Copyrighted Material

Sentenced to War Copyright © 2021 by Variant Publications

Book design and layout copyright © 2020 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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Contents

Glossary

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

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About the Authors

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: Council 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

<Would you like to hear a joke?>

Corporal Reverent Pelletier, Pegasus Union Marines, shook his head, clearing out the cobwebs.

“So, I take it we’re here in one piece?”

<Affirmative. You’ve entered the atmosphere of Tenerife. You should hit the LZ in just over thirty-three minutes. Would you like to hear a joke?>

Rev stretched the best he could in the Personal Insertion Sphere-31, the “pisser,” yawned, and as the wake-ups took hold everything came into focus. The vibrations he was feeling was his pisser breaking through the planet’s exosphere. This had been a long insert: fifty-three hours since he launched from a nondescript in-system tramp.

“A joke? I’m just coming to, and you want to make me suffer through one of your jokes?”

<Yes.>

I never should have upped your PQ.

It had been six months since Rev, along with everyone else, had been involuntarily extended in the Corps, and he’d raised Punch’s PQ to one hundred percent at the time. In some ways, his battle buddy was no different than he was before. In other ways, such as his intense interest in humor, the difference was more pronounced.

“How long before power-up?”

The insertion sphere was almost totally inert as it plummeted to the planet’s surface. The only electrical impulses inside of it were those of his own nervous system and his battle buddy leeching from it. Everything else was off in the hopes that the Centaurs wouldn’t be able to pick the pisser up on their scans.

Rev hated not being in control, and his mind strayed to the surface of the planet, wondering if he’d been detected, wondering if a meson cannon was now being trained on him.

<Your pulse rate is rising.>

The drugs that had kept him out during the approach to Tenerife were being purged from his system, so that was no surprise. That and the fact that he was a big fat target, unable to take evasive action.

I’m going to regret this, I know.

But anything to take his mind off the Centaurs below.

“OK, tell me a joke.”

<Why is Peter Pan always flying?>

Does he sound eager?

It was getting harder to think of his battle buddy as simple crystals in a lattice lodged in his brain, but Rev hadn’t decided if Punch enjoyed telling jokes or if that was just part of his programming—something the psychologists thought Rev needed to perform at peak function.

“OK, I don’t know. Why?”

<Because he neverlands.>

It took Rev a second for it to sink in, then he groaned.

I knew I should have said no.

“I should lower your PQ to fifty.”

He made sure not to make that a direct order. He’d said that facetiously once before and didn’t realize for over a week that his battle buddy had followed that order.

Your jokes still suck, buddy. You’ve got a long way to go to catch up to the king.

The belief that his jokes were better than Punch’s oddly made him feel comfortable. With so much that his battle buddy could do better, it was good to know that, in this case, an organic brain could outdo a crystal one. Tomiko said his and Punch’s jokes were equally bad when he asked for her opinion, but what did she know about humor?

The pisser’s vibration turned to shaking, and Rev had to brace himself to keep from being slammed about. If Punch’s joke had been intended to keep his mind off the entry, it had failed. He just had to sit back and trust, which was difficult for him to do.

Just centimeters from where he was bracing himself, the surface of the capsule was ablating, slowing him down. Much of his speed had been bled away by using parabolic braking around the system’s second-largest gas giant. Now, the pisser was using the atmosphere to slow to the point to where Rev could survive the transition from the capsule into the atmosphere.

Rev fought with his stomach as the pisser lurched and shook. Some of the others made it a point of pride to be able to handle the descent. Rev cared more about puking, or not puking, as the case was. Despite the crap the others gave him for having a wimpy stomach, he wasn’t too proud to have his medinanos push antiemetics through him. Better than covering his flight suit with puke.

<Two minutes until power-up.>

Finally.

The pisser was violently shaking now, and Rev was being thrown about, banging his head and arms. Antiemetics or not, he was decidedly uncomfortable, and his ejection, despite the danger, was a welcomed prospect. He removed the power-up from the compartment by his right hand.

Punch counted him down. At zero, Rev snapped the power-up like a chem-light, allowing the three sections to intermix, then slid it into the recessed slot.

If the system was working, a tiny microwatt flicker of electricity was powering up the pisser’s sensors. They would measure its speed and location. The speed was to determine if it was going to be safe enough for Rev to be ejected. The location was because by adjusting the pattern of ablation, the pisser could make slight course corrections. All of this was being done without any input by him.

This was Rev’s second pisser insertion, so compared to most Marines, he was an old hand at it. That didn’t do much, however, to calm his nerves. Give him a Yellowjacket and put a Centaur in front of him, and he was at least in control of the situation. Here, he was just a slab of meat, a package to be delivered.

He couldn’t tell for sure, but it seemed as if the shaking had abated somewhat. He stared at the spot where the LED would light, telling him he had only seconds before ejecting.

“We still good to go?”

<Affirmative, as far as I can tell.>

Rev didn’t like the “as far as I can tell,” but the capsule was entirely automated, and Punch had no control over it, either.

Come on, Reverent. You don’t need a battle buddy to hold your hand. Man up.

At last, the single green LED lit like a beacon in the dark. Rev got into the ejection position, pulling in his arms, tightening up his legs, and bringing his chin down to his chest while the LED pulsed down the seconds.

<Five seconds.>

Rev tightened his position, counting under his breath, then the pisser split open around him. The shock almost took his breath away as forces clawed at his arms and legs. Without his augments, he wouldn’t have been able to hold his position, and his survival rate would have been in the twentieth percentile. Even augmented, it was a struggle.

The atmosphere yanked at his arms and legs, but Rev managed to keep his position, and within a few moments, he had stabilized. Slowly, he extended into the age-old freefall position and deployed his flight suit.

Rev sighed with relief. He may be twenty-thousand meters in the air, plummeting to the ground in enemy-held territory, but he was in control of his actions.

That was what mattered to him.

* * *

Rev stomped on the dirt regretfully, flattening it out. He’d just buried his M-49 Assault Rifle, M554 Moray Missile, and battle kit under the forest floor, and he felt naked.

“You ready, now, Hansel?” Tomiko—no, “Leona”—asked.

“Sure, Gretel.”

“We’re on-planet now. Cut the shit and stay on script,” the lieutenant said.

“Sorry, sir,” Rev said, rightfully chastised.

Each of the team had been given identities of Tenerife citizens currently off-planet—and that included the highly illegal process of retinal matching. Rev had been given a brief as to the real Hansel Minik, and almost everything possible about the man was uploaded into his battle buddy.

Tomiko had been given the identity of Leona Galdós, but Rev had taken to calling her “Gretel” during their work-ups. His little act of rebellion had been merely annoying back at Camp Nguyen, but here, on mission, it could be a fatal mistake.

Rev still thought all of this was overkill. No one knew if the Centaurs had much in the way of security, and it was just as likely that if they did, it would be facial recognition. With the use of theatrical prosthetics that would make a New Bollywood production proud, Rev now sort of looked like Hansel Minik, but he had to squint really hard to get to the point where Tomiko, with her East Asian features, looked like Leona Galdós.

“OK, you two, take off,” Lieutenant Omestori said.

Rev waited a moment for some last-minute reminder of the mission’s importance or an admonition not to screw up, but evidently, the platoon commander thought the untold hours of prep had been enough. He gave one last glance at where his weapons were now buried, then he and Tomiko set off through the pine tree forest. They had a good five-hour hump in front of them.

“Looks just like New Hope,” Tomiko said after five minutes of silence.

“It is a Roher planet, just like home,” Rev said. “Look at all the laurel.”

“You’d think that with all the planets terraformed by humans, they’d have put a little variety into things.”

Rev shrugged. “If it works, don’t break it.”

He’d never given much thought to terraforming. It was just a fact of life, like Ponson Dam back home creating Ponson Reservoir to supply Swansea with water. Where Tomiko was always wondering about things, the why and the how, Rev was more accepting of life. As his stepfather was fond of saying, “Don’t worry about the things you can’t change. Worry about what you can.”

Tenerife was now his fourth planet, and if three of them had been terraformed by Roher, at least that made things more familiar. But familiarity could be a problem, as Gunny Thapa had warned them before the embark. Familiarity could breed complacency. The teams were in civilian clothing, and they’d be among other humans. But they couldn’t forget that Tenerife was an enemy-held planet. While the Centaurs hadn’t wiped out the planet’s citizens yet, no one knew why the people were still alive or what might set the Centaurs off on a genocidal purge.

The two fell into an easy silence, unerringly on course, guided by their navigational augments. Rev still didn’t quite understand the science behind it, which had been explained a hundred times if it had been explained once. He was beyond being grossed out about the ferrous molecules and pigeon DNA inserted into his hypothalamus. It wasn’t a process, like following a GPS back home. He just knew where he was and to where he was going.

A large bird, probably a partridge, blasted up from a laurel patch, making them both wheel around, hands reaching for weapons left back at the LZ.

“Scared the shit out of me,” Tomiko said with a rueful laugh.

“Me, too. Thought it was a tin-ass for a second there.”

“We’re just jumpy. No weapons.”

“And it sucks,” Rev said.

“I know, but we can’t really go marching into San Cristobal in our PAL-5s, armed to the teeth, right? Might stand out just a bit.”

Rev grunted. He knew that, but he didn’t have to like it.

“Miko . . . uh, Leona, what do you think of this mission? I mean, really?”

They’d been walking in a column, and Rev was currently in front. Tomiko stepped up beside him.

“It sure the hell isn’t what we’re trained to do.”

Which, Rev suddenly realized, was making him feel more uneasy than on any of his previous three missions. Rev was a Union Marine Raider, trained to close with and kill the enemy. It was a dangerous profession, but call it being self-assured, call it arrogance; in each previous case, he’d gone in with a degree of confidence that he was up to the task.

This mission was . . . well, quite a bit different.

The Centaurs had invaded Tenerife nine months previous, only the eighth Perseus Union planet taken. But instead of wiping out the planet’s humans, they had kept most of them alive, and that caused a problem.

Of course, it was great that the people hadn’t been killed. But it was almost as if they were human shields now. With hundreds of millions of people, what would the Centaurs do if humanity tried to retake the planet? That was what had stymied the Council of Humanity, and the Perseus Union Secretariat, in particular, from doing anything about it. Until now.

Under surveillance with tiny orbital drones that kept getting knocked out and replaced, humanity was monitoring the situation on the planet’s surface, and theory after theory kept popping up as to what the things they were observing meant. It looked, for all intents and purposes, as if much of the population was working, either at human facilities or inside vast buildings erected by the Centaurs. Initially, the consensus was that they were slave labor for some kind of project. There were reports from across the galaxy that humans had been put into forced labor, but nothing to this scale.

Then, the rumors started taking a more sinister tone. The humans inside the Centaur buildings were being experimented on as the Centaurs tested new weapons and ways to exterminate the human race. That humans were being genetically modified to become entirely new beings, and that they were simply being tortured for the amusement of their captors.

Rev wasn’t so sure about that last one, but it didn’t matter what he thought. Pressure was building on the government to act. People with relatives on Tenerife were a daily event as they protested outside the Government House on New Mars. It had gotten to the point that something had to be done despite the obvious danger to the captive humans should the planet be invaded by the Marines.

And so was born their mission. Those trained in surreptitious insertions—most of the Corps’ recon assets, SEALs, planetary rangers and commandos, and some Frisian and Manifest Destiny special forces—were to infiltrate the population centers and organize the citizens to act upon the coming assault. Once the Marine main force arrived, the citizens were to flee for safety.

Military and civilian specialists feared that the carnage among the civilians would be astronomical. Anything that could be done to minimize the number killed had to be attempted.

Rev and the rest had crowd control theory uploaded into their battle buddies, and they’d gone through some limited hands-on training, but he was far from confident that all the two-man teams scattered across the planet could first, escape detection, and second, actually herd civilians to safety while the planet was under attack.

Rev wasn’t afraid for his own life. He was afraid of failure and its consequences.

2

San Cristobal looked surprisingly normal as Rev and Tomiko walked into the outskirts of the city. Subdued, yes. Depressing, yes. But there were a few people out and about and no signs of Centaurs. Not many signs of damage, either.

No one seemed to pay any attention to the two Marines as they continued, keeping to the outskirts and cutting kitty-corner as they made their way to the Polanco neighborhood, which was their assigned AO, their Area of Operations. It didn’t seem right to call it that. They were not here to take on the Centaurs, after all. But the military was the military, and the entire operations order had been given in militarese.

“Camera,” Rev whispered to Tomiko. “Eleven o’clock on the second floor.”

“Just keep walking,” she said, taking his arm in hers.

They’d expected to see the surveillance cameras. Social monitoring on Tenerife was more stringent than back on New Hope, so this was their first big test. A camera like the one Rev had spotted wasn’t likely to be able to perform a retinal scan, but it could feed facial recognition or movement patterns into the database. Something as simple as a hitch in Rev’s gait could set it off . . . if the Centaurs were monitoring it. That was the thousand-credit question.

Rev’s gait was slightly odd now, after his augments. Muscles, joints, and ligaments had been altered beyond human parameters. He just hoped he wasn’t too far out of the norm.

He tried to modify his gait to something more normal.

“You’re trying too hard,” Tomiko whispered. “Just relax.”

She was right, of course. The two kept on walking down the sidewalk, passing directly through the cam’s field of view. It took an effort of will not to look away. Just two people walking along. Nothing to see here.

Rev half-expected an alarm, followed by a couple of Centaur paladins rushing down the street to meet them, but there was nothing. No hue, no cry. He let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and turned to Tomiko with a big smile.

“One down, who knows how many to go?”

“Just keep on going.”

They had entered the city at BangPu, a suburban residential area, and were still about five klicks from their AO. That seemed like a long way for them to be simply sauntering along. Even if the Centaurs weren’t actively monitoring the security system, the AIs could note their presence. For all anyone knew, humans were being kept confined to certain areas, and breaking the restrictions could set off alerts.

Once again, if the Centaurs were on the systems.

Rev was anxious to get to their destination. They were too exposed out in the open, and they didn’t know what rules the population might have to follow. Certainly, the humans were not free to do what they wanted, not under the yoke of the Centaurs.

They passed through BangPu and into the BangNa neighborhood, where small, minisynths fabricated the various items that kept civilization humming. The area was quiet, however. None of the shops looked open.

“This is creepy,” Tomiko said.

Probably most cities within human space had these pockets of minisynths, many mom-and-pop operations with a single fabricator. It was so much cheaper and easier to simply print out whatever was needed than to have the items shipped in. They were the lifeblood of humanity, and them being silent was the most concrete sign the two Marines had seen that the planet was under alien occupation.

Rev wanted to stop and look inside one of the shops, but he restrained himself. He didn’t want to do anything to call attention to them.

“Another forty minutes,” he said needlessly.

Tomiko had the same navigational augments, and she knew exactly where they were just the same as he did. But he needed to break the oppressive silence of BangNa.

It was with relief when they crossed over the Boulder River and into a more commercial area. It wasn’t as crowded as it would normally be this close to lunchtime, but it was good to see people moving about.

“Hell, look at that,” Rev said as they came alongside a ruined city block.

Rock and glass had fused into misshapen lumps, a sure sign that it had been hit by an energy weapon. Two teens were picking through the ruins, prying with crowbars to see what might be underneath. Other people walked by, heads down and not paying any attention to the scavengers.

“What was that?”

<Commercial shops on the ground floor. Six stories of apartments above. Do you want to know the specifics?>

“No. That’s enough.”

As a Marine, Rev expected military targets to be hit, but seeing civilians killed or wounded was always a gut-punch. There was no discernable damage to the surrounding buildings, and as the two walked past, he wondered just what had happened here. Just bad luck?

Hopefully, the residents weren’t hunkering down inside their apartments.

As they continued, there were more signs of damage—not as bad as the destroyed block, but still signs of the invasion. All that did was cement the fact that he and Tomiko were in a war zone unarmed.

An old lady approached them from the front, dressed in her best, complete with a box hat framing her gray curls. Unlike most of the other stragglers out and about, she held her head high, looking as if she was bound and determined not to let the present situation affect her daily life.

She gave Rev a piercing stare as they approached, and he automatically said, “Ma’am,” as he nodded.

She gave a tight, pursed smile as they passed, in control of every aspect of her life.

At least, giving a façade of that. She couldn’t control the Centaurs.

“That’s the market,” Tomiko said a block later.

The Northwest Market was the largest in the city. It was where farmers and craftsmen brought in their wares. Food fabricators were the norm on Tenerife, just as in most of human space, but there was a thriving demand on the planet for organics. There were a few lightly stocked stalls manned in the front, but the warren of aisles and stalls inside looked abandoned.

Rev hadn’t expected to see anyone trying to sell their goods, but humanity was resilient. And their presence was a good sign, even better than the few people out in the streets. The Centaurs were not cracking down on every aspect of life, and that might make their jobs just a bit easier.

The market had more significance to Rev and Tomiko, however. It was one of their possible rally points to gather the citizens during the coming assault. It was a no-fire zone for the Navy and Marines, and it was relatively easy to exit the city from there.

“It might do,” Rev said.

There were three other possibilities, but it was good to get eyes on this one.

“Think we should take a quick look while we’re here?” Tomiko asked.

Rev hesitated. He and Tomiko were peers, but he was technically senior, and in the Corps, someone was always in command. It was up to him.

“No. I don’t see any activity past those few stalls. We’d better find out what the rules are first.”

“Tomatoes, nice and ripe,” one of the sellers said as they passed.

He didn’t seem too enthusiastic, and Rev wondered if he was there because he was essentially on autopilot. When a person’s world came crashing down around them, routine was one lifeline to sanity.

They left the market behind. Another thirty minutes, and they’d be at their destination. They had five potential hides, all buildings that, according to the last records from before the Centaur invasion, were empty. They could be full of refugees now, for all the two Marines knew, but they had to find a base of operations. They couldn’t just walk the streets out in the open until the Marine assault.

The battle damage was more evident as they continued. Destroyed hovers, burnt to scrap, were scattered in the road. Buildings had scorch marks, windows were smashed. A few forlorn bunches of flowers, accompanied by crosses, Stars of David, or crescent moons were testaments to loved ones lost. Someone had put up a scorched piece of wood as a monument to someone named Teo, with the simple inscription He Went Home Tired. Rev looked away, a pang of regret flaring to life in his throat.

A single armored personnel carrier blocked the middle of the road. It was split in two as if cut by a giant ax. Rev didn’t know what Centaur weapon could have done that. He couldn’t help but look inside as they passed, but if there had been local militia in it when it was hit, the bodies had been removed.

A grubby man, filthy, his hair matted, was sitting in the shade offered by the hulk. He might be twenty years old, or he might be eighty—Rev couldn’t tell. But his eyes were piercing as he looked up at the two Marines.

Rev expected him to say something, to ask for a handout, and maybe he was going to, but he suddenly twisted his head to the right. Quick as a cat, he was on his feet, darting away from the APC.

Tomiko and Rev might not be armed, but they were combat Marines with combat reflexes. Both were moving immediately, darting down a narrow alley. Only, it wasn’t a real alley. It dead-ended after twenty meters.

As one, they turned and hugged the wall of the building. A short thirty seconds later, a Centaur passed the entrance to their refuge. At least it had to be a Centaur. It screamed alien, but it wasn’t a paladin, a riever, or any other Centaur Rev recognized. And it was small, barely a meter long, the chassis half-a-meter tall.

Both Rev and Tomiko had seen a Centaur body, and while maybe half the size of an adult human, that was still too big to be inside the vehicle . . . or whatever it was.

It either didn’t see the two of them, or it didn’t care. It passed the entrance in two or three seconds as it traveled down the road, heading in the direction of the market.

“What the hell was that?” Tomiko asked.

Rev repeated the question, but to his battle buddy.

<That is an unknown vehicle. However, there are enough similarities to assume that it is of Centaur origin.>

“No shit, Sherlock.”

The pedestal, which looked like a smaller version of the one on a riever, was proof enough of that.

“Pikachu doesn’t recognize it, but it’s tin-ass,” Tomiko said. “Does Punch know what it is?”

Not really the smartest question as both AIs had the same database. Rev didn’t point that out, though.

“No way there’s a tin-ass inside that. Not enough room,” he said.

“Not unless they’ve got little tin-asses. Or baby ones.”

“Record and file for transmission,” Rev told his battle buddy. “Priority Three.”

Punch could pull the image up at any time in the future, and by putting it at Priority Three, the image was primed and ready to go. If Rev was killed, but his head was intact, there would be enough power to keep his battle buddy running for approximately three minutes, more than enough time for him to send off a pulse. When it would be received was a different issue, but at some point, it would be.

“It has to be automatic,” he said. “Does that mean the tin-asses have AIs?”

“Their tech is better than ours, so why wouldn’t they?”

Because we haven’t seen it before.

But was that the truth? For all the fighting, humans had only seen one actual Centaur, and it was dead. Sure, the science-types had measured signs of life, but after seeing the mini-Centaur scoot by, Rev wasn’t sure anymore.

The two stayed tight for a few minutes, lost in their thoughts. Finally, Rev crept forward and looked around the corner. The Centaur wasn’t in sight. There was a scuffling sound, and Rev wheeled around, but it was the grubby man, creeping back out to the APC.

“It’s gone,” he told Rev as he sank back to his sitting position.

But to where? Is it in hiding, waiting to attack?

Rev turned to Tomiko and said, “Let’s go.”

They still had a mission, and a Centaur sighting or not, they had to proceed. As they resumed, a door opened, and a woman carefully looked down the road in the direction the Centaur had taken. She didn’t bother giving the two of them more than a glance before she slipped out and hurried the other way.

“They sure don’t like the tin-asses.”

Rev almost said, “Would you?” but he knew that wasn’t what Tomiko meant. For all the admittedly few people out and about, for the handful of vendors at the market, it was evident that the humans didn’t have full freedom. Which was logical, given the circumstances. But after seeing signs of life, of commerce, Rev had started to hope. Freedom of movement would make the two Marines’ jobs that much easier.

But this was the situation, and they’d just have to make do. That was what Marines did.

A little warier, they continued, nerves on the alert, ready to dive for cover at an instance’s notice.

No more Centaurs came down the road. And as local noon approached, there seemed to be more people on the street. Not a lot, as might be expected in a city of this size. But a few more than they’d seen before. There was less visible damage, too.

“Salazar Square is right up ahead. Another five minutes, and we can check out the first potential safe house,” Rev said.

“Not soon enough.”

This was more of an upscale neighborhood with townhouses, cafes, and shops lining the street, guarded by leafy elms. In another time and place, it would be bustling with people sitting in the open-air cafes, eating and socializing.

But it wasn’t another time. It was now. They reached the square and turned to the left for their last leg to their AO.

“Who the hell is that?” Tomiko asked. “Over to your three o’clock, with the white armband.”

Rev let his eyes slowly take in the square, passing over Tomiko’s target, and he immediately understood what had caught his partner’s attention. Aside from the white armband, there was something different about the fiftyish man. Instead of being bent over, eyes to the ground, he stood tall with an arrogance that projected from him like a light. And if Rev could tell anything from body language, the woman standing next to him would rather be anywhere else while the man addressed her. Short and stout, the loose red-trimmed torbin robe with the hood pulled up did nothing to hide her slouched figure, hands clasped in front while she listened to the man.

And from his gestures, the man had a lot to say.

“Don’t know. But let’s cross the street,” Rev said.

No one had yet to give them a second look, but there was no use taking chances. They were only four blocks from their AO, and he’d feel much better off the streets and under some sort of cover.

Tomiko put her arm through his as they crossed over, ignoring the two people. Rev tilted his head down, mimicking the other people they’d seen.

“Hey, you two, come here!” the man yelled out.

Rev barely faltered his step, continuing and pulling Tomiko with him.

“Hey! You in the blue jacket. I said, come here.”

Rev didn’t have to look to see that he was the only one in the square in a blue jacket. He turned slowly to look at the guy, who was standing officiously, hands on his hips as he glared at them.

Twenty meters away. I can close in a second.

“Don’t even think on it,” Tomiko whispered as if she could read his thoughts.

“What do you want?” Rev asked.

“What do I want?” the man asked as if surprised at the question. “Who are you to question me? I said, come here.”

Rev bristled, but Tomiko’s arm in his acted as a governor. He forced a smile and with her started across the street again.

“That’s far enough,” the man said when they were halfway over, holding out his right hand, palm out like an old-time traffic cop. And as he did, Rev saw the insignia on his armband: a star and halo.

Angel shit!

Rev knew that the Children of Angels were not a New Hope phenomenon. He knew they were everywhere, but still, he hadn’t expected to find them here. Not only was the guy standing in front of him an angel shit, but he also acted as if he had some sort of authority. Rev should have put two-and-two together from the armband even before he saw the insignia, but back on New Hope, they wore white headbands.

“I don’t recognize you. What’re your names?”

“Leona Galdós,” Tomiko said before Rev could do something stupid.

Just go along with it, Reverent.

“Hansel Minik.”

The man’s eyebrows pursed together as he seemed to think about it before asking, “Where are you from?”

“Polanco,” the two said together. “We’re just going back now.”

