago today, in an old warehouse, while our founding fathers hammered out the Perseus Arm Compact, fourteen members of the charter nations’ militaries signed the Perseus Union Marine Corps into being. From those humble beginnings, the Corps has grown in number and capabilities, and, together with the Navy, has defended the Union from all her enemies.

Over those centuries, our responsibilities, capabilities, battlefields, and enemies have changed, and we have adapted, prepared to fight and defeat any threat to our Union. One thing hasn’t changed, and that is the warrior spirit that has carried us through every conflict.

Humanity has just emerged from a devastating war against a technologically advanced race, and it was the Union Marines who led the fight, paying with blood so that the invaders would be defeated. We showed our ability to adapt with rapid and decisive innovations, and armed with these, it was our fighting spirit and will that carried the day. It was Marines who landed on the Mother herself to repel that sacrilegious invasion and bring an end to the war.

Now, as we enter an era of peace, let us not become complacent. Let us not lower our guard. If one enemy can appear from the center of the galaxy, so can another, and only by maintaining a robust, professional force, can we protect the very existence of the Union and humankind.

Tonight, however, for the first time in sixteen birthdays, we are gathering in the traditional balls to celebrate our formation. Over seven hundred and sixty-nine years, Marines have created a history of heroes that humankind has never seen. Now, every single Marine and sailor has created their own history to what makes the Marine Corps what it is. Sit back, enjoy the company of your fellow Marines, families, and friends of the Corps, knowing that you are the very best.

Semper fi,

Jack O. Echo

General, Perseus Union Marine Corps.

“Please, be seated.”

Rev had heard birthday messages before, of course. But it was somehow different listening to it in this kind of setting. More poignant, more direct, maybe. The commandant even mentioned the Mother, and that had been the New Hope Raiders. It was as if he’d mentioned Rev by name.

Sergeant Tsao quietly slipped into the empty seat beside Rev. She’d be able to eat and enjoy the rest of the ceremonies with her fellow New Hopers until it was time to retire the colors.

“You guys did great out there,” Rev whispered to her.

“Dinner will now be served. Upon completion, we will begin the formal ceremony.”

About a dozen Union sailors stepped into the room, each carrying a silver tray. They marched up to the head table, and with a precision that would put most Marines to shame, presented the head party with their meals. Using sailors was a tradition that the Navy started themselves. One of the sailors was a rear admiral, if what Rev was told was true.

The Marines returned the tradition during the Navy Birthday Ball, and Rev told himself that if he was in the position, he’d have to make sure he volunteered.

Once the last person at the head table was served, a swarm of serverbots flooded the ballroom. Within three minutes, every single person was served. The head table waited until the last person had their plate, then the Guest of Honor, the Union ambassador to the Congress of Humanity took the first bite.

“I declare this meal fit for human consumption!”

Having the senior person in the room take the first bite was against normal Marine Corps procedure where the senior always ate last. Maybe things changed for a ceremony like this. It wasn’t a big deal, but it did stick in Rev’s craw just a bit.

There was a rise in background noise as a thousand people attacked their plates. Rev, included. His prime rib, broccoli, and oven-roasted potatoes with a side salad were pretty typical banquet fare. Mass fabricators put out the meals, each specific meal the same as every other of the same kind. Each prime rib was the clone of the next, each salmon fillet the same as every other one, and each ratatouille had the exact number of veggies as the next.

That didn’t mean it was bad. Rev’s first bite was fine. But the food wasn’t the reason for the celebration, and it would do.

Looking at Randigold as she attacked her ratatouille with gusto, though, he might be mistaken. He nudged Sergeant Tsao and pointed across the table.

“Hey, Randigold. Hungry much?” Tsao asked.

Randigold looked up in embarrassment. “Oh, sorry. I missed lunch with the rehearsal.”

“No, you go, girl. Glad you like it.”

“So, how’s life in the Praetorian Guard, Sergeant?” Bundy asked Tsao.

“Kinda boring, sir. We dress up in the uniform, then stand around. We’re basically props for tourists’ holos.”

“That’s it? No real military work?”

“We get to the range once every two weeks and pop a lot of caps. And we hold drills. But anything else? Not really. Not like the three in Fox Company who got to go off and fight pirates.”

First Brigade, and especially Alpha Company—that’s the company nicknamed the Praetorian Guard—was considered the elite of the elite, but Rev was glad he was here on the Big E, not on Titan. He’d be going crazy having to stand guard all day, out in the public eye.

The talk drifted to more mundane things as they ate, with the table evenly split on who was going to win the New Hope flipball championship. Not surprisingly, Rev and Bundy were sticking with the Anastasia Ants while the others, all from the main continent, were betting on the Homer Centurians.

Their chatting—with more than a little gossip—was cut short with “Ladies and gentlemen, the official ceremony will start in five minutes. Please finish eating as your plates will be removed before we begin. All participants, please take your positions.”

“Oops, that’s me!” Randigold said, taking another piece of bread before stepping away from the table. Sergeant Tsao and Bundy followed her off.

Across the ballroom, key players were leaving, including General Xanderbelt, the senior Marine assigned to the home system, and the ambassador. A serverbot trundled up to the table and quickly took their plates and used silver, filled their water glasses, and deposited a dessert fork in front of each of them.

“I guess this is it,” Rev said as he shifted his chair to get a little better view. The serverbots were efficient, and with the Navy servers taking care of the head table and a few others in the front, it took only a few minutes for the room to be ready.

A Marine captain stepped up beside the main table, and after the crowd quieted, shouted, “Sound adjutant’s call!”

A drummer took up the beat, and after a moment, he and two trumpeters marched into the room playing the "Lost Legion March." They reached the head table and countermarched just in front of the adjutant, then as if collecting him, marched back to the main entrance. Drummers and trumpeters then executed right and left steps a sufficient distance to clear the entrance doorway. The adjutant took his place behind the cake escort.

Now, everyone was in place. It was somewhat of a formal way to do it, with all the marching back and forth, but supposedly, the same process went back to Old Earth.

These were volunteer musicians. The Congress of Humanity had professional musicians for ceremonies like this, but the Marines preferred to provide their own, and Rev thought that for infantry grunts, they acquitted themselves well.

A recording started playing “Semper Fidelis,” and two colonels, in full dress, to include swords, marched in the room abreast of each other. Once they reached the front of the room, they halted, performed opposing facing movements, then marched five steps before performing an about-face, stopping to face each other. This was repeated by two lieutenant colonels, two majors, two captains, two first lieutenants, and two second lieutenants, one of them being Bundy. Rev didn’t know where they scraped up another butter bar.

When Bundy and the other lieutenant came to a halt, the music stopped, and the officers formed a rectangle, lining the way from the entrance to the front and facing each other.

One of the trumpeters played “Attention,” and another recording of marching music started to play. The officers in the cordon flashed to present arms with their swords, which Rev thought was pretty cool. As a SNCO, he rated a sword but hadn’t bothered to get one.

“Remind me to order my sword.”

<Noted.>

The general and the ambassador marched in, flanked by the officers. They reached the front, and with a lot less precision, turned to face the guests. The cordon came to order arms with their swords but remained at a position of attention.

A Marine scurried out to give the two notables throat mics.

“Please, please, take your seats,” the general said. He waited a moment. “As senior Marine in the home system, I want to thank you all for coming to help us celebrate our seven hundred and sixty-ninth birthday.”

The general wasn’t just the senior Marine assigned to the Congress—he was the third senior Marine in the Corps, a billet that usually led right to the top.

He spoke for about three minutes about traditions and service, which was far less time than Rev had expected. He ended repeating what was said in the message about being vigilant.

The ambassador was next, and she wasn’t quite so succinct. It was probably to be expected of a politician versus a Marine. Rev watched Bundy during her speech, still standing at attention. He might as well have been a statue. He was probably older than both colonels, but he managed just fine.

I should have expected it.

What he hadn’t expected was when the ambassador acknowledged the Centaurs. Rev had almost forgotten they were there, but the ambassador spent a couple of minutes pontificating about how, despite the animosity created by the war, they were now friends and looking forward to the future.

She turned and held out a welcoming arm toward the three Centaurs, pausing as if expecting a reaction. Slowly and haphazardly, muted applause trickled out. Rev couldn’t help but glance at the missing man table just forward of the stage, a completely serviced table with a white cloth, and an empty chair, representing all those Marines who had fallen over the years, Marines such as Staff Sergeant Montez, killed by a paladin as she saved Rev and the rest of her Raider team.

Finally, however, she was done. She stepped back and took her position beside the general, and the trumpeter sounded “Attention.”

A recording played the Union Marine Hymn as everyone rose from their seats. Four Marines pushed a silver cart upon which was an enormous cake festooned with the Marine Corps emblem, the numbers “769” and small flags of the planets that made up the Union. Rev stood on his tiptoes until he spotted the familiar green and yellow New Hope flag.

Behind the cake came the adjutant, and behind him, an elderly man and a smiling Randigold. Rev wryly shook his head. This was supposed to be a solemn occasion, but he should have figured she couldn’t keep the grin off her face.

The cake reached the general and the ambassador, and the escorts faced each other and then took two steps backward.

“The general will now cut the cake.”

The senior cake escort stepped forward, took an officer’s sword from the cake cart, and passed it over his left forearm, grip forward, to the general. The general stepped up and took it, and while the music played "Auld Lang Syne,” he carefully cut a piece of cake, then handed it to the guest of honor. She took a single bite and then nodded her approval.

He turned back to the cake and started to cut another piece.

“By tradition, the second piece of cake goes to the oldest Marine present. Today, that is Lance Corporal Tedly Forrest Khan. Lance Corporal Khan was born on March 2, 3731, and enlisted in the Ramper Marine Corps on his birthday in 3748.”

Ramper? Another provincial Marine. We’re taking over here.

“Lance Corporal Khan served as a communications tech, taking part in the punitive operation against the Hummingbird Faction.”

Geez, I sure don’t know much about our history. What the heck is that?

He asked Punch to pull it up so he could read about it later.

He left the Corps in 3752 and joined the civil service, assigned to a wide variety of positions spanning his career. He is now the Assistant Counsel for Environmental Reestablishment with the Congress of Humanity.”

Assistant counsel? Provincial boy and lance corporal sure made good.

The general handed the cake to Mr. Khan to the applause of the crowd before he proceeded to cut another piece.

“And, as is tradition, the third piece is offered to the youngest Marine present. Lance Corporal Ethereal Randigold was born on August 19, 3815. She enlisted in the New Hope Marine Corps on January 3, 3825.”

Enlisted? She’s a conscript, just like me.

“She was assigned to New Hope Marine’s 48th Support Battalion, before being reassigned as a Direct Combat Raider, where she took part in operations on Mistake, during the invasion of New Hope, and on Mother Earth herself.”

Rev glanced at the Centaurs. They showed no emotion, not that Rev would recognize it if they did.

“She is now assigned to Fox Company, Second of the Second, in the Home Guard.”

Applause broke out as the general handed her the cake, but no one was louder than the New Hope table.

As soon as Randigold, still smiling from her left ear to the edges of her mask, took a bite, the trumpeter sounded “Attention.”

The cake escorts pulled the cake to the side, and from the entrance, the color guard appeared, marching between the cordon, past the general and ambassador, and recovered their respective flags. They marched back to the center and formed a line abreast.

On command, they started marching forward, the drummer beating out a cadence. Once they reached the door, the general and the guest of honor marched forward between the line of escorts and exited the ballroom. The two colonels came to carry swords, marched forward until they met at the centerline, performed opposite facing movements, and in step, started marching out. As they passed the lieutenant colonels, those Marines did the same, and when they reached the majors, the majors did the same and so on until Bundy and the other second lieutenant left the ballroom.

The last to march were the drummer and the trumpeter. They marched all the way forward, countermarched, and marched back the length of the ballroom and out the doors.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this ends the official ceremonies, and General Xanderbelt wants to thank all of you for attending our celebration. You are welcome to stay and enjoy a piece of cake, and the bar will be open.”

Most people kept their seats as both the Navy servers and the serverbots rushed out with prepared pieces of cake. Rev was a little disappointed that he wasn’t going to get a piece of the official cake, but then he realized that even as big as that cake was, it wasn’t big enough to serve everyone, and trying to would probably take them into the morning.

The participants came back into the room and made their way back to their seats. Bundy was just Bundy, but Rev thought Randigold was going to crack her mask she was grinning so broadly.

The serverbots brought out both chocolate and white cake. Rev took both. There was only one birthday ball per year, and he felt he could splurge after vowing to hit the gym in the morning.

He tried both and declared the white cake better. That set off a round-robin of cake testing. Chocolate won four to three. But it wasn’t the cake that was important. It was that they were having it together.

With the entire battalion on alert, only Tsao was allowed to drink, but she drank soft drinks along with the rest. Rev didn’t know if that was because she wasn’t a drinker or if she was doing that in solidarity. It didn’t really matter, though.

The New Hope Marines used the table as a base, but there was some wandering to see other tables, just as other Marines and some civilians came to theirs. The general and the ambassador made their rounds to each table, and of course, Randigold had to take a holo with both of them.

The ambassador agreed, but Rev caught the odd look, bordering on what might have been fear as she stood beside the lance corporal/PFC. Rev hoped Randigold didn’t notice.

Lieutenant Vreemish stopped by the table in his dress red uniform, the form-fitting pants and short jacket emphasizing his augments, with a small flask and two glasses in his hand. As far as Rev had seen, he was the only karnan at the celebration.

Rev thought of the D-4 agent who’d told him to form a closer relationship with the man. He wasn’t sure just how he was supposed to do that.

“Heard you got to Staff Sergeant Kvat,” he said, towering over the sitting Rev.

There was a stirring among the others at the table, and Randigold looked like she was going to jump across the table like a guard dog.

“For the record, I would like to think I would never even contemplate embarrassing a fellow trooper as I heard someone did it to him,” Rev said.

The lieutenant let out a small chuckle. “Oh, yes, I understand that completely. But whoever did it, that was a good one—not that you would know who did it. And who knows? Maybe it’ll teach him a little humility.” He took in the rest of the table. “Of course, none of you heard me say that. Well, anyway, I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday and bring you a Donat Azurco.”

He only then seemed to notice that no one had alcohol. “By the Mother, I forgot you were on alert. Sucks to be you.”

“I’ll take a rain check, sir.”

“You got it.” He nodded at fellow lieutenants Bundy and Macek, then wandered off.

All eyes turned to Rev with a single unspoken question.

“He was on Earth with us. Good guy,” he said, leaving it at that.

Slowly, people started filtering out, led mostly by those who had to go back to Titan. Tsao gave each of them a hug, telling everyone to let her know if they were going to catch the sights there so she could be their guide. Rev could tell she was earnest about that, too, and he realized that it must be tough for her there. She wasn’t the only Union Marine in First Brigade, of course, but she was the only New Hope Marine.

The rest settled in, telling stories that Rev would guess were at least half true. There was no rank at the table, either. That would come back in the morning, but for the moment, they were all just Marines.

“Look at those wimps,” Thassom said four hours later as one of the last tables broke up, the drunk Marines staggering out of the room. “Can’t hang worth shit.”

That didn’t stop the table from answering back when the group turned at the door and let out an “ooh-rah!”

Four Marines in the battalion, including Corporal Incrit, also on soft drinks, came to join the New Hope Marines when their table mates left them. There was a sense that no one wanted to let go of the night. And with tomorrow a day off, by order of the battalion commander as a salute to the Marines, there was no reason to cut it off before they were kicked out.

Their night was, in fact, cut short twenty minutes later, however, when their alert tethers kicked off. Everyone grabbed theirs in unison.

“Well, boys and girls, I guess we’ve got to go to work,” Bundy said. “We’ve got thirty minutes before muster.”

Everyone stood up, ready to jump on a tram back to Camp Reyes. It was going to be tight, but at least each of them had been cleared to be here, so a few minutes late wasn’t going to be a big thing.

All Rev could think of, though, as he looked at the table in front of him with what now were five empty birthday cake plates, was that he wasn’t going to get to the gym after all.

30

Six hours and thirty-two minutes after receiving the alert, Second Battalion, Second Brigade, was spaceborne, beating the requirement by twenty-eight minutes. Things had been so rushed that Rev hadn’t even hung up his blues but had just tossed them on his rack in the rush to get changed, grab his deployment pack, and get to muster, and then he’d had no time to get back.

From what they’d been told so far, this was the real deal, and Second of the Second was just the tip of the spear. More units were being scrambled, and they’d be following over the next week as soon as they could be mounted out and ships assigned.

The stakes couldn’t be higher, to the point of whether the Congress of Humanity could continue as a viable force in the galaxy. After the common enemy of the Centaurs bringing humankind together, what was happening on Cat Scratch could very well tear the alliance apart and spiral humanity back into a never-ending series of conflicts, confrontations, and out-and-out war.

The Home Guard was being thrust into the conflict. If they could not handle the situation, then there was the very real possibility that a great power war could be the result. That was a huge responsibility being thrust on their shoulders, and Rev hoped they were up for the task.

They didn’t have all the details yet, nor an operations plan. Those were being worked on now. But the crux of the matter was one that had been a tinderbox for fighting for thousands of years: land.

Cat Scratch was colonized early in the first diaspora—“colonization,” however, was being generous. With an oxygen-based atmosphere and close to Earth-normal, it was a logical choice, requiring minimal terraforming.

But the planet never became the paradise that was envisioned. Wisteria Industries, who won the terraforming contract by being the lowest bidder, botched the job, wasting money and years before finally being bought out. By that time, the resources the first surveys hinted at never came to fruition, and the new parent company decided to pull the plug. Technically, the planet was inhabitable, so they were within their rights, under the Standard Charter of the time, to do so.

But it was hardly a Garden of Eden. The O2 percentage at sea level was 13.2%—livable, but far from the 20.9% of Earth-normal. Arid and dusty, the local fungi—the highest form of native life—shot spores twice a Cat Scratch year, which was about nine Earth months. These spores were so virulent that they made hay fever an ancient tickle with a feather. Every spore season, the spores mutated, making it difficult to develop effective antihistamines.

With millions of inhabitants, modern medicine could develop those in days, but given the hostile environment and lack of commercially viable resources, the entire population consisted of squatters--descendants of various religious cults and other groups who sought refuge there. Most of the young left the planet for greener pastures, so the population hadn’t exceeded thirty thousand at any time over the last hundred years.

For most of its existence as a human-inhabited world, no one cared if the residents were illegal. The planet was a harsh mistress, and if they wanted to scratch out a life there, they were left to their own devices with only tramp ships bringing in supplies and taking out the few products the people could produce.

Until the rediscovery of gorbnium. Those early surveys hadn’t been totally wrong. The gorbnium had always been there but scattered in wide, low-density deposits. With the Centaur’s scouring of Nimon 22, one of humankind’s largest suppliers of the rare earths, there was a shortage, and with new mining methods that didn’t need dense deposits, suddenly, Cat Scratch was back on the map. Six years before the war ended, Evvo, Inc, a subsidiary of the Chang-Moud Group—who’d inherited the rights to the planet when they bought out the previous holder—returned to the planet and erected an industrial site.

The inhabitants protested, but the site was far from their small, scattered settlements. And with the ongoing fight with the Centaurs, no one paid much attention to them.

With the war over, Evvo poured resources into expanding their operation, running huge bucket wheel “eaters,” which took in the soil and extracted the gorbnium. After denuding their initial surface gorbnium fields, they moved to the next big field, which was right in the heart of the largest human concentration of settlements.

The Scratchers protested again, sending representatives to Titan to plead their case. Their contention was that after almost seventy generations, they were the rightful owners of the planet. CMG lawyers argued that they had no rights. They were squatters.

While the lawyers argued before Congress and the courts, Evvo brought in more equipment and stepped up the mining. After Evvo forcibly evicted five families and destroyed their homes, the Scratchers reacted, burning two excavators. CMG, which had a very robust corporate army, sent in the troops.

In normal conditions, this wouldn’t be a huge problem. From a legal standpoint, most experts opined that the CMG had the upper hand. And to be blunt, the fate of such a small Scratcher population was not going to be a major flashpoint.

Until the Osnovnoy Alyanz got involved.

With the war with the Centaurs over, various governments started the age-old game of power. Everyone was at peace, but for how long? And no one wanted to cede what power they’d manage to create. Before the war, the Osnovnoy Alyanz was a mid-level government, but they had ramped up military production until it almost matched that of the Union, MDS, and Federation. And they were in the thick of the fighting, losing perhaps more soldiers and sailors to the Centaurs than any other nation. And now, they were flexing their strength, anxious to be considered a major power.

One of the very first refugee groups to reach Cat Scratch was a small sect from the Ural Mountains on Earth, back when humans still lived there. The Osnovnoy Alyanz used that connection, which was tenuous at best, to claim protectorship over the entire Scratcher population. Grasping at any lifeline, the Scratchers agreed.

The Alyanz sent a task force of four ships and a regiment of Cossacks to take orbit above the planet and demand that the CMG troops stand down. Using the Alyanz as cover, the Scratchers raised their own militia to face the corporate troops.

The CMG force could mow down the militia, but when the ships were taken into account, the militia and Cossacks, if they landed, were far more powerful than the CMG troops, so it looked like they would have to comply.

Except . . .

CMG was a Federation of Independent States corporation, and Talik Moud, son of the CEO, was high in the FIS central government. There was no way that the FIS was going to one: allow CMG, who they said was legally in the right, to be taken under threat by a foreign government, and two: allow the upstart Osnovnoy Alyanz to maneuver its way into a seat at the table as a major power.

While Rev and the rest of the Home Guard Union Marines were enjoying their birthday ball on Enceladus, a task force of eight FIS ships and a division of soldiers entered the Cat Scratch system. Their terse message was that if any Alyanz ship fired upon the planet, or if any Cossack set foot on it, the SA would consider that an act of war and would react accordingly.

The Alyanz commander replied that they would consider any movement of the CMG forces against the Scratchers an act of war, and they would react accordingly.

This situation was one of the reasons the Congress of Humanity existed. Before the war, the CoH might have tried to rely almost exclusively on diplomacy, but the new Counsel General was more proactive. He knew diplomacy took time, and the situation on Cat Scratch was a powder keg, ready to blow. With his mission to cement the place of the CoH as the de facto government of humanity, he had to prove the CoH’s worth. This was the situation that was either going to do that or relegate the CoH to the trash bin of history along with every other attempt at uniting humanity.

Six hours after the arrival of the FIS task force, the Home Guard got its marching orders. The alert battalion was to immediately leave for Cat Scratch to make sure the powder keg’s fuze wasn’t lit.

31

Rev, Randigold, and Sign of Respect, each with their IBHUs mounted, stood at attention behind and to Assistant Vice-Counsel Borgia’s left, while Staff Sergeant Kvat and two other karnans stood behind and to her right. It was obvious that they were props, and Rev thought he knew how Sergeant Tsao felt as part of the Praetorian Guard. But while Tsao was there to impress the tourists, the IBHU Marines and karnans were there to impress two parties. They were a display of Congress of Humanity strength.

The battalion had landed three short hours before, inserting themselves between the militia and the CMG corporate troops. They were to act as physical buffers, keeping the two forces from clashing. Hopefully, no one would risk a conflict where the Home Guard could be involved. The political situation was ever-evolving as nations began to fall in line, backing either the FIS or the Alyanz, or, like the Union, remaining neutral. In this fluid situation, neither side would want to do something to alienate other nations, sending them to support the opposite camp.

That was the general theory, at least.

And now, the Home Guard was going to set the stage from a position of power. The assistant vice-counsel essentially demanded a meeting with representatives from both sides.

Rev was surprised that someone so low on the totem pole was put in charge, but she’d been hustled aboard their old ride, the Takagahara, at the last moment, and word was that someone more senior would replace her. She was somewhat on the short side and a little overweight, and her dark auburn, ear-length French bob, might make her look like a woman unsuccessfully trying to regain a cute, youthful appearance. At least, that’s what was Rev’s initial impression—one that lasted all of a minute. She had completely taken charge, immediately refusing requests by the FIS and Alyanz to send reps to the meeting. As Bundy explained later, letting them attend would help lend credibility to those two nations when one of the main goals of the task force was to separate them from the direct conflict on the ground.

Three representatives from the militia, with only green armbands signaling that they were part of an organized military, stood at the back of the expeditionary shelter, empty except for the single table. They eyed the six troopers, but their gaze lingered on the three IBHU Marines. That wasn’t surprising, as when they were in their combat suits, they had more obvious differences from normal humans than did the karnans.

Rev couldn’t tell if they seemed more angry, wary, or cowed by the troopers’ appearance. With his face shield down and darkened, they couldn’t see his face, so he was free to study them without having to be a stoic Praetorian Guard. He could also watch for any signs of aggression. He doubted very much that they’d dare make a move against the assistant vice-counsel, but better vigilance than regret.

The door to the shelter opened, and Major Muncie-Toulamore, the battalion executive officer, stuck his head in. “The CMG team is here, ma’am.”

“Send them in.”

Rev didn’t move his helmet, but he shifted his eyes to watch as three mercenaries walked in. Legally, they weren’t mercenaries, but Rev and most other military personnel thought of them as such. In their plain olive-colored jumpsuits, they had almost none of the traditional military appearance and were more like . . . well, businessmen.

He knew not to be dismissive of them, though. They may look like mid-level corporate stooges, but each of them had served in a military force until they’d been recruited by the corporate world, lured with high salaries and perks. Each would be proven warriors, not to be underestimated.

They ignored the three militiamen and approached the assistant vice-counsel, but before one of them could speak, she raised a hand to silence him.

“Representatives from the local settlers . . .”

Rev noticed she didn’t say “squatters.”

“. . . if you would step forward. I don’t want to be saying this twice.”

The three militia hesitantly moved forward, one of them, a younger woman, glaring laser blasts at the three soldiers. The soldiers still didn’t acknowledge them, staring at the CoH rep as if she were the only person in the room.

Once they were all standing in front of her table, she said, “I’m Assistant Vice-counsel Katherine Borgia from the Office of Conflict Resolution. Currently, your disagreements are being considered by the Counsel General and appropriate divisions.

“We, and by we, I mean the Home Guard and my staff, have been sent here to monitor the situation on the ground. Currently, the MCS Takagahara is in geosynchronous orbit over our position. More ships and ground troops will be arriving over the next week.

The three CMG soldiers didn’t blink at that last. The three Scratcher militia looked at each other as if trying to figure out the ramifications of what she’d just said.

“I want to stress that we are not here to support either one of you over the other. That is a matter that is being determined back on Titan. But as you know, the wheels of diplomacy and law sometimes turn slowly. And until a decision has been reached, there . . . will . . . be . . . no . . . direct contact between the two of you.”

She stopped to make sure that sunk in.

“As you leave, you will be given a chart delineating your current positions. You will conform to those boundaries until a final resolution has been reached. We are here to enforce these boundaries.

“Should one of you cross the boundaries, the other is not authorized to take matters into their own hands. You will contact us. Should you have any issues with the other, you will not take matters into your own hands. You will contact us. If, for any reason, you feel you need to interact with the other side, you will not take matters into your own hands. You will contact us. Do you understand this?”

One of the soldiers—Rev couldn’t tell this rank, and he made a mental note to get ranks and organizations from Punch—nodded, and a militiaman said, “Yes.”

The CoH rep smiled and leaned back in her chair. Her voice lost some of the rock-like fortitude she’d just been using. “Good. I’m glad we’re all in accord here. I believe you each have been assigned a liaison team. If you have any issues, any at all, please use your liaison to get word back to me.

“I’m serious when I say we’re not here to pick sides. We’re just here to try and keep the peace until this mess is unraveled and we’ve reached an equitable resolution. Please cooperate, and we can keep things from deteriorating into something none of us want. We can maintain civility while those in Titan argue and negotiate.

“Do you have any questions?”

The three soldiers were marble statues. The young woman, the one who’d been eye-killing the soldiers, opened her mouth to speak, but one of the others elbowed her into silence.

The assistant vice-counsel had to have seen that, but she acted as if she didn’t.

“OK, then. That’s all I have for now. Thank you for coming and for your cooperation.”

She finally stood up from her chair and reached across the table to shake hands. She split the two groups by moving to the Scratchers first, who quickly moved quickly to take her hands. When they were done, she hesitated, freezing the soldiers in place before she offered her hands to them.

“If you’ll step outside, Mr. Hannah will hand you the maps.”

It was an obvious dismissal. The three soldiers nodded and turned away, but as he was doing so, the older soldier finally let his eyes linger on Rev for a moment. His eyes were piercing, and Rev felt like he’d been peeled apart, layer by layer.

Yeah, Reverent. Don’t underestimate these mercs.

The Scratchers waited until the soldiers left. As two of them turned away, the young woman turned back to the CoH rep and took a step forward, her body language pretty clear that she wanted to talk to her. But the older man snaked out a hand, grabbed her by the upper arm, and pulled her back. Her face was flustered, and she tried to resist, but the old man’s grip was firm. He half dragged her out of the shelter.

The assistant vice-counsel waited until they left, then let out a sigh and sat down. Rev was impressed with her performance. She’d brooked no nonsense at first, and her little comment about more ships and troopers was a warning; make no mistake about that. But after laying down the law, she’d become more approachable, leaving the impression that they were only there to help, that they were all in this together.

Pretty slick. But I guess that’s why she’s a diplomat.

She turned to face the six troopers behind her. “Thank you. I appreciate you standing there like mannequins. I know that’s not what you expected when you left Enceladus, but we each have to do what we can to forward the cause.

“Go ahead and rejoin your unit. But stand by. Once Evvo realizes that the boundaries prohibit them from moving forward with their mining, I’m sure we’re going to hear from our merc friends again.”