“Polanco? Then what are you doing here? You’re out of jurisdiction. I’m calling Manny.”

Rev tensed his legs to spring into action, only to stop dead when the man pulled out a slap-freeze and drew down on him. In his PC-5, the small weapon would have no effect, but he wasn’t in his battlesuit. If he was hit with that primitive self-defense charge, he’d fall, and it would be hard. He’d be helpless. Tomiko could probably get the guy before he shifted his aim to her, but Rev would be out for the count.

Rev was royally pissed. He was a trained Marine, and this piece of crap Angel shit had managed to get the drop on him?

“We’re just trying to get home,” Tomiko said with just the right degree of plaintiveness. “Can’t you give us a break?”

“You should have thought of that before you broke cordons,” the man said as he slowly pulled his quantphone to call this Manny.

The real Hansel Minik and Leona Galdós were registered as living in Polanco, but if this Manny guy knew the neighborhood, he might know that neither had been on the planet for two years.

“How long would I be out if he shot me?” Rev asked his battle buddy as he shifted his feet ever-so-slightly to give him a better angle to push off.

<It depends on the charge. It could be from approximately two hours up and to death.>

“But it’s a self-defense weapon.”

<One that can kill.>

“So, I’d better not let him hit me.”

He rocked slightly on the balls of his feet. He’d drop down low and hope the guy shot over his head.

“Kyle,” the woman to whom the guy had been talking, said.

“Not now, Lima. I’ll deal with you after I take care of these two.”

“Kyle!”

His hand holding the slap-freeze never wavered, and his eyes never left Rev, but he turned his head slightly.

“I said—”

Whatever he was going to say was cut off when the woman darted forward and drew her arm across Kyle’s throat. Rev was already in motion, surging across the intervening distance, but all for nothing.

Kyle, a surprised look on his face, fell to his knees as blood fountained out, spraying the pavement. He gaped as Rev stood over him before he fell over, kicked twice, and lay still.

“Come with me,” the woman, Lima, said, as she slipped the ceramic blade into her pocket, then took Rev’s hand and tried to pull him along. Rev resisted, and she said, “We don’t have much time before the Cents get here.”

That was enough to galvanize the two Marines. The three bolted down the side street, then into a building halfway down the block.

“You don’t see us, Jen,” Lima said to a young, wide-eyed woman sitting on a beautician’s chair.

The woman drew her legs back under her, but she said nothing.

Lima led them to the back of the shop, through a door, then down two flights of steps. The door at the bottom opened into a tunnel, and Lima hurried down, urging the two Marines to follow.

Rev’s navigation worked underground just as well as aboveground. He knew they had crossed back under the square and past the block on the other side. Lima was huffing and puffing, and he could imagine he could hear her heart pounding. Finally, in a side tunnel, Lima stopped and bent over with her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath.

She was trembling, and with each breath, she gave out a tiny cry, almost like a kitten. Tomiko pursed her lips and stepped past Rev to put her arm around the woman’s shoulders.

“It’s OK,” she said.

It was dark in the tunnel, with small lights every fifteen meters offering minimal illumination. Here in the side tunnel, there wasn’t even that. Rev’s augmented eyes could see the woman well enough, but she would be mostly blind.

“Fuck. I can’t believe I did that,” she muttered as she slowly straightened her back. “Kyle, you ass.”

She turned toward Rev and Tomiko, took a deep breath, and squared her shoulders. “You’re not from San Cristobal. I’m guessing you’re not from Tenerife. So, who the hell are you?”

Rev exchanged looks with Tomiko. The success of their mission depended upon secrecy. If they were compromised, their mission would fail, and that was the best-case basis. Worst case, it would tip off the Centaurs, and that could spell doom for the assault and the citizens of the planet.

Each team was given the authorization to do whatever they had to do to maintain that secrecy. Whatever.

But this woman, Lima, had just killed a man to protect them. Their mission was to save the population of the planet, and that didn’t jive with taking a citizen’s life. Beyond that, it just wasn’t in Rev to kill a civilian, even for a greater good.

“Corporal Reverent Pelletier, Union Marines, ma’am,” he said automatically, ditching the Hansel identity.

“Oh, thank God,” Lima said, flinging her arms around his neck and collapsing on his chest. “You’ve come to save us!”

3

Rev sat in silence for a moment, digesting what Lima Rey had told Tomiko and him. When given their operations order, the S2, Lieutenant Greci-Won, had presented to them several scenarios of what they thought civilian life was like on Tenerife. She’d been right in some ways, but she’d missed a major factor.

There were Angel shits on the planet, and they’d not only welcomed the Centaurs but were actively serving them as quislings.

This seemed like a pretty big thing to miss, in Rev’s opinion. Yes, they had no direct communications with the citizens of the planet, but Omega Division and the military had assets that could surreptitiously gather the data needed to develop intel.

“So, that guy, Kyle, you knew him?”

“Went to school with him,” Lima said matter-of-factly.

Rev understood death, and he understood killing. But he’d killed Centaurs, not fellow humans. To see this middle-aged, somewhat-dowdy woman, who might look at home at the local school board meeting complaining about her son’s biology teacher, just shrug off cutting a man’s throat—a man she’d known for years—like it was nothing was more than a little unnerving.

“Well, thank you,” Tomiko said.

“I couldn’t very well have him ask Manny Orinda about you, now could I? If he found out you were lying, he’d have turned you over to the damned Cents.”

Slap-freeze notwithstanding, Rev wasn’t so sure that Kyle would have been able to do much, but yes, it was good that the other angel shit had not been warned that there were outsiders in the area.

“He’s an asshole, anyway,” Lima said, spitting onto the floor of the apartment to which she’d led them. “I guess he was, now,” she added, this time with a little less venom in her voice.

Rev wondered what their history was, Lima and Kyle. Where she was full of righteous anger before, there was just the slightest glint of tears forming in her eyes now.

“Do you know how many of these . . . kapos there are?” Rev asked.

“Not really. We don’t know much of what’s going on outside our cordon. We’ve got Kyle’s family. They’re all quislings, but only he and his daughter are kapos. At least they’re the only ones who wear the armband. Ti Santorum, she’s a kapo. All told? Maybe half-a-dozen. But that’s enough. They’ve got the Cents at their beck and call.

It had taken Rev a few moments to understand the difference between quislings and kapos, two terms Lima had thrown around. He knew what a quisling was, someone who cooperated with the enemy. But he’d had to ask his battle buddy what a “kapo” was. It was an old Twentieth Century term for a prisoner who became the enforcer, the guards working for their enemy. According to Punch, back on Earth, they’d been noted for being crueler than the captors themselves.

Rev and others had known their mission would be difficult, but he’d never imagined that one of the obstacles would be fellow citizens. He’d always thought that the Children of Angels were flat-out crazy. A group of them had even tried to take over Camp Nguyen—which was full of thousands of Marines at the time. That was the very definition of crazy. But he’d never considered that they would be actively helping the enemy.

“What happens to people who run afoul of these kapos. You said that Kyle would have turned us over to the tin-ass . . . the Cents, if he’d have figured out we weren’t citizens here. What happens then?” Rev asked.

Lima’s eyes hardened, and she said, “We don’t know. None have ever come back once the Cents take them away.”

Whatever remorse she might have felt there for a moment disappeared in an instant.

“Well, then, we’ll just have to make sure we aren’t taken,” Tomiko said. “That no one is taken until—”

She cut herself off.

“Until what? Why are you here? What’s going to happen?”

The Marine assault was going to initiate in just over thirty hours. The teams on-planet didn’t want to give the Centaurs any advance warning, so that knowledge wasn’t to be widely disseminated until closer to H-Hour. With the Children of Angels thrown into the mix, the chance for that seemed much higher than they’d anticipated. They needed some help from the local citizens, however. They couldn’t just spring this on the people at the last moment.

Tomiko gave Rev a quick glance, and when Rev nodded, she continued.

“We’re coming to take on the Centaurs. The Marines.”

“And us? What’s going to happen to us while you’re doing this?” Lima asked, her voice low, but the stress evident.

“That’s why we’re here. We’ve got to implement an evacuation of the population,” Tomiko said.

“You do know how many people we’ve got here, right?” Lima asked.

“Before the tin-asses came? You had close to half-a-million here in San Cristobal. One-point-three billion planet-wide,” Rev said.

“I don’t know about the rest of Tenerife, but here in the city, three-quarters of us are probably still alive.”

Which was one of the things they were supposed to find out. That was more than most of the estimates. Normally, the Centaurs exterminated all or most of the human populations of the planets they took.

“I see two Marines,” Lima continued. “I’m happy to see you, and I’m overjoyed to hear a rescue force is on its way, but how can you two save all of us here?”

Rev hesitated, not sure how much he should tell her. But they needed help, and her willingness to kill an old friend was a pretty good indication that she was up to the task.

“There are a lot more than just the two of us. A couple of thousand have arrived over the last ten or twelve hours. Fourteen more just here in San Cristobal,” Rev told her.

Lima raised an eyebrow and said, “Kinda hard to hide that many Marines. What if . . . no, what happens when one of you guys gets caught. You almost did, after all.”

This woman was sharp, Rev realized, as she voiced one of the biggest liabilities of their mission. Just the kind of person they needed. It was serendipity that they met, and Rev wasn’t going to throw that away.

“Surprise is what we need to keep Marines alive while we root out the tin-asses. But the cost to your people . . . that would be just too much. So, we have to risk losing that surprise in order to save lives.”

He could tell that answer was unexpected. She drew back slightly, then nodded her understanding.

Time to pounce.

“But we need help. We don’t know your city, we don’t know your people. We’ve got a list of people we’re to try to contact as go-betweens that the Omega Division provided.”

“Did the OD have me on that list?”

“No, they didn’t.”

Her disappointment was evident as she slightly deflated.

“But, Corporal Reiser and I think you’re a perfect candidate.”

He hadn’t actually discussed it with Tomiko, but she nodded her agreement as he said it.

“Would you be our contact here, to help us get your people ready?”

“Me? Damn fucking right, I would,” she blurted out. “What do you want me to do?”

That’s a relief. We’ve made contact.

They may not have tracked down any of their potential contacts, and they weren’t holed up in any of the suggested safe houses, but this place, and Lima, would do. They were in a different neighborhood than they had planned, but it was still in their AO. With the added threat of the Children of Angels, this was their best option.

Time was ticking away, but the two Marines needed a better picture of what was going on. Until they had that, they couldn’t finalize their plans.

“Right now, we need information.”

“Shoot. I’ll tell you whatever you need to know.” She stood there, eager to help.

Rev had a list of questions he’d been given to ask, but one stood above the others, so he decided to get right to the heart of it.

“Why have the tin-asses kept you all alive? They don’t usually do that, and if we know why they value you, that might help us get more of you out of this in one piece.”

That took Lima by surprise. “You don’t know?”

Rev and Tomiko exchanged puzzled looks, then Tomiko said, “No, we don’t. No one does.”

“Well, given what’s happened over the last hour, I was going to skip it, but I’m supposed to be on shift in about forty-five minutes. If you’ve got big enough balls, you can come and see the answer for yourself. So, Marines, are your balls big enough?”

“Huge, Lima. Our balls are huge,” Rev assured her. “And if you can answer that question, we’ll follow you anywhere.”

* * *

“I don’t get it,” Rev said as he watched a steady stream of people entering the old terraforming plant. “That thing hasn’t worked for more than a century. It can’t be in good shape.”

“But that’s what we’re doing,” Lima said.

“What records do you have about the place?” he subvocalized.

<It was shut down a hundred-and-twenty-six years ago. Since then, the bulk of the equipment has been repurposed and removed.>

“Could it work?”

<Not as it is, and it would need importation of equipment that does not currently exist on the planet.>

It didn’t make any sense. The planet’s O2 level was twenty-one percent at sea level, a touch more than back on Earth. The only reason the plant was still standing at all was that it was probably more trouble than it was worth to demolish it, and like many planets, the stacks were often kept as memorials to the pioneering spirit that populated this corner of the galaxy.

Rev knew about the plant, of course. It was one of his and Tomiko’s possible assembly areas. What Intel hadn’t realized was that people were working there, which was a rather major omission.

“And you said other humans were being put to work?”

“Like I told you, I haven’t been out of our cordon. But the food is still being fabricated, the water is still running, and . . .”

“And what?”

“Well, this is all rumor. I don’t know for sure, but Kyle said that the Cents have more of us being forced to work for them. Like at Kreimer.”

<Kreimer is a major fabrication center. Large, industrial capabilities,> his battle buddy told him without being prompted.

It was evident that the Centaurs were not just ignoring the humans, letting them live instead of exterminating the population. They were using them for slave labor. But why? It didn’t seem that efficient, and more than that, Tenerife was well within the borders of human space. They had to have foreseen a human response.

It was almost as if they were settling in for the long haul.

Tenerife had been a Class B (+) planet when discovered. It had native life and an O2/N atmosphere. It had only taken fifty years to bring it up to human standards and certified for colonization. With heavy metals and resources humans prized, it had been an obvious jewel, and the bidding war for the rights had been lively.

Those resources still didn’t answer why the Centaurs had invaded. There were far more remote worlds within human control, not to mention the billions of other worlds within the galaxy.

But no one understood the motivations of the enigmatic aliens. They’d show up, make their demands, and then resort to force. No living Centaur had ever been captured, and no one even knew their language.

The Centaurs, though, sure understood Standard and more than a dozen regional languages. There were never any attempts at diplomacy, however. They communicated with humans only to make their demands.

The Children of Angels claimed that the Centaurs were at a higher plane than humans, and in order to understand them, humanity had to let the Centaurs guide them to that same plane, to get leveled-up. Then, and only then, the secrets of the Centaurs’ minds would open up to humanity. But right here and now, they were still a mystery.

A single drone had entered Tenerife orbit thirteen months ago, taking over the planet’s broadcasting system, announcing the imminent arrival of the Centaur forces, and demanding complete capitulation. The planetary militia had scrambled after putting out the call to the COH and the Union. Three hours after the Centaur’s demand, their forces arrived. Within an hour, the militia had been destroyed, and Tenerife, for all intents and purposes, was in Centaur hands.

This time, however, they did not scour the humans who had survived. The most common theory as to why was that they were using the humans as a shield, to put off a counter-attack. But as Rev watched the people enter the terraforming plant, he wasn’t so sure about that.

“Record and file for transmission. Priority Three.”

<Recording.>

He’d recorded their interrogation of Lima to join that of the images of the mini-Centaur vehicle. This was vital data that Intel could analyze. And from how limited what he and Tomiko were seeing and recording was, the analysts needed a lot more valid information to get an idea of what was happening on the planet.

“Any idea of what you were doing in there?” Rev asked.

“Not really. Making a jigsaw puzzle, we call it. Moving the crystal beanies so the bots can do their thing. Putting in some of the beanies ourselves. Things like that.”

Which meant almost nothing to Rev.

“Can we get in there?” he asked. “It doesn’t look like there’s any screening.”

“What about them?” Tomiko asked.

Rev considered the two Children of Angels standing near the entrance, each alongside a mini-Centaur. Both minis had their pedestals deployed with what looked like a smaller version of a beam cannon. He didn’t know to which she was referring, but it was a valid question.

“Is there an access list as to who can get in?” he asked.

“Not really. The Cents told us how many had to be there. The first day when most of us were hiding out and we didn’t meet the quota . . . well, I don’t want to talk about that. Now, we make sure there’re at least three hundred for each shift.”

Rev made a mental gulp, not wanting to think about what might have happened that first day.

“How many need to be there?” Tomiko asked.

“Two hundred and fifty-six.”

“Why two hundred and fifty-six?” Rev asked.

He wasn’t asking Punch, but his battle buddy said, <That’s two-to-the-fourth.>

“And that means . . . ?” he asked him.

<Just an observation.>

Rev appreciated how much his battle buddy made life easier, bad jokes aside, but for him to volunteer thoughts like that still made him a little uneasy.

Whether 256 had any special meaning or not didn’t really matter. If three hundred slave-laborers were going in at a time, then that number wasn’t a limit.

“Do those kapos recognize everyone who goes in?” he asked Lima.

“I doubt it. Too many of us from two different cordons.”

Rev considered it. On the negative side, if he tried to get in, he could get caught. He could give away the upcoming assault. On the positive side, there was . . . not much, to be honest.

Screw it. I don’t care.

“I’m going in.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Tomiko asked.

“No. But I’m doing it.”

Tomiko sighed, then said, “OK, let’s go now during the shift change.”

“No.”

“We’ll blend in better right now.”

“I mean no, we’re not going. I’m going.”

“But we’re a team.”

“And if something happens to me, you’ve got to complete the mission.”

“That’s bullshit, Rev. A team means we, in case you’ve forgotten.”

Lima stood silently, but her eyes were alert as she took in the argument.

“We can’t risk both of us.”

“Then don’t risk either of us.”

Tomiko was probably right, he knew. But he needed—or at least really wanted—to see what was going on in there. He doubted that he could figure things out, but there were plenty of smart people back in New Mars or Titan who might be able to understand just what the Centaurs were doing.

During boot camp, what seemed like a hundred years ago, the recruits had been given ten classes on history. Back then, Rev had thought it was a waste of time, only good for catching a quick catnap. But over and over during his first almost four years, different things he’d been taught popped into his mind. If he was a cynical man, he might think the augments done on his brain could be the reason for that.

If he was a cynical man.

But right now, he was thinking of a quote by Sun Tzu:

If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.

That was all well and good, but if the enemy was a mystery, then “knowing” them was a pretty steep mountain to climb. Humanity was expending vast resources to this effort, both those who hoped to find a diplomatic solution to the threat and those who wanted to defeat them in battle, but with little progress so far. All Rev could hope for was that the Centaur body he and Tomiko found could help solve that puzzle. And maybe because of that contribution, he had a vague feeling that he could do more, and he thought it was vital to see what the Centaurs had the humans doing. It had to be something important.

He put his hand on Tomiko’s shoulder and said, “Miko, I’m not sure why, but I think getting inside and recording this is important. But it can’t be both of us. The mission means too much. So, I’m going in.”

Tomiko opened her mouth to argue but closed it, argument unspoken. She took a deep breath and said, “You’re the boss. But I’m telling you this. You’d better come back to me.”

“I’m going in with you, though. Don’t need you to make a stupid mistake,” Lima said.

Which made sense. And she’d been working inside since just after the invasion.

“But if we’re going to go, it needs to be now. The last shift is about to be released.”

Before he could think of reasons to stay back, Rev told Tomiko, “Hold down the fort.” Then he stepped out from behind the building they’d been using as semi-cover and cut over to join the line of stragglers making their way to the gate.

“For the record, in case it comes up, my name is Hansel Minik,” he told Lima.

She looked at him, one eyebrow raised expectantly.

“He’s a real person, a fellow citizen of yours. He’s alive and well, but just not here now.”

“OK, Hansel it is.”

They merged behind another man who didn’t even look up. There was no hue nor cry.

“Keep a recording for the entire time I’m in there. Priority Three,” he subvocalized.

<Recording.>

Don’t walk like you’ve been augmented, Reverent, he told himself as he approached the gate.

That only made things worse as he tried to alter his gait. Instead of a normal stride, he looked drunk. But neither Lima nor any of the others seemed to notice anything.

The thought of his augments almost gave him pause. With all the hardware inside of him, he was a walking alarm.

“Is the body scanner running?” he whispered to Lima.

“That was taken down years ago. I don’t think anyone ever thought to put in a new one.”

Which was a relief. And it made sense. The plant had been closed for decades, so what use was a body scanner? Where just about every other building on the planet would have such a basic security measure, he’d lucked out with this location.

“Time’s getting tight. Hurry it up,” one of the two kapos at the gate yelled.

Rev glanced at the kapo, a young man with a scraggly blonde beard. The man’s gaze started to sweep toward him, but Rev averted his glance, right to the mini-Centaur beside the man.

This close, it was smaller than he’d expected. No more than a meter-and-a-half long, it had only six legs instead of the eighteen-to-twenty-four the larger Centaurs sported. The chassis material had the same light-sucking, metallic appearance of the other Centaur vehicles, but the chassis was too small to house a living Centaur. The beamer deployed at the top of the pedestal, while smaller, was the real deal, however.

“Remind me to ask Lima what firepower the mini-Centaurs put out.”

<I will remind you in an hour.>

“That’s not going to do me much good if we’re still inside, now, right? Remind me when we’re in a secure location.”

<Understood.>

Rev had to keep from shaking his head. For all it was possible to forget his battle buddy wasn’t a living, breathing person at times, there were cases like this where he was reminded that Punch was an AI, a product of his programming.

The two passed the kapos and mini-Centaurs without raising an alarm. Another hundred meters and they’d enter the main power facility, a huge, enclosed building, the double stacks connected by a series of conduits.

Rev had been inside a larger, more modern complex on Roher-104, and as a student he’d toured the Meinie-Smith Station back on New Hope, but the basics hadn’t changed much over the centuries. Early emitter stations used heated water to generate steam, and from that, electricity. For the last several centuries, however, the most common construction was to drill billets into the ground to tap the geothermal heat sources, which then powered the atmospheric generators. There was much more work to be done to terraform a world, of course, but the emitters were the major infrastructure installations.

There wasn’t a Centaur or kapo at the entrance as he and Lima entered. A mass of workers were standing and waiting for the shift change, which gave Rev a chance to look around. Tenerife already had an O2-based atmosphere before the arrival of humanity, so this emitter station was a slimmed-down version of what he’d seen before. A single billet plunged into the cerrocrete deck. Almost all of the associated equipment had long been scrapped or repurposed.

But what captured Rev’s attention was what was in their place. A lattice-like structure, looking like a lego-honeycomb, was being built surrounding the billet head. Around it, eight mini-Centaurs were busy—four constructing the frame of the lattice, four inserting something into the newly formed cells. Another half-dozen or so mini-Centaurs were scurrying around the vast building.

The mini-Centaurs looked the same as the two that were guarding the entrance, but instead of an energy cannon on top of their pedestals, each had an articulated arm that it was using to add onto the framework or insert the crystal-like objects—probably the beanies Lima had mentioned.

Most of the humans seemed to be feeding, so to speak, the mini-Centaurs, keeping them supplied with the beanies and lattice struts. Along the east wall were what had to be fifty fabricators, each manned by two people. They were spitting out the beanies, and more people were taking them to where the mini-Centaurs could pick them up and install them.

“Are you recording this?”

<You had already given me those instructions, so yes.>

Rev could swear there was a tiny bit of pique in Punch’s tone, but he ignored it.

“Is this what you thought it would be?” Lima whispered.

Rev waved her off. If there were human quislings, then he wouldn’t put it past them to plant people into the workforce.

“Try for the fabricators,” Lima whispered again, ignoring his signal to stay quiet. “Don’t even try for the closer ones. Too easy to catch an elbow.”

Rev took a moment to look at his shift. Most people were in small groups, chatting, joking, laughing. It could be a snapshot of any group of workers throughout human space. Rev wanted to shout at them, to remind them that they were working for the enemy. He knew they were being forced to, but the laughing didn’t seem appropriate.

A kapo approached them, then took out a siren and held it high. Like racehorses in the gates, the people pushed forward to the red line painted on the floor. Out in the facility, the current shift started to edge toward the west side.

He pressed the button, and the siren blared piercingly, loud enough to make Rev, with his augmented hearing, wince before the dampers kicked in. Immediately, the humans in the facility rushed to the west side and then toward the entrance.

“No gaps, no gaps! Keep the line moving,” the kapo shouted, his voice amplified to fill the building.

Rev joined the press as it moved forward like a vast amoeba, heading toward the fabricators. People darted to take positions. Rev tried to grab one slot, but another man slipped in just ahead of him.

“Sorry, buddy,” the guy said.

Rev looked for another position, but they’d all been filled.

“Don’t stand there looking like an idiot,” an older woman said. “Start ’doring.”

Other people who’d missed out on what was evidently the plum position were running to other jobs, but more were finding bundles dropped by the previous shift and picking them up. That must be the ’doring the woman mentioned. Rev spotted one and grabbed it.

It was three of the beanies, hooked together with plastic rings. It was surprisingly heavy, and Rev hesitated, making sure he got a good look at it, and by that act, the recording being made got a full image.

Someone bumped into him from behind, almost knocking the package out of his hand.

“Don’t block the way, flimmer,” the man said, skirting past him.

Rev didn’t know what a flimmer was, but from the man’s tone, it wasn’t anything good. Probably a local insult. But he didn’t want to stand out, so he joined the movement toward the mini-Centaurs. The others started placing the packages on the ground in a neat line just before what the previous shift left had run out, about three meters from the mini-Centaurs. Rev went to the end of the line, knelt, and placed his on the ground.

“Remove the collar,” a flat voice said.

Is he talking to me?

Rev looked up at the others.

“Remove the collar.”

But no one was speaking to him . . . until a fiftyish, florid-faced man almost shouldered Rev aside and said, “Remove the damn collar.”

He pushed at the end of Rev’s package, and the plastic collars expanded slightly, releasing their hold on the three beanies.