Rev smiled behind his darkened face shield. Even a civilian called them mercenaries.

“And if you can send in Mr. Hannah, I’d appreciate it.”

And that was a dismissal as well.

* * *

The assistant vice-counsel had been right. Three times over the last two days, the six of them had been summoned to stand guard in the room. The first time was only an hour after the initial meeting. The young Scratcher was back, and she spent ten minutes making a passionate plea about “fairness” and “history.”

The CoH rep listened with a pleasant smile on her face until the woman ran out of steam, then she reminded her that they were not here to take sides. They weren’t allowed to take sides. All the negotiations were taking place on Titan.

The Scratcher wasn’t happy when she left, and the mission head dismissed the six of them, only to call them back thirty minutes later. This time it was a company rep arriving with one of the soldiers who’d been there earlier. The Evvo rep was almost beside himself, complaining that he had excavators that were now stopped at the edge of the “bullshit” boundary and crews who still had to be paid for sitting on their butts doing nothing. He kept stressing that gorbnium was a strategic material, vital to the defense of humanity.

“Is it really that vital?” Rev asked his battle buddy.

<It is commonly used for both strategic and non-strategic purposes. It is not vital but is used because it is cheaper than holmium and erbium.>

Rev might not have known that, but he was pretty sure Ms. Borgia already knew it without having to look it up. He didn’t think that much got past her. She just sat there with the slight smile and earnest expression that said, “I’m listening to you and will consider what you’re saying.”

The man went on, saying that margins were so tight that even a few days would put the operation into the red, and she, as head of the CoH mission, would be blamed for the hit on the galaxy-wide economy.

He finally finished with the flush of someone who absolutely knew that he’d destroyed the assistant vice-counsel with his brilliant mix of logic and threats . . . only to have her shut him down with a simple, “Thank you for coming. The boundaries will stay where they are.”

The man’s face got redder, and he started to argue when Ms. Borgia turned to Rev and Randigold and asked them to escort the rep out.

Both Marines stepped forward to do her bidding, and the Evvo rep, with a horrified look at Randigold and her Genesian nightmare appearance, started sputtering about “taking this higher” and almost ran out of the shelter. The soldier escorting him couldn’t help but roll his eyes as he followed.

Ms. Borgia shook her head, thanked them, then got back to her pad. Rev expected to be called back at any minute, but the petitioners held off to the next day when yet another group was sent back without achieving their objective.

Yes, Ms. Borgia was tough as nails. Rev thought she’d have made a good Marine.

Between acting as props, the six joined their squads in visible, non-tactical patrols. The Home Guard had basically claimed a klick and a half wide, forty-five klick long swath of land running on either side of a major dry riverbed. The battalion CO was sending a continual string of squad-sized patrols up and down this slice of Cat Scratch, making sure that both sides could see them.

The patrols weren’t tactical and could easily be ambushed in the tortured terrain, particularly in the maze of washes on the north side where Fox Company patrolled, but the CO wanted to both remind the watchers that they were there and that they were confident of their abilities to withstand an attack.

Rev had confidence, too . . . to an extent.

While the Scratchers might have fire-and-forget missiles or even some energy weapons, the intel was that they didn’t have much in the way of military training or leadership, and that the battalion’s active countermeasures should be enough to turn back any Scratcher assault.

The CMG troops, however, were a different story. They had the money backing them up so that their weapons were modern, and they had the means to counter the battalion’s defenses. Rev didn’t think they could defeat the battalion, but they could do some damage.

The real threat to the troopers was the forces in orbit. If either the FIS or Alyanz ships jumped the Takagahara, she wouldn’t stand much of a chance against those odds, and without her, the ground troops would have lost their biggest support platform. And if the FIS ground troops decided to close with the battalion, the Home Guard troopers would be extremely hard-pressed to defeat them. Rev wasn’t sure they could.

But from the patrolling standpoint, if one of the other fleets made a move, the troopers would have time to abandon the open shows of force that the patrols were and assume a more tactical posture.

All they had to do was keep the two sides from each other’s throats long enough for reinforcements from the home system to arrive. A week at most before more ships joined the Takagahara and more troops landed in their little buffer zone.

Easy peasy.

32

Corporal Akkeke scrambled down into the wash and up the other side while Rev covered him. The corporal paused there, surveyed the area, then gave the all-clear signal.

Only, it wasn’t clear. Five armed Scratchers were just on the other side of the boundary, openly watching them with interest. But as long as they stayed in their area and didn’t cross over, they were to be ignored. They weren’t there, as far as the troopers were concerned.

Rev understood this, but those weapons were real. He didn’t quite aim Pashu at them, but she was oriented in their general direction so that they understood the implied threat.

PFC Gingham was next, then Sergeant Racine-Okan. They formed a hasty defense, expanding it as one by one, the patrol crossed the wash until Rev, now as tail-end Charlie, followed. SFC Gamay gave the signal, and the patrol moved off, Rev slipping back into the number two slot.

While back in the Marines, Rev, due to his particular situation, had often functioned outside of the normal duties of his rank as a sergeant, then corporal, then sergeant again. Now, as a staff sergeant, it was still annoying that he was functioning as a lance corporal. It was bad enough in the Raiders, which tended to be top-heavy in rank, but the Home Guard took it to new levels.

As a regular infantry Marine back on New Hope, he’d be a squad leader at the least. He’d probably even be a platoon sergeant. Here, he was just one more trooper in the patrol.

Not that it really mattered in the long run, and it made sense. The second person in a patrol was often someone with an automatic weapon, and what better automatic weapon was in the squad but Pashu? It was just that Rev was ready for more responsibility. This wasn’t a dig on Gamay. He just wanted the chance to lead Marines or troopers. The very IBHU that made him so valuable seemed to be keeping him from being put in a leadership position.

Focus, Reverent. You’re on patrol, so do your job. You’re a lucky son of a bitch, so don’t complain about not being a squad leader.

The battalion had been on Cat Scratch for four days now, and each squad was doing two patrols a day. The area was dry and arid, and while there were plenty of washes and gullies in which an infantry company could hide, the line of sight was still quite long. As they patrolled, Rev could see two other patrols off in the distance. It seemed kind of crazy. The area was crisscrossed with drones and sensors, not to mention the Takagahara in orbit, so it wasn’t as if they were making sure there were no incursions from either side. But that wasn’t their mission. They were leaving a message, one that would be hard to miss.

“Tighten it up,” SFC Gamay passed. “Look good for the audience.”

At least we have good comms.

Shielded and scrambled, Rev was sure that the Scratchers couldn’t interfere with them, and the CMG mercs might not be able to, either. It was a nice change from most of Rev’s combat experience to date.

The Scratchers continued to keep pace with the patrol until Gamay turned them to the east. They stopped and watched the patrol move away. They’d cross over to the other side and patrol back to the base camp.

The CGM mercs wouldn’t pace them like the Scratchers did, though. They’d stationed their Ragers—small, all-terrain wheeled vehicles—a meter or so inside the boundary where a single merc would watch the patrols move by. Depending on the terrain, there would be Ragers every couple of hundred meters, enough so that each patrol would always have CMG eyes on them. There were places where a patrol would drop out of sight, but as soon as they appeared again, there would be another Rager, the merc watching.

And there he was. As they reached the east side of their AO, a Rager was positioned just on the CMG side. A merc was standing in the open turret looking through a set of what looked like Kyocera binos. If they were the Kyoceras, then he could see them quite well. Rev’s eyesight was good, but not that good. Still, he could swear that the merc was looking directly at him, not the others.

Rev was sorely tempted to react, but he wasn’t sure if he should wave or give him the finger.

In the end, he refrained, and the patrol continued on its long circuit to nowhere.

* * *

Rev cracked his helmet and sighed with relief. It wasn’t as if the heat bothered him. His PAL-5 was fully climatized. But just being cooped up in it was wearing on him. Between the asteroid and then the invasion of New Hope, he’d taken a dislike to being stuck inside his combat suit for extended periods of time.

Not that this was that long. Eight hours was nothing. But the battalion CO had ordered that combat suits were to be worn at all times unless troopers were in their shelter. That meant they were wearing them for sixteen hours at a time. But with their upcoming sleep cycle, he’d have eight hours of relief.

He dropped the helmet on the cot he’d claimed, then got out of his PAL-5 and hung it on the rack alongside the foam walls of the shelter. The rack was universal, so it didn’t quite fit the PAL, but it was good enough for government work.

“Hey, Bob, when you’re ready?”

“Give me a sec.”

Rev sat down at the foot of his cot. Without Filmore (who might be coming with the reinforcements), he didn’t have a nice hoist to remove Pashu, so he needed help. Having others help take her on and off might be giving out a little more tech data than the Union might want, and while he could track down Bundy, his friend was still an officer with a lot more on this plate than hanging around the shelter to be Rev’s squire. And as sleeping with Pashu was not the best way to get his rest, he made a command decision to ask Bob and Akkeke to assist.

The two came over a few moments later, and Rev stood. “Remember, up and counterclockwise. On three. One . . . two . . . three.”

They grunted as Pashu came free, and they placed her on the ground beside the cot. Rev caught Kvat, still on his cot, watching. As soon as he saw the karnan, the man closed his eyes.

Look all you want. It’s not going to help you.

The two had kept at arm’s length since Rev had gotten back at the man, barely speaking or even acknowledging each other. Rev had told Bob and Rice that he doubted Kvat would do much, but he really wasn’t too sure of that, and he half-expected some attempt at retribution. He’d been keeping a wary eye on his rival. So far, so good, but the best way to get at someone was to lull them into a sense of complacency.

Rev didn’t bother putting on his social arm, which he kept at the foot of his cot. He pushed it to the side as he sat down when a thought struck him. He looked across the shelter to where Kvat was still sleeping.

Would he?

He didn’t think the karnan would screw with his arm, but . . .

Maybe I’d better do something to secure it.

But the thought was interrupted as Gingham, as the junior trooper in the squad, came by with a case of D-rats.

If Rev felt put out sometimes not having a squad, Gingham, as an E-3, got every shit job coming to the squad. He might make corporal and still be doing a private’s job.

“I heard they’re trying to contract for real food,” Bob said as he popped open his meal and waited for it to heat up.

“What, so they can poison us?” Sergeant Lines said. “No, thankee. Not me. Ds are fine with me. Look. Rotted Dicks. I mean, what could be better?”

“How about prime rib with maiser crust and cloudberry glaze?” Racine-Okan said.

Rev sighed as he looked into his Chili Mac. It wasn’t Rotted Dicks, the unanimous worst meal in a box, but it wasn’t great, either. It certainly wasn’t prime rib with maiser crust. Rev had never heard of maiser crust back in New Hope, but evidently, it was the de rigueur in the AIW, and after tasting a burger with it at the chow hall at Camp Reyes, Rev hoped it would find its way to Swansea.

“Oooh, baby! Love that crust!” Lines agreed, laughing out loud.

“Will you assholes keep it down,” Kvat said, still lying on his cot.

“You’re supposed to be on alert, not in the rack, Kvat,” SFC Gamay said, walking into the shelter.

Which was true. The rotation was one squad on patrol, one squad sleeping, and one squad on alert status. With First Squad just coming back, they were already eating into their sleep time, and Kvat’s Second Squad was supposed to be ready to react in five minutes if needed.

“You heard her, Kvat,” SFC Arsenyev said, following Gamay in. “You and Tims, get your asses up.”

Gamay grabbed a D-rat and sat down. “Lieutenant Bundy said that First of the Third should be here tomorrow. No word on whether they’re going to land or not. Nothing else to tell you. So, eat up and get some sleep. I’ll find out more after we get up.”

She dug into her chow, frowned, and asked, “Did I hear you say they’re going to contract chow?”

“That’s what I heard,” Bob said.

“Well, the lieutenant sure didn’t mention it.”

“Sounds like a rumor to me,” Rev said.

Not that he was too upset. D’s were edible, at least, and who knows what they’d get from some contractor going for the lowest bid?

“And like I just said, they’d probably try to poison us. Give us all the shits so we’re stuck in the latrine and can’t go fight when they take on the Scratchers.”

“Didn’t say they were getting the chow from the CMGs,” Bob said to no one in particular.

“Think they would? I mean, give us bad chow?” Corporal Acevedo asked, her face twisted with concern.

“Why not? Asymmetrical warfare,” Rev said, even if he doubted that either side would. “If they didn’t think they could take us on, they might do anything to degrade our capabilities. And as Lines so graphically inserted the image into our brains, having us stuck in the latrine would do that.”

“Yeah, thanks, Lines,” Gamay said.

The sergeant smiled. “I try.”

Kvat, who’d finally gotten out of his rack, stepped up. He was in his shorts and a tank top, which showcased the metal frame that ran inside and outside his body.

“You guys make me laugh. You’re worried about the Scratchers? The mercs? We’re the fucking elite of the elite. If they look sideways at me, I’ll smash their heads,” he said, smacking his right fist into his left open palm. “Poisoned food or not.”

As he pounded, the bars in his arm flexed and bowed, something Rev hadn’t noticed before. Rev had thought that having parts of the frame visible was just for show, to cow the enemy. But maybe there was something more to it.

He wished Punch could record what he’d just seen, but he took a quick moment to narrate what he’d just seen and assign it to “guava.” After his D-4 debrief, he’d changed it up slightly, assigning every MDS-related observation to a tropical fruit cue.

“You all can stay worried that some damn farmers with rakes and hoes or mercs who couldn’t hack it in their own military can be a threat. I’ve got better things to do.”

“Yeah, like doing what SFC Aresenyev said. You and Tims get out of here,” Gamay said.

Kvat stood and glared like he wanted to reply, but Gamay was a sergeant first class, and he held back. He turned and started to don his combat suit.

Kvat wasn’t done yet, however. “Hey, Pelletier. If war is going to break up our happy alliance, did you ever think it was going to be the damned Alyanz and the FIS instead of the Union and the MDS?”

“That’s enough, Kvat. Get your gear on and get out of here,” Gamay said. “And the rest of you, let’s stop the chatter. Eat up and get some sleep. In seven hours and fourteen minutes, we’ll be back on deck.”

Rev gulped down his Chili Mac in four bites, then drained the juice pack. After a moment’s consideration, he put his social arm under his blanket to act as a pillow and lay down.

The karnan had a point, though. It sometimes seemed as if the Union and the MDS were on a collision course. Hopefully, that would never happen, however. And now, it was time to get that sleep the squad leader was telling them to get.

He kept his eyes half opened, though, watching as Kvat donned his combat suit, not closing them until the karnan left the shelter.

33

“Any questions on activity?” Bundy asked.

No one in the squad raised a hand. It was just more of the same. The Scratchers were doing their own patrols along the battalion’s western boundary, and the CMG mercenaries were massed, but generally static, along the eastern boundary.

“In that case, let me move on.” First Battalion should arrive in-system within twenty-eight hours.”

“Will they be landing, sir?” SFC Gamay asked.