“How long have you been doing this, buddy?” the man asked before turning away, back to the stacks of bundles.

It was only then that Rev noticed all of the collars had released the beanies. They were still there, but not holding tight. As the mini-Centaurs spun around, the arm on top of their pedestal reached out and grabbed a beanie. They’d then spin back, take a step, and place the beanie into a cell. The collar was left on the floor.

It clicked into place. The end of the arm was specifically designed to manipulate the multi-faceted crystal. It didn’t look like it was designed to remove the collar. Which meant the humans were being used to prep the machines.

Because that is what they were. Machines. They were too small to house a living Centaur, and their movements were too . . . machine-like. This was an automated factory, with the humans being there to prep the equipment.

But that didn’t answer who spoke to him. Unless . . .

“Triangulate the sound from the first time I was told to remove the collar.”

<To your front. From the direction of the Centaur.>

A Centaur spoke to me?

Rev was flabbergasted. He’d heard recordings of the Centaur demands, of course, but to have one address him directly? He’d never have imagined that, not in a million years. This hadn’t sounded like the recordings, but as he considered it, there was something familiar about the intonation.

Sort of like some AI-generated voices.

There were AIs that could faultlessly mimic human voices, but for those running more mundane tasks, the programmers purposely introduced a small degree of artificiality, as if to remind people that this was an AI.

Did Centaurs do the same thing? Rev sure didn’t know.

“You going to stand there gawking, or are you going to get some work done?” a young girl, barely into her teens, asked.

“Sorry! I blanked out for a second,” Rev said, heading back for another bundle.

Keep your head on straight, Reverent. Don’t stand out.

He had almost twelve hours in front of him before the next shift started, and if he wanted to blend in, he’d better get to the task.

He just didn’t know what they were building.

4

Rev hadn’t been exactly tired when he was finished. If he had been, he’d have requested a refund for his augments. But the task had been repetitious and mundane, and he was mentally beat. After he’d been there for twenty minutes, he’d pretty much seen what he needed to. He regretted the time he was spending there, but he didn’t think he could just pick up and leave without attracting attention. It wasn’t until their single lunch break at the five-hour mark that Lima told him he’d probably be able to leave. As long as there were the minimum 256 people there, they could slip past the kapos, and the Cents didn’t care.

Lima left with him. They collected an anxious Tomiko and returned to their safe house. Tomiko had cabled into his jack to download the recordings. Now there were two sets to send off, military redundancy.

Lima left them to gather up a few others to help with the organization, leaving the two Marines alone for the moment. Time was fleeting, and Rev wanted to get the plan moving, but the two of them could only move as quickly as the citizens could react.

“So, are they going to power up the emitter?” Tomiko asked after viewing part of the recording.

“Could be. Or could be they’re just using the power for something else,” Rev said. “Besides, the O2 level here is already high enough. Twenty-one percent, right?”

“Yeah, but what do the tin-asses need? Remember Hank? It looked like he was gasping, not getting enough air. Maybe that’s what killed him.”

Hank was the nickname they’d given after-the-fact to the Centaur they’d discovered on Roher-104. Hank’s very existence was classified at the highest levels, and they shouldn’t mention it at all. But they were humans, and that was difficult. So, a few months ago, they’d started referring to it as Hank when speaking with each other. At least it was better than “alien,” or “that tin-ass we found” if anyone overheard them.

“That could have been Hank’s normal expression,” Rev said, not convinced.

“Yeah, or maybe I’m right. They’re Hankaforming the planet. I mean, it is an emitter station.”

“One that doesn’t work.” He paused a moment, thoughts bouncing around his brain housing group. “Maybe it’s a weapon. Those beanies are crystals of some sort, after all. A huge beamer? One big enough to knock down ships in orbit? They’ve got the power for sure.”

“Inside a building?”

Rev harrumphed, then said, “That ceiling isn’t going to stop a cannon shot.”

Whatever Tomiko was going to say in reply was cut off when they heard the front door open. Both Marines got up and moved to the wall on either side of the door into the kitchen. They may not be armed, but two trained augmented Marines were weapons there unto themselves.

They heard several sets of feet crossing the living room, heading their way. Both of them slipped into their basic ready position, hands ready to strike.

Lima poked her head in, saw them, and said, “Geez. It’s only me. You can get off attack mode.”

She turned to look behind her and said, “Come on in.”

Four others hesitantly followed her into the kitchen, but when they saw the Marines, they broke into relieved smiles, prompting Rev to wonder what Lima had told them. It was possible that they hadn’t trusted her, which meant quislings aside, there was more conflict brewing, and that could make things more difficult.

One of the four—a short, older man dressed in tattered, ratty workman overalls—had the biggest smile, his face almost cracking as he rushed to Tomiko and enveloped her in a hug.

“Thank God you’re here,” he said, as Tomiko looked helplessly over the man’s shoulder at Rev.

She tentatively put her arms around the man, lightly hugging him back.

The man was crying now, and Rev could see the tears wetting Tomiko’s shirt. His teammate was not exactly OCD about human contact, but she wasn’t comfortable with it, so Rev took mercy on her and took the man’s arm, and then gently turned him away from Tomiko and toward him.

He extended a hand and said, “Corporal Reverent Pelletier, Union Marines. That’s Corporal Tomiko Reiser.”

“Oh, I’m Fydor LaMare,” the man said, wiping his eyes with his forearms, then taking Rev’s hand. “I’m the Thirty-first Cordon captain.”

Rev tried to keep the surprise off of his face. They had wards back at home, not cordons, though the two were essentially equivalent. But this crying man did not look the part, particularly compared to the manicured and controlled Betta Niocine, Rev’s own ward commissioner.

“This is Amicia Lin,” the man said, pointing to the slender woman standing next to him. “She’s the distribution manager for Tallerson.”

That piqued Rev’s interest. He didn’t know what Tallerson was, but a distribution manager might be of use.

LaMare introduced the other two as well. Elizabeth Rysth-Lorraine was a ballet dancer in the city troupe, and Nik Orleans owned two local restaurants. Rev had no idea why Lima had gathered this group of four. Lin, yes, that made sense. But Rysth-Lorraine and Orleans? A dancer and a restauranteur? Even LaMare? Sure, the man was a cordon captain, and Rev shouldn’t judge a book by its cover, but still . . .

“Lima here said you needed our help, but she didn’t say why. What can we do?” LaMare asked.

Rev caught Tomiko’s eyes. She didn’t speak, but he could see the uncertainty in her as well.

He could say nothing, then discuss with Lima the type of people he wanted to see. But the clock was ticking, and his spending five hours in the emitter hadn’t helped. Lima seemed like a competent woman, so maybe he just had to trust her.

Tell them.

“Yes, we’re here as part of an advance party. A combined force is going to take back the planet, and we’re here to make sure as many citizens as possible are gotten out of the line of fire and evacuated to safety. But we need help to do that. We have to be ready in . . .”

<Twenty-two hours, thirty-nine minutes, and fifteen seconds.>

“Just over twenty-two hours.”

There was only a brief moment of silence as Rev watched for their reaction.

“Told you, Fydor,” Rysth-Lorraine said with satisfaction.

“That you did, Liz.”

The cordon captain turned to Rev and said, “Liz thought that might be the case, and we’ve been thinking of something along those lines already. So, if we can sit down, I can tell you how we’re going to do this.”

Rev raised his eyebrows as he took that in. He and Tomiko were there to tell the civilians what to do, not the other way around. They needed cooperation, sure, but this was a military operation.

But the five civilians had already started to pull chairs around the battered dining table. Rev looked at Tomiko, who frowned and tilted her head to the table, indicating he should take a seat.

It won’t hurt to listen to them, but I’ve got to let them know that I’m in charge here. That’s the only way to make sure we save as many people as possible.

It was with more than a little bit of reluctance that he pulled up a chair and sat down.

* * *

Rev pressed the meat of his hands into his eyes. He was exhausted. Not physically, but mentally.

“So, you see, Corporal, we really need the team leaders designated now,” Beth said. She looked over at Tomiko as if trying to get her support.

She didn’t get it.

“What Corporal Pelletier’s saying is that we can’t stage all of you in the organized teams before the invasion kicks off.”

“But we won’t have time later. We need to be ready, or people are going to be needlessly killed.”

People are going to die, Rev thought, but we are trying to save as many as we can.

“We’re going to make sure that doesn’t happen,” said Tomiko.

Rev paused. “Are you sure she’s just a ballet dancer?”

<Five years as the San Cristobal prima ballerina. One recording of zig-zag jazz and a book published last year. Nothing else on her record.>

Rev opened his eyes and leaned forward again. Fydor was looking at him with his cat-eating-a-canary grin. Rev had wondered why the cordon captain had brought a ballet dancer, but it was clear now. Elizabeth Rysth-Lorraine was a certified hardass, and she would not take no for an answer. Rev was sure she was there solely to pursue Fydor’s bidding.

And Fydor LaMare, the crying, hugging man who insisted that Tomiko and he called them by their first names? The guy was wicked sharp, a true politician.

Which put Rev and Tomiko in the weaker position.

What do you expect? We’re just two grunt corporals. This is so out of our league.

Rev wasn’t quite sure what he expected from them. He’d naively imagined that they would be so grateful that they would offer their assistance without question. But it had quickly become that they had their own agenda . . . and a low opinion of the two Marines’ ability to organize anything. They wanted to implement their plan.

And on the one hand, maybe they were right. He and Tomiko weren’t load masters or any other loggie. They were infantry. They knew how to kill the enemy, but they had no experience in moving ten or fifteen thousand people.

On the other hand, Fydor, Beth, and the other two were forgetting that this wasn’t a Landing Day celebration. They’d be evacuating the civilians in the middle of a battle. And both he and Tomiko understood that. They’d been there on Roher-104 when shit broke down, and they never wanted to see that kind of carnage again.

No, I’m not going to let them screw this up.

Rev stood, placing his hands on the table, leaning slightly forward.

“Ms. Rysth-Lorraine,” he started, foregoing her more casual first name. “We don’t have the option of openly organizing. Do I have to remind you that operations security is paramount? We cannot let the Centaurs know that the counter-invasion is happening. If they are prepared, the entire landing is at risk, and who knows how the Centaurs will react? To all of you.”

Beth slightly blanched but gained control of her expression again as she stared up at him.

Amicia, who’d been mostly quiet, letting the others talk, said, “Maybe it’s too risky. We’re captives now, but we’re alive. I think we need to consider if we should go through with this plan.”

“We are going through with it, Amicia. The plan is already in motion,” Tomiko told her.

“But can’t you, like, contact the general or whoever? Call it off?”

“No. We can’t.”

Which wasn’t exactly true. They could break comms silence and put a halt to the operation, but the reason had to be something extraordinary, and quite frankly, the potential death of a large percentage of the population didn’t qualify. That had already been factored in.

Fydor reached out and patted Amicia’s hand. She still looked troubled, but she wasn’t going to argue now that he’d made his position clear.

Rev turned back to Beth. “We can’t let this get out. The more activity there is, the more chance that the Centaurs will notice what’s going on.” Then he went to his main concern. “And the more people who know about this, the greater the chance that someone will inform the tin-asses what’s about to happen.”

Beth bristled and asked, “So, you think we’ve got traitors?”

Rev leaned farther forward, and in a low voice, said, “We know you have traitors. Quislings and kapos, Ms. Rysth-Lorraine.”

For once, she almost broke, stammering until she could get out, “But we know who they are. We can keep them in the dark.”

“And if they have others who are not openly cooperating with the tin-asses? The Centaurs? It’s happened before, and you can bet you don’t know every freak with Centaur leanings.”

She opened her mouth as if to speak but evidently thought better of it.

Rev slowly looked at the four civilians, one after the other, then said, “Please do not forget that this is a military operation. We can’t do this alone. We need your help. But operational security is a must. All the planning that’s going to take place will take place in this kitchen. We can designate people for key billets, but that’s it. Those people won’t be brought in until the very last moment. Sixty minutes. That’s how much time we have from the start of the invasion until we’ve got people moving.”

“An awful lot of folks could get themselves killed in an hour, Corporal,” Fydor said.

“Then cut that time down.”

The cordon captain pursed his lips, but he finally nodded.

Shit. He still thinks he’s going to control this. We need to watch him.

Truth be told, Rev understood the man. He was the cordon captain for half of the people who needed to be evacuated. For Rev and Tomiko, those people were numbers. The Marines were dedicated to saving them, but they were still numbers—x-number of people to be moved, x-number of people to be protected.

For Fydor, they were people. Friends, families, constituents. Of course, he had a stronger emotional attachment. Punch had told him that Fydor had never served in uniform, and all the war-holovids in the galaxy couldn’t prepare a person for the gut-wrenching truth of battle.

The front door softly opened, but it was loud enough that six sets of eyes turned to look, nerves on edge, and Tomiko and Rev jumped up. A moment later, Lima came into the kitchen.

“Hell, don’t be so freaking jumpy. It’s just me.”

She handed Rev a small capsule. “It was there, just like you said it might be.”

Rev held it to his eye to unlock it, then twisted the top off and pulled the small note from inside. They were set up to operate alone, acting as independent teams, but things change, and without comms, they were relegated to physical drops at designated locations. What changes were anyone’s guess. It could be anything from Amicia’s desire to cancel the operation to leaving the civilians to fend for themselves and joining in the main effort.

“What does it say?” Tomiko asked.

“It’s from the lieutenant. He wants a meeting.”

5

“We got reps from each team?” Lieutenant Omestori asked as he came in and silently counted the assembled Marines. “Thirteen. That’s everyone.”

They’d been briefed that there could be a reason to meet before the assault, and without comms, that meant face-to-face. The message was passed through a dead-drop, the location previously designated. But for them to meet, it had to be something important. Just wandering around the city increased the chances of them being spotted.

Rev had left Tomiko behind to continue the planning, but he’d accepted the ever-helpful Lima’s guidance to get to the meeting place, a fabrication shop closer in to the city’s center. With his augments, he could find the place himself, but Lima had pointed out that he didn’t know the best route there, the one that would expose him the least. She was waiting in a small coffee shop across the street . . . even as captives of the Centaurs, some things continued on as normal.

So now, three of the platoon’s four teams had gathered with a rep from each two-person element.

“OK, as to why I needed to call you together. Things are . . . well, not quite as we were briefed.”

No shit.

“I need to get a better picture of what’s happening here and get that up to the colonel.”

Lieutenant Colonel Lynn “Bearmeat” Alomaha was the commander of the task force in the city. Rev didn’t know where she was or how to contact her, but it made sense that the lieutenant would.

“How many of you know about the kapos?”

Every Marine and Blue-Master Ting-a-ling, one of their Frisian augments, raised their hand.

The lieutenant nodded, then said, “I thought as much. And that interjects a new dynamic into our operation. We’re not only dealing with the tin-asses, but also traitors to humanity who we have to believe will actively oppose not only the invasion but our attempt to minimize civilian casualties. And it looks like the situation has already exposed our operation. Sergeant Krill?”

The Second Team member stood up and said, “We have two kapos captives, but in the process, another one got away.”

“And we have to assume that the woman is reporting it to whomever,” the lieutenant said, cutting the sergeant short.

“But, we’re all in civilian clothes,” Corporal Wesley “Bambam” Sinclair said. “Does that kapo know you were Marines?”

“Minnow” Krill looked embarrassed and half-mumbled, “They were part of our contact team. We told them what we’re doing.”

There was a low murmur around the table. The contact teams had been designated by OD and military Intel, and if three had been kapos, how many others might be across the planet?

Rev was suddenly glad that he and Tomiko had run into Lima.

“Should have zeroed the fucking traitor,” Bambam said.

Krill looked even more uncomfortable.

“It doesn’t matter what could’ve or should’ve been done. It is what it is now. What we need to figure out is how that’s gonna affect our operation,” the lieutenant said. “Before we go on, has anyone else run into a problem with them?”

Rev slowly raised his hand.

“Corporal Pelletier.”

“We kinda . . . kinda killed one.”

There was a chorus of “ooh-rahs” that the gunny had to quiet with a withering glare.

The lieutenant looked exasperated and asked, “‘Kinda’ killed one? I don’t know how you can kinda kill someone. And you didn’t think that was important enough to tell us?”

“I was going to, sir. But I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

The lieutenant dismissed the comment with one hand as if brushing away a fly. “You couldn’t avoid it? What happened?”

“We got stopped, sir. Miko and me. The kapo was the cordon captain, all officious and shit, and he was going to call the next cordon captain to find out if we were legit.”

The lieutenant considered that for a moment and said, “I guess you had to make the decision on the spot, so I’m not going to second-guess you.”

“I didn’t make the decision. Neither did Miko, sir. A civilian did. She was talking to the kapo when he stopped us, and as soon as he said he was going to contact the other guy, she slit his throat.”

“No shit?” Bambam asked, amongst several other comments by the others.

“A civilian did it?” the lieutenant asked, waving the others to silence. “Where is she now?”

“Waiting outside, sir. We figured that she proved herself, and she was capable, so we made her our Point of Contact.”

“Good choice. And what fallout has there been?”

“Not much, sir. Not that we can tell.”

“A kapo’s killed, and no reaction from the Centaurs?”

“Like I said, sir. Nothing we can tell, at least. No retaliation.”

“I guess the tin-asses don’t appreciate their acolytes much,” the gunny said to scattered laughs.

The lieutenant waited until the laughter died out and said, “That doesn’t mean there won’t be. If there is any retaliation, you’re to ignore it. We can’t tip our hand.”

That was a tough call, but Rev and Tomiko had come to the same decision on their own. It would be tough if the Centaurs started rampaging to punish the people, but their mission had a broader scope, as tough as that was to accept.

“So, anyone else ‘kinda’ kill a kapo?” the lieutenant asked.

No one said anything.

“OK, then. We’ve got some work to do now, and not much time. Aside from the kapo issue, we’ve got a good portion of the population working as slave labor at any given time. They’re usually guarded by the automated tin-asses, but still, if we’re smart about this, we can use that to our advantage. We don’t really know yet too many details yet of how the citizens are controlled while they’re working, but . . . uh, yes, Pelletier? You’ve got another surprise for us?”

Rev grimaced, then said, “Yes, sir. I kinda . . . I mean, I went into the old emitter station in my AO as if I was one of the workers. They’ve got about three hundred people working inside setting up some automated mini tin-asses assembling a crystal . . . hell, lieutenant, it’s kinda hard to explain, but I’ve got it all recorded for a Priority Three broadcast.”

“You just went in like a worker,” the lieutenant asked. “No thought of being compromised?”

Rev felt like when he was back on New Hope, seeing the judge who sentenced him into the Corps after his traffic ticket. “I thought it was important, sir.”

“Fuck me royal, Pelletier. You were taking a big chance.” He hesitated a moment, then sighed and said, “Well, like the 18th Century wet-water Navy hero said, ‘He who will not risk, cannot win.’ You took a risk, but it sounds like a win.

“We’re taking a short break. Everyone jack into Pelletier here and download his Priority Three. Once we see what we’ve got, then we can come up with a working Frag Order.”

* * *

“Any saved rounds?”

Everyone’s hands shot up at once.

“Nix,” the lieutenant said.

“What about our weapons?”

Which was exactly what Rev was going to ask, and from the looks of the others, was what was on their minds, too.

“I knew you were going to ask me that.”

Then why aren’t you answering?

A Marine without a weapon felt naked. Rev had hated staging the weapons back at the assembly area, but no one knew, at the time, what the situation was like in the city. With the lax security, and the fact that there were several armed groups in the other cordons, it made sense to arm themselves . . . at least, to his mind.

Even without a weapon, Rev was more than capable of handling any human. That wasn’t his concern, however. He and Tomiko were tasked with getting their two cordons to safety, and one single Centaur paladin, or even a riever, could wreak havoc on that.

The lieutenant pursed his lips, then said, “I can’t have any of you leaving now. We’ve got too much to do.”

Rev’s heart fell.

“But if you have someone who can retrieve them, someone who can do it surreptitiously, then I’m authorizing it if you think you need them.”

I think I do.

There was a collected sigh of relief.

Rev didn’t have anyone in mind, but Lima would. Given the timeline, whoever went could make it to the assembly area and back with a couple of hours to spare.

“Sir? Uniforms?” Gunny prompted the lieutenant.

“Ah, yeah. I guess you’re right. If you’re armed, I want you in your singlet.”

Each Marine and corpsman had a Marine Corps singlet. Formfitting, they were worn under the PAL-5, but they provided no armor capability on their own. But what they did have was the Marine Corps anchor and crossed swords in gold and their name and rank on the chest. There had been discussion if wearing them would make them targets, concern that was heightened with the knowledge that many of the citizens were Children of Angels. It made sense to Rev, though. Carrying their weapons was enough to make them targets, and at least this way, the people should recognize that they were there to help them.

“Any more saved rounds?” the lieutenant asked, scanning the two teams.

No one said a word.

“In that case, you’ve all got the frag. Our overriding mission remains the same, but between the kapos and the slave labor, I think the changes increase our odds.

“Bottom line is that there’s a good chance we no longer have the element of surprise, and like Sergeant Nix pointed out, the tin-asses and kapos might be implementing plans to take care of their slave workforce like the Nazis did in WWII. It’s our duty not to let that happen. And with that, let’s go. You’ve got a lot to do and not much time to get it done.”

“Ooh-rah,” the assembled Marines yelled.

Rev got to his feet when Hus-man grabbed him by the arm. “That was good shit you gathered.”

“I just recorded it all.”

No one had time to watch the entire recording, but a few minutes was enough to give each Marine an idea of how the people were being utilized.

“What do you think it all means?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a weapon. Miko thinks they’re gonna put out more oxygen.”

“I think she might be right.”

“Quit the gabbing. You heard the lieutenant,” the gunny said, looking at the two.

“Gotta go,” Hus-man said. “See you back in the rear with the gear.”

Rev clapped his friend on the shoulder, then filed out of the building. He still had a good half an hour to go to get back, and that wasn’t considering some nosy kapo becoming interested in him.

And come hell or high water, he needed to get back in time to find a runner to go and pick up their weapons.

6

“Keep your head down, Miko.”

“That’s it? Not on your life am I going to let you get away with that. Come give me a hug.”

M-49 in his hand, Rev leaned forward, enveloping the much smaller Marine. Lima and Fydor stood back and patiently waited.

Rev didn’t like splitting up with her, but there was just too much for them to cover. Tomiko was going with Fydor to the market, while Rev and Lima were going to the job site. Other teams were staging around their AO. None of them knew what was going to happen, only that they were to be ready to react.

Rev hadn’t gotten involved with that, and that scared him. Amicia Lin was in charge of that effort, and he knew she was a confident, proven commodity, one who understood the web of distribution. But getting food delivered was not the same as leading people into combat.

And that is what this was. Everyone hoped for a safe evacuation, but in fifty minutes, the planet would be embroiled in a shooting war, and people were going to get killed.

“I said a hug, not a mauling,” Tomiko said, pulling back. “Time’s a-wasting.”

“See you at the market,” Rev said.

“Just make sure you do, and bring a few hundred lee . . . uh, civilians with you,” Tomiko said as she glanced at the two Tenerifians.

If they knew she’d been about to say “leeches,” they didn’t show it.

“Let’s hit it, Lima,” Rev said, and the two slipped out the back of the building.

He patted his M-49, glad to have it. He was happier with the four M-554 Morays, which had replaced the older Mantises, on his back. He’d fired one when it was still the XM-554 back at Nguyen, and he’d fired countless simulations, but this was the first time he planned to use them in combat.

He’d feel even more comfortable being with his team for this, but that just wasn’t in the cards. He had to make do with who he had with him.

“Lead on,” he told Lima.

She had selected a route that should minimize being spotted, but it was hard to miss the fact that Rev was armed. It would be harder when he stripped down to his Marine singlet, but that was still to come. It was almost a certainty that some word had slipped out, but pretty soon, everything would be evident.

Lima wasn’t armed with anything other than her ceramic knife.

I guess she’s proven herself to be pretty competent with it, he had to admit to himself.

Still, he’d have felt more comfortable taking point. The only problem with that was he didn’t know where the heck they were going.

Rats scurried among the trash that littered the narrow alleys. A one-eyed cat warily watched them pass from the top of a broken crate. A rotting stench rose up from under a large jumbled pile of what looked to be discarded, soiled blankets, and Rev was glad his sense of smell hadn’t been augmented. He didn’t stop to investigate what or who was under there.

Out in the main thoroughfares and the market, there was the façade of life going on, but this was evidence that things had broken down.

Lima turned down an even narrower alley that led to a small square, bounded by five-story tall buildings.

“Wait here,” she said, before ducking through a door.

Rev considered the entrance to the little courtyard, then the door. With a sigh, he swiveled to face the entrance, M-49 at the ready. If Lima wasn’t who she said she was, if she was going to turn him into the kapos, she’d had plenty of opportunities to do so already, starting when she slit that first kapos’ throat.

It didn’t take long. In less than a minute, the door opened again, and Lima led a thin, older man out. His back was stooped, and his face was lined with age. Rev guessed he was in his eighties, possibly his nineties.

“Corporal, this is Tanton McCough.”

“Semper fi, Corporal. Staff Sergeant McCough. Oh-seven-forty-two,” the man said, holding out his hand.

Oh-seven-forty-two. Engineer, then. At least he’s Direct Combat.

“Semper fi, uh . . . Staff Sergeant.”

Rev could feel the former Marine’s eyes examining him as if taking in his mettle, which was disconcerting. Rev was the one who should be determining if this old man was up to the task, not the other way around.

“Lima here says you need some reinforcements.”

The man’s body may be showing the effects of a hard life, but his eyes were bright, his voice sure. Eighty wasn’t end-of-life old, per se, but it wasn’t twenty.

“You been in the shit before?” Rev asked.

The man lifted his head back and laughed, the sound reverberating between the high walls surrounding him. “Me? Plastina. Taylor’s World. The Massan Rebellion. Seven ship takedowns including the Sunshine Carnival.”

Rev knew about the Sunshine Carnival, of course. A holovid had been made about the rescue of the 3,000-plus tourists from the New Order pirates. Tough battle, carried out extremely well, at least as depicted. He was vaguely aware of the Massan Rebellion. He must have been sleeping during that part of the history classes at boot camp, but yes, this former Marine had been in combat.

“Remind me to ask you about those other battles.”

<Noted. The Massan Rebellion was a particularly vicious battle.>

“OK, then,” he said, pulling one of the Morays off his back. “This is the M-554 Moray.”

McCough’s eyes lit up like a child’s at Christmas, and Rev instantly knew in his heart that the old man was the real deal. Marines loved things that go boom.

“Sweet. Old-Corps, though, by the look of it. Not some high-tech wonder-weapon.”

“It’s dual-mode. Steam-powered after launch, then active or lock-on seeking.”

“Steam?” he asked, taking the weapon from Rev and examining it with professional eyes, fingers immediately going to the trigger and the rest of the weapon.

The more Rev saw of him, the more comfortable he was getting. This Marine knew what he was doing.

“It’s to defeat the tin-asses’ jamming.”

“‘Tin-asses?’ Typical Marine name for the bastards,” McCough said with a half-laugh, half-grunt. “But steam? Like in boiling water?”

“No, some synthetic. The laser in the launch housing boils the liquid, which provides propulsion and guidance.”

“So, I need to keep the sight housing reticule on the target,” he said without Rev having to explain it.

Yeah, this guy’s a pro.

“And if something happens to me, or the Cents EMP the laser?”

“It locks on the last command and continues on the track.”

McCough nodded and brought the Moray to his shoulder.

“This is the safety, and this is the trigger. There’s a small charge to eject the missile before the laser takes over.

The former Marine brought the weapon up to his shoulder several times, sighting and mimicking following a target.

“Easy-peasy, kinda like the old Kraits we had when I was a boot. Not the steam, bit, but the sight and the feel.

“But Lima didn’t get me just so I can get an update of the Corps’ new toys. Who am I going to kill? I mean, specifically?” McCough asked.

In about thirty minutes, Marines will be landing to take back the planet.”

“About fucking time,” McCough said in excitement. “And what’s my role in all of this?”

“There’re two tin-asses at the—”

“PASCO,” McCough interrupted. “The emitter station.”

“Yeah, the emitter station. I need someone else to fire in tandem with me to take them both out before they can activate any self-defense systems.”

McCough considered that and then said, “Lots of people inside working right now. What’s your plan for them?”

“I’m not part of the invasion force, at least in an offensive measure. I’m here to help with the evacuation. There are lots of us here already, all with the same mission.”

“A NEO, then.”

This guy really is Old Corps. We haven’t called these missions Non-combatant Evacuation Operations for years. Not that it matters if he can deliver on the goods.

“And what about the Cents inside?” McCough asked.

“They’re in construction mode. No weapons. I’ve been inside with them.”

“It don’t take them but a few minutes to convert,” the former Marine said.

That was something Rev hadn’t realized, but it made sense. The chassis were the same. This was just one more obstacle in the way.

“Then we’ll just have to get the people out before that happens.”

“Uh, I hate to interrupt your little gun-porn-fest here, but maybe we need to get going?” Lima said.

“Yeah, of course,” Rev said. “Let’s go.”

“This is pretty serious stuff, in case you forgot. Lots of lives on the line.”

“Isn’t Henrik working days at PASCO?” McCough asked her.

She nodded, then opened the door and disappeared inside the building.

“Who’s Henrik?” Rev asked McCough as they started to follow.

“Her son.”

That hit Rev hard. To him, in many ways, this was just a mission. Yes, he cared about the people of the planet, but still, it was something assigned to him, a duty he had to perform for the greater good. But for Lima, for McCough, for millions of people on the planet, this was their lives. This was everything.

I swear, I’m not going to fail you.

The shop was mostly empty, a dozen racks each with a few items of clothing hanging from them. From the dust, it probably hadn’t been open since the initial invasion, but it was also a far cry from the garbage out in the alleyways he and Lima had taken to get there. The shop opened to the street Rev recognized from his trip to the emitter station. They were only a block or so away from the entrance to it. A few people were outside on the street, going about their business.

The people outside like that, along with those inside their homes, were a major concern to Rev and the rest of the Marines. Right now, people chosen by Fydor were being brought up to speed on what was happening, and their tasks were to root out and find those people and get them moving to the evacuation centers.

Rev was pretty sure that effort was going to devolve into a clusterfuck. There was just too much uncertainty. He’d already discussed this with Tomiko, and he knew his mission wasn’t going to be over once he got the PASCO civilians to the market. He’d still have thousands of people scattered throughout the two cordons—and maybe more from the adjoining ones. He’d have to tackle that the best he could.

“Hold on, Lima. We’re about a block away, right?” he asked as she started to open the front door.

“Yeah. PASCO Place is the next street over, then it’s one block to the gate.”

“Time?” he subvocalized. He had his own timer clicking down in the lower right corner of his sight, but he wanted to confirm.

<Five minutes, fourteen seconds.>

He sidled up to the front window and blinked a marker at the edge of the corner up ahead.

“Distance.”

<Eighty-three-point-four meters.>

Rev pulled up McCough and pointed to the corner. “How long will it take you to run those eighty-five meters to the corner, get into a kneeling position, and fire?”

“Don’t rightly know, Corporal. Fifteen seconds, maybe a few more for these old legs to get me there, but I need to snap in with this thing, first.”

Crap. I should have had him do that already.

“We’ve got five minutes. Go to it.”

McCough smiled, then dropped to a perfect sitting position, smoothly bringing the Moray to his shoulder. He stood and went through it again.

“Don’t you think you should get in position now? You can wait just this side of Takhsin’s Deli. That’s the red building on the corner,” Lima quietly asked him while McCough went through his paces.

“We’re more than a little obvious when we’re armed, and I’ll be more so when I shuck these clothes. Plus we don’t know if any of those people on the street are Angel shits.”

Her eyes widened, and she asked, “You’re going out there naked? Is that some sort of Marine thing?”

“What? No! Why do you . . . oh, I guess I didn’t tell you.” He pulled down his collar to reveal the top of his Marine singlet. “I’m going out in uniform.”

She seemed relieved. “OK, I’m just . . . I mean, I don’t want anything—”

“Don’t worry,” Rev said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll get Henrik out.”

“I hope so,” she whispered. “I don’t want any special consideration, though. He’s—”

“He’s your son. Of course, you’re worried. And that’s OK.

“But now that you reminded me, time for me to get out of these civvies.”

Rev dropped his pack, laid his M-49 and Morays on it, and shucked out of his shirt.

<Three minutes and ten seconds,> Punch reminded him.

Rev considered the pants for a moment before saying, “Screw it.” He took out his lance, powered it up, and slit down each leg. That was quicker than taking off his boots. He wasn’t in a real uniform, and it certainly wasn’t his PAL-5, but it felt good to be in an issue singlet, MARINES emblazoned in gold across his back, his corporal chevrons on his shoulders. He had two armbands, both with PUMC in large letters and the Crossed Rifles and Anchor—the Marines’ CRA emblem—as well. The MARINES on the back were not standard but had been added to make them stand out to the civilians.

None of them knew if that would make them stand out to the Centaurs as well, and Rev, like the rest of them, didn’t dwell on that.

“Looking good there, son,” McCough said from his firing position on the floor. “Kinda wimpy for a grunt, but still better than the mufti you were wearing. I shoulda brought my CRA to put on, too. And I still got my bush hat. I coulda worn that.”

Rev didn’t hesitate. He slipped off one of the armbands and handed it to the former Marine.

With hesitant hands, McCough took it. He stroked the CRA and the PUMC reverently for a moment, then slid the armband up to his biceps. There was a slight glistening in his eyes.

Rev could feel the moment, and it choked him up ever-so-slightly, but now wasn’t the time for maudlin sentimentality.

“How long to get into position?”

“Oh, shit. Yeah. Five seconds, max,” he said, all business again.

Rev looked back out the window at the intersection adding the time in his head. He wanted to fire just before the first wave of the Marines came out of cloaking to start their descent. He didn’t know what the mini-Centaurs had in the way of comms, and he wanted to take them out before the Centaurs would know they were under attack—if they didn’t know already.

They hadn’t shown any change in posture, at least as far as Rev and Tomiko could tell, but the Centaurs didn’t react as humans do. For all Rev knew, they had detected the Marines already and were just playing possum, luring the attacking force into a trap.

“We’re moving out in . . .” He paused to check the timer. Two minutes and four seconds until the Marines appeared in the system. So, that meant, “ . . . one-minute-and-thirty-five seconds. Let’s get ready.”

The two crowded the door, Lima right behind.

“Count me down. We leave here at twenty-five seconds.”

<One hundred eighteen, one hundred seventeen . . .>

“You know that the bigger tin-asses, like the paladins and coursers, and even the rievers, have self-defense belts around them,” Rev told McCough.

McCough tensed for a second before he relaxed again and asked, “What’s the range on those things?”

“It differs. Paladins and coursers can reach two hundred meters with an ECR of half that. That means—”

“I knew what an effective casualty radius was, son, before you were a gleam in your father’s eye.”

“Yeah, sorry. Of course, you know. The rievers, maybe a one-fifty with half that as the ECR. These mini-tin-asses? They may not have them. And if they do, I don’t know the range.”

“And how far from the corner are the Cents?”

“Could be a hundred and twenty meters or a hundred thirty.” He paused a moment.

<One hundred seven, one hundred six . . .>

“They’ll be stationary, so you can fire-and-forget. Launch and duck back under cover. The missile will just lock on.”

“How fast do these things fly?”

“It’ll take maybe two seconds to cover the ground,” Rev said.

“More than enough time for their AI-brain to get them moving.”

<Ninety-nine, ninety-eight . . .>

“But we’ve got to hold our sights on target, to make sure we zero the fuckers, right?” He added, “What are you going to do?”

<Ninety-three, ninety-two . . .>

“I’m holding lock.”

“That’s what I thought. You may not be Old Corps, but I guess you new Marines haven’t gone soft. I’m holding, too.”

“You sure? We don’t know the range on the mini-Centaurs.”

“Life sucks, and then you die. What else is new?”

It was true that they didn’t know the range of the mini-Centaurs’ self-defense systems, or if they even had them. But Punch and Pikachu had run over the known data using Comparative Analysis to come up with an estimate. It had a large probability of error, but the range of a mini-Centaur’s self-defense system was probably around 114 meters, and for an unarmored person, it would only take one hit to take them out.

Rev had to be there to run the evacuation, but the civilians were now locked in and knew what to do if he was killed, and the risk was worth taking, especially given the probability that functioning mini-Centaurs would wreak havoc upon the people fleeing the emitter site.

<Seventy-six, seventy-five . . .>

“We’ve got a little over a minute. Let’s get ready,” Rev said.

Rev could feel the adrenaline start to flow. Not enough to make him a hazard, but just a little kick. He idly wondered how much of that was in his augments. If he were his natural self, would he be scared right now or too hyped up to think clearly. He’d never know.

“Uh, Corporal. After we fire these things, then what’s next? You haven’t told me.”

Damn! Good point.

“I’ll be ready with another Moray, if needed. If not, I’ll take out any kapos in sight,” he said, patting the M-49 that was slung on his back. “Then it’s into the emitter to help guide the workers out.”

“And me?”

“You’ll have done your duty, Staff Sergeant. You head for the market to be evac’d.”

“It’s your mission, but iffen you don’t mind, there, Corporal, I think I’ll tag along. I think you can use my help.”

Rev thought about it for a moment, then nodded.

“And if you might need another shot with the Moray, then I might, too.”

McCough looked pointedly at the remaining two missiles. Once again, he had a point. Rev might be in charge, but he’d only been in the service for four years now, and as a staff sergeant, McCough had a lot more combat experience than he had.

With the mission at stake, Rev had no problem taking the older Marine’s advice. He removed one of the two extra Morays from the harness and handed it over.

<Twenty-six, twenty-five . . .>

“Twenty seconds,” Rev said.

Behind him, he could hear Lima quietly praying.

McCough raised the Moray again, then snapped it in, before lowering it. “I’m ready. Let’s kick some Cent ass.”

<Twelve, eleven . . .>

“Ten seconds.” He shifted his feet, ready to bolt.

<Three, two, one, go!>

Rev turned the doorknob, but it didn’t budge.

“What the hell?”

He tensed up his arm, ready to rip the door off its hinges, when Lima reached between the two Marines and flipped the locking lever. Two steel bars retracted from the recesses in the frame.

Stupid!

But there was no time for mental recriminations. Rev opened the door and almost ran over a very startled civilian man as he headed for the intersection. He stopped at the corner of the building to wait for the unaugmented older Marine to reach him.

“On three. One, two, THREE!”

The two moved in tandem as if they’d trained together for years. It was that muscle memory beaten into them. A couple of people shouted out, but Rev ignored them as he went to his knees two meters from the wall. He brought his sight onto the far-left Centaur and locked on. With his peripheral vision, he saw McCough sink to a sitting position and raise his Moray.

The two mini-Centaurs didn’t react. There were two kapos at the gate itself in deep conversation with three civilians. Rev hadn’t expected any workers at this time of day, but he couldn’t let them affect what he had to do.

“I’m up,” McCough told him.

“Fire!” he said as he launched the missile.

There was a slight recoil as the missile shot out of the tube, before the laser took over, powering the missile down the street. There was an almost immediate reaction from the mini-Centaurs, a slight movement that reminded him of a dog sensing a rat. One of the kapos turned around, looking confused.

Both missiles, almost even with each other, were about twenty meters from impact when one or both of the mini-Centaurs’ self-defense belts detonated, the blast rolling away from them, obliterating the five humans standing at the gate.

Rev winced as he lost contact with the missile, but the nose cones, specifically designed to withstand the shock wave and shrapnel, continued, their course locked on. An instant later, both impacted their targets . . . and shrapnel pinged around the two Marines. Luckily, most of the pieces had lost their velocity, and other than a stinging piece that struck Rev in the cheek, no damage was done.

“Back!” Rev yelled, too little, too late.

He dove for cover as Lima helped McCough up.

“Did you get them?” she asked.

Rev didn’t know. The dust had hidden their targets from sight.

He cautiously leaned his head out. Both mini-Centaurs were little more than chunks of scrap. Evidently, they didn’t have the same self-destruct that turned the larger ones into so many scattered molecules. There wasn’t much left of the five humans, at least nothing very large. Rev didn’t focus on them.

Three of them were probably just workers.

But he couldn’t dwell on that now.

“Let’s go,” he told the other two, getting to his feet.

He took off at a controlled run, his M-49 at the ready as he closed the distance to the building. He could hear the other two follow, but he didn’t waste a glance at them.

There was a large chunk of what had been part of a human and a smear of blood and organs. Rev’s feet slipped as he hit the mess, and he struggled to keep upright. He’d have gone down if McCough hadn’t caught him.

“Steady, son. Don’t look at them.”

Which was easier said than done. A fully formed arm was stuck between the bars of the open gate. In a way, that was worse than the bloody mess at his feet. It was so human.

“Hey, what the heck just happened?” a voice called as a man rushed out of the main entrance, a communicator in his hand.

Rev didn’t hesitate. The white band around the man’s arm was enough to seal his fate. With an efficient swing of his rifle, Rev swept a burst of darts across the man’s body. The kapo was dead before the body hit the ground.

Rev regained his feet and started running again, covering the forty meters in just a couple of seconds. The walls and entrance were peppered from the ground up to about three meters. The mini-Centaurs’ systems had been powerful enough to gouge out the algae-polymer siding at this range.

“Amplify!”

<Roger.>

“Union Marines. We’re here to rescue you!” he shouted as he burst through the entrance, his voice amplified by the tiny loudspeaker hooked to his collar.

Most of the people had stopped what they were doing, but the mini-Centaurs were still at work constructing the array. Several people started shouting out orders. They had to be the proctors springing to action. Two kapos started running at Rev, one with a face red and fuming in anger.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, the woman shouted. “I’m calling—”

“Drop the communicator, or I’m dropping you,” Rev yelled, aiming right at her forehead.

His tone must have registered as rage turned into fear. She carefully dropped the communicator to the deck, raised her empty hands into the air, and froze.

“Proctor! Give me a proctor!”

A young man, face flushed with excitement, ran up. “Teddy Sorenson. You’re a Marine. They didn’t tell us, but I knew it!”

“Take these two and keep them from causing any trouble.”

“Yes, sir!”

Teddy took the woman by the upper arm and beckoned the young man with her, who was white with shock, fear, or a combination of both.

“Teddy, I’ve known you since you were a baby!” the woman wailed.

“You should have thought of that before you went to the damn Cents,” Teddy snarled.

But Rev didn’t have time for them.

“You need to evacuate. Follow the proctors’ orders!”

The confused mass of people started to swarm forward, panic evident.

“Keep calm! Follow the proctors!” Rev yelled.

Behind the mob, the mini-Centaurs finally seemed to notice that things were not going as they should. First one, then all of them started moving toward the back of the immense building. Rev didn’t care. As long as they weren’t attacking the people, he didn’t care what they did. Let the Marines in the assault round them up.

People were shouting for attention, and one man rushed Rev, screaming out something—his words were so garbled that Rev couldn’t make out what he was saying. Rev grabbed the man by the upper arms and hoisted him over his head.

“KEEP . . . FUCKING . . . CALM. We’ve got Marines and Navy incoming to evacuate you all.”

The proctors were beginning to have an effect, and already, people were streaming out the entrance. Rev put the man down but kept hold of his arms.

“Are you going to calm down?”

“Yes, sir. I’m just . . . this is . . . when the Cents first came . . .”

“I know, sir. Look. The Marines are here now. Just follow the proctors. They’ll get you to safety.”

The man took a deep breath and nodded. Rev released him, and he started walking to the entrance to join the rest of the people heading out.

There was a chuff, and Rev wheeled around, weapon ready. McCough was fifteen meters away, and he’d just fired his Moray.

“What the—”

Rev’s words were cut off as the missile slammed into a locker along the back wall, the mini-Centaurs gathered around.

Screams erupted from the crowd as panic set in again, too strong for the proctors to fight.

“What the hell did you do that for?” Rev shouted, his voice still amplified.

“Look what I hit.”

Rev turned back to the rear of the building. Several of the mini-Centaurs looked damaged, and the locker was demolished. Pieces of . . .”

Rev took several steps closer to get a better angle.

“Do those look like cannons?”

<They look like the remnants of the same cannons on the two Centaurs that were at the gate. I can’t tell if they are the exact same given the visuals, but the outer structure matches.>

“You knew those lockers held cannon attachments,” Rev told McCough.

“No, I didn’t know. I suspected, however. We’ve been long wondering what they had in there, and I figured that was where they kept ’em.”

Two of the mini-Centaurs looked undamaged, and they were using their loading arms to rummage through the parts.

And now the staff sergeant was unarmed. Rev pulled his MF-30 sidearm out of his singlet pocket and handed it over to him. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

The staff sergeant nodded his thanks and pocketed it. “You might want to light them up.”

Rev considered for a moment, but he only had one Moray left, and he had a feeling that this mission was going to attract the attention of something a little more powerful than a mini-Centaur.

The people were still in panic mode, jammed at the entrance.

“Keep an eye on them. If they start installing a cannon, or if they turn their attention to us, get me.” With that, he wheeled and ran toward the entrance. He passed two bodies, crumpled and bloody on the ground, and for a moment, he thought they’d been crushed in the mass rush to get out. But a white armband was the tell. They were the two kapos he’d turned over to Teddy.

He barely spared them a thought, other than you reap what you sow.

“Keep calm. We’ve got time to get everyone to the evacuation site,” he boomed out before he started to bodily pull people from the edges of the mass, heedless if he was hurting them.

He made his way into the middle, and even with his augments, it was tough going. More than once, he thought he was going down. But he bulled his way to the door and turned around to face the people.

“Listen up. I don’t know how else to say this, but you’ve got to calm down. We’ve got time.”

I don’t know just how much time.

“Can we just do that?” he asked.

Amazingly, the shouting died down.

“The door’s too small, sir,” a woman said, her body pressed up against him.

Rev twisted around again. It was a typical double door, a partition in the middle.

“You, in front of me, get through. No shoving, and it will work.”

Some of the people held back, and that broke the logjam. Within twenty seconds, the people between him and the doorway were through and were being rounded up by proctors. Rev went up to the door and gave the partition a pull. It gave the slightest bit but held fast.

He probably had the strength to rip it away, but he’d lose all the skin on his hands, and he needed to be at a hundred percent. That left his feet.

“Stand back,” he said to those still inside the building.

He took two steps, then kicked at the partition close to the bottom. It bent and partially tore free from the floor. One more kick sent it flying, making one of the proctors duck for cover.

“OK, we’ve got more room. Let’s move it through.”

The crowd surged forward but without the downright panic as before. Rev fought to the side, trusting the half-dozen proctors there to start guiding them people to the market, twelve hundred meters away. He didn’t like the distance, but he and Tomiko were authorized one evacuation site in their AO.

“Do you need me here?” Lima asked as he passed her.

A young man in his late twenties was standing protectively just off her shoulder.

I don’t think she needs protecting, son.

“No. You help the proctors push the people along. Find Corporal Reiser and see if she needs any help.”

“Don’t stay around too long. The Cents are going to respond,” Lima said before she joined the crowd, her son keeping close.

About half of the workforce was already outside, but without the panic overwhelming everyone, that was rapidly diminished. Another group of people had broken open a side exit, and that helped as well.

“What are they doing?” Rev asked McCough as he approached the former Marine.

“Two of the bastards keep working on the junk. They might figure it out, though.”

The two undamaged mini-Centaurs were using their loading arms to work on a mostly intact cannon. Another mini-Centaur, all four of its starboard legs collapsed, was helping.

“Why aren’t they reacting to the people?” Rev wondered aloud.

<It is probable that they are programmed to prioritize the construction first, equipment second.>

“They’re dumb asses,” McCough said at the same time, thinking the rhetorical question was aimed at him.

I wasn’t asking either one of them.

But Punch’s answer intrigued him.

“And if they repair one of those cannons?” This time, he made sure to subvocalize.

<The most obvious answer would be that the programming would then shift to attacking the humans.>

“What are you basing that on?”

<I’m afraid that’s pure conjecture based on a long history of AIs.>

“Human-made AIs, not tin-ass-made.”

<Well, I am a human-made AI, so I guess that would fit.>

Is he trying to be funny? And not ha-ha-tell-a-joke funny?

This wasn’t the time to get to the bottom of it. He agreed with Punch, though. It looked like they were safe from the mini-Centaurs up until the time they managed to fix that cannon and get it mounted.

About a quarter of the people were still left inside. He thought they might be in the clear . . . from these Centaurs, at least.

“Keep watching them. If it looks like they’re about to switch out to the cannon, give me a shout.”

“Now maybe you might want to light them up?” McCough said, pointing at Rev’s last Moray.

“No. Not now, at least. With them dispersed like that, I can’t get both of those guys with one shot. And I’ve got a feeling that I really might need it.”

“Your call.”

With fewer people, the panic had eased, the shoving less. Rev wanted to get outside himself to see how it was going, but he couldn’t leave McCough and the mini-Centaurs. Instead, he went to the entrance and stood to the side.

“Thank you, Marine!” and “Thank you, sir,” were called out to him with several people raising clenched fists of gratitude. Rev nodded and gave a half-raised fist in acknowledgment. The problem was that he knew this was just the first step, and there were a lot more to go before the people would be safe. Until the last person either was evacuated or the planet was declared secure, he couldn’t let his guard down.

“Time until the assault?”

<Two hours, fourteen minutes.>

That was a long time to keep the people safe. Up in orbit, the Navy would be getting the Marines in position to descend onto the planet—that is, if they even made it that far. While the Centaur Navy avoided in-system battles if they could, they ruled deep space. It was a real possibility that the invasion fleet, even widely dispersed and coming in on different axes, could have been intercepted.

Hopefully, the small Centaur footprint on Tenerife meant that the Centaur Navy had a small presence as well.

“Do you think we can hold on until then?”