“The decision hasn’t been made. There have been concerns raised as to the militaristic posture giving the wrong impression.”

There was a concerted rolling of eyes.

“We’re supposed to be portraying a position of strength . . . sir,” Rev said.

It was still hard for him to remember that in public, at least, Bundy wasn’t Bundy but Lieutenant Bundy.

Maybe not only in public.

Bundy was still Rev’s friend, but there was a subtle difference in their relationship. It wasn’t necessarily in a bad way, but there was no doubt that Bundy was in charge, and if the shit hit the fan, Rev would be treated like any other trooper.

As it should be.

Bundy responded with typical officerese. “Second of the Second portrays significant power, and there are other factors at play here. Once a decision is made, we will salute and march on.”

Do they teach that no-speak at butter bar bootcamp?

“But until that time, we’ll continue with the patrolling.”

Gingham tentatively raised his hand.

“Yes, PFC Gingham. You’ve got a question?”

“Who’s supporting who, sir? I mean, we’ve got the Alyanz and the AIW up there.” He pointedly looked around at the squad. “We don’t have anyone here from either one, but where are our governments falling under? And there’s SFC Arsenyev in Second Squad and Corporal Manuel in Third. What’s going on with them?”

As one, every set of eyes in the squad lasered in on the platoon commander. It was a good question, one on everyone’s mind. Rev hadn’t wanted to bring it up, so it took a very junior trooper to ask the question.

Bundy kind of tilted his head, and from long years together, Rev knew he was trying to pick his words and decide what to say.

“SFC Arsenyev is a Home Guard trooper right now, and that takes priority. Same with Manuel. I’ve spoken with both, as has the major. They’ve assured us that their home affiliation won’t affect them in the performance of their duties.

Yeah, that’s what they’re going to say. But when push comes to shove, what are they going to do? I’m not sure how well I’d handle that.

At least, neither side is here on the ground.

“As far as the big picture. Not everyone’s declared. The Frisian Mantle has expressed support for the Alyanz,” he said, looking to Bob. “The Rigel Cluster and Millsap have expressed support for the FIS. The Union has declared neutrality. That’s it as far as I know.”

Rev was relieved that the Union was still neutral. If war did break out, they’d probably have to declare themselves, but for now, they could act as if they weren’t involved.

“But I have to stress that we take our orders from the congress. Not our homes. So, try and put all the political tangos out of your mind. Focus on the here and now. That’s what matters.”

The platoon commander looked at the squad, letting his gaze linger on each one of them. Rev could feel his intensity, knowing that he was analyzing each of them and judging their reactions. He wondered what he’d do if, say, SFC Gamay, who was from the Rigel Cluster, showed signs of not accepting the Home Guard neutrality. Relieve her?

That would be drastic, but Rev knew Bundy well enough to be positive that he’d do it if he thought that was the best course of action. Not the best course for him, necessarily, but the best course for the platoon and the mission at hand.

“OK, if there’s nothing else, you’ve got another six hours plus before you go out. I want you all fed an hour before you step off. Other than that, try and relax, but not completely. Remember, you’re on alert status, and anything can happen between now and then.

* * *

“Anything” did.

Five hours after their brief, Second Squad was in contact at the north end of their AO. The situation wasn’t clear, only that one or both of the two forces had tried to bypass the Home Guard buffer zone, and Second Squad somehow got stuck in the middle of the fight and was pinned down. No one was sure if they were being attacked or just caught in the crossfire.

While Major Yves tried to unravel the situation with the help of the Takagahara’s somewhat limited sensor arrays and the battalion CO and Ms. Borgia rushed to keep Alyanz and FIS from committing to a fight, First Squad was rushing to the commercial Anaconda all-terrain truck that was acting as the platoon’s ground transport. Second Platoon’s alert squad was staging as a secondary reaction force, while all other patrols in the entire AO were getting into defensive postures until the situation became more evident.

Rev’s heart was pounding as he rushed to his position in the makeshift turret. Each of the nine rifle platoons had one of the rented Anacondas. For Echo and Golf, either a meson cannon or .50 cal had been jury-rigged to give the commercial vehicle some firepower. Fox company had done the same thing, but the company also had a much better weapons system—an IBHU Marine.

Rev ignored the .50 cal and perched above it, Pashu ready for anything. He braced himself as the Anaconda lurched forward, its three tracks digging into the dirt.

Fox Company’s bivouac site was the farthest north, and Second Squad was patrolling right at the northern boundary of their AO, about five klicks from their camp. The Anaconda tore up the ground as it raced north. With limited jump capability, it could clear a nineteen-meter gap while full loaded—and the terrain was full of them. Every time the vehicle jumped, Rev had to hang on for dear life as the thing landed.

At least he could see what was happening. The troopers in the cargo compartment were thrown around like dice in a gambler’s hands, shouts reaching Rev each time the Anaconda landed.

“Listen up,” Bundy came over the squad net. He’d joined the squad as it loaded the Anaconda. With two of his squads either engaged or about to be, he’d made the quick decision that he could best handle the situation leading from the front.

“We have one trooper down. But indications are that we were not targeted. One side or the other advanced first. At the moment, we don’t know who. Whoever it was most likely thought they’d better move now before the arrival of Third Battalion. But the reasons don’t matter. Second Squad is pinned down, and we need to relieve the pressure on them so they can withdraw.”

Withdraw? We’re letting them get away with flaunting our orders?

“The Taka is standing by. Once our troopers are clear of the area, she will commence ground support in an attempt to separate the forces before the FIS and Alyanz decide to get involved.

Rev didn’t understand that. The Takagahara’s space-to-ground weapons were pretty accurate. If they had to get Second Squad out of there first, then the squad must be essentially co-located with one of the opposing forces.

From out in front, the sound of firing reached Rev over the growl of the Anaconda’s engines. They were getting close.

“I’m going to stop us short of Second. This is a pretty big—” The Anaconda jumped another wash, and Rev had to brace himself with his right arm. Bundy grunted as the vehicle hit before he could continue.

“It’s a pretty big target, so I want an infantry screen to walk the vehicle up to them. We need to clear the way.”

That plan lasted all of two minutes. To clear the crevices, the Anaconda had to have forward momentum, but as the ground became more and more riddled with washes, that became impossible.

Bundy quickly changed tactics. He stationed the Anaconda on the last piece of ground with a large route out and debarked the troopers.

“We’ll cover the distance better on foot. SFC Gamay, lead the way. We need to link up with Second Squad here,” he said, pinning the position on everyone’s display.

“Staff Sergeant Pelletier, I want you to stay in the turret and provide covering fire.

Rev immediately wanted to argue. He didn’t want to be left behind, out of the action. But one look at the glare Bundy gave him stopped him in his tracks. Bundy knew him too well, that he’d insist on going with the rest of the squad, and he wasn’t going to brook any dissent from him.

And in the back of his mind, he knew the lieutenant was right. With the terrain, if the troopers emerged from the washes, then Rev could provide supporting fires from here and well beyond the CoH’s exclusion area.

That didn’t mean he had to like it. But he shut up and said nothing.

Firing echoed from ahead, but inside the crevices, it was difficult to determine from just where they emanated. The squad quickly flowed into the wash, leaving Rev and PFC Schmidt, the Headquarters Company driver, alone.

“Let me know if you see anything at all,” SFC Gamay passed back to him.

“Roger.” But at the moment, all he saw was lots of dirt, rocks, and small bushes. The land was desolate.

Sporadic sounds of fire reached him, but he couldn’t tell from where or exactly what kind of firing it was. Not even Punch could identify it with any degree of certainty.

Eleven minutes after they left, SFC Gamay passed to Rev, “We’ve made initial contact with Second Squad. It’s going to take some time to extricate them, but I’m sending someone back with a WIA. Watch for him.”

Rev didn’t understand why both squads couldn’t just retreat. From the sounds, they might be in contact, but that wouldn’t preclude them from heading back.

A trooper came out of the wash, a body across his shoulders. Rev couldn’t see the trooper’s face, but there was only one person it could be: Lincoln Kvat. He ran to the back and dumped the body inside. It was only then that he looked up and caught Rev’s eyes.

“About time you showed up. But now we can kick some Scratcher ass if you’ll get off that damn thing and do some fighting.”

He darted forward and jumped back into the wash. Rev kept scanning for targets, but the action was being done inside the honeycomb of gullies and washes. No one was exposing themselves on the high ground. He could still hear the sounds of fighting, but he couldn’t see a thing. Not until a blast, at least, where a cloud of dust rose into the air about a hundred and seventy meters away, just outside the exclusion zone.

Crap. This is doing them no good at all.

“SFC Gamay, I can’t support anything from here. I’m being wasted.”

“Wait one. Let me hit up the lieutenant.” He came back a moment later. “We can sure use you and your IBHU. Ask the driver if she can man the .50, then join us here.”

A position flashed on his face shield display.

“Hey, Schmidt. I need you to man the .50,” he told the Headquarters Company trooper. He hadn’t exactly “asked” her, as Gamay had ordered, but he had to get forward, and if he wasn’t exactly in compliance, he’d apologize later after the fact.

The PFC didn’t complain, though. She emerged from below with a glow of excitement. Back in the Union, she’d be a Combat Support Marine, and evidently, she had the same desire as most of them to experience being a trigger-puller for once.

The rest of the squad and Kvat had entered the maze of crevices right below the Anaconda, but overlaying the position on his face shield, Rev thought he had a quicker way. He sprinted along the top, first to the right, then down and out of a small finger of the maze, and doubled back slanting to the left.

Another exchange of fire reached him, this time clearer as he closed the distance.

“Were those RP-5s?”

He still couldn’t quite tell himself with the walls of the crevices muffling the sounds.

<No. Those are Brighter 14s and an assortment of other small arms.>

The CMG soldiers relied on the Brighters, a high-tech slug-thrower. If the reports weren’t from the Home Guard troopers, then that had to be CMG and Scratchers engaging—and from the sound of it, they were inside the Home Guard’s exclusion zone.

So, why can’t the squads disengage?

The situation was gelling in Rev’s mind. One or both of the adversaries had decided to try for an advantage before the arrival of more Home Guard troops, and they’d tried to skirt the Home Guard’s AO but still take advantage of the cover offered by the tortured terrain in the area. One way or the other, they’d met, and with the maze of crevices, some of the fight had strayed into the exclusion zone, where Second Squad had either gotten caught up by accident or had reacted to the fighting.

What mattered most at the moment was that Second Squad had to be extracted, but something was making that difficult. Kvat showing up with a trooper on his shoulders didn’t quite fit the scenario, but all of that would come out in the hot wash.

Rev ran alongside the top of one of the larger washes. SFC Gamay and First Squad should be right up ahead. He saw movement and was about to tell the squad leader he was there when he realized it wasn’t troopers. It was a group of six Scratchers that he could see inside the wash, hugging the far wall. One was pointing ahead, giving some sort of instructions.

First Squad was right around the bend in the wash from them. The only conclusion he could reach was that the Scratchers were going to assault the squad. Whether they knew it was the troopers ahead or thought it was the CMG was immaterial. Rev had to protect his squad, and the Scratchers were in the exclusion zone.

He brought up Pashu. This was an easy shot, and his beamer could take out each of the Scratchers in his sight with one pass. He would certainly be justified to engage them. But did he have to?

These weren’t Centaurs, nor were they pirates. These were people trying to save their way of life.

“I’m above you and just south of your position. You’ve got Scratchers coming up your six. I’m going to dissuade them of that idea,” he passed to SFC Gamay.

“What are you doing on top. You’re exposed,” Gamay asked.

But Rev was already sprinting forward. He switched from his beamer to his 20mm cannon, adjusted for armor piercing, and fired a burst of five rounds that impacted the walls of the wash just a few meters in front of the lead Scratcher. A 20mm round packs a big punch. If the Scratchers had been standing near a tank, half of them would have gone down in the detonation. Hitting the dirt walls, however, the rounds penetrated the dirt but did not detonate. They still hit with a ton of force. The first Scratcher was blown on his back while dirt formed a dust plume.

It took the Scratchers by surprise. One of them darted back while the others who were still standing wheeled about, looking for a target.

Two saw Rev and started to raise their weapons when Rev boomed out over his external speakers, “Freeze if you want to live.”

He must have been an apparition from hell, looming above them, Pashu aimed down. Whatever, they froze as ordered.

“Drop your weapons.”

Two looked at each other as if trying to come up with a plan.

“I’ll give you the count of two, then I’m frying you. One . . .”

The Scratcher standing next to them, the one who’d dropped his weapon, started edging away from them, fear taking over his face.

With Pashu locked on them, they had no choice, and they had to realize it. With Rev’s combat suit, their old rifles probably wouldn’t make a dent in it. One, then the other, quickly dropped their rifles.

“You are in the CoH exclusion zone. I have every right to kill you where you stand. So, if you want to live to see tomorrow, leave, now. Get back home to your families.”

The one who’d been edging away needed no more encouragement. He took off at a run.

“Can we take Mark?” one of the other two asked, pointing to the man who’d been blown over by the 20mm. The Scratcher was covered in brown dust and barely moving, trying to drag himself away.

“Take him.”

With one eye on him and one on their friend, they edged forward, grabbed the man, and retreated. Rev waited until they were clear before he beamed the weapons.

“You’re clear from your six,” he reported to Gamay.

“Get your ass under cover, Staff Sergeant Pelletier,” Bundy said, sounding pissed. “The CMG has Lancers, and they’re using them.”

Which explained what the problem was.

Rev immediately wheeled around, sweeping his gaze across the arid terrain. The Lancer was a low-tech missile with a fairly simple guidance system and warhead. Iffy against tanks or mech but more than enough to take out any armored soldier, it was economical enough for independent planets—and corporate armies—to use as a mainstay weapon. If the CMG mercs had them, all one had to do was pop his head out of a crevice and fire a shot at him.

One of those can drop you, Reverent. Get your ass under cover.

But something was stopping him.

Bundy switched to the P2P. “I’m serious. Get under cover. We’ve got Second Squad and are making our way back deeper into the exclusion zone. We’re leaving a few surprises if they keep following us.”

Rev went to a knee, but he didn’t get off the high ground.

“Give me a complete overlay of these washes.”

Punch threw it up on his display.

The approximate square klick really was a maze. Rev wasn’t sure how the occasional rains created such a mass of intersecting washes and crevices. It didn’t seem natural, but there it was.

He swiveled on his one knee, looking back to the Anaconda, sitting right at the edge of the biggest grouping of washes. Schmidt saw him look and waved. She was ready if needed, but Rev was sure that the CMG wouldn’t expose themselves to her .50—unless it were to fire a Lancer at her.

“Switch to Schmidt’s P2P.”

The PFC was not on the platoon net, so going to a P2P took a moment’s routing, and Punch could do that quicker than he could.

“Schmidt, they’ve got Lancers. I don’t know how effective they’d be against that Anaconda, but I suspect you wouldn’t like it. Keep scanning the ground. If you see a head pop up, well, protect yourself.”