This was the first time Rev had asked his battle buddy something like that, but without Tomiko or other Marines, he was feeling isolated.

<It depends on the Centaur reaction. But you’re a trained, experienced NCO. If anyone can hold this together, it’s you.>

Rev’s eyes widened in surprise. That little vote of confidence was something totally new. Was that just programming designed to bolster him in a moment of uncertainty, or was that real?

“Thanks,” he said automatically.

But now wasn’t the time to ponder the sapience of his AI. Maybe it was never the time, and he should just accept things as they were. He clamped down on that train of thought and turned a hundred percent of his attention back to the task at hand.

As the numbers of people inside the station dwindled, five bodies were revealed, each wearing a white armband: not only the two Rev had turned over to Teddy, but three more. Evidently, the people had exacted more revenge.

Not that Rev cared much—just desserts. But he turned to where the last of the people were filing out the door. There was another kapo out there, the one he’d killed.

Rev was a Marine, trained to dish out violence. And he’d killed before . . . just not another human. A Centaur was an alien, and killing one had filled him with joy. But a human? Even an evil one? That was different, and there wasn’t that same sense of joy. It was more along the lines of sadness.

Buck up, Reverent. He was the enemy.

“Staff Sergeant, that’s the last of them. Let’s go,” he shouted with his amplified voice.

McCough waved and started toward him. Against the far wall, the mini-Centaurs were still busy. This was so surreal. The mini-Centaurs could have caused mayhem with their construction arms, flailing the packed humans, but they seemed totally focused on changing out to a weapons attachment to the exclusion of what would serve them better.

Not that Rev was complaining. But once again, it just went to prove that Centaurs and humans were just so different, even the Centaur AI equivalent, if that was what they really were.

Rev just shook his head. It grated at him to leave an enemy still functioning, but he really didn’t have the means to do anything about that, and at the moment, they were not a threat.

I just hope they don’t fix one of the cannons and come up our backside.

McCough reached him, his face beaming.

“Well, Corporal, mission accomplished. Damn, that feels good to say again after all these years.”

Rev started to say that this was only the first step, but looking at the staff sergeant, he didn’t want to rain on his parade. Let him have his moment.

“We need to shepherd the stragglers,” Rev told him. “In two hours, everyone needs to be at the market.”

“No fire zone?”

“Yeah. The rest of the place,” Rev said, sweeping an arm to encompass the area, “could be leveled.”

“And anybody trying to hide out in their basement,” McCough said, his voice a notch more serious.

“We’ve got people assigned to get the word to everyone not working here this shift.”

“If they listen. We Tenerifians can be stubborn.”

Rev didn’t have an answer for that. He knew civilians would be among the casualties, and all he could do was to minimize those numbers in his AO.

The two followed the last of the workers out of the building. Rev made a conscious effort not to look to where the body of the kapo he killed lay.

“Teddy,” he called, spotting the proctor.

“Yes, sir?” the young man asked, jogging over.

“Any issues?” he asked, ignoring the matter of the two kapos Rev had given into the young man’s care.

“Everyone’s on their way to the market. We’ve got some people banged up in the crush, though.”

At least a couple-dozen people were either limping along or being helped by others. It could have been worse.

“You go ahead. Staff Sergeant McCough and I’ll bring up the rear. We need to keep everyone moving.”

Teddy nodded and ran off. A couple of blocks over, Rev could hear someone on a loudspeaker telling everyone to get out of their homes and head to the market.

“Let’s keep them moving,” Rev told McCough. “But keep your head on a swivel.”

“Always.”

Rev took a position behind the last two people: a young man with an injured leg, and the matronly woman helping him. He could pick up the slight man and easily carry him, and for a moment, he moved to help before his rational mind took back over. It wasn’t his job to help individuals. He had to think of the whole.

If a single paladin or courser attacked the column of people, Rev and his Moray were the only things standing in the way. If two attacked . . . well, Rev didn’t want to think of that.

But he could still ask.

“You doing OK?” he asked the pair.

The young man’s face was white, his eyes unfocused. His medi-nanos, although not as advanced as Rev’s, should be kicking in to fight the shock.

The woman grunted, shifting the man’s arm farther around her shoulders, then said, “I’ve got him. You worry about keeping us safe.”

Even she understands.

“OK, ma’am. I’ll do that.”

“Vivian.”

“What?”

“Vivian. My name’s Vivian. I ain’t no ma’am. And this here’s Craig.”

Rev suppressed a smile. If all of the people were like this woman, then they stood a chance.

“OK, Vivian. I’ve got you two covered,” he said as he took a position directly behind them.

He had to pick his way through the debris of the two mini-Centaurs. Whatever was left of the five people had been trampled into smears on the cerrocrete road surface.

“How long to reach the market?”

<Approximately forty-five minutes at the current pace. However, injured people may slow down as they walk.>

That still left almost an hour before the invasion kicked off in earnest. He’d have to get together with Tomiko to best determine what would be their best course of action on how to use that time.

They turned onto Geltrain Street, which would lead them over the Silver Bridge, spanning the Muddy River and within four blocks of the market. Stretched out in front of them were more than the three hundred workers from the emitter station. Other people were making their way down side streets and joining the march.

At least that’s working.

But was it too many people on a constrained street? Rev moved to the side and onto a set of steps leading into a residence to get a better look.

<Can I tell you a joke?>

“Are you kidding me, Punch? Now?” Rev tried to subvocalize, but it came out as more of a snarl.

<Your pulse rate is up, your bios indicate stress, and your mental waves are jumbled. That indicates that your priorities are both scattered and misplaced. A joke is a common way to clear and reset the mind.>

Rev was about to shut his battle buddy down, but Punch was right. He’d just told McCough to keep his head on a swivel, and here he was, worrying about the wrong thing. He had to trust Fydor’s proctors to do their thing and leave him to security of the movement.

“OK,” Rev said, meaning that he’d refocus his attention.

And, of course, his battle buddy took that as assent to his original question.

<What do you call a fish with no eyes?>

He was going to tell him not now, but it was easier just to say, “What?”

<A fsh.>

It took a moment for Rev to understand, and when he did, he rolled his own “i”s, but he managed not to laugh. It was bad, but there was some juvenile humor to it—not that he’d admit that.

And, surprisingly, it worked. He was still amped, he was still concerned, but the stress had been taken down a notch. Once again, he wondered how much he was being manipulated by the Navy and civilian psychologists who had a hand—even still—in the augmented Rev.

“OK, Punch. You’ve done your duty.”

<Happy to be of service.>

He turned his attention back to the surrounding area. The Centaurs had to know of the approaching Marines. Like the Japanese back in the Twentieth Century’s World War II, if the Centaurs’ Navy didn’t destroy the humans’ assault force in space, they would lay back and hit them during the final descent, even letting some forces establish a beachhead before cutting the forces in two.

But that didn’t mean that they wouldn’t react to something like this exodus. They would know how long they had before the Marines would start the actual descent, and it wouldn’t take much to divert a paladin to wipe out the column.

It didn’t mean they would, but Rev couldn’t take that chance. He pulled an overlay of the area, wishing he had any of his drones. As they moved slowly down Geltrain, he considered all the likely avenues of approach. A paladin was a pretty big hunk of Centaur, so he could ignore some of the narrower alleys, but that still left too many routes for one of them to use to hit the column.

Slowly, the column inched forward and spread out as the people marched. Rev couldn’t see beyond the arch of the bridge ahead, but people were hurrying over it while those with Rev and McCough were lagging.

“Hey, Staff Sergeant. See if you can goose everyone up a bit,” he called out.

“Don’t think many of them can go much faster, Corporal.”

Which was probably right. Vivian was starting to slow down as Craig’s limping became more pronounced.

Why the hell didn’t we arrange for some sort of transport?

The answer was that they didn’t want emissions from a vehicle to draw Centaur attention. That didn’t take into consideration that there could be injured people, however.

“How are we doing on time?”

<At this rate, we’ll reach the market with approximately thirty minutes to spare.>

We’ve slowed down.

He knew that, of course, but now he knew exactly where they stood. If nothing else happened, they’d be inside the market before the landing.

More and more people crossed the bridge, but a gap was forming between the rear of the main body and the laggards. Rev didn’t like that, but it was out of his control. Hopefully, it wouldn’t matter in the long run.

He started to pass a middle-aged man who was sitting on the step into a store. He stared at Rev with dull eyes.

“Come on, sir. You’ve got to keep moving.”

“I can’t.”

There was nothing obviously wrong with the man, but that didn’t mean much.

“Can you tell what’s wrong with him?”

<Not with any degree of assuredness. But from the butterfly pulse through his carotid, it may be cardiological.>

Rev could see the pulse fluttering in the man’s neck, but he hadn’t put two and two together. He hesitated a moment, looking ahead to the bridge. They weren’t far now. Two hundred meters to cross the river, then another three or four hundred on the other side. He could cover that in less than a minute. This man, however, didn’t have his augments and was in cardiac distress to boot.

Screw it. Why did they give me extra strength if they didn’t want me to use it?

Forgetting all the reasons he hadn’t helped Vivian, he stooped to help the man to his feet, then took almost all of the man’s weight with his left arm, leaving his right to hold the Moray at the ready. It might not be the correct tactical decision, but he was not going to leave this man behind.

“What’s your name, sir.”

“Fint,” the man gasped out.

“Well, Fint, we’re going to make it to where a doctor can take a look at you.”

The man’s legs barely moved as he tried to walk, so Rev hitched him up to take the full weight of his body. He carried much more weight with a full combat load, so this was nothing.

McCough, up ahead and on the opposite side of the street, turned and caught his eyes. He raised his eyebrows but said nothing as he continued on, shepherding the people ahead.

Vivian stopped to catch her breath, and Rev stepped up alongside her.

“Not very far, now.”

“We’ll make it. Don’t you worry none. Just need to let these old bones rest a moment.”

Rev pulled up the map overlay and measured the distance to the crown of the bridge.

“Look, only a hundred and fifteen meters to the bridge; then it’s all downhill from there.”

“We’ll make it.” She started walking again with Craig grimacing in pain.

The young man still looked to be in shock, and Rev wondered if his nanos were on the fritz. There’d have to be a doctor at the market who could check him out.

He looked back up at the bridge. “See that, Fint? Almost there.”

The man’s head lolled, and saliva dripped out of his open mouth. He was still breathing, though.

That wasn’t just blowing smoke. They really were getting close, and Rev started feeling more confident. Maybe they were going to get through this without a hiccup.

The Gods of War hated complacency, however. As if to punish his hubris, the last of the main group crossing the bridge started screaming and running, heading back to Rev and the rest.

“Take cover!” Rev screamed before he even knew what was happening.

He dropped Fint inside the recessed entrance to a clothing shop, then darted to the side to pull Vivian and Craig in as well. Up ahead, McCough had reacted immediately, pulling people into a side alley.

Rev stepped away, deploying his Moray, all senses on alert, when half a dozen people on the bridge exploded. That was the only way to describe it. One moment they were living, breathing people. The next moment, they were a red mist.

“SHIT!” Rev screamed at the top of his voice.

He didn’t need his battle buddy to tell him what had done that. He’d never seen the weapon deployed, but he’d see the holos during training. The weapon was an ultrasonic directed-energy projector, a beam weapon of sorts, but not like the more common meson cannon. The beam excited water molecules into intense vibration. Anything with water, such as a human body, exploded. Anything without water, such as a building, was untouched.

The Centaur up ahead wanted to scour away the humans while protecting the city’s infrastructure.

People had halted when Rev screamed, looking about uncertainly, but when the bodies on the bridge exploded, panic set in. People started running in all directions. Some took whatever cover they could. Others were mindless.

Rev ran forward to the opposite alley from McCough and started shoving people inside all the time watching for the Centaur. Screams from beyond the bridge reached him.

“Isolate the sound!” he ordered.

A Centaur is relatively quiet for something of its bulk with just the tick-tick-tick of the legs hitting the road. Rev couldn’t hear the sound over the shouts, but Punch could eliminate those. As if flipping a switch, the screams fell away to whispers, but there he couldn’t pick out the telltale ticks. There was just a soft, grinding-type sound.

Rev continued to get people out of the road while he listened. A woman took off her shoes and tossed them, then made a break for the bridge. She didn’t come close. Five meters from the bottom, she was hit.

“Do not try for the bridge!” he shouted at full amplification.

“What the hell is that? A paladin?”

<From the audio footprint, it has to be—>

But Rev didn’t need an answer. He saw it. On the road along the far side of the river, a true monster appeared. Twice the size of a paladin and too large for the reticulated legs of other Centaur armor, a courser appeared, rolling along on almost human-like armor tracks.

The huge vehicle’s cannon tracked to its right and fired just as Rev jumped back into the cover of buildings. Five or six people still on Geltrain disappeared into red mist.

“Get off the street!” Rev screamed.

“What’s the probability of success against that thing with my Moray?”

<Not good. Current estimates average to 14.3 percent.>

Rev leaned his back up against the wall of a building, his eyes closed. Those odds were horrible. He looked down at the Moray in his hands as if he could will it into something more powerful.

A tree on the south side of Geltrain exploded into splinters. The courser had the angle to cover a good chunk of the south side of the street, while on the north side, where Rev was, the buildings put the people in defilade. If the Centaur advanced to the bridge, it would have fields of fire all the way up and down Geltrain. And to the east was the market, with at least a hundred people rushing toward it.

There were a couple dozen people still on this side of the bridge with Rev. He knew what he had to do.

He put down his Moray and unslung his M-49. He swung out until he could see the courser and fired a quick burst at it before he darted back just as the air centimeters from him snapped with ionization. His right arm tingled, as if he’d gotten a sunburn.

Rev flexed his fingers, but they still worked. He didn’t want to know how close he’d come to getting hit.

“Just come to us,” he muttered.

But who knew if it would take the bait and steer away from the market and those still on the road? Rev readied his Moray again. The odds weren’t good, but any chance was better than none.

He turned and looked at eleven sets of eyes locked onto him. The alley was a dead-end, a four-story building blocking the way. Rev studied it for a moment. He might be able to scale it and get away, but he doubted anyone else could.

Rev turned to look across the street to McCough. He gave the hand-and-arm signals for retreat. Evidently, the signals hadn’t changed since the older man’s time in the Corps, because he signaled negative.

It is what it is.

Now that he knew what he was listening for, he was able to track the courser as it rolled to the bridge. Rev stuck his head out, then, knowing the arch gave him cover. He prayed it wouldn’t turn to the east. He heard the snap of the cannon, and he realized it had fired toward the market. Most of the market was still blocked by buildings, but once the Centaur reached the square, it could raze the place.

He stepped out, ready to run to the top of the bridge and take his chances when the top of the cannon appeared. Rev jumped back into cover. It had evidently fired one shot to the east before deciding to cross the bridge. Then the sound stopped.

What is it doing?

Rev didn’t have his full combat load by any stretch of the imagination, but he was able to bring some of his gear. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small Optiscope, a flexible periscope. He gave it a ninety-degree turn, raised the eyepiece, then slid it out. The courser was sitting at the apex of the arch, the cannon rotating toward the west.

He mentally kicked himself. He’d had a few seconds with the cannon pointing to the east where he could have engaged it. Now, that slight advantage was gone. Rev had seen how quickly the courser could engage him when he’d snapped off the M-49 burst at it. That had taken just two seconds, two seconds that almost got him fried. He’d need at least four seconds with the Moray. He needed a diversion.

There was only one he knew, and it had to be done quickly. The courser could move at any moment.

McCough was watching him from the temporary protection of the alley. With a heavy heart, he signaled to the staff sergeant what he wanted. The man didn’t hesitate. He signaled he understood, then pulled Rev’s MF-30 handgun out of his pocket and held it ready.

They needed to act, but Rev signaled “Semper fi, Marine,” and a huge smile broke out across his face.

The staff sergeant didn’t signal but yelled, “Semper fi, brother. Let’s kick some ass!”

There was the grinding noise of the courser’s tracks. Rev pulled the Moray up to his shoulder and shouted, “Now!”

Former Staff Sergeant Tanton McCough, Perseus Union Marines, emerged from safety screaming at the top of his lungs as he charged the courser, emptying Rev’s MF-30 at the hulk.

Rev followed, and an instant later, standing tall as he activated the sight reticule, he saw the cannon swivel and fire, cutting off McCough’s shouting. He got a lock just as the cannon started to swivel back.

“Run true,” he muttered, thumb depressing the trigger . . . when for a reason he’d never be able to determine, he dropped the reticule to the bridge’s surface right in front of the descending courser and fired.

He was a dead man anyway, so instead of diving for cover, he watched, just as he had when firing the prototype back at Camp Nguyen so long ago. The missile took a split second to cover the distance, hitting the bridge just as the Centaur’s cannon lined up on Rev. The resultant explosion jolted the courser just enough so that the beam was knocked off target, hitting the adjacent building. Reflections off the building’s walls made Rev’s skin tingle, but he barely noticed as the courser lurched forward with a jolt as its front tracks hit the hole that had opened onto the bridge’s surface. Rev stood in awe as the Centaur tried to reverse the tracks, but its weight, combined with the damage to the bridge, was just too much. Ten meters of the bridge fell into the river below, and the courser started to tip over when with a roar, the entire bridge collapsed, a fountain of water rising into the air before falling back.

Rev had almost been killed when a paladin had gone into self-destruct mode, so he hit the surface of the road. But there was no detonation.

Rev stood. The first thing he did was to look for Staff Sergeant McCough, hoping for a miracle, but there wasn’t much left of the man. He felt a hollow pit in his stomach, an overriding sense of sorrow and guilt. Rev had essentially ordered the man to die. Maybe officers were used to that, but Rev was just a corporal, and he’d never had to do that before.

<Rev.>

Rev shook his head at Punch’s simple reminder. He couldn’t afford to get lost in that now. He ran up to the edge of the river wall and cautiously looked over. Ten or twelve meters below and on the other side of the river, the courser was three-quarters submerged in the water and futilely attempting to scale the river walls. It kept ramming it, using the cannon as an arm to reach the top and pull itself up. But the cannon continued slipping off.

Evidently, the Centaur inside realized it was a lost cause, because the courser turned downstream and drove off. When the cannon started traversing, Rev ducked back out of sight.

He knew he should feel a sense of victory. He hadn’t killed the courser, but he’d stopped it. But the weights of the dead, of Staff Sergeant McCough, were heavy loads to bear.

“Corporal?” a weak voice called out. “Is it safe?”

He still had a job to do. Rev turned around and spotted Vivian sticking her head out of the shop’s recessed entrance.

“Everyone, come on out!” he shouted as he strode to check on the woman, Craig, and Fint. Slowly, nervous heads poked out of more places than Rev had expected.

He passed the alley into which he’d ducked, and reached Vivian. She helped Craig up and said, “I don’t think your guy made it.”

Rev looked back at the destroyed bridge. The three of them should have been safe from the cannon.

“Fint? You with us?” he asked as he took the man’s arm and turned him over. He dropped the arm and stood back.

Vivian was right. The man was dead. As before, he didn’t have a mark on him, but there was no mistaking the face of death.

<The indications are cardiac arrest.>

“Son of a bitch,” Rev muttered. He quickly raised his arm to wipe the tears that had started to flow.

People had just been killed. Lots of them. McCough had sacrificed his life, but somehow this hit him hard.

“What now, Corporal?” Vivian asked.

He looked up where people were starting to gather, looking at him for guidance.

Rev took a deep breath, mentally shook his head, and said, “We’ve still got to reach the market. The bridge is gone. You tell me the best way.”

“The walking bridge should still be up,” someone said.

Rev pulled up his map overlay. The walking bridge was three blocks upstream. They could cross there, then cut straight across and hit the market closer to the north end of it instead of at the southwest entrance.

He looked down at Fint’s body. In a medical facility, he’d been dead for a short enough time for them to try and bring him back. In this situation, with the assault imminent, he doubted anything could be done. But he wasn’t going to abandon the man. He picked the body up and slung him over his shoulder.

“Lead on,” he told the man who’d mentioned the walking bridge.

Rev waited for the last one to start moving. He didn’t have another Moray, only his M-49, but protecting him was still his mission.

He avoided looking at the red splotches on the road as they moved, but something still caught his eye. He stopped, knelt, and picked up his bloody but undamaged MF-30, and slid it into his pocket before following Vivian and the rest.

7

Vivian stumbled, almost sending Craig to the ground. Rev couldn’t hold back, shifting Fint’s body and rushing up to take Craig’s free arm.

“I’ve got him,” Vivian protested, but didn’t otherwise object as the three crossed the remaining twenty meters into the market. Three people rushed to help, taking Craig.

“Where’s Corporal Reiser?” Rev asked one of them.

“The Marine?”

No, the other Corporal Reiser.

But he just nodded and said yes.

“I think she’s at Jeremiah’s Shawarmas.”

<Near the center of the market.>

Punch flashed up an overlay with the place highlighted.

“Thanks,” he told Vivian. “You get some rest, now.”

The place was packed with humanity, and the hubbub was almost a low roar. He caught snatches of speech as he wended his way through them. Some people were scared, some were ready to take up the fight. Most made way for him as he approached, and he was slapped on the back and thanked at almost every step.

“You’re an angel from heaven,” an older man said, stepping out to envelop Rev in a hug.

Rev carefully extracted himself from the man’s grip, mumbled something he hoped was appropriate, and pushed on.

Not all the looks sent his way were positive. More than a few brimmed with anger. Rev didn’t know if that was because they feared the coming battle or were Angel shits caught up in the rush. There had to be some serious screening when all of this was over.

He turned down a major thoroughfare and into a center food court. At the far side, Jeremiah’s Shawarmas dominated, a gaudy blue sign proclaiming them the best shawarmas on the planet.

Rev wasn’t about to test that claim. He made a beeline for the restaurant and through the entrance. Tomiko was just off to the left, arguing with three civilians. She spotted him, and he could see the relief flow over her face.

“Give me a sec,” she said, pushing through other civilians.

Rev thought for a moment that she was going to hug him, but she stopped herself and said, “You don’t know how glad I am to see you. You get everyone here?”

“Not everyone. Courser.”

She raised her eyebrows in a you’re-going-to-have-to-tell-me-about-that-but-not-now look.

“How many here?” Rev asked.

“I don’t even know. Thousands have come in, but the exact number . . . ?”

There were 22,406 registered people living in their two cordons. Some of the people Rev brought in actually lived in the next cordon, and some of those 22,000 had been killed or were not home at the time. Rev had no idea how many more people were out there in what could soon be a hot battle zone, but if there were “thousands” in the market now, then there had to be many more still left to gather.

“Time?”

<Forty-three minutes.>

So, they had forty-three minutes, maybe a bit more as the Drop Marines descended. Call it an hour.

Rev was trying to keep his thoughts off the people who hadn’t made it: McCough, Fint, the rest. He knew the best thing he could do would be to keep busy. And if he could save more people, all the better. It wouldn’t erase the loss of his charges, but it would help.

“I’m going out to see who I can scoop up.”

“And me?” Tomiko asked.

“You need to stay here and control this. The last thing we need is for people to get scared and make a break for it.”

Tomiko set her mouth in a tight line. She wasn’t happy about that, but she’d comply. Someone had to stay in control here. The No Fire Zone ended at the edges of the market and attached parking lot. The buildings just across the street were fair game for the Navy and Marine firepower.

“I’ll be back,” he assured her. “We both need to be in control if the evac ships arrive.”

“You’d better.”

Just the thought of shuttles landing to take people off planet was a scary proposition. Sailors would debark to help, but the shuttles could only take so many at a time, and if things were so bad that they needed to leave, well, people would be in full panic mode.

“I need two of your Morays.”

Tomiko didn’t hesitate, sliding the pack off her back. She popped two of the missiles out and handed them to him. He’d left his pack back at PASCO, so he slid them under his belt.

“No. You don’t need to fry your family jewels,” Tomiko said, handing him her pack and pulling the two loose ones out.

“Thanks.”

“Gather up who you can, but keep your ass whole. I don’t want to manage this madhouse alone.”

Rev didn’t reply. He wheeled around and made his way back through the growing mass of people, many calling out to him asking questions. He ignored them—not out of arrogance, but because he couldn’t take the time. As he left the market, he saw a familiar face.

“Teddy, you’re with me!”

The young man smiled and ran up to him, and together they plunged into the Free Fire zone to round up whoever they could.

* * *

“But won’t so many people just be a big target?” the man asked, his two-year-old daughter on his hip.

Rev wanted to take the man by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. In minutes, this entire area could become a battlefield. True, such a concentration could be targeted by the Centaurs, but they were about to have much more dangerous targets to contend with.

He took two deep breaths, willing his voice into something more reasonable.

“Any minute now, the Marines will be descending. They’ll be supported by Navy space-to-ground fire. Have you seen what a twenty-giga-joule meson cannon can do to targets on the ground?”

“No,” he said in a faltering voice.

“All of this,” Rev said, sweeping an arm to encompass the entire area, “could be gone. Leveled. Hell, it will be leveled.”

“But they’re supposed to be on our side!” he wailed, causing the little girl to start crying.

“Peth, maybe we should listen to him,” the woman standing next to him said, taking his upper arm in her hand.