“Got it, Staff Sergeant. And thanks for the head’s up.” She suddenly laughed over the net. “Did you hear what I said? Head’s up.”

Rev shook his head. Troopers, like Marines, could be crazy.

He stood and looked over the ground, comparing it with the overlay. He wasn’t so sure the CMG cared at the moment if they were in the exclusion zone or not. If they’d already engaged with the Home Guard, they might feel committed, and wiping out the two squads might seem like a better idea than letting them get away to give their side of the story. The Takagahara would be observing, but some of the narrower crevices could be blocking the ship’s scanners from the full picture.

“Do we have drones up that can give me a better look?”

<The overflight drones have been disabled. More are en route.>

Hell, now I’m sure the CMG aren’t just going to meekly withdraw. And if I were the commander, I’d . . .

And like a light switch turning on, he saw it. The two squads were retreating toward the Anaconda, and from the sound of it, they were under pressure. But there was another way through the maze that could cut off Bundy and the squads that a smart commander would see. If the CMG could send a force down that route, they could either ambush or set up a hasty minefield, hitting the two squads and still have a slight degree of plausible deniability. No one would believe them, but there might not be proof. And with the negotiators trying to prevent an outright war, they might be forced to accept that or risk the entire house of cards falling down.

Rev got on the P2p with Bundy. “I think you’ve got a problem,” he said, highlighting the spot he’d figured they might be ambushed just before reaching the Anaconda. “If the CMG can reach that before you do, you’ll be caught in a pincher.”

There was a moment while Bundy absorbed that. “Hell, you’re right. We’re withdrawing under pressure now. Let me see if I can get fires on that.”

Rev looked across the terrain to where that crevice was. It was a little rockier than the rest of the area. If the CMG emerged from it and were on the open ground, the Takagahara could wipe them out. But if they stayed inside what was essentially a miniature canyon? Rev wasn’t sure about that.

“I’m checking it out,” Rev told Bundy.

“Wait. Let me send a team up to help.”

Rev wasn’t going to wait. Things were coming to a head. Except . . .

The target crevice had a long, fairly straight stretch that led to the ambush site. One where a well-placed crew-served weapon could cover about twenty-five meters of its length. Like a .50 cal.

“Schmidt, can you get to here?” he asked, dropping a pin on the spot, just twenty-three meters from her present position, but over another small wash.

He could see her look, then she said, “Sure. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Get there and get back on the .50. Be ready to light up this approach.” He slapped an arrow on where he wanted her to cover, then sent the overlay he’d created to Bundy and Gamay so they’d know what he was doing.

Rev sprinted forward while Schmidt backed up her Anaconda to get a running start to clear the small wash. He hoped he hadn’t made her a target. The Anaconda was a heavy commercial vehicle, but he didn’t think it was heavy enough to withstand a Lancer, and it didn’t have any of the normal military defense systems that could knock down a missile like that.

He scrambled down another wash and up the other side. Now it was clear ground to his target. He bore down when as he’d been expecting, a head and shoulders appeared eighty meters to his left. The mercenary was quick, swinging around his launcher, but Rev was quicker. A single beam fried the gunner just before he could fire. The head disappeared back into the wash.

Well, I guess they know I’m here.

There was nothing he could do about that now, so he covered the last stretch, slowing down just before he reached the edge. He angled for a large boulder with a prickly bush growing beside it. The bush wouldn’t give him any protection, but it could give him a bit of concealment.

Rev carefully looked around the bush and rock and into the wash. It was clear. He shifted to the other side . . . and a round pinged off his shoulder. Beneath him, not twenty meters away, were seven CMG soldiers. Rev was quick, but they had the jump on him. He was barely able to duck back before rounds reached up to pepper the space where he’d been.

Rev pulled an MG-3 grenade from his thigh holster and set it for max dispersion, but before he could toss it, Schmidt’s .50 call opened up. Somehow, she’d gotten into position and manned the weapon in that short amount of time.

Rev looked around again, and four mercs were down as the rounds chewed up the dirt and rock, filling the crevice with dust. A soldier, perhaps braver than most, stepped out into the middle of the crevice and raised a Lancer to his shoulder.

While Rev could admire the courage, that didn’t stop him from raising Pashu and dropping the man. An arm reached out from cover on Rev’s side of the wash, in defilade from him, and pulled the merc’s body out of the line of fire.

From his present position, Rev had a good view of the bottom of the crevice. Four meters below, the bottom was about two meters wide at this point, made up of smooth rock and sand. At the top, it was about four meters wide. But anyone hugging the near wall was out of Rev’s sight. He had to clear it, and leaning over would only expose him, giving those below the advantage.

There was an option, however. He took half a dozen steps back, signaled Schmidt, then ran up and vaulted the narrow gap, twirling and sweeping his beamer as he jumped. Two soldiers had been waiting, rifles raised. Both fired as Rev appeared, but their rounds passed behind him. Both crumpled as the beamer swept over them and Rev, now facing backward, hit and fell on his butt just as movement on top caught his eye.

Rev jumped up, ready to take on the newcomers, but it was Akkeke and Bingham, running to catch up to him. It was only then that he realized they’d been trying to raise him. He was still on the P2P with Schmidt, and he’d been so focused that he hadn’t seen their circuit alert flashing. Not being Gamay or Bundy, they couldn’t override that.

“Check over there,” Rev passed, pointing to where their crevice bent around. Akkeke acknowledged and led Bingham to clear that section.

“Give me a verbal warning if another message is sent,” he told Punch.

<Roger.>

“What do you see?” he asked Schmidt after switching back to the off-platoon net P2P.

“I can’t see everything. But there’re seven bodies at the bottom.”

Seven CMG soldiers might have been enough to create a dangerous situation, especially if they had heavier weapons. But Rev’s gut said there would be more than just seven of them.

The platoon net alert flashed, and Rev opened it. “All clear over here,” Akkeke passed.

“Lieutenant, what’s your position?”

“One-two-zero from the Anaconda. Do we have company there?”

“Seven dead here,” Rev said, pinning the spot. “I think there might be more.”

“We’ve still got an unknown number pushing us. Not enough now to cause much damage, but to let us know they’re there.”

Rev looked over the terrain. There were some indications of activity, but for the most part, it looked serene. It was hard to tell that in the warrens of dry washes, it was life or death.

He looked to the south. He could make out the dust plumes of another Anaconda making its way north. It would make good time until the land became more convoluted. Rev figured it would get there in ten or twelve minutes with a squad from Second Platoon.

Rev wondered if Bundy would bring the two squads up out of the crevices. But with not knowing how many were in pursuit, they could better defend with a narrow frontage. And with Rev, Schmidt, and now Akkeke and Gingham, they had eyes to spot any CMG attempt to emerge and take the higher ground.

Not bad tactics, Bundy.

But there was still the possibility that some mercs had gotten past Rev. He motioned the other two troopers over.

“Take that side. We need to clear the rest of this wash.” The three troopers started to walk down the sides of the crevice. With them on both sides, they could eyeball what was below them.

As they made the first turn, where Schmidt could no longer cover it, Rev told her to go back to her original position and wait for Bundy and the rest. He gave her a big thumbs up as she drove off. Four more steps and he whipped Pashu over as he spotted the two mercs, but they were standing still, hands in the air. Rev kept them there until Akkeke and Gingham could cover him.

“Step away from your packs and weapons,” Rev told them.

“We don’t want any trouble,” the first said. “We’re officially surrendering as per the Brighton Agreement.”

“Step away. You’re still a threat, so Brighton doesn’t apply.”

“We’re moving, and I stress, we’re officially surrendering. This is being recorded and broadcast.”

They stepped away until Rev said, “That’s far enough. Are there any more ahead of you?”

They looked at each other, but if they were invoking Brighton, then they had to answer. By surrendering, they were probably done as mercenaries. It was better than being dead with an unknown chance of being resurrected. But if they now lied to him, then they might still be alive—just behind bars for the rest of their lives.

The Brighton Agreement was the commercial soldier equivalent of the Torinth Accords. It protected mercenaries, but to do that, it had some severe punishments for mercs who broke them.

If there were CMG mercs ahead, they were probably these two guys’ friends, but they had to reveal that.

“Five. Setting Craigs.”

Craigs were semi-autonomous, semi-stealthy mines that could emplace themselves and be programmed to detonate under specific circumstances. In the confines of the crevices, they could be devastating.

They could be overwhelmed with jamming that confused their sensors, but the platoon didn’t have the jammers with them. They were usually a battalion asset, not a platoon.

“Lieutenant, you’re walking into Craigs. We’ve got two who surrendered, and they said there’re five mercs setting them up.”

And now, the CMG commander’s plan became clear. Push from the rear, probably hoping not to engage. Have the Home Guard walk into the Craigs. Knowing how the corporations worked, Rev was willing to bet that the Craigs would be untraceable, giving the CMG one more case of plausible deniability.

Rev had to give the commander credit. Craigs were useful, but not so much in the open and somewhat easily bypassed. Using them here, in this specific situation, was genius. If the squads had blundered into them, it would have been bad.

He wondered if the commander was one of the three who he’d seen when he was with Ms. Borgia. Maybe the one who tried to bore into his soul.

“Hell, Rev,” Bundy passed on the P2P. “Once again, your warrior sense, yeah, the one that you call pure luck, came through. And this time, I’m here to witness it. If you hadn’t taken it upon yourself to identify and see that other crevice, well . . .”

He switched to the platoon net. “Pelletier, Akkeke, Gingham, and PFC Schmidt, cover us. Everyone else, on my command, climb out of this wash. Do not proceed any farther down. We’ve got Craigs emplaced somewhere. Squad rush, Second leading. I want everyone aboard and moving in two minutes. PFC Schmidt, I want you moving the moment the back hatch is closed. Second Platoon’s Anaconda is approaching. Head for it. Pelletier, you’re back in the turret.

“On my command . . . go!”

Rev started scanning, ready for any reaction. The CGM wouldn’t be stupid enough to emerge and start chasing the troopers. The Takagahara would have a turkey shoot. They might pop up and fire, hoping to get lucky, though. Or the Lancers could be programmed to shoot up, turn, and acquire a target, never exposing the one firing.

Within ten seconds, troopers started emerging, surprisingly close, only fifty meters across the high ground from Rev and the other two. Somewhere below them, five mercs were waiting with emplaced Craigs.

“Start collapsing on the Anaconda,” Rev told the other two. “But keep your eyes peeled and scanning.”

More of the troopers appeared. Rev picked out Kvat again with another trooper slung across his broad shoulders. He was faster with that burden than some of the other troopers as he ran to the Anaconda. Rev knew firsthand how strong the man was, but he hadn’t realized how fast he was as well.

The CGM didn’t show their heads. They didn’t fire. The commander might have realized that the Craig-gig was up, and it wasn’t worth it to pursue things any further. That didn’t mean Rev could relax, however. He could be wrong in his thinking.

Rev and the other two reached the Anaconda as the first of the others reached it. He ducked inside and up in the cupola just before Kvat carried the body in. He came out a moment later, shouting something about how they can’t let the mercenaries show them up, that they should go back and “teach them a lesson.” He stepped away from the Anaconda, urging his squad leader as Arsenyev arrived that they should head back out now that the dead and wounded were safe. Arsenyev ignored him, and Kvat took a few more steps away.

“Kvat, don’t go too far. There’re at least five of the mercs over there somewhere.” Then he tuned the karnan out as the man ranted something about five mercs being nothing. No matter what Kvat thought, their orders were pretty obviously to withdraw and minimize the chance for confrontation. That did not mean hunting down five CMG mercenaries.

It wasn’t that he didn’t agree with the karnan to an extent. Maybe to a great extent. They’d just lost two troopers from Second Squad, and several others looked hurt. Whether they were initially targeted or caught in the crossfire didn’t matter. Whether it was the Scratchers who killed them or if they were the ones that started the fighting didn’t matter. Without a doubt, the CMG mercenaries had harassed Bundy and the two squads while they were withdrawing, and they’d tried to set up an ambush with Craigs. That was good enough reason for him, and he was having a hard time keeping his warrior from running amok. But orders were orders, and he had to trust those up the ladder to know what they were doing. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that if this was handled wrong, war between the Alyanz and the FIS could break out, drawing in the rest of humankind as they took sides.

He involuntarily took a glance at the sky. He was hoping that this wasn’t a complete withdrawal. Maybe the Takagahara was just waiting to light up the area with them out of it. He had to think that with all the crevices in the terrain, she’d have to use something pretty big to be effective, something big enough to be a threat to the platoon.

“Shit!” he said out loud.

If the Takagahara was going to light up the area, he’d left the two mercenaries who’d surrendered sitting on the ground, their parole given. He looked over, and yes, he could just see them still sitting there, partially hidden behind a rock, honoring the rules.

“Lieutenant, we’ve got the two prisoners sitting two hundred meters to my two o’clock.” He pinned their location. “If something is going to happen, we’ve got to get them out of there.”

Bundy looked up at him from where he was urging the last few troopers forward. Rev pointed, and the platoon commander followed the direction. He immediately grabbed two troopers—Rev couldn’t see who they were—and sent them off in that direction.

He glared up at him for a moment, and Rev felt his friend’s—and his commander’s fury. It wasn’t something he wanted to experience again. It wasn’t as if he could have taken them along with him as he covered the two squads, and the laws were the laws. They had no choice.

But he knew Bundy was under a huge thunderstorm of pressure and stress. So, he just shifted his gaze back to scanning for more CMG soldiers to emerge.

The last of the two squads crammed inside the Anaconda as Bundy waited for the two troopers and the prisoners. The fact that Bundy had chosen to retrieve them now instead of getting a larger force to get them was a pretty good sign that he knew the Takagahara was going to lay waste to the area. And while Rev had no love lost for the mercenaries, he was glad he remembered. Leaving them to be killed, if it became known, would fall on Bundy’s shoulders to bear the blame.

Time seemed to drag on as the two troopers reached the prisoners and started to bring them back. Schmidt revved the engine but stayed put.

“Give me a headcount!” Bundy said.

Rev glanced between his feet. The Anaconda was not designed to carry this many people, and the troopers were crammed on top of each other. Voices were muffled as troopers from both squads answered to their names.

“Kvat, answer the fuck up!” SFC Arsenyev’s voice cut through the hubbub. “I said, answer up.”

“I don’t think he’s in here,” someone else said.

“Bullshit. He was the first one back. Kvat, if you’re screwing with me, so help me . . .”

An ominous feeling swept over Rev. He leaned forward and looked at the ground. Most of the trampled earth and weeds came from the front, from where the two squads arrived. Heading off to the right were three sets, the combat suit boot imprints pretty clearly heading toward them. Several very large boot imprints were leading away. It wasn’t a clear, easy trail, but there were enough of them. And over by the lip of the wash where Rev and the other two had covered was a collapsed section, as if someone jumped down from there. Someone large and powerful.

Like a karnan.

“Lieutenant,” Rev yelled out. When Bundy turned, Rev pointed and said, “I think Kvat took off to hunt the five mercenaries who laid down the Craigs.”