“The Marines are on your side, sir. That’s why we’re coming. But the tin-asses—I mean, the Centaurs—they’re going to fight. And if that fight reaches here, it’s going to be targeted. I guaran-fucking-tee that.”

The man seemed to consider that for a moment, but then he said, “It’s my right to stay at my home.”

Rev was at the end of his rope. He and Teddy had managed to send forty or fifty people on their way, and there were probably more out there. But this obstinate asshole was putting his family at risk.

<Your blood pressure is rising.>

Rev ignored his battle buddy. He didn’t need a hunk of crystal to tell him that. With everything that had happened over the last two hours, and now with this guy being a moron, Rev was about to blow.

“You have the right to stay, but you don’t have the right to put your wife and daughter at risk. Stay here if you want to, you fool, but I’m taking your daughter. She can’t help having a friggin’ idiot as a father.”

With that, he snatched the little girl before the man could react. She immediately started screaming. The mother let out a yelp and lunged for the girl.

“Your choice. Live or die,” Rev said, easily fending off the woman with one arm.

An explosion sounded in the distance, and Rev looked up. Still high in the sky, the unmistakable sight of Drop Marines appeared. This was the first sign that the assault force had made it into orbit, and a wave of relief swept over Rev.

In a much calmer voice, Rev said, “It’s started. I’m taking the girl. You two can come or not as you wish.”

“Peth, I’m going. You need to come, too,” the woman pleaded.

“But—”

Rev had already turned away and started back to the market.

The woman hesitated only a moment, then rushed alongside Rev. “She’s scared. Let me take her.”

Rev handed the girl over, and she buried her sobbing face into her mother’s shoulder. He felt bad about scaring the youngster, but he wasn’t about to let her be put at risk.

A Navy Shrike fighter screamed over the city, targeting something in the distance. The battle was truly joined, and Rev was a good five minutes from the market if he stayed with Teddy and the woman.

Not that there was a choice about that.

“Sorry, I need to take her back, and we need to run. Do you understand?”

The woman, eyes wide with fear, silently handed him the little girl, and together, the three adults broke into a run.

Rev didn’t hear if the man stayed back as the Drop Marines closed with the planet’s surface.

8

It took them seven long minutes to reach Geltrain Street, just two blocks from the market. A dozen other people were hurrying along as well.

None of the Drop Marines landed anywhere close—by design. The evacuation/No Fire Zones had been chosen away from all known and suspected Centaur positions, and the Drop Marines didn’t want to draw Centaurs to them.

“Just a little farther,” he told the woman. He’d never even asked her name.

He shifted the girl to his left hip. The little one was quietly sobbing, but at least the screams had died down.

A whine caught his attention, and with his augmented hearing, he was the first to notice. To the south, from where they’d just run, a Navy Ibis shuttle was crabbing unnaturally in the air, smoke spewing from the aft end. Rev stopped dead in his tracks. He’d ridden an Ibis before, and it could hold up to twenty-eight Marines in full battle rattle.

He could see the pilot try to keep it in the air, but it was a losing battle. The shuttle tipped to its side and started spinning.

“Straighten it up!” Rev shouted, causing the rest of the people to stop and look.

But it was no use. The shuttle’s engine whined in futility as the Ibis rolled to its back and plunged out of sight behind the buildings. Rev hoped he’d see it reappear, but an explosion rocked the ground.

“Peth!” the woman screamed, falling to her knees.

If the man had stayed in his house, he could be dead now. The shuttle had gone down right about there.

“Take them,” Rev told Teddy, handing off the baby.

People started running for the market, and Rev knew that was where he was supposed to be, but he had to make sure. He sprinted against the flow of people and reached Linhei Street, the major north-south boulevard in the area, which gave him a better view of where the shuttle had gone down. Black smoke, mixed with actinic bursts of sparks, was rising.

Crap!

“Any chance of survivors?”

<Almost none.>

The sparks within the smoke were the telltale. They were proof that the drive had broken in the crash, and that was catastrophic. The shuttle had probably wiped out two city blocks with it.

But “almost none” was not zero. He was tempted to make sure. Those were Marines and sailors on that bird.

“Hey, they said get to the market!” a man yelled as he ran past the intersection.

And that’s where he was supposed to be, he realized. With a sigh, Rev said, “Respect to the fallen,” before he turned and started to jog back up Geltrain. More people were running for safety, hoping that the Marines would protect them.

Rev prayed that was true.

* * *

Rev was at the southwest corner of the market, right alongside the White Mountain Silks booth. There was no sign of silk inside, nor much evidence of any activity despite its primo location. The business might be dead, but it gave Rev a good field of observation down Geltrain, the most obvious avenue of approach. The larger Centaurs tended to avoid constrained areas, and they’d already sent one courser. Four hundred meters of red stains along the road and then the destroyed bridge over the Muddy River were reminders of that. They could just as easily send another.

“Hey, Marine! When are they going to get us out of here?” a deep male voice asked.

Rev didn’t even turn to see who was asking. It was only the tenth or twelfth time he’d been approached during the last half-hour, all asking something along those lines.

“When the situation is secure, and if we still need to evacuate, that’s when . . . sir.” That last word was added almost as an afterthought.

“That’s bullshit. It’ll be too late. I want you to take us to Ryder now!”

Rev rolled his eyes, glad he was facing away. Ryder was the major planet in this sector, a good twenty light-years from Tenerife. If the planet was evacuated, a major logistical challenge on its own, the people would be shuttled to the nearest location where they would essentially be stashed until the situation here was better known.

And truth be told, if things got so tenuous here that the order to evacuate was issued, not everyone would get off the planet. There just weren’t the resources. That wasn’t going to be revealed to the people, however, until it had to be.

There was a huge flash that lit the sky, followed by a shock wave that rattled the walls.

“Distance?”

<About eight-hundred meters. They’re getting closer.>

“See that!” the man yelled, getting up from where he’d dived to the ground. “We’re in danger!”

Rev ignored him. What else could he do?

The man didn’t take it well. He stepped up and put a hand on Rev’s shoulder, trying to turn him around. “I said—”

Whatever he was going to say was cut off when Rev spun, knocked the offending hand aside, and snarled, “Do . . . not . . . touch me.”

The forty-something man’s eyes widened in fright as he jumped back—along with most of the others crowded around Rev. “I . . . I . . .”

Rev didn’t want to be the bad guy here. He wanted the people to trust him. But this self-privileged asshole was getting on his nerves.

It took a force of will, but he lowered the ferocity in his voice. “Sir, I am here to protect you. But I need to concentrate on what might be coming. You pulling on me could be just the hesitation that lets a Cent paladin attack.”

“A . . . a paladin?” the man asked, holding his arm where Rev had hit it.

“Roscone, this Marine took out a courser on the Silver Bridge. Lots of us didn’t make it, but even more would have died if he hadn’t done that. You leave him alone, you hear?” Vivian said, stepping out from the rest of the people. The old woman looked exhausted, but she took the man by the arm and dragged him deeper into the market.

“Do you really think a paladin is coming, sir?” a high, querulous voice of a child asked from over his shoulder.

“Not if I can help it,” Rev said, turning back to cover the street.

* * *

Three hours later, the city was still a battlefield. The operations order had allotted a scant five hours to secure the city based on the suspected number of Centaurs in it. That was not going to happen. Rev wished he could get an update, but his comms remained silent. He didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad, but he’d give anything to find out.

The stress of protecting the people while armed with two lone Morays was getting to him. Punch had already offered three times to tell him jokes, which he’d refused. By now, he was sure this joke-telling thing was part of the program, and in this situation, he took offense at the notion that he could be controlled so easily. The last time, he’d snapped at Punch, who’d withdrawn in what Rev would swear was a sullen pout.

Yeah, as if a hunk of crystals can pout.

Still, he felt a little guilty about being brusque with him.

A Navy fighter whizzed overhead, unbelievably quick. At the river, it banked in a turn that only remotely operated craft could manage. There was a buzz of its Gatling as it disappeared from sight.

“Get some,” he muttered before movement caught his attention.

Down by the bridge, two mini-Centaurs emerged from the buildings, their cannons making the air ripple as they fired after the fighter.

“Shit! Where the hell did they come from?”

Rev raised his Moray as people pushed back to get away from him. He knew the Moray was more than powerful enough to take out one of the tiny Centaurs, but there were two of them, and firing both missiles would leave him with only his M-49.

Still, if those cannons turned to orient down Geltrain, he’d have no choice. There were too many people in the line of fire.

“All of you, push back so you can’t see down the road. And you,” he said, pointing at a young woman. “Go tell Corporal Reiser that we’ve got mini-Centaur action down by the bridge.”

The woman looked surprised, pointed at her chest, and quietly asked, “Me?”

“Yes, you. Now go!”

He turned back to the two mini-Centaurs. They were just sitting there, out in the opening at the base of the destroyed bridge. Rev wondered if they just didn’t have the intelligence to know they were vulnerable like that. It didn’t seem likely, given the Centaurs’ level of technology, but his eyes weren’t deceiving him.

His ears weren’t either, and he caught the high-pitched whine of a fighter, either that one looping back or another.

“Stupid dipshits,” he muttered, keeping his Moray trained on the two unsuspecting mini-Centaurs.

The Navy Shrike fighter was a compact, highly shielded piece of death. Without a living body inside, it was entirely weapons, flight surfaces, a power plant, and stealthy protection. Most energy beams targeting one were reflected aside. It would take a powerful beam quite some time to burn through the mirror-like armor and bring the plane down.

Rev had his doubts that even two mini-Centaurs could manage it in the short time it would take the fighter to line up and light them up with its kinetic Gatling. He stood up, his excitement rising. He wanted to watch this.

And there it was, shooting in like an arrow, coming down the south side of Linhei Avenue. Rev whooped as it popped up and inverted, ready to take the mini-Centaurs under fire—a whooped cut short when a missile reached up from the buildings in the area of the emitter station.

“What . . .?”

Almost instantly, the two mini-Centaurs bolted out of sight, and the fighter pulled Gs that only a remotely operated plane could achieve in an attempt to evade the Centaur missile, turning toward the market. It was no use. The missile was too quick and fired too close. The fighter came apart in a flash of flames, the resultant debris heading toward the market.

“Trajectory?”

<Close.>

Rev stood as what remained of the fighter headed at them. But with the market packed with people, there was nowhere to go. The largest chunk skimmed over the top of the market to hit the street and slide into the buildings on the other side, starting secondary explosions. Smaller pieces rained down everywhere as people screamed in terror.

The market might be a No Fire Zone, but neither the Centaurs nor downed human aircraft honored that designation.

“We need a doctor here!” someone yelled from behind him.

Rev turned to see people crowding around somebody, wildly gesturing for help. He turned back, feeling guilty for not getting involved. But he wasn’t a doctor, and his job was to protect the people there.

“It was a trap, right?”

<It would seem so.>

Rev was angry at himself. Not that he could have done anything to save the Shrike. Even if he’d taken out the two mini-Centaurs, they had only been the bait. But he’d been caught in the trap as well. Marines knew that the Centaurs were technologically more advanced than humans were, but too often, they forgot that the creatures were also thinking, sentient beings.

At boot camp, it had been drilled into their heads that complacency kills. It sure had this time. The only saving grace was that the fighter was unmanned. But now, there were at least two armed mini-Centaurs between the Muddy River and the market.

So far, though, he’d been more in danger from his own forces. First the shuttle, now the fighter. Rev knew that there was a good chance he’d die in the war, but he didn’t want to go out like that. It should be at the hands of the enemy.

Fire sprang up from the demolished building into which the fighter had crashed, and Rev could feel the heat on his face. Civilians, who had moments before tried to get out of the way, now crowded him as they moved to gawk.

“You need to move back, people,” he shouted, letting his voice amplify just a bit. “There are still two more of them out there.”

It took some gentle pushing, but he cleared a space around him, giving him room to react to any threat.

He suddenly felt tired, his mind numb. The boost that the anger over the Navy fighter had given him receded like melting snow when the Chinooks blew.

“How long since insert?”

<Three hours, thirty-seven minutes.>

Rev hesitated. He’d been amped up on XL-12, the same energy sludge he’d taken on the Dixmude before the Roher-104 mission, but without sleep, that would only take him so far. He had one more option.

<Do you want your ATP-A?>

“You’re reading my mind.”

But if he took the boost, he’d get fifteen hours, maybe a little more. After that, he’d go down hard. It was a calculated risk. He’d be more alert, better able to protect the market, but if they were still there in fifteen hours, then what? He should have planned this out with Tomiko first, maybe having her catch some Zs. He considered trying to find her, but that would leave his corner of the market undefended.

<From your bio readings, you might have between thirty and forty minutes until you become statistically compromised. I would suggest that you boost before then.>

“So, now you’re the doctor?”

But Punch was right.

Unlike the XL-12, which was swallowed, the ATP-A was a direct cellular jolt of adenosine triphosphate administered by his nanos. The “A” after the ATP stood for “augmented,” but the Marines said it stood for “agony.”

“Do it.”

A piercing flash of fire shot from his head down his spine, taking his breath away. He staggered before the fire seemed to burn away his fatigue.

“Are you OK, sir?” someone asked, stepping up to him.

“Yes, I’m fine. Totally fine.”

He gave the burning building one last look. The remaining wall collapsed in a shower of sparks. He wondered if the owner was in the market with him.

The damage to the city was someone else’s problem, however. Rev turned back to his mission, to protect the people in his charge. He just hoped that all of this would be settled before his fifteen-hour reservoir of energy was gone.

9

Fifty-four minutes later, a squad of infantry emerged onto Geltrain and headed toward the market.

“Are those Cents?” a woman asked, stepping up to stand beside Rev, her hand raised to shade her eyes.

“Those are Union Marines, ma’am,” Rev said, a wave of relief flowing over him like a tsunami.

The weight of responsibility was lifted from his shoulders.

<They may not be here to relieve you. Comms have not opened yet.>

“Hell, you have to be a fly in the ointment, don’t you?”

More people started crowding around, the general hubbub rising in volume, but even with the Marines now only a couple hundred meters away, they stayed within the boundary of the market as if a fence kept them in.

Rev knew he should be scanning the area, watching for a Centaur to pop out, but his eyes were locked onto the squad as they slowly closed the distance. As the point man reached the edge of the square, he halted, caught Rev’s eyes, and gave him the hand-and-arm signal to wait. Rev took a single step out from the market and silently stood there.

The squad members faced outboard, and Rev’s hopes took a small hit. Why face outboard in a hasty defensive position unless there was still a threat?

A staff sergeant—a glorious sight in their PAL-3 combat suit—made their way forward and approached Rev. “Looking for Corporals Pelletier or Reiser.”

“Pelletier.”

The staff sergeant reached Rev and held out a gauntleted hand.

“Thought that must be you. Staff Sergeant Prospero, Fox Company. We’re here to relieve you,” they said in a gender-neutral voice.

“You mean, we’ve won? My comms are still down, and I’m out of the loop.”

The staff sergeant looked at the civilians crowded around, eagerly waiting on the reply. “Most of the city is secure. We’re sweeping for stragglers right now. I . . . I don’t know about the rest of the planet. As you said, comms are still down.”

The murmuring from the crowd took on a disappointed tone.

“Was there a courser taken out, maybe in the river?”

“A courser? Yeah. At the central park. Echo had a tough time with that bastard. How’d you know?”

So, it made it out.

If Echo, a full Marine company, had problems with it, then Rev really hadn’t stood much of a chance against the behemoth.

“Not important, Staff Sergeant. So, what now?”

“Like I said, we’re here to relieve you. I need a full debrief, numbers of civilians, casualties, the whole situation. After that, what you do next is up to your orders, I guess.”

The civilians were crowding closer and closer. There were lots of excited faces. Rev didn’t think there were Angel shits among them, but he wasn’t sure this was the place for a debrief.

“If I can suggest we find Corporal Reiser, she’s got a better handle on the situation here. I was out there rounding up folks for most of this.”

The staff sergeant nodded, then turned on their speakers and faced the crowd. “I am Staff Sergeant Prospero, Union Marines. My squad is here to provide security until we can declare the city secure, but as of now, it looks like we kicked the tin-asses’ butts!”

The civilians cheered, people hugging and slapping each other on the back.

“I need you to remain in place for now, but as soon as we can, we’ll see about releasing you back to your homes.”

“Sergeant Amin, take over and get the squad in position while I go with Corporal Pelletier.”

The staff sergeant indicated that Rev should lead, and the two started pushing through the crowd. A Marine in a PAL-3 is a pretty imposing figure, and the people slowly parted for them, but not without calling for information. They knew something was up—they’d heard the people near Rev’s position cheer, and the mere presence of the infantry Marine got them excited.

The staff sergeant kept saying things like, “Things are going well,” and “We’ll keep you informed,” as Rev led them to the food court and Jeremiah’s Shawarmas. Rev asked one of the proctors to fetch Tomiko from where she was guarding the northeast corner of the market before going into the restaurant’s small office. There were two people inside, a proctor and a person in cooks’ whites. Maybe it was Jeremiah, but Rev didn’t ask. What he did ask was for them to give him the office.

The staff sergeant looked huge in the small room. Rev sat on the corner of the desk, but there was no place for a Marine in a PAL-3 to sit.

“How did it go? I saw the buildings there right across the street.”

“Navy Shrike. Almost hit us. And a shuttle crashed another five hundred meters away.”

Rev couldn’t see the staff sergeant’s face, but he thought he could see a slight slumping in the Marine’s posture.

“Third Platoon, Golf Company. Lost some good people there.”

“Have casualties been . . . uh, heavy?” Rev asked, his face scrunched up as he waited for the answer.

“I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think so. No one from my squad.”

That surprised Rev. A happy surprise.

“There weren’t many tin-asses in the city, at least not that we’ve found. More of those little ones.”

“The mini-Centaurs. They’re not manned,” Rev told them.

He didn’t know that for a fact, but it was the only thing that made sense.

“They’ll mess you up, the ones with weapons in the pedestals, but your Morays there,” the SNCO said, using their chin to point to Rev’s missiles, “will do the job.”

“I know. We took out two at the emitter station.”

“Good shit,” the staff sergeant said before reaching up and opening their helmet, revealing a crop-haired woman in her thirties. “Damn, it feels good not to be breathing canned air.”

She put her hand in through her open face shield and gave her scalp a good scratching. “What about you guys here? Did things go OK?”

“Lost up to a hundred, maybe,” Rev said bitterly.

“That courser you were asking me about?”

“Yeah, it hit us as we were moving here.”

“Shit, sorry. So, it hit you and moved off?”

Rev shook his head. “I kinda gave it a nudge to leave.”

The staff sergeant raised her eyebrows in an unspoken question.

“I just had the one Moray then, and my battle buddy reminded me of the shitty chances it would stop one.”

“Yeah? So . . . ?”

“It was on the bridge, so I took it out. The bridge, I mean. Dropped it into the river.”

“Damn. Really? We saw the bridge coming over. Had to detour, but I didn’t think a Marine had done that.”

Rev just shrugged.

“Most excellent thinking, Corporal, but given your rep, I’m not surprised.”

“My rep?”

The staff sergeant laughed and said, “Yeah, your rep. As in tin-ass killer.”

Rev frowned. Yes, he’d managed to kill Centaurs, but for various reasons, that had been kept under wraps. Evidently, not as well as the brass might have thought. He felt more than a little uncomfortable to have a staff sergeant defer to him when it came to that.

He was saved from responding when Tomiko entered the office. Propriety be damned, but Rev gave her a giant hug.

“You look like shit,” he told her, and it was true. Her eyes were hollow and flat.

She pushed him back at arm’s length and studied his face. “You boosted.”

It wasn’t a question but a statement of fact.

“I had to. I was at the end of my rope there, Miko.”

“You gotta do what you gotta do,” she said.

“Miko, this is Staff Sergeant Prospero.”

“Prospero? I’ve heard about you. Echo, right? Talent Moreno’s in your platoon.”

“Second Squad. Good Marine.”

Rev didn’t know who this Moreno was, but with the entire regiment coming from metro Swansea, it wasn’t surprising that there were lots of short degrees of separation.

“So, just passing through?” Tomiko asked.

“Here to relieve you while the regiment conducts sweeps. I need a brief of the situation, and Corporal Pelletier here said you’re the one I need to talk to.”

Tomiko took the next few minutes and gave a thorough debrief despite her obvious fatigue. Augmented or not, XL-12’s or not, forty hours without sleep took a toll on a person.

Rev listened to her debrief. He knew most of it, but some things were new to him. That was his fault. He should have asked the same questions of her when he arrived at the market.

“Remind me to conduct better briefs in the future.”

<Added to your long list of reminders.>

Is Punch being sarcastic? Is that even possible?

As a personal reminder—not one he asked his battle buddy to note—he was going to have to learn more about battle buddies and their programming.

But that was for some time later, not now. Tomiko was wrapping up, answering a few questions from the staff sergeant.

“Well, if that’s it, I guess you’re hereby relieved. Good job, you two.”

“Any idea when we’ll get comms?” Tomiko asked.

The staff sergeant shook her head and said, “Not until we either secure the planet or have to sound a recall.”

“Well in that case, we’re to stay here until we get word,” Tomiko said.

“Sounds good.”

“I’ll come out in a bit to help with security if you need me,” Rev said. “I’ve got another dozen hours or so before I crash from the ATP boost.”

“That sounds good, too. We can always use more trigger-pullers. Check in with Sergeant Amin. He’ll find you a position.”

“Roger that.”

The staff sergeant reached out again to bump fists with the two of them, closed up her helmet, and left the office.

“What about you? You going to hang out here?” he asked Tomiko.

“Well, since I didn’t boost, I’m running on empty. That couch over there is calling my name.”

She stumbled over to the small, ratty couch, barely big enough for two people to sit abreast. Luckily, she was a small woman, and she collapsed into it, her legs drawn up. She gave Rev a wink, and within thirty seconds, she was out cold.

10

The two Marines stayed at the market for three more weeks. Fighting had been much lighter than expected, and the city was declared secured late on the first day of the landing. The planet was declared secured after fifty-two hours.

But that didn’t mean they could just pack up and leave. Three hundred million citizens had been prisoners for close to ten months. People had been displaced. Infrastructure had been destroyed. It was going to take some time to put things back together.

And perhaps most of all, all those people needed to be screened. The brass hadn’t foreseen that humans would actively work for the Centaurs, and now they were scrambling to address the situation. Teams were being brought in, and every single citizen was going to be interviewed before they were released.

The lieutenant and master sergeant had come to see Rev and Tomiko the second day. Rev had reached the end of his boost, and he was out cold, but Tomiko had been given their marching orders. They were to stay at the market and assist in the screening. They were a known factor to the people, and that was assumed to be beneficial in the process.

It wasn’t. Rev woke up to a market surrounded by memory wire, armed Marines guarding the entrances. Fydor LaMare, the other cordon captain, and some of the proctors had approached Rev to let the people out, promising that everyone would be screened, but the Omega Division officer who’d arrived to take charge of the process gave that an immediate no. With the OD officer in civilian clothes, the animus that quickly grew was aimed at the Marines. The master sergeant who came with the OD officer bore the brunt of that, but Rev, Tomiko, and the rest of the uniformed Marines received their fair share of the hate. Even Lima seemed to resent their presence.

To make matters worse, with all the civilians kept as prisoners—ironically more so prisoners than they were with the Centaurs—food distribution was spotty at best. The restaurants and food stalls in the food court attempted to feed everyone, but they weren’t set up for that. They were out by the second day. The Navy started shipping in combat rations, but there never seemed to be enough.

Slowly, as more and more people were interviewed, they were released, and things started to get back to normal. Not completely normal, but in that direction.

Not everyone was getting released. The numbers of Angel shits uncovered were surprising. The bulk never became kapos, but they were nevertheless considered security risks.

Tomiko and Rev were debriefed as well. At least their debrief was conducted by Marines, not OD. Rev gave his account, uploading his recorded feeds. Between him and Tomiko, they made sure that Lima, Fydor, Amicia Lin, Beth Rysth-Lorraine, Nik Orleans, and the proctors were noted for their contributions. And for Rev, he asked if Tanton McCough could be retroactively reenlisted back into the Corps.

He knew the old man would appreciate it, but it went beyond that. Getting killed in the line of duty as a Marine would result in many more benefits for his family than if he was just among the millions of civilians who had died since the initial Centaur invasion.

Three weeks at the market were followed by four with the rest of the platoon while waiting for a lift off the planet. Three Marines and a corpsman from the platoon had been lost during the mission. Sergeant Jessie Milano and Doc Raize Portis from First Team had died while unsuccessfully trying to hold off five or six mini-Centaurs from their civilians. Scores had died under the onslaught, but Milano and Portis’ actions allowed even more civilians to scatter to safety.

No one knew what had happened to Corporal Tank Listerman and Lance Corporal Mud Dog Hringa, also from First Team, which left everyone with a hollow feeling in their gut. NIS and ODIS would investigate later, so hopefully, their stories would eventually be told.

Finally, however, the platoon’s number came up, and it was time to leave.

As they lay on the ground in their sticks, Rev looked across the spaceport’s apron to the civilian shuttle waiting for them to board.

“Hey, Hus-man, at least this time we’re not going Navy,” Rev said.

“I hope they got chow. I’m sick of D-rats.”

Rev and Tomiko’s first shuttle ride had been on a Navy Isis shuttle, packed with gear, and Hussein had waxed poetic about the benefits of hitching a ride on a civilian craft. Rev hoped Hus-man had been telling the truth and not just feeding the boots sea stories. He was rather sick of D-rations as well, and he could use a little pampering.

A trolley rolled up, manned by a petty officer.

“OK, Marines. All your ammo. I need it dumped now!”

“Really?” Tomiko muttered in a low voice, too low for the petty officer to hear, but not low enough for augmented hearing. “They trust us to fight, but not enough to believe we won’t shoot up our ride home?”

“I mean it,” the petty officer said when no one got up. “You are not going to get on your shuttle until all your ammo’s turned in.”

“OK, people. You heard him,” the gunny said, getting up and dumping ammo into the trolley’s open hopper.

With a sigh, Rev got up and started dumping ammo as well. M-49 darts were very compact while in their magazines, and he got rid of close to two thousand. He left one magazine with 114 darts in his shin pocket. If caught, he’d say he forgot it. But they weren’t on the shuttle yet, and who knew if there were more Angel shits, or even a mini-Centaur still roaming free.

Tomiko gave his shin a pointed look as he sat down on the tarmac before she patted her upper arm. A 57-dart mag would easily fit there unnoticed.

A yellowshirt shouted at them to get back up, telling them it was time to embark. They marched in stick order across the tarmac to the pretty shuttle. A logistics staff sergeant waited at the hatch and scanned each of them before they got on board.

An attendant, impossibly clean looking in his blue trousers and yellow shirt, welcomed them aboard and directed them to the seats.

Tomiko took a seat in the last row, and Rev plopped down beside her.

“You going to miss this place, Miko?” Rev asked.

“Are you high?” she asked with a huff.

“Oh, come on. Nice weather. Lots of O2 to breathe. Off on our own. What could have been better?”

She just shook her head.

<Are you attempting humor?>

Even after almost four years with his battle buddy, it still sometimes surprised him.

He was tempted to say no, but that would only screw up its machine learning.

“It’s called sarcasm.”

<And that is funny?>

“Sort of. Not really, I guess.”

<Noted.>

“Hey, what did I tell you?” Hussein asked, leaning across the aisle. “This is the way to fly.”

The shuttle attendant was coming down the aisle, pushing a cart. Mouthwatering aromas filled the cabin. Rev wished Tomiko hadn’t picked a seat in the back, but he waited his turn. The attendant finally reached them and passed a meal to him with a cheery, “Enjoy!”

Rev cracked it open. He didn’t recognize what kind of pasta was the main course, but he didn’t care. After almost eight weeks of D-rats, anything would be heaven.

He ate while a recorded voice gave them a safety brief and was licking the box clean as the shuttle took off.

He never looked back down at the planet as they climbed into the atmosphere.

11

“How drunk am I?”

<You’ve got a BAC of point-zero-two.>

That’s it?

One thing that bothered Rev was that his augments didn’t increase his alcohol tolerance. He massed a good fifty kilos more than he did pre-augment, but that didn’t affect how much he could drink. He was still somewhat of a lightweight. That wasn’t going to stop him from making a brave attempt to put a dent in Lateeka’s supply.

He wasn’t the only one. With an actual ninety-six—four days of free leave—the regiment’s Marines and sailors were in party mode. No one knew why there had been so few Centaurs on the planet, probably in the low hundreds, not that anyone was complaining. Even with the mini-Centaurs, the mission on Tenerife had been accomplished with only moderate casualties, at least when compared to other missions, and that deserved a celebration. Lateeka’s wasn’t the most popular Marine hangout in the city, but it was packed to the gills.

Best of all, at least from Rev’s perspective, was that all of their crew had made it back. No one was even wounded. That was three major battles, and they were all still among the living. And since the dead can’t drink, they were going to take it upon themselves to honor those who’d fallen.

“Hey, Bundy. I think that pitcher’s looking mighty dry,” Rev said.

“That’s Sergeant Bundy to you, asswipe.”

“OK, Sergeant Bundy, I think that pitcher’s looking a might dry.”

“Damned corporals, always whining about something. Back in my day—”

“When ships were made of wood and Marines were made of steel,” Tomiko and Cricket shouted in unison, raising their steins as they cut him off.

Cricket sloshed half of the beer out in the mock toast, and Udu punched him in the arm—which made him slosh more—and shouted, “Alcohol abuse!”

Bundy half-heartedly grumbled, but he left to get another pitcher.

Rev just sat back and smiled. Bundy had only picked up Sergeant three weeks ago, and the rest of them were enjoying giving him shit. This wasn’t his official wetting down, but they were going to ride their friend awfully hard tonight.

“How was dinner?” he asked Tomiko, having to raise his voice to be heard over the din.

“You know, same-old, same-old,” she said, draining the last of her beer. “Mom wanted to know when I was going to get out of the Marines and find a husband.”

“Sucks to be you.”

Their ninety-six had started that morning after formation, and those who could had first gone to visit family, Rev included. But whereas Rev had been happy to see his mother, stepdad, Neesy, and Grover, Tomiko’s home life was a little more problematic. Rev had asked out of concern, but seeing the cloud form over her eyes, he wanted to change the subject.

“So, what’s going to happen with the Angel shits?” he asked her.

Fyr, hearing the question, leaned in to listen to what Tomiko was going to say. During the trip back, that had been the main topic of discussion, but it hadn’t been talked out. Everyone still wanted to know.

It was one thing to protest outside of the bases or the Government House on New Mars, but these Angel shits had turned on their race and had been actively helping the enemy enslave fellow humans. And if the little bits and crumbs that trickled down to the enlisted Marines were any indication, there had been a lot more of them than they’d previously believed. Most of the kapos and other quislings had not survived. Some had been killed fighting the Marines, but more had been killed by the other citizens, often beaten and torn apart by bare hands.

But that had been the tip of the iceberg. Far more had been uncovered during the normal interrogations of the freed people. Rev didn’t know how many, but planet-wide, it was rumored to be at least a million. The quislings in Sergeant Krill’s contact team were nowhere near the only ones like that in other cities.

It boggled Rev’s mind that anyone could follow—no, worship—the enemy. Doc Paul, a Second Class Petty Officer, the equivalent of a Marine sergeant and the team’s corpsman, thought they’d been brainwashed, but Rev didn’t care too much as to the why. He cared more about what was going to be done about it.

Even more disconcerting was how many local militia and ex-Navy and Marines were among them. Rev had seen several of them during the round-up, men and women who called out when they saw him, either to convert him or ask for leniency. There was a saying that there’s no such thing as an “ex-Marine,” but as far as Rev was concerned, that didn’t pertain to tin-ass worshippers.

Bundy came back carrying four pitchers and put them on the table. “I know you’re going to keep on me—”

“That’s because you’ve got that big sergeant paycheck,” Cricket said.

“None for him,” Bundy snapped back. “But, as I was saying, I know you’re going to keep hitting me up, so I’m doing it all now. Then my spigot’s turned off.”

Rev grabbed a pitcher and filled Tomiko, Fyr, and his steins. “Now that you’re recharged, what’s going to happen with the Angel shits,” he asked Tomiko again.

“Well, it sure ain’t gonna be shoved under the rug,” she said. “I mean, look at us now?”

“What do you mean?” Fyr asked.

“We just fought not only tin-asses, but humans. And what did they tell us when we embarked to come back home? That this was all top-secret and shit, right?”

“Well, yeah. But they told us today that it isn’t classified,” Rev said, not quite getting her point.

“They not only told us that what happened wasn’t classified, but they encouraged us to tell our families all about it.”

“Yeah, for morale,” Fyr said. “I mean, we’ve gotten our asses kicked before, and finally, we’ve got an easier win on our record.”

But that wasn’t her point, Rev knew.

“What are the newsies reporting on the battle?” he subvocalized.

Punch was now connected to the net again, and it would take nanoseconds for him to scan the public newscasts galaxy-wide.

<As of two hours ago, a fairly comprehensive report on the battle is being disseminated. Among the clips are your own recordings of the PASCO emitter station.>

That took him by surprise. Never in a million years would he have thought that anything he did would be seen by the masses of humanity.

“Do they say I recorded it?”

<No. The tag is “Official Perseus Union Recording.”>

Rev’s fifteen minutes of fame vanished just like that, but with what Punch told him, what Tomiko was getting at clicked into place.

“They want us to talk about it, to make sure the public knows what the Angel shits are doing.”

“Bingo, Rev,” Tomiko said. “And . . .” she prompted.

“And they want the public to turn against them, so they can justify taking action. I mean, it’s one thing to fight the tin-asses, but a war against other humans? We haven’t had a real war, like against another nation, in thirty years. And there are . . .”

Punch didn’t wait for Rev to ask and said, <Current estimates are that there are at least four-hundred million Children of Angels.>

“. . . four-hundred million of the bastards. Not much, maybe, but enough to cause problems.”

“So, we’re going to act,” Fyr said as he took that in.

“We have to,” Tomiko said.

“Hey, you three, you’re too serious!” Orpheus shouted from across the table, tossing a wadded-up napkin that bounced off of Fyr’s chest. “Tonight’s for having fun, not talking shop!”

“You’re right, you’re right,” Rev said. “No more shop talk. Let’s drink!”

But as he took a long draught, his mind was wandering. They had to take action, he knew. But just what action?

* * *

They didn’t have long to wait to find out. The day after the ninety-six, the colonel put the base on complete lockdown. The regiment had done its duty in relating what had happened on Tenerife, and that had spread like wildfire across human space. Obvious Children of Angels were assaulted, arrested, and even lynched. And in one gruesome episode, one was nailed to the fence of a military cemetery where the suspect died, screaming, as people recorded the moment while hurling epithets and stones. But as a whole, no one thought anywhere close to all of them had been rounded up.

The colonel conducted an all-hands brief, telling the Marines and sailors that they had somewhere between a month and six weeks to prepare for a “major, galaxy-wide operation.”

A full twenty-five percent of humanity’s armed forces would be involved, and the Gryphons would be part of the Perseus Union’s contribution.

The colonel didn’t have to tell them who the target was. The regiment was going to war, but this time, against fellow humans.

12

“Have you checked out the gym yet?” Strap Gantz asked Rev as they filed into their assigned briefing space.

“Pretty sweet,” Rev answered. Everything about the Hobart Bay was sweet, from troop berthing to the galley, and yes, to the gym that put the regimental gym at Camp Nguyen to shame.

It was a full three months after they found out they were taking on the Angel shits, not the four-to-six weeks as they’d been told. There had been two major operations against the Centaurs: one in Friesian space, and one at the independent world of Berne. The Union Marines hadn’t been involved in either, but there had been a delay as all members of the Marine Corps, as well as every other military force, were screened for Children of Angels sympathies.

Rev had been upset at the effort, but that had been somewhat tempered when twenty-two Marines within the regiment had been removed from the deployment list. Rev knew one of them, Jojo Torser from Bravo Company. Torser had been in his DC class at bootcamp. Rev just couldn’t see him as a traitor, and maybe the brass didn’t, either. As of yesterday, none of the twenty-two had been arrested. They’d just been transferred to Headquarters Company and left behind while the regiment had embarked aboard the Hobart Bay early-dark-thirty this morning. Most of the day had been taken up with getting to the ship and their assigned berthing, but there’d been time to explore the spaces open to the Marines, and they were simply amazing.

There were five remaining Buenos Aires Class dreadnaughts in the Union Navy, each capable of carrying a heavy Marine expeditionary force, this one organized around three Marine regiments along with both a wing-sized air element and a support battalion. There used to be eight ships of the class, but three had been lost in battle to the Centaurs before the remaining ships were removed from combat operations. Designed to carry a fully self-contained force capable of sustained operations, it was the most expensive and powerful platform owned by the Union, and some say in all of humanity.

With a new foe, a human one without much in the way of naval assets, the Navy was chomping at the bit to prove the worth of their crown jewels. Rev didn’t care about the politics. This was one sweet ride, much better than the converted Amethyst in which he first rode into combat.

“Screw the gym,” Tomiko said as they took their seats. “I want to see what the galley puts out.”

Rev’s stomach took that moment to rumble. They hadn’t had a sit-down meal since their deployment meal the night before.

Tomiko laughed and said, “I guess you, too.”

Rev ignored her.

“How many people are going to be in here?” he asked Punch as he surveyed the space, one of many aboard the ship.

<With Recon and Sappers, one-hundred-eighty-five pax.>

It amazed Rev, that on a ship, there were conference rooms that could hold two hundred people. The flight deck could hold the entire ship’s company and embarked Marines, but this was an actual conference room, as if they were back at Camp Nguyen. And this wasn’t the only one. The upcoming brief would be given simultaneously to over nine thousand Marines.

“OK, sit down and shut your yaps,” First Sergeant Vance shouted.

Along with Captain Dajeerling, the two had taken over the company just before Tenerife. Rev had only met either one after that operation, and only perfunctorily, but the first sergeant had a reputation . . . and one not that favorable. The skipper was a mustang, brought in from the regular forces.

Rev hoped that both would stay out of the platoon’s hair. The lieutenant was a known entity, and he’d proven himself. Plus, they weren’t Swansea Marines like most of the regiment.

The holo platform hummed to life, and the space quieted down. They’d been given almost no information—for security had been the excuse—before they’d embarked, and now, each Marine and sailor hoped they’d find out what they faced.

A figure of a rear admiral appeared on the platform. She looked to her right and said, “Are we on?” before she turned and faced the holocam.

She was in her formal Navy whites and had an impressive rack on her left chest, topped by the gold anchor of command with five stars.

OK, she’s got experience, Rev almost grudgingly noted.

Five stars meant she’d commanded five ships. Which made sense. They were only going to give command of a dreadnaught to one of their best.

“Marines and sailors of Marine Expeditionary Brigade-46, welcome aboard the Big Hob. I’m Rear Admiral Fiona Knelte, and let me assure you, we’re glad you’re here.”

“I bet she is,” Tomiko whispered. “It must suck to command this monster of a ship and have to hide out.”

“You’ll be on board the Big Hob for two weeks while the force assembles, so we’ll have time for more detailed operations orders, but I wanted to take this opportunity to not only welcome you but to give you the scoop on where we’re going and who’s going with us.

Almost as one, most of those in the space leaned forward. This was what they wanted to know.

The admiral disappeared, to be replaced by a blue-green planet that was almost rendered into insignificance by the colors spread across space behind it. There was an audible gasp from the Marines and sailors.

A separate unnamed voice said, “This is Alafia, in the K-786. It is a Goldilocks planet with a native ecosystem. It is fully independent but with associate representation in the Council of Humanity.”

Rev frowned. He’d never heard of it, but Goldilocks planets, which didn’t need terraforming to support human life, were prized above all else.

“The planet is temperate but with large seasonal swings, ranging from minus twenty Fahrenheit to a hundred and twenty-five.”

Big range, but not unbearable. So, why haven’t I heard of it, and what the hell are those colors? Not an aurora.

“Life on the planet is polyphenic, widespread, and plentiful. It poses little threat to human life, but competition for vegetative forms is fierce.”

“Tell me what the hell polyphenic means after the brief.”

<Noted.>

“Alafia was originally settled three hundred and twelve years ago. However, due to a lack of heavy metals and the difficulty in growing Earth-crops without extensive soil treatments, the planet never achieved large numbers of immigrants.”

“Something else was wrong,” Tomiko whispered. “Other planets succeeded.”

“The major factor that limited colonization was psychological. Behind the planet, you can see the Witches’ Broom Nebula. The outer reaches of the nebula are scheduled to reach the planet in a little over three years. There is no scientific data to suggest that this should have any effect on human life, but there has been a general exodus from the planet’s population over the last thirty years.”

The nebula was beautiful, and Rev couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to leave. It put New Hope’s night sky to shame.

“That is until approximately eighteen years ago, which coincides with—”

“When the tin-asses appeared,” Rev finished the sentence for the man.

“Immigration began to pick up, and a religious cult grew. You’ll be briefed in more detail about this cult later, but their main belief was that a superior life-form would arrive behind the nebula cloud to lead humanity to the next level.”

That didn’t make any sense to Rev. Sure, there were cults all over humanity’s section of the galaxy, but from the astral map, humans populated three of the four sides of the nebula. How could something be “coming up” from behind it? Besides, the Angel shits worshipped the Centaurs, and they were invading from a different direction.

“Approximately seven years ago, the Children of Angels arrived on the planet, and within nine months, they became the major population. That majority has only grown since then. Now close to eighty-million people call Alafia home. Current estimates are that sixty-five million are members of the Children of the Angels. An estimated three million have had military or law enforcement experience.”

That raised a hubbub, and the first sergeant had to shout for everyone to quiet down. Rev didn’t know if the unseen speaker had feedback from any of those being briefed or if he just knew this would cause a reaction, but he paused for a good fifteen seconds.

Both numbers were surprising. Sixty-five million Angel shits was more than he’d expected, particularly as the scuttlebutt had been that there were going to be simultaneous operations across human space. If that was true, then this planet wasn’t their only headquarters.

But the sixty-five million wasn’t the biggest surprise. It was the three million with military or law enforcement experience. Rev didn’t know yet how many were in the Task Force, but even with possibly more people—and almost assuredly better equipment—three million ex-soldiers was nothing to sneeze at.

The image of the planet expanded and started to rotate, and the voice announced major population centers, each one flashing brighter at its mention. The Marines started stirring. If the rest were like Rev, they were more interested in their objective and not a Wikilecture.

The speaker came to a close, and the image disappeared to be replaced by the admiral.

“Thank you, Commander Roberts. So, that is a broad picture of what we’re up against. But who exactly are we? What is our order of battle?”

Full attention regained.

“Captain Juego, if you would.”

The image flipped to a Navy Captain who introduced himself before immediately pulling up a wire diagram. Rev had to work his eyes hard to make much of it. Marines without the eye augments wouldn’t be able to make out anything.

Luckily, the captain knew that. He started at the top with the Task Eagle Claw commander, Admiral Wilson Sung. As he said the name, that section expanded so as to be seen. Below the admiral was another full Navy admiral as the Naval Forces commander and General Osirus Bellamy as the Ground Element commander. Rev knew of him by his reputation as a bulldog general much loved by the rank-and-file Marines.

Below them, the diagram started branching out further and further. Four Perseus Union Marine Expeditionary Forces, each led by a Major General, and three Manifest Destiny Sphere Force, each led by a right marshal, made up the ground forces. The Navy was formed into divisions with Rear Admiral Knelte dual-hatted as the division commander as well as the Hobart Bay’s CO.

The captain broke down the order of battle to the Marine Expeditionary level, of which Rev’s MEB-46 was just one of many. Rev asked Punch to record all of that in case he needed it, but what it boiled down to was that just under a million Marines and MDS soldiers made up the task force.

The captain went on for another ten minutes, followed by a Marine colonel who spoke for a short time about the operation itself. Unfortunately, she gave no specifics, saying they would come later.

The admiral followed up with a rah-rah speech, urging all of them to do their duty and make their families proud. And then the brief was over. In some ways, not much real information was disseminated, but still, at least they knew where they were going and who they might face there.

“So, what do you think?” Tomiko asked as they started filing out to go to chow.

“A million against up to sixty-five million, with three mil being ex-military?”

“That’s a lot of Angel shits,” she said.

“Well, unless those three million are former Marines, I don’t think they stand a chance.”

13

PFC Tubba “Tulip” Badem stopped and held up an open hand as he peered ahead. Rev passed the sign to halt to the rest of the patrol but kept his eyes locked on Badem. The PFC seemed like he had the potential to be a good Marine, at least according to Sergeant Nix with whom he’d been paired on Tenerife.

A little arrogant, maybe, which explained his nickname. He’d arrived full of vim and vigor and, among other things, had declared his nickname to be “Terror.”

No. Just no.

Tomiko immediately christened him Tulip instead, and the name, much to his disgust, had stuck. He’d dutifully accepted it, and that got him back in the good graces of the rest of the team.

And there was no doubting his warcraft. If Badem thought he spotted something, Rev was going to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Badem signaled that there were two buildings at two-four-two degrees, three-hundred meters, and then followed that with the sign for movement.

Rev frowned and brought his map to the front of his display. There was nothing there.

“When was this updated?”

<Three months ago.>

“Could the Angel shits have put something up that quickly? All the way out here?”

<Memory foam construction can be set in thirty minutes.>

No shit. This isn’t Swansea, Reverent.

Swansea was a well-established city, over eight-hundred years old. The city didn’t need the memory foam buildings that were programmed for the final format. They were used for construction when buildings were needed quickly—as in an influx of Angel shits.

But what bothered him was that they weren’t on his map. He was getting so dependent on his tech that anything out of expectations made him nervous.

Badem signaled for the team leader, which Rev passed back. He was tempted to move forward himself to see what was up, but if that move wasn’t supported by the facts, then Staff Sergeant Delacrie would have his ass.

A moment later the team leader passed Rev to see what Badem wanted. Rev still didn’t know what to make of him. The staff sergeant had replaced Staff Sergeant Montez, who’d been killed on Roher-104, and in Rev’s most humble opinion, he couldn’t hold Montez’s panties. Not many people could, but what added to Rev’s unease was that Delacrie was not the image of a Marine SNCO. Quiet and introverted for most of the time, he could explode at the slightest thing. He wasn’t even Direct Combat, not until recently. The scuttlebutt was that he’d been in General Support, an admin POG until requesting a lateral move to DC.

Without experience, and as only a staff sergeant, he wasn’t even supposed to be the team leader. They’d had a second lieutenant inbound before Tenerife, but she hadn’t made it in time to embark, and then she’d been reassigned instead of having her sit on her ass waiting for the regiment to return. Which sucked for the team. Rev didn’t know the lieutenant, but she’d made it to gunny before accepting a commission, so she’d have had street cred.

“Can my M-49 punch through foam buildings?”

<You are probably strong enough to push the muzzle through.>

“What are you . . .” Rev rolled his eyes. Was Punch just not understanding, or was this another lame attempt of humor? If it was the latter, he was going to have to lecture him on time and place.

“Will my darts pierce the walls of the foam buildings?”

<For F1-3, yes, unless they hit something embedded. For F-4 and up, no.>

Which meant very little to Rev. He didn’t know what constituted F-whatever or what the buildings ahead were.

Rev looked behind him where Hussein gave him the interrogative. He signaled he didn’t know, then turned back to Badem and Delacrie. The two were kneeling now.

There was really only one thing for them to do. They couldn’t bypass the buildings and possibly leave enemy forces to their rear. The staff sergeant had to know that.

And evidently, he did. He and Badem retreated five meters, and he signaled, “Squad V. Two buildings. Clear. Contact probable.”

Rev felt that familiar jolt of adrenaline that he always did when faced with imminent contact. He had stopped wondering if that was natural or part of his augments’ programming. All he knew was that it was almost like a drug, one he loved.

Rev, Tomiko, the staff sergeant, and PFC Nicte “T2” Yazzie shifted to the right of the V with Hussein, Badem, and Sergeant Nix to the left. A “V” was used to maximize firepower to the front while maintaining flank security. It would have been the formation Rev would have picked as well, given the situation.

The staff sergeant gave the signal to advance. Rev was on the far right of the formation, responsible for flank security. That left him with a bit of difficult terrain, but he had to manage it if he was to keep the formation integrity.

He edged down into a small creek bed, the water gurgling along. He lost sight of the team leader, so he had to guide on Yazzie. If she shifted out of position, he’d be out as well.

He stepped over the water, ignoring what was in front of him and trying to send his senses to his right. If there was someone out there, it was up to him to detect them. Which wasn’t going to be easy in the dense underbrush.

Rev started to climb back up the other side of the creek, to the level of the rest of the team. He was still in position, but the going was getting tougher. While the staff sergeant and everyone else were advancing easily through the trees, Rev had to fight for every step. The staff sergeant should have noticed that and shifted the formation over to the left.

But it was what it was, so he plunged forward and pushed himself through the thick undergrowth, cursing under his breath. The bushes couldn’t hold him back, but he was making a hell of a lot of noise, and if the Angel shits had boobytrapped the laurel, he’d be in big trouble.

As Rev finally broke through, he looked back to catch Staff Sergeant Delacrie’s glare.

Not my fault.

But at least now, he could see the objective through the trees. Two wooden shacks, not memory foam, stood side-by-side, one a single story, one a two-story. The wood was bright and clean. There was no way they’d been exposed to the weather for very long.

The team moved forward, keeping the V’s integrity as they closed the distance. Rev had to remind himself that his focus was the area to the right of the team, but it was difficult not to keep looking forward to the buildings.

The staff sergeant halted them at forty meters out so he could glass the objective. Rev took a knee and faced outboard. The team leader must not have seen anything because he started them forward again.