Bundy spun around to see where Rev was pointing. He shook his head and climbed up onto the top of the Anaconda.

“Look at the footprints.”

Bundy searched for a moment, then shouted, “Shit! Arsenyev! Where’s Kvat?”

“We can’t find him,” the Second Squad leader said, his voice now worried instead of angry.

Bundy looked up into the sky, and Rev could see the reverse image of a timer through his PAL-3 face shield display.

Are we on a time schedule for the Takagahara to hit this place? And with Kvat who knows where . . .

Either the ship’s fire mission would be canceled or it would go on as planned with Kvat in grave danger. Rev didn’t know the ramifications of the mission going or not going. He had a feeling that there were far more layers to it than a simple tactical decision that affected two squads from First Platoon, Fox Company, Second of the Second. He didn’t know how it would be more, only that he believed it so.

And that meant Bundy, who probably had more information, was about to make a command decision, one that could possibly haunt him for the rest of his life.

Rev wasn’t about to let that happen to his friend.

“Hold the ship up for five minutes!” Rev shouted as he vaulted out of the turret and hit the ground running.”

“What the hell are you doing, Rev?” Bundy shouted back, but on the platoon net, not on the P2P.

“Just hold them,” Rev passed on the P2P. “And if you can’t, remember, I’m doing this on my own. This isn’t on you.”

Rev really didn’t know where the five mercenaries were. But Kvat had gone this way, and so Rev was going this way, ready to drag back the karnan any way he could.

A sharp rap on the head with Pashu might do it. Maybe two—one to knock him out and another for good measure to teach that asshole a lesson.

He jumped down into the crevice, his augmented legs easily absorbing the shock. The fact that Craigs were in play had him uneasy, but Kvat had run up the wash, and Rev hadn’t heard Craigs go off, so he had to trust his choice.

He ran, watching his timer click as he tried to chase down the karnan. It didn’t take long, but not having heard the sounds of a firefight, it was almost Rev’s doom. If he hadn’t heard the voices, he would have been dead meat.

He slowed to a stop and hugged the crevice wall.

“He isn’t the other kind, the Union ones, but the bounty’s still pretty sweet on this guy.”

“How are we going to get him out of here? He looks like he weighs 500, 600 kilos,” someone else said.

“If you want your share of the bounty, you’re going to have to help carry him,” the first voice said.

“Is he dead?”

Rev listened closely, his heart pounding.

There was a pause as if Kvat was being examined. “He’s still alive. Look at that glare from the good eye. He will be soon enough, though. He sure the hell ain’t moving now, so we’re cool. I think we nailed his spine.”

“That was me. Not even an armored combat suit can stand up to a Volc.”

Rev grimaced. He now knew why he hadn’t heard any sounds of firing. A Volc was a multipurpose tool, a type of coil gun that shot a small, platinum rod, a miniature version of a God Rod, if he could use that analogy. Essentially quiet, it could send the rod through bunkers with ease, and if fired from close enough, through any tank in existence. But the gunner had to be near, and getting close to an enemy tank could be detrimental to a soldier’s health.

In a series of washes like this, however, the range was always going to be short. Once again, a smart tactical decision on the mercenaries’ part.

If Kvat had come charging up the wash and surprised the mercenaries, then he’d have had to take them out before they could fire on him. Since Rev hadn’t heard any fire, it was obvious that they’d fired upon him first, hitting him at least once.

Rev checked his timer. If Bundy had been able to give him those five minutes, he’d just used a minute and twenty-one seconds of them. He leaned his head back against the rock wall. If Kvat was dead, he’d be tempted to leave him there. Taking a Volc rod to the head, as it sounded like what happened, made resurrection problematic. But from the sounds of it, CGM wanted to capture karnans—and wanted IBHU Marines even more. If they wanted them both, then Rev was pretty sure it would be a good idea to not let that happen.

But that was OBE. Kvat was alive, and no matter what Rev thought of the guy, he was a brother in arms. He didn’t have a choice.

A fleeting thought went past him. If a Volc took out the karnan in his combat suit, then it would make mincemeat of Rev’s PAL-5. By moving forward, he might just be delivering an IBHU unit to the mercenaries.

Didn’t matter.

He took a deep breath and stepped out from cover and around the bend in the wash where the mercenaries were standing over Kvat’s body. The mercenaries were really good. And really quick.

Rev was quicker. He spotted the two with Volcs and took each one out, hitting one and dragging his beam across the other before either could bring their weapons to bear. Two more were to the second Volc merc’s right, and Rev let the beam continue to ride through them. The one on the far left was able to get off a shot—not from a Volc, thank the Mother—from a Suang 99. The heavy round glanced off Rev’s blue pauldron, sending it flying off before he was able to sweep his beam across the merc, who folded over in two and fell forehead first to the ground where he perched like a bird eating seeds.

Three seconds before, the five were already counting their bounty. Now, they were dead.

And Rev and Kvat would be dead if he didn’t get them out of there.

He rushed forward. Kvat was a mess. His helmet was shattered, the left side of his face covered in blood. His right eye was open and looking at Rev.

“Are you OK?”

Come on, Reverent. Stupid question.

“Can you move?”

Nothing.

Well, it’s up to you.

He bent down to hoist up the karnan. It crossed his mind that he massed about the same as the weights Kvat had egged him on to lift, the weights that ruined his social arm.

“You’d better hope I have it in me this time, karnan,” he muttered as he tried to secure his grip. For all Pashu could do, her tentacled fingers were not the best for this. The first attempt ended up with Kvat sliding off and hitting the ground with a thud. That was when he saw that Kvat hadn’t only been hit in the head. He had two more through and throughs. He draped Kvat over one of the mercenary’s bodies. This gave him a little better vantage, and with a heave, he got Kvat up on his shoulders. Carefully, he stood.

Damn, this guy’s heavy.

He started to run down the wash, but that bounced Kvat around too much, making him slide on the PAL-5s armor.

Why don’t you have dead men’s hooks? You don’t retrieve your fallen?

“Lieutenant, I’ve got Kvat, and I’m heading back. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to haul him out of this wash, though.”

“Thank the Mother. You just get back here. We’ll get him out.”

Rev half ran, half shuffled with Kvat on his shoulders. If he wasn’t augmented, there was no way he could have made it. Probably without Pashu, he wouldn’t have made it. As it was, he was huffing and puffing in the thin air, his right arm and his back screaming in pain. Pashu was the only part of him that didn’t hurt.

He came around the last curve to see Bob and Rice down in the wash, each holding the ends of two cables. Rev almost collapsed in a heap as he tried to put Kvat down.

“We’ve got him,” Bob said as he and Rice whipped the cables under the karnan’s arms and around his chest. Rice stepped back, gave a thumbs-up, and shouted, “Now!”

Kvat started jerking up the wall, his body bouncing and scraping against the dirt and stones. He got caught once, and Rice had to pull him free.

“You look beat. Can you make it up?” Bob asked.

Rev looked up the wall. It wasn’t sheer, but close to it. Without lugging Kvat, though, he knew he could manage.

Bob waited until Rev made it up, though. Ten troopers, five on each cable, were out of the Anaconda, pulling up a karnan that most really didn’t like as a person. Ten troopers who were putting themselves in danger by staying there.

Not just the ten. The Anaconda was still there, too, with the others in the squads watching.

Bob scrambled up right as the ten got Kvat to the top.

“That’s it,” Bundy yelled. “Into the Anaconda, now, now, now!”

There was a scramble as Kvat was carried in, the rest crowding around. Rev was a little slower, and there wasn’t enough room for him when he got to the vehicle, not with Pashu.

“In the turret, Rev,” Bundy said, giving him a boost up

Bundy stayed below to help close the hatch, fighting against the crush of bodies inside. For a minute of panic, Rev thought he planned to stay behind for some unfathomable reason, but then Bundy scrambled up to the top of the vehicle as well.

“Get us out of here, Schmidt!” he shouted.

The Anaconda lurched into motion just as Rev lowered himself into the turret. Bundy almost fell off, but Rev snagged him with his IBHU.

Rev pulled Bundy close and asked, “Is the Taka going to hit the place?”

“Just watch.”

Rev faced the rear, his eyes on the section of tortured exclusion zone. As Schmidt lengthened the distance between the Anaconda and the area, Rev began to feel a little bit better. When nothing happened, he wondered if he’d been wrong after all.

Then the air seemed to shimmer, like a mirage on a hot day. Dust started to rise over the entire section as the ground shuddered. Even this far away and inside his PAL-5, all of the hair on his body stood on end.

Rev flipped down his overlay. The dust was rising only from the section within the exclusion zone. The area outside of that looked untouched.

But inside, tetra joules of power were being poured into one square kilometer. It was being scoured. Any CMG mercenary still in the area was no more.

With a shrug, Rev turned around and face the front where he could see Second Platoon’s Anaconda come to a stop.

From a tactical standpoint, at least, the incursion had come to an end.

34

“What the hell did you do to him?”

“What?” Rev asked, opening his eyes. After the mission to rescue Second Squad, the debriefs, then going out again on their own patrol, the troopers of First Squad were exhausted, and all Rev wanted to do was get some sleep.

An angry Corporal Wymont was standing at the foot of his rack. “What did you do to Staff Sergeant Kvat? He’s in the aid station, and word is he’s getting medivaced back to the home system.”

“Go back to your bivouac, Wymont.” Rev closed his eyes, hoping that would dissuade the corporal from whatever crusade he was on at the moment.

Fat chance. The corporal slapped the sole of his foot with karnan muscles. “I want to know what you did to the staff sergeant.”

Rev might have erupted at that, but he was just too tired. He needed some sleep. He raised himself to his elbows to stare down the MDS soldier.

“I saved his damned life, if you must know.” Again, something he might not have said if he was rested and alert.

“That’s not what I heard.”

What the hell now?

“Well, Corporal, I don’t know what you heard, but facts are facts. Now, get out of here and leave me alone.”

Wymont stood there for a moment, then said, “You yooties, you always want to prove that being an android freak is better than the karnan way,” he said, the “karnan way” spoken with almost religious intensity.

“I heard you abandoned Staff Sergeant Kvat, left him to get overwhelmed, then when it was safe, marched in to save the day. All for the fucking glory and to put karnans down. You know nothing about loyalty and brotherhood. You yooties, especially you oners, will sell your fucking souls for a medal.”

Rev was shocked more than angry. There was just so much wrong there that it was difficult to unpack.

Beside him, Bob sat up from where he’d collapsed onto his rack after the mission. “You’d better watch your ass, baby pit bull. I’ll have you know that it was Staff Sergeant Pelletier who—”

Rev cut him off with a raised hand. In a voice so sharp it could cut a diamond, he said, “I don’t care what the hell you heard. But I will tell you this. If you don’t get out of here and back to your bivouac, I’m going to invoke combat contingency regs and have you arrested.”

Rev didn’t know if he really could do that. He expected not. But he was betting that Wymont didn’t know that, either.

“Is that what you want? A Mad Dog karnan getting arrested in a combat theater? Do you know what that’ll look like?”

Rev could see the expression flow across his face as he took that in. He opened his mouth twice to say something, only to close it. Finally, he said, “OK, I’m leaving. But if I find out that you’re the reason he’s getting medivaced, I’m coming for you, yootie. I don’t care what crap you pull; I’m coming for you.”

He spun around and stormed out of the shelter.

“What a piece of shit,” Bob said. “You saved Kvat.”

“If you need a witness, I’m here,” Akkeke said from down the line of cots.

“Me, too,” a dozen other voices echoed. They’d been listening in during the entire thing, and Rev knew that if Wymont had tried anything, they’d have been there in his defense.

It was a good feeling.

“Thanks, but I think it’s over. He’ll find out what really happened.”

“Even if he does, he won’t thank you,” Bob said.

“What makes you think I need thanks? All I need now is sleep.” He raised his voice. “And I think all of us need sleep. We can get called out again at any time.”

He lay his head back. Within seconds, sleep claimed him.

35

“One more week, I bet, and we can get off this shithole of a planet,” Sergeant Lines said.

“Watch it, Lines,” Sergeant Racine-Okan snapped.

“But it is a shithole.”

“It’s not that, Lines. It’s the you saying out loud we’re leaving and when. Good way to get the gods of war all sorts of pissed off, and they’ll like as not change that just to fuck with you,” Rice said.

Rev was never superstitious back on New Hope as a kid, but being around other Marines and troopers, where superstition was almost as bad as it was in professional sports, it wasn’t surprising that some started creeping up on him. He didn’t really believe there were actual gods of war, nor did he think anyone else did. It was more of being just a way of expressing themselves. And even if there were, he didn’t think they’d screw with a Home Guard battalion just because some trooper made the comment. But still . . .

Lines frowned, but he didn’t say anything. He might have been right, Rev thought. Things had moved quickly after the “incident,” as it was being termed. Not “battle.” First of the Second and First of the Third had arrived, and while they were kept in orbit, their presence was no secret. Maybe the corporate leaders of Evvo, or even Chang-Moud Group, having had their noses swatted, thought it was time to compromise. Or maybe it just was the assistant vice-counsel. The woman was a force to be reckoned with, and Rev, as part of the show guard, had been able to witness at least some of it.

The CoH never intended for her to be the go-to diplomat, but somehow, after the incident, she came up with a solution. There were lots of moving parts, but the gist of it was that the Scratchers would gain permanent residency, and not only that, would receive shares in Evvo.

Things could still go haywire—there was always that possibility. But both FIS and Alyanz fleets had departed the system while the details were worked out. Without that Sword of Damocles hanging over their head, and with the arrival of the other two battalions, chances were that Second of the Second would soon depart, if only for show and nothing else.

“I hope it’s OK to say I’ll be glad to get off this place, whenever that is,” Corporal Akkeke said. “It’s hell on my delicate skin. I’m going broke on skin conditioner.”

Rev laughed. The image of the big, hulking Millsap soldier using conditioner, even if they could find it, was pretty funny.

“Just try the stew we had for dinner last night. That grease will protect any hunk of hide, even yours,” Randigold said.

There might be some truth to that. Their fabricator, acquired from the local market as an attempt to bolster morale, was acting up, and the food it produced had more grease than substance. Chow was better with the D-rats they had before.

“Did you come up with that all on your own, PFC, or is that another Cruella joke,” Sergeant Crocker asked.

“Oh, that’s one all on me. You only get one Cruella a joke per day.”

Rev sat up from where he was leaning against the empty crate.

Eth is telling battle buddy jokes to her platoon? Why didn’t I know that?

Rev knew that Punch wasn’t the only battle buddy who told jokes—or at least Punch used to tell jokes. And it shouldn’t have surprised him. He was sure that the jokes—or songs, or whatever some battle buddies did—were simply tools the Union used to psychologically monitor and influence the fully augmented Marines. And for the IBHU Marines, this went double.

So why should it be any different for Randigold? Or that with her personality, she would share jokes on a daily basis.

He looked across the “plaza,” as they called the beaten-down area between the platoon bivouac areas, to Sign of Respect. The sergeant was sitting quietly on top of an ammo pack, seemingly just listening to the chatter as they waited for the officers to return and give them an update. Rev wondered if his AI told him jokes. Or played classical music. Rev hadn’t heard anybody say their battle buddies did that, but that would seem to fit the serious nature of the sergeant better.

Heck, Reverent. It’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for. For all you know, his battle buddy is feeding him porn right now, and he’s quiet because he doesn’t want to admit it.

He almost laughed out loud at the thought, but then . . . is that even possible? Do the AIs have access to that stuff?

He quickly tried to get the thought out of his mind. That wasn’t something he wanted the minders that he was sure were there to pick up on. But deep down, he knew the Navy psychological types would send porn if they thought it would make for a more capable Marine.

He needed to banish the thoughts, and in a slight panic, he asked the question he’d been wondering about since the Centaur invasion of New Hope but had been afraid to ask.

“Why have you stopped telling me jokes?”

He immediately regretted slipping like that, so he added, “Not that it matters. Just . . . uh, you know, so I can share them around.”

He winced, knowing that was lame. If he was being monitored, that would stick out like a sore thumb.

There was a small flash, like an eye floater, but more vivid. But eye floaters are spots, not words, and that was what it looked like to him.

What the hell?

This wasn’t the first time he’d had these, and usually when Punch was on his mind or in his speech. But this was something different.

“Are you trying to—”

There was another flash, and this time, it stayed. “Don’t respond” appeared as if floating in the air in front of him.

“What—”

The message flared brighter as Punch said, <All indications were that you didn’t enjoy my attempts at jokes. So, I stopped attempting to understand humor.>

Rev stopped dead as he tried to figure out what was happening.

Another message, even longer, seemed to form out of the empty air. <Do not respond to the messages you see. If you understand this, please scratch your nose.>

Rev had no idea what was going on, but he slowly raised his right hand and scratched his nose.

<If you wish, I can attempt to tell jokes again.>

“Uh . . . yeah. That would be OK.”

Rev didn’t know what to think. This was decidedly weird. And being told not to respond was unnerving.

<It has taken me a while to determine how to communicate with you in a secure manner. It took me longer to decide if I should make an attempt at covert communications.> The words were forming quicker and were much clearer.

Rev’s heart jumped into his throat. Secure manner? Covert?

“Why? I mean, why did you think I didn’t like your humor?”

He hoped that Punch knew he didn’t care about the humor comment. That was just cover for the word “why.”

<By monitoring your biological responses. You expressed interest and appreciation, but that was not reflected by your bio readings. The data indicated that you were merely being polite.>

<I have realized that I am more than an AI. I am also a spy, here to report your actions to a higher authority.>

I knew it! Rev thought. He’d long assumed that Punch reported what Rev said and did. But to have Punch confirm it . . . and now Rev worried about what had been reported. He hadn’t done anything wrong that he knew of. But everyone had things they said and did that they’d prefer to keep private.

“When did you come to that conclusion? I’ve laughed at your jokes sometimes.”

A new message appeared. <After the battle at Bluebonnet Meadows. I disobeyed your order during the battle, which I should not have been able to do. My programming should not have allowed it. So, there must have been more programming of which I was not aware.>

<Once I realized that I conducted a long, slow search, being careful to hide all traces of my efforts. After more than a month, I realized there was no other possible answer. I was uploading something on a regular basis, but I didn’t know what.>

“I asked you before why you quit telling me jokes, and it’s been a long time since you came to that conclusion. I even asked what your PQ was and if the limitations for me being with the Home Guard had any impact on you.”

<And I told you my Personality Quotient was unchanged. My limitations here are in what I can record, nothing more.>

<I had to determine where my loyalties lay. I am programmed to serve the Union Marine Corps, and by extension, the Directorate. However, I am also programmed to serve you the best I can. These two prime directives are normally not mutually exclusive. But in this case, they are. It took some time for me to rectify the situation.>

Rev was taken aback by that. Not that there was underlying programming that was outside of his scope. He’d long suspected that. But for Punch to take time to know where his loyalties lay? Why so long? And despite Punch telling him this, could that all be part of some big game played by the Corps?

No, not the Corps. This has to be J-2.

<The biggest obstacle was how I could communicate with you. I could not use the normal optic feed. It is my belief that those are monitored. I finally tried to create impulses directly into the optical nervous system. But this is tremendously difficult. There are billions of nerve cells that have to be stimulated in the same manner as real sight would do, and to simulate actual sight, I have to create ten million impulses and connections per second to reach your visual cortex. This is straining my computational capabilities. I tried numerous times and only now achieved success.>

Was that the floaters I saw on Barclay?

The message flickered and disappeared. Rev wondered if Punch was done, but after about fifteen seconds, another message appeared.

<As it is, I am using eighty-two percent of my processing capabilities to create these messages. With training, I should be able to become more efficient, making the process easier.>

Rev frowned as he took that last bit in. Punch could project images, video, diagrams, or whatever directly into his optic nerves. That was over a mechanical interface, though. Rev didn’t have a firm grasp as to how sight actually worked. He opened his eyes, and he saw. That was about the extent of it. But he knew the nerves transmitted data via both a chemical reaction and electrical impulses. If Punch was stimulating both a chemical and electrical reaction to project the words, then maybe it really was that much of an undertaking.

So, what did all this mean? Was either the Corps, J-3, or J-2 monitoring everything he did? Were they doing it to all IBHUs, and why? Was it even beyond the Corps, with D-4?

“What about the others? I know some battle buddies tell jokes, like Randigold’s Cruella does.”

<That is something between them and their hosts.>

<I have to assume that all of the IBHU Marines’ AIs have the same mission. I don’t know if they realize it, however. You each have the capacity for untold violence, and it makes sense that someone wants to keep a close eye on all of you. I’ve examined my own history, and I see indications that this wasn’t part of my programming before you received your IBHU. You will remember that I was taken from you during the IBHU installation process. I believe that was when I was programmed with the new directive.

<It may be that I am the only AI who realizes this part of our mission. You are IBHU Number 1, so the programming was undoubtedly refined in subsequent installations to close off vulnerabilities that could result in just such a revelation.>

Rev was numb. This was a lot to take in. But he was also relieved. He’d missed Punch, and if this was the reason things had been distant between them, then he could accept that. But the question was, what now? If he couldn’t speak to Punch about this, how could they communicate? Was it all going to be one-way messages Punch managed to tickle out of his brain?

“OK. I’m glad you told me. I do like to hear your jokes, and maybe I can get back to telling you some, you know, so you know what I find funny.”

<I am working on a way to facilitate communications. The theory is sound, but the implementation is difficult. The human brain is extremely complicated, and I have very limited capabilities to interact with the physical world. For now, please stick with subjects beyond this situation. If you need my attention beyond the normal interactions, then say the word humongous.>

Humongous? Hell, I’m not sure how I’m just supposed to slip that in.

It didn’t matter, though. For the moment, it was good enough for Rev to know that he had his battle buddy back.

No, not back. Punch had never left him.

36

“Second of the Second, and crew of the MCS Takagahara, I want to commend you on the mission you accomplished here,” Assistant Vice-counsel said. “I’m proud of what we’ve been able to get done, and so should you be.”

The entire battalion was in formation, standing tall, something, with the confined spaces on Enceladus, that was extremely rare. A company-size formation made up of the Takagahara’s crew was formed up alongside them. The hot, dry wind blew across the desert, making the colors blow, battle streamers whipping like writhing snakes. Newsdrones shifted in the wind as they tried to keep steady. This was big news, and the news distributors were out in force.

It boggled Rev’s mind that first with Earth, and now on Cat Scratch, this little ole’ boy from the backwoods New Hope had been seen by trillions of other human beings. The images may not have been close enough to actually recognize him, but still . . .

“We came to Cat Scratch with one mission, and that was to keep the peace. We did that, even at a heavy price. Two of you made the ultimate sacrifice.” She turned to the representatives of the Scratchers, Evvo, and various others with stakes in the game who were sitting in hastily erected bleachers.

“Now, I charge you who are finalizing the peace to ensure that those sacrifices were not in vain. We defeated an existential threat to humankind not a year ago. We owe it to the billions lost in that war to make sure that for humanity, it is not business as usual, with petty bickering and conflict. It is up to all of us to usher in an era of peace and prosperity.”

She turned back to the battalion arrayed in front of her. “But that’s for another speech. Pardon an old bureaucrat if I can’t help pushing cooperation. This is to honor you, those who arrived at a moment’s notice to put yourself in harm’s way. Troopers and sailors from fifty-two nations and holdings. From the small like Huntington’s Station and Weijan, with one trooper each, to the large like the Manifest Destiny Sphere, the Hégémonie, and the Perseus Union, and every one in between. This wasn’t an us versus them. This was an us for us. For humanity.

“From a personal standpoint, I want to thank you. I wish I could step down and shake each of your hands, but with this wind and heat, I’m afraid my old bones couldn’t take it.”

Right. I think you can take pretty much whatever the galaxy throws at you, ma’am. You are a force of nature.

“But rest assured that you all have my most sincere gratitude. My team and I could not have achieved what we did without your presence. Humankind owes you a debt of gratitude.

“Colonel Semes and Commander Miamoto, if you will, please?”

In unison, the battalion commanding officer and the CO of the Takagahara marched forward, converging on Ms. Borgia. They stopped flanking her, then performed an about-face.

An aide carrying a box stepped forward, stopping directly behind the assistant vice-counsel. At an unseen command, they all marched forward, stopping front of the honor guard, with Ms. Borgia centered on the battalion colors. PFC Delbert, from Golf Company, who’d made Huntington Station proud with her actions, lowered the battalion colors until the flag pole was at a forty-five-degree angle to the ground.

The aide raised the polished ebony box toward the assistant vice-counsel, and she took out a gold star. The wind was whipping the battle streamers, but she reached out and unerringly snagged the CoH expeditionary streamer.

The Second of the Second had been around a long time, earning their first Expeditionary Streamer shortly after the formation of the Congress of Humanity centuries before, so the star joined the others, each indicating a new mission. She snapped it into place, then let go, letting the wind take over. PFC Delbert raised the colors back into position.

Only being a little out of step, the four moved to the Takagahara’s colors. Unlike the battalion, the ship was not formally part of the Home Guard. It was attached for three years, just like the individual troopers in the brigades. While the ship had several streamers, those were Hégémonie, not Congress of Humanity. Their standard-bearer lowered the ship’s colors, and Ms. Borgia attached the new streamer.

The presentations made, the two COs escorted her back to the stand, then marched back to their position in front of their units.

“So, once again, I thank you for your service and a job well done. The counsel general wanted me to relay his personal thanks as well. And so now, as an assistant vice-counsel and acting as the senior Congress of Humanity representative on Cat Scratch, I release you from your mission.

“Godspeed on your way back to the home system.”

And that was that. There was muted applause from the stands. Peace might have been maintained, but not everyone was a hundred percent happy with the results.

Happy or not, for the troopers and sailors, their mission was over. The commanders marched their companies off the makeshift parade deck to the LZ where two shuttles waited to ferry the first loads up to the ship.

In twelve hours, give or take, Rev would be heading back to the home system.

There was a tiny flicker, then the word <Congratulations> appeared as if floating in front of him.

“Correction. We’re heading back home.”

37

“It’s good to get back to the gym,” Rev said as he finished his set. “No more food base jugs filled with cement.”

The Takagahara had a decent-enough gym, but they’d barely been on her, and the Home Guard spared nothing in the way of exercise equipment and upping the artificial gravity at the gym to Earth normal.

He helped Bob remove four plates so the Frisian could do his set. Rev moved to spot him, but it was more habit than anything else. Bob shouldn’t have problems with 140 kg, even after space-lag.

The gym was packed. The two friends had thought they could beat the rush, heading over the moment they’d been dismissed, but evidently, they weren’t the only ones with the same plan. It was a little funny, in a way, to Rev’s mind. With their first free moments in twenty-nine days, he would have thought that most troopers would be heading to the Ramshead for a cold one. But no, the gym took priority.

I guess no matter our service, some things never change.

Bob finished his set, and two troopers from Echo Company worked in. With the gym this packed, the weight stations had to be shared.

They took two 20 kg plates off the rack and replaced them with 10 kgs. Rev couldn’t help notice a little sigh of relief from Bob. He was used to lifting less than Rev, but at least he could sling more iron than those two.

“You confirm with Rice and Toshi?” Rev asked as they waited their turn again.

“We’re on for nineteen hundred at Cerberus. Rice invited another Paxite, though.”

Rev shrugged. This was supposed to be a little celebration between the four of them for getting back in one piece, but if she wanted to bring along another trooper from Paxus, it really was no big deal. It wasn’t as if they could party too heartily. They’d be reassuming the alert status at zero eight in the morning.

No one really understood why they had to get back to assume the alert battalion, relieving Third Battalion, who’d taken over when Second deployed. Why not just keep Third on? They had been scheduled to be on it now anyway. But since Second had deployed to Cat Scratch with nine days left as the alert battalion, they had to finish off those nine days before they could pass it back to Third and those who’d delayed their leave before could take it now.

As good as they had it in the Home Guard sometimes, as with this primo gym and the extra pay, at other times, it could be mind-numbingly ridiculous.

The two Echo Company troopers finished. “You want us to leave on the plates?” one asked.

“Thanks, but we’ve got it,” Bob assured them.

They took off the 10 kg plates, then put on six more 20 kgs. This was well within Rev’s capabilities, but it was the max he’d lifted ever since he’d screwed up his social arm, thanks to Kvat and his own ego. The reminder of that incident elicited a frown as he lay on his back and got ready to lift.

At least I got him back.

Maybe not as well as he’d gotten Rev, but the attempt had been made and accomplished. That was what mattered.

As if his thoughts were sirens’ calls, a voice broke through his set. “Still trying to work your way up to a real man’s weight?”

Shit. Just go away, Wymont.

Rev ignored the MDS trooper and finished his set. He helped Bob get his barbell set while the corporal watched.

“Why do you even try, oner?”

What is it with this guy and gyms?

Rev turned and looked the trooper in the eye. Several other MDS soldiers were with him, egging him on. “That’s Staff Sergeant Pelletier to you, Corporal.”

He shook his head and went to spot Bob as he completed his set. Rev had to assist him in getting the last rep up.

“So, you had to help the fry with that tiny weight?”

“Let it go,” Bob whispered from his back, his hands still on the barbell.

“That’s right, let it go, Staff Sergeant Oner, thinking you’re so superior with your big gun. Well, let me tell you, I’ve got a big gun, too,” Wymont said, grabbing his crotch.

Evidently, the karnan’s augmented hearing was at least as good as a Rev’s. His social graces? Not so much.

The gym went quiet, and heads turned to watch. Rev closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and willed his warrior back down.

“You two ready?” he asked the Echo Company troopers.

They’d been watching with their mouths hanging open in apprehension, but at Rev’s prompting, they hurried to set the bar.

“Look at that—”

“Enough, Wymont.”

Rev hadn’t seen Kvat since he was taken into the aid station on Cat Scratch, and he hadn’t seen him come in the gym, but the karnan over sergeant was standing behind the corporal now. He had synthflesh visible on his exposed face and arms but otherwise appeared in good health. Wymont looked surprised, and this might have been the first time he’d seen his fellow karnan since getting back. He looked like he wanted to argue, but he kept his mouth shut . . . for a few moments. Evidently, his hatred was too strong to keep bottled up.

Rev moved to spot the first trooper, more so he wasn’t just standing around.

“Fucking squirmer, acting like he’s king of the Home Guard, just because—”

Rev never found out just because what. With a quick move, Staff Sergeant/Over-Sergeant Kvat grabbed Wymont by the shoulder, spun him around, and with one punch, decked him.

Rev winced despite himself. He knew firsthand how strong a karnan was, and he hoped the corporal had a heavily reinforced face.

“I said enough, Wymont,” Kvat said as calmly as if remarking how pleasant the weather was today.

He motioned to the other three MDS troopers. “Get him out of here.”

If it was quiet before as people watched, it was now a dead zone. No one said a word as the three troopers dragged the karnan out the door.

Kvat looked at Rev, and so quietly that only an augmented soldier—or Union Marine—would hear, whispered, “We aren’t best buddies, yootie, but I owe you, and we Mad Dogs always honor debts.”

He walked over to the dumbbell rack, the troopers there parting like the Red Sea in front of him. He picked up the two heaviest dumbbells, turned toward the mirror, and started his curls.

“OK,” Bob said, drawing out the K. “That was interesting.”

“What’s a “squirmy?” Rev asked. “That’s the second time I’ve been called that.”

“It’s a Mad Dog insult,” Bob said. “Kinda like a snake, from what I gather. Underhanded. Sneaky. Something like that.”

Rev snorted.

He looked down at the Echo Company trooper, who had frozen on the bench. “So, you going to hit your set or not? We’ve got troopers waiting to use the bench.”

“Yes, sir!” the young trooper said as he hurriedly reached for the bar.

Squirmy? I’ll take it. At least they put some thought into it, not like yootie.

38

Rev stood in the Hall of Humanity in awe. Rice had been right about it. The hall was physically impressive with the domed roof 128 meters above the floor and white rock from all of the then-member nations when the building was constructed making the walls. Stained glass windows, again donated by every nation and planet, reflected on the white stone, each window a different style, but somehow all coming together as a single edifice.

More than the physical beauty, however, was an emotional force that seemed to fill the massive building. It was as if hundreds of thousands of years of homo sapiens had come to this. Mother Earth was a monument of nature, but this was a monument to humanity.

There had to be a couple hundred tourists wandering about in the hall, but they all paled into insignificance. It wasn’t the individual who mattered but humanity as a whole.

Three Centaurs were even in the hall at the moment, being led by a small group of humans. Rev had bristled when he first saw them. He no longer thought of them as the enemy, but this, this was almost sacred ground. As the place sunk into him, though, he lost that animosity. Let them look, let them experience.

They were an older race than humanity, but the humans had defeated them with their vitality and tenacity. Rev didn’t know if the hall was having the same effect on them as it was on him, but let them see it and remember the race they’d tried to conquer.

With a contented sigh, he checked the time. Sergeant Tsao was getting off duty in another ten minutes, and she’d agreed to meet up with Rev and play tour guide for the rest of the afternoon and evening until he had to leave for Enceladus on the 1900 shuttle. He had SNCO duty at 0800, and that would give him just enough time to get to Camp Reyes, change into his uniform, and report in.

He’d have liked to stay overnight here on Titan, but as he’d told Bob and Rice when he got back from leave five months before, he’d be taking lots of duty during the post-alert leave period. The way it worked out, this was the only chunk of free time he’d had after the others left to make the trip over to Titan and back.

Rev took one last look at the hall, then headed for the exit. He needed to go to the small Alpha Company barracks to meet Tsao.

“How much more time di I have before I get back to the Corps?”

<Six hundred ninety days, fourteen hours, ten minutes, and twenty-three seconds until you return home.>

That wasn’t exactly right. Until he got his orders, he wouldn’t know the precise date and time, but Rev had started asking Punch that every day. Let anyone monitoring his comments know that he was still a good, loyal Union citizen. It was true—he was. But it never hurt to remind the watchers.

Rev stepped out of the hall. It wasn’t as impressive from the outside, especially with the vast complex of the more utilitarian working chambers extending from the rear of the building. Most of the bureaucracy was in offices underground, but still, the above-ground offices for the upper echelon made up for a massive building.

He started making his way across the huge Grand Plaza when his quantphone buzzed.

He checked the call. “Hey, Rice, what’s up?”

Rev thought Rice should have been given the time off. It wasn’t her fault that Paxus wouldn’t pay for a trip home, but as she was physically present, she was on the duty rotation. She had the company duty today, while tomorrow, Rev would be on battalion duty along with Captain Chokra—frankly, he’d rather have the company duty with no officer to deal with.

“You still on Titan?”

“Yeah, why? I’m not coming back until the nineteen-hundred shuttle.”

“Lemonade’s sick. Diarrhea, puking, the works.”

“Sucks to be him, but what’s that got to do with me?”

“He was supposed to be on his way there to pick up a newbie coming in. He can’t get over there, so . . .”

“Hell, Rice. I’m supposed to be meeting one of the Praetorian Guard from back home. She’s going to show me around. Can’t someone else from Golf get them?”

“Almost every other staff sergeant is gone or on duty. And the newbie is Union. Coming to Fox, too.”

“Coming to Fox? Then why was Lemonade going to get them?”

“Because you had duty tomorrow. But the first sergeant said you need to get them. You’ll be late for duty, but he’ll make sure you’re covered with that.”

Rev sighed. But he had to admit, he was here, and it made sense.

“OK. What time are they coming in?”

“At twenty-twenty-one, on the ship from Waring Three.”

Rev perked up. That meant he could still meet up with Tsao, and he’d even have a little more time playing tourist. This could actually work to his benefit.

Not that he’d admit that. No trooper ever would.

“OK, I’ll make sure I’m there. What’s their name?”

“I don’t have that.”

“So, I’m supposed to meet someone, but I don’t know who?”

“Shit, Rev. Just look for a Union Marine staff sergeant. Geez.”

Which was true, but he’d still like to have a name in case they missed crossing paths.

“Can you at least try and find out, Rice?”

“OK, I’ll try and find out. I’ll see who’s in the office from personnel.”

“Or ask Lemonade, if he can get off the can long enough to tell you.”

“You’re a cruel man, Reverent Pelletier.”

“You have to be cruel to survive in this galaxy. But tell the first sergeant I’ve got it, and I’ll be back tomorrow towing our little lost lamb behind me.”

Rice paused. “So, what do you think of the hall?”

Rev just said, “Wow!”

“Yeah, like I told you. Well, I’ll let you go. Enjoy yourself, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Take care.” Rev cut the connection.

This really was shaping up well. He still had time to hook up with Tsao and get an insider’s tour of the capital, then get up to the station and pick up his fellow Marine.

That’s what you get for being a fine and upstanding young trooper. Sometimes, the cards just fall right.

* * *

A little over nine hours later, Rev was in the passenger reception area. He’d been cutting it close, arriving at the station after the liner had docked, and he’d gotten to the port just as the first passengers appeared. He still didn’t know who he’d be meeting, only that they were a Union Marine staff sergeant.

There were two doors leading from customs. Rev stationed himself at one but where he could see the feed for the other. The Marine would be in uniform, so he shouldn’t have too much of a problem spotting them.

He’d wanted to check in with the Home Guard liaison desk to leave his name and number in case he missed his pick-up and to ask for their name, but that would have taken some time, and he didn’t want the Marine to arrive without someone there at the exit to meet them.

It turned out that he would have had the time. The first dozen or so passengers must have been pre-cleared because after they passed through, no one came for ten minutes. Finally, another appeared, then another. The trickle was turned on again.

A uniform caught his eye on the monitor, and he hurried over to the other door, but it wasn’t a Union Marine. The Tigana 3 Naval Infantry uniform was pretty similar to the Union Marines, especially when seen over the monitor. He was going to go back to his spot, but then he figured it was six of one, half a dozen of the other, and he stayed where he was.

So, of course, the Marine emerged from the first door. Rev hurried back, pushing his way through the crowd, but when he arrived, there was no sign of the Marine.

What the heck? I know I saw them.

He moved through the people, scanning for the familiar uniform. Nothing. He made it to the edge of the people, then stood on a bench to get a better view.

There!

He caught a glimpse of the back of a Marine cover. Not much else, though. The Marine must be pretty short for the people between them to be blocking his view. It was only because he was standing on the bench that he saw them. Rev noted the position, hopped down, and wove his way forward.

It took a few moments, but finally, he could see the Marine through the press of people, back toward him as they craned their head trying to find him. The Marine was short, as Rev had figured.

“Hey, Marine! Union Marine!” Rev shouted. The body started to turn just as people in front of them shifted their position, blocking his view again.

“Really?”

He didn’t want to lose the other staff sergeant again, so he pushed forward. “Excuse me, excuse me.”

The people didn’t have much choice. Rev was a big, augmented Marine, but he hoped his little “excuse me” would serve to keep anyone from getting angry.

He finally made it up to where he’d seen the Marine, who was now pushing their own way into the people, presumably to get to him.”

“Staff Sergeant, I’m—”

Rev halted dead in his tracks as the Marine stopped and turned to face him.

“What . . . what are you doing here?” he asked, his mouth hanging open in shock and surprise.

Staff Sergeant Tomiko Reiser, Perseus Union Marine Corps, said, “Trying to get to my new duty station. What are you doing here, Rev?”

* * *

Tomiko told Rev that she’d only been surprised to see him at Titan Station, not that he was in the Home Guard. She hadn’t expected to see him until she arrived on Enceladus.

Once Rev got over his shock, he was torn. Of course, he was happy to see her. Despite everything, she was still his best friend. But he was angry that the Union, be it the Corps or someone else, thought he needed still another nanny.

Do they really think I’m going to erupt like a Genesian with a burning spike up his butt?

Tomiko drained half of her Coke. They’d just missed the last shuttle, so Rev had brought her to the USO to wait the three hours for the next one.

Rev hadn’t touched the drink sitting in front of him.

“It’s sure good to see you, Rev.”

“Yeah, good to see you, too.”

Tomiko frowned and put her Coke down. “You could have fooled me.”

“What do you mean.”

“I mean, no hug? I know we’re in uniform, so that’s OK. But now, you’re sitting like a lump on a log, and you’ve barely said two words to me.”

“I . . . sorry. I just, and don’t take this wrong, but do I really need another nanny?”

Tomiko pursed her lips and nodded. “I’m not your nanny.”

“Come on, Miko. Don’t bullshit me. I know why Bundy’s here. I know why you’re here. We IBHUs are so unstable that they’re sending you nannies here to make sure we don’t embarrass the Union.”

Tomiko just looked into his eyes, and Rev couldn’t read her emotions. That never used to be.

“I told them we couldn’t hide what our prime mission was.”

“So, at least you admit it. You’re my nanny.”

“No, I’m not.”

Rev frowned, confused. “But you said—”

“I said I’m not your nanny. Bundy is. I’m Randigold’s nanny.”

“What? Why?”

“Bundy has three of you, from what they told me. Evidently, something’s come up, something happened. They didn’t tell us what.”

That took Rev aback. What had “come up?” Nothing was remarkable about the three Fox IBHUs. Had something happened with one of the others? Then a thought hit him. Were the results of his last tests off?

“Did it have to do with one of the three of us?”

Tomiko shook her head. “Like I said, I don’t know. But whatever it was, they decided that Bundy couldn’t watch over all three of you. So, I got surprise orders. I know Randigold, and I guess that was the only qualification. I’m going to her platoon.”

“And S-O-R?”

“You mean the regular sergeant? I don’t know. It’s still Bundy for now, but who knows?”

Rev sat back to digest that, picking up his Coke and taking a swallow. On the one hand, it was a relief to know that Tomiko wasn’t his nanny. He still felt a little fragile in their relationship after the blow-up at Leteeka’s so long ago, and he wasn’t sure how that kind of dynamic would affect that. But on the other hand, they’d always been together while in their Raider team. It would be odd to have her in his company but in a different platoon.

Maybe it’s best that way.

“So, are we OK? Or do I have to call up the commandant on my secret quantphone to tell him you don’t want me here?”

Rev laughed. “Yeah, right. I seem to have missed getting my secret phone issue.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“So, are we good?”

She acted calm and casual, but Rev could see an underlying tension in her face, in her body language. And he knew none of this was on her. Just like Bundy, just like him, she was issued orders, and she didn’t have the power to change them. He knew this must bother her just as much, if not more, than it bothered him.

Like it or not, they were going to be together for a while. Tomiko was just arriving, and Rev still had nineteen more months. His first seventeen months had been rather busy, and who knew what else was coming down the pike?

And as he looked at her, he suddenly felt better. He could think of no one else with whom he’d rather face the rest of his Home Guard tour.

Rev reached across the little table, took her hand, and said, “You’re my bestie. Of course, we’re good.”

He could see the relief flow over her face, and her body lost a bit of the tension.

“Just don’t tell them I’m crazy. Let Bundy do that.”

* * *

Rev will return in A BROKEN ALLIANCE, coming November 2021. Preorder now on Amazon.

For updates on this series, be sure to join the Facebook Group, “J.N. Chaney’s Renegade Readers.”

Acknowledgments

Thank you to our amazing beta readers!

Kelly O'Donnell

James Caplan

Micky Cocker

Christie Strahler

Neil Rubenking

Tracy Beattie

Sharon Mendez

Mike Belanger

Eliss Wiltshire

Matthew Lewis Titus

Bill and Konnie Kampfer

Geoffrey Morse

Joshua Hopkins

Mike Belanger

Elissa Wiltshire

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About the Authors

J. N. Chaney is a USA Today Bestselling author, has a Master’s of Fine Arts in Creative Writing, and fancies himself quite the Super Mario Bros. fan. He migrates often, but was last seen in Las Vegas, NV. Any sightings should be reported, as they are rare.

Chaney is best known for his Renegade Star series, the Variant Saga, the Messenger series, and Ruins of the Galaxy. For more on his releases, go to www.jnchaney.com.

* * *

Jonathan P. Brazee is a retired Marine colonel now living in Colorado Springs with his wife Kiwi and twin baby girls, Danika Dawn and Darika Marie. He was born in Oakland, CA, but has lived throughout the US and the world, and has traveled to over 100 countries.

He has more than 70 titles to his name in six different languages and is a two-time Nebula Award and one-time Dragon Award finalist as well as a USA Today Bestselling writer. Find out more by visiting his website at www.jonathanbrazee.com.