Rev thought it might be time to adjust the formation, sending an element forward to provide covering fire, then sending the other element to investigate and clear the two buildings. But the staff sergeant kept them in formation as they approached, closing to within twenty meters.

A single shot rang out. Eight battle comps traced the trajectory of the round, backtracking it to the single second-story window. Within two seconds, a stream of darts returned fire, turning the wood around the window into swiss cheese.

“Cease fire, cease fire!” the staff sergeant shouted out after five seconds. Rev checked his readout. He’d just fired 148 darts.

A little more fire discipline, there.

“Anyone hit?” the staff sergeant asked.

Rev pulled up the round trace again. The shot had come close to Tomiko, but she was unhurt. Lucky, but as the saying went, “It is smarter to be lucky than it’s lucky to be smart.”

“Second Element, clear that building. First, security.”

“Far side?” Rev asked.

The staff sergeant hesitated, then said, “Yes. You and Yazzie take the far side.”

Rev gave the PFC a wave and started to move around to the back of the two buildings. If whoever had fired at them was still alive, they might decide that discretion was the better part of valor and try to retreat. If they did, then it would be up to Yazzie and him to stop them. They reached the far side of the two-story building. Rev pointed to a spot on the ground by the bole of what had been a large tree and signaled for Yazzie to take her position there.

Going just outside the cleared area and into the treeline, he carefully made his way to behind the one-story building as he heard Hussein shout, “Going in right!”

With the building being cleared, Rev needed to be in position. Stealth ignored, he jogged ahead until he was just past the far wall. To his left he could see the staff sergeant kneeling at the opposite side of the clearing. Delacrie acknowledged his position, which was a relief. Rev didn’t want to be lit up by his own team.

The buildings weren’t very big, and Rev could follow Second Element as they cleared the first floor then moved up to the second. Just as Nix yelled “Clear,” someone rolled out of the window of the one-story shack and onto the ground, right in front of Rev.

Rev had his sights on the person before he realized it was a child, a boy of no more than seven or eight, dressed in red shorts and a t-shirt with a cartoon fox on the chest. The boy caught Rev’s eyes before he scrambled to his feet, mouthing the word “Help.”

“Engage him!” the staff sergeant shouted as he started to run forward.

The boy was directly between Rev and the staff sergeant, putting Rev in the line of fire should the team leader open up. But Rev was only ten meters away. He could drop him with one shot.

But this was a child, not an Angel shit. This was who Rev was supposed to protect.

Rev lowered his M-49 and said, “It’s all right, son. No one’s going to hurt you.”

“Good,” the boy said as he ran at Rev. “But I’m going to hurt you!”

“Wha—” Rev started, realizing something was wrong as the boy showed him the detonator a split second before he exploded in a ball of fire.

A moment later, Rev’s world went black.

* * *

Rev sat on the metal bench that had been folded down from the ship’s bulkhead. Three other Marines were in the space, but like Rev, none seemed to be in a talkative mood. A single Marine monitored a control panel, while eight screens showed the scenarios being run by different squads and teams.

Rev had watched his team’s progress for a few minutes before he couldn’t take it anymore. He sat hunched forward, his elbows on his knees, face supported by his hands.

<Would you like to hear a joke?>

“No! Read the damned room.”

Rev was embarrassed at having been killed, but he’d channeled some of that to anger. What was he supposed to do? Kill a child?

“It wasn’t fair,” he muttered softly, but not softly enough for one of the other Marines.

“You’ve got that right,” she said, turning to Rev. “This wasn’t even Alafia. It was a terraformed world.”

Evidently, the ship, even with its state-of-the-art combat simulators, didn’t have Alafia’s environment on file, which explained the laurel and pines in the simulation. That had surprised Rev when the training session came online, but that wasn’t why he was angry.

But he had an ally of sorts, and he wasn’t going to waste that by arguing. “As much as they paid for this ship, you’d figure they could’ve gotten the right sim.”

The Marine scooted over a few centimeters. “What got you?”

Rev hesitated. He’d been happy just stewing in his own feeling of injustice, but as they say, misery loves company.

“Kid blew me up.”

“You, too?” she asked, her voice rising in excitement. “That little bastard got me, too.”

Rev turned to face the Marine. “No one that young would act with such . . .”

“Purpose?”

“Yeah, purpose. The programmers screwed up.”

“And what about the ROE? We’re not supposed to target non-combatants. I mean, sure, the kid was one, I guess. So, they want us to zero every damned kid we see?”

“Exactly!” Rev said, glad that at least someone understood his point.

“Malaika Kinfe Lemon,” the lance corporal said, extending her hand. “Alpha Company.”

Like all augmented DC Marines, Malaika had the larger, hardened body that eliminated many of the curves associated with gender, and her hair was close-cropped as most of those of Afro-descent chose, but her face was that of a schoolgirl’s, the smile beaming.

Rev held out his hand. “Rev Pelletier. Raiders.”

“Ooh, Raiders. Tough guy, huh?” she said with a laugh as they shook hands. “I’d better be careful.”

Rev had no idea how to respond to that, so he deflected. “Alpha? Do you know Orpheus Talamage?”

“Orphy? Sure. Everyone knows him. Good Marine.”

Orphy? I’m going to have to ask him about that.

“So, Malaika Kinfe Lemon, that’s quite a mouthful. What do people call you?”

“Malaika means angel, and Kinfe means wings. So, I guess you can call me Angel Wings,” she said with an almost little-girl giggle.

“As long as it’s not Angel shits,” Rev said with a laugh, only to see her face darken, her eyebrows draw together.

OK, stupid comment. Smooth move, Rev.

“I mean . . . that I . . . what do other people call you? Angel Wings?”

Her eyebrows relaxed, and she said, “I was just kidding. Old family joke. No, people call me Mala.”

“Well, Mala, nice to meet you, even in death. Appropriate for an angel.”

Her eyes widened, and for a moment, Rev thought he’d messed up again, but then she opened her mouth wide and laughed. The other two dead Marines gave them dirty looks.

“You’re so funny, Corporal!”

“Take that, Punch. I’m the funny one.”

“Rev. We Raiders aren’t so formal.”

“OK, then, Rev. So, what school did you go to?”

They spent the next ten minutes talking about schools, who they might mutually know, where they hung out. Malaika was from the other side of the city, and they really didn’t have many points of mutual contact, but it was nice to chat about something other than the Marines and getting killed in a stupid simulation.

Rev was surprised when the exercise ended, the screens going dark.

“OK, all of you are released. You can marry up with squads,” the Marine on the controls said.

“It was nice to meet you, Angel Wings,” Rev said as they stood.

Malaika smiled, her face turning back into a young girl’s.

OK, this time, I got it right.

“Nice to chat with you, too. It’s a big ship, but maybe I’ll see you around.”

Rev doubted it. They’d already determined that they were assigned to different galleys, and with different training schedules, chowtime would seem to have been the best chance of running into each other. But it was possible.

“Tell Orphy I said hello.”

“Got it.”

<Was that courting behavior?>

“NO! What the hell gave you that idea?”

<It fits the pattern in my files, and I’ve never seen you display so many of the actions.>

“Your programming is crap, then.”

His mood was rapidly deteriorating as they stepped into the briefing room where the other Marines were entering from their training pods. His battle buddy’s question just added to that. Malaika gave Rev one last wave as she joined her squad, already getting shit for having been killed.

Rev steeled himself for his reception.

“What happened?” Tomiko mouthed at Rev as she saw him.

Rev just shrugged his shoulders. Everything was recorded, and each move would be dissected over the next couple of hours. He wasn’t going to enjoy that.

“Let’s meet up in twenty in berthing,” Staff Sergeant Delacrie told the team. We’ve got a lot to unpack and discuss.”

Rev nodded and started to leave when the staff sergeant grabbed his arm and said, “Not you yet. Come with me.”

Oh, shit. Are you for real?

Rev followed his team leader down the passage and down into the berthing spaces.

OK, I was killed. In a training simulation. A simulation that wasn’t even accurate. Get over it.

He was not looking forward to an ass-chewing by the staff sergeant, and as he followed his team leader, he resolved to just take it and not argue. Part of him, a part he tried to suppress, realized he’d screwed up, and it would just be easier to “Yes, Staff Sergeant, no Staff Sergeant” and get it over with.

The Big Hob lived up to its nickname, and it took just over ten minutes to walk to berthing. The staff sergeant didn’t lead him to their actual berthing space, however, but to the small platoon office.

“Sir, can I have the space for a few minutes?” the staff sergeant said while sticking his head in from the passage.

“Sure thing. Here, let me get out of your way.”

Lieutenant Omestori appeared. His eyes opened wide in surprise to see the sullen Rev waiting behind the staff sergeant, but he didn’t say anything and walked off. Staff Sergeant Delacrie motioned for Rev to enter.

The space was small. A single rack was high on the bulkhead, a fold-down desk, and a single chair under it. The staff sergeant took that chair and pointed at another fold-out chair still stowed in the bulkhead. Rev pulled it out and sat.

He’d intended to wait for the staff sergeant, but in his usual bull-ahead style, Rev said, “I know I got killed. Sorry about that. But the ROI says we’re not supposed to kill civilians, and I thought the kid was one. I mean, really. A six-year-old that driven?”

The staff sergeant stared at Rev for a long moment, so long that Rev’s resolve wilted, and he started fidgeting, cleaning his nails.

“Corporal Pelletier. Rev. I know you, among others, don’t hold me in high regard coming over as I did from admin.”

Which was true, but when brought into the open like that, it suddenly made Rev feel guilty.

“It may be true that my first combat experience was Tenerife, which for me didn’t amount to much, but my previous experience gave me something that you don’t realize.”

He paused as if waiting, so Rev asked, “You were in admin, right?”

“Yeah, admin. An Oh-one-ninety-five.”

<Personnel Records Clerk,> Punch volunteered without being queried.

Rev didn’t say a word.

“And once I picked up my rocker, I was given the task of preparing letters for the colonel’s signature. Condolence letters. Over two thousand in three years. Almost an entire regiment, if you put them all together.”

Damn, that’s rough.

“So, if there’s one thing I know, it’s the cost of this war. No, I never saw someone killed like you have. I never fired my weapon in anger. But I saw the tally, and I read the letters from family back to the colonel. Some sad, some angry, but all feeling the pain.

“And one of those letters I wrote was for a Corporal Hanson Delacrie.”

Rev snapped his head up to look right into the staff sergeant’s eyes.

“Yeah. My little brother. Killed when the Gharial was hit.”

The Gharial? That’s what Krissy was on.

“So, I know the cost, and I knew I couldn’t just sit back home, writing letters. I had to get involved to where I could help keep Marines alive. That’s why I did my lat move into DC.

Rev grunted. Along with everyone else, he’d wondered why the lateral move into Direct Combat. He figured the staff sergeant wanted a shorter enlistment, to be able to get out sooner once the indefinite tours of duty were eliminated. He had no idea that there was something deeper to it.

“And that leads us to today. You got yourself killed.”

“It was just a sim,” Rev said.

“A sim that simulates real operations.” He paused as if picking his words before continuing. “Yes, I know what the ROI was. We are going to war with Perseus, Frisian, MDS, and other citizens. Humans. Not everyone on Alafia is even CoA. So, yes, we need to pay heed to the ROI.”

“And that’s—” Rev started to say before the staff sergeant cut him off.

“But we are not to put our own lives at risk. These . . . Angel shits are fanatics,” he said, using the normal slang instead of his usual Children of Angels or CoA. “They will stop at nothing to further their beliefs. You’ve had the briefings. They believe that they’re trying to save humanity from destruction, so any collateral damage along the way is acceptable. Even to their own children. What better way to level up, as they say, than to sacrifice yourself for the greater good?”

On a rational level, Rev knew the staff sergeant was right. But on an emotional level? He kept seeing the boy’s face just before he blew himself up. Simulation or not, it shook him.

“A suicide bomber, be they an adult or not, is going to be dead no matter what. It makes no difference if that is from a dart in the head or by detonating a vest. What I need from you is the discipline to act and keep any of the team from joining them. I don’t want to write any more letters because you didn’t act quick enough and as you were trained.”

The staff sergeant stopped and waited for a response. Rev had thought that he’d get his ass chewed for getting killed, for lowering the team’s exercise score. Instead, he was at the receiving end of an earnest and heartfelt sermon.

But the simulation was rigged against them. It had programmed the boy to attack. Rev couldn’t buy that a six, seven, or even eight-year-old boy would make that decision. He could be forced, Rev knew, but that wouldn’t be his fault. And could he act in that situation? Could he kill a fellow human?

Rev was still haunted by the kapo he’d killed on Tenerife. How would he feel if he killed a child? It was something he didn’t want to contemplate.

The staff sergeant was waiting for a response. It wasn’t as if Rev didn’t understand his point. He suddenly had an image flash in his mind: a young boy standing between Tomiko and Yazzie, exploding into a ball of fire. As the smoke cleared, the two Marines were down, their bodies torn apart.

He shuddered and tried to block the image.

Rev didn’t know what he would do if the scenario played out in real life, but the staff sergeant wasn’t the only one striving to keep his Marines alive. He knew what he had to say, even if he wasn’t sure he could do it.

“I understand, Staff Sergeant. I’ll do what I have to do.”

A look of relief flowed across the team leader’s face, and he said, “I know you will. Take this sim as a learning point. That’s why we do them, right?”

“Right.”

“OK. Let’s head over to our space. We’ve still got our hot wash.”

The staff sergeant opened the hatch and motioned for Rev to walk through. “You good?”

No, I’m not.

But he said, “Yes, Staff Sergeant. I’m good,” as they went to join the rest of the team.

14

“This is some good shit,” Tomiko said before putting another huge chunk of steak in her mouth, juices running down to her chin.

Rev rolled his eyes. “Barbarian.”

“You just don’t understand good chow.”

“No, I just have table manners.”

Tomiko snorted at that, and a small chunk of steak flew across the table to hit Yazzie on her blouse. The PFC made a face, then carefully wiped it onto her finger and ran the finger on the edge of the tray to get it off her.

“Sorry about that, T2,” Tomiko said through a still-full mouth. “Consider it a bonus.”

“Gee, thanks, Corporal. I appreciate you looking out for me.”

“That’s my job.”

Rev had to smile. Yazzie was pulling her own weight and developing into a good Marine. As the only one in the element junior to Tomiko, the sergeant rode her a little hard, but Yazzie took it all in stride.

Tomiko was right about the chow, though. The Navy mess crew had really put on a feast. The food on the Big Hob was already primo, but this D-Day feast was something else. Which didn’t make any sense. None of this was fresh or natural. All of it had started this morning as vats of organic bases, to be printed out by programs into the final version and then heated or chilled to the correct temperature.

But all of the Navy had the same programs, and he imagined the printers were the same, too. So why was this food so much better than what was offered on other ships? Rev had no idea,

Not all of the food was printed, however. Each Marine had a natural apple, and Rev looked forward to biting into it. True, his palate wasn’t refined enough to tell a real from a printed apple, but it was the thought that mattered.

Overall, Rev had to admit that the Big Hob was a sweet ship. Berthing was comfortable with an excellent entertainment library. The facilities such as the gym and simulation pods were top-of-the-line. The food was amazing.

Maybe when this is all over, I can put in for the Marine detachment, he mused before rational thought took over. He still had a job offer with the Benevolent Order of Crystal Technicians when they were taken off indefinite status. He’d be flying a crystal vat, not a Navy ship, even one primo as the Big Hob.

“All embarked Marines . . .”

“And sailors,” Doc Paul added.

“ . . . assigned to Lift One, you now have ninety minutes to be at your stations. Eat up, and report to the armory.”

“That’s us,” Staff Sergeant Delacrie passed. “Shovel it down.”

With the platoon’s two gunnies and one master sergeant eating in the chief’s mess, Delacrie was the senior Marine from the platoon in the galley, and he was taking his job seriously. Rev had a slightly better opinion of the man since their talk after Rev had been “killed,” but he was withholding any more judgment until he could observe the team leader in combat.

Throughout the galley, about three-quarters of the Marines started gulping down the last of their chow. Rev used a piece of bread to mop up the pepper sauce that had covered his steak, then put the apple in his cargo pocket.

“You gonna eat that?” Tomiko asked.

“No. I’m just putting it in my pocket to wait until it goes rotten. Then I’m going to throw it at an Angel shit.”

Nix and a few others in earshot laughed, and Tomiko stuck out her tongue at him.

<Was that a joke? What you said didn’t follow the established patterns, but people laughed.>

“That, my friend, was a most excellent joke. Learn from the master.”

But is it really a joke?

On second thought, Rev wasn’t sure about that. At least not by definition.

He shook it off. Teaching an AI what is and what isn’t a joke was not in his job description. He had a little more on his plate at the moment.

Rev followed the mass exodus from the chow hall. The team’s berthing space was two corridors over. Each Marine had staged their kit on their rack, so it only took a moment to grab them.

Hussein made a show of hugging his rack. “I’m going to miss you, baby.”

“That’s about as close as you’re going to get to a warm body to sleep next to you, Hus-man,” Strap said.

Hussein lifted one arm from the hug, middle finger extended.

“Come on. We don’t want to be the last in the armory,” Sergeant Nix said.

“We’ve got time,” Rev reminded him.

“So you say. I’d rather not push it.”

They left the space only to be met by the staff sergeant coming to collect them. The Raiders were used to berthing as a team, but as a SNCO, Delacrie was in with the other staff sergeants.

“Let’s go, let’s go,” he said.

“You just said that,” Rev whispered to Nix.

“And you gave me shit.”

“I’d never give a sergeant shit. You know that.”

“Right. And my cat can sing ‘All the Pains of Love,’ and in two languages.”

“Talented cat.”

The ship was well designed with the embarked armory two decks up. There was already a line of Marines at Station One at the issue windows. The staff sergeant led them to their assigned window. A grunt platoon was in front of them, but the issue went quickly, and within six minutes, Rev was at the window. He leaned forward to get his retina scanned.

“Pelletier, Reverent. Combat Kit Three,” the flat voice intoned from the speaker.

There was whirling as the track started up. Ten seconds later, a bin shot up, stopping at the window.

“Check your issue.”

Other than getting scanned, this was the only time that he could stop the automated process. All he had to do was say he didn’t accept the issue, and a live armorer would arrive to check and either rectify the issue or tell him to accept what he had and move on. Rev pulled out his M-49 Assault Rifle, his lance, and his MF-30 sidearm. Everything he was supposed to receive was there.

“Accepted,” he said before he stepped back and Tomiko took his place. The entire issue had taken twenty-five seconds, most of that for him to check his issue.

“Get your armor,” Staff Sergeant Delacrie needlessly told him. Rev knew the drill.

The combat kit was Station One. The armor was issued at Station Two. Ordnance was at Station Three. Fully automated, the ship had enough issue points to fully outfit five hundred Marines, Seabees, SEALs, or combinations of the three in fifteen minutes.

Rev carried his kit to Station Two and fell into the queue. It moved swiftly with a Navy petty officer playing traffic cop. Rev got to the front where he faced several rows of pods, his eyes peeled for the next green light. Above the rows, trolleys sent armor whizzing to the right pod.

“Next, number fourteen,” the petty officer shouted.

Rev had been watching, but he missed the green light. A little embarrassed, he hurried to the pod and stepped in. The cage closed around him, and the scanner shot his right eye.

There was no voice this time, but his name and service number appeared across a small strip directly above the scanner. The wait was slightly longer, but not by much. His PAL-5 clunked to a stop above him. Rev held his arms out to his side, and the main body of the armor was lowered around him. As always, he flinched as the arms started sealing him inside with noisy clanks and snaps. He was always afraid that something of him would be caught in the armor as it was assembled around him. His biggest fear was of getting castrated. But as always, the valet was perfect. His circuit tested green, and the back of the pod opened up. The sign over the scanner told him to exit.

This was one time when Rev wished he was on a smaller ship that didn’t have an automated valet. It might take longer to get into his PAL-5 manually, but he wasn’t afraid of getting part of him snipped off.

He idly wondered how the mech Marines were faring. They couldn’t use the same valets as the ground pounders. Getting them into their mech suits was much more of an undertaking.

“One more station,” he muttered as he navigated through the oversized passage, bumping into more than a few fellow Marines as he went.

This time there was no retinal scan. Each combat suit had multiple RFIDs which were inert until activated by a synched scanner. Rev got into the correct queue. By the time he walked to the front, he’d been scanned, and his ordnance load was ready. He grabbed it and carried it out the exit and into the hangar, where he found space to clamp each magazine into place and find a pocket or holster for everything else.

Thirteen minutes and twelve seconds after reaching the armory, Rev was ready for bear. Modern technology sometimes amazed him.

Rev and the team were in Bay Thirty-two. There was a little bit of a traffic jam getting to it. There were two yellow lines painted on the deck, closing off the bulk of the hangar deck where the shuttles sat in a neat line along the length of the ship. Marines were supposed to walk within those lines until they reached their embark point, and that made things a little crowded.

But it didn’t take long to reach the point, and Rev stepped over the line on the proximal side. Almost a platoon of infantry, in their PAL-3s, were already there, as were Yazzie, Badem, Strap, and Tomiko. Rev retracted his face shield. He’d be breathing canned air soon enough. No use wasting any of it.

“You ready?” Tomiko asked.

“Always. Kinda hate to leave the ship, though.”

“You’d get bored soon enough.”

Which was true. Still, he couldn’t deny that the ship and crew had made the transit more than just bearable.

“Hey, Corporal Rev!” a voice called out from the infantry types.

They all had their helmets sealed. One Marine waved an arm, a big 50mm grenade launcher attached to the top. That didn’t do Rev any good, but he raised an arm and waved back, wondering who the hell that was.

The Marine must have figured out what was happening because they retracted the face shield for just a moment, revealing Malaika’s smiling face before she closed it again.

“Hey, Angel Wings. You’re on my shuttle?”

“Or you’re on mine.”

Rev nodded and said, “Could be.”

“See you planetside.”

“Who’s that?” Tomiko asked.

“No one. Just another dead Marine.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Before Rev could answer, another grunt came up. Rev didn’t need to see the face when the Marine said, “They’re letting you Raider riffraff on our shuttle?”

“Trying to raise the overall IQ of it, Orphy,” Rev said.

Tomiko hugged Orpheus, a sight to see with a PAL-3 and a PAL-5. “What’s with the Orphy?” she asked.

“That’s his name, isn’t it, Orphy?” Rev asked.

“Damn that Mala. She told me she met you.”

He gave Rev a shot across the back that would have floored him if it weren’t for his PAL-5’s stabilizers.

“Good to see you two. Don’t expect we’ll see much of each other after we hit the dirt, though.”

“Probably not,” Rev said. “But we’ve got a bit of time now. Get us up-to-date. What’s happened since embark?”

The three friends stood together for the next twenty minutes gossiping about everything except for the upcoming mission. More and more Marines arrived until there had to be close to ninety at the station.

Finally, it was time to board. Rev and the rest of the Raiders closed their helmets, as they would stay until they stepped onto Alafia’s surface, and all the Marines got into stick order. The main lights of the hangar went off to be replaced by others that meant nothing to Rev, but they obviously did to the Navy launch crew. A yellowshirt waved at the first Marine in the queue, one of the grunts. Along with all fifty loading points, the Marines moved forward to the waiting shuttle.

With the Raiders in the rear, Rev was able to see the hangar doors open, revealing the black of space dotted with stars, only slightly distorted by the curtain that kept the air in and the vacuum out. Rev eagerly looked for the nebula, but it wasn’t in sight. He figured it must be on the other side of the ship.

And then he was inside the shuttle, taking his seat. Like the last Navy landing craft he rode in, this one was chock full of equipment. And with close to ninety Marines in armor, it was a lot more crowded.

“Is this the same ship as we took up to the Amethyst?”

<This is a LL-403. It’s about forty percent larger than that LL-90.>

It didn’t look bigger to Rev, but with all the PAL-3s inside, maybe that tilted his perspective.

“At least we don’t have to drop in,” Tomiko said.

“I’m frightened,” Rev said.

“What?” She turned to look at him, but with the face shields deployed, she couldn’t see his face. “Why?”

“We’ve taken off in shuttles like this, but we’ve never landed in one. This will be our virgin assault landing.”

Tomiko looked at him for a second, then smacked him hard in the upper arm. “That wasn’t even worth the effort.”

“Yes, it was,” Rev said, laughing. “Admit it.”

“I’ll do no such thing, asshole.”

Rev could almost feel the question building, so he stopped Punch with, “In case you were wondering, that was not a joke.”

<Then why did you laugh.>

“Because it was funny.”

<But it wasn’t a joke.>

“No. Not really. You see, we’ve taken shuttles up, but we’ve dropped into each combat situation.”

<But you have landed back in New Hope in both commercial and Navy shuttles.>

“Yeah, but I was joking.”

<But you said it wasn’t a joke.>

“Oh . . . just forget it. Look, we’re getting our safety brief.”

Rev didn’t listen to the flight crew member giving the brief. It wasn’t like they expected any opposition, and the landing craft would be shielded by too many fighters to count if anyone did raise their heads. But the joy in getting to Tomiko, even if only for a second, was now muted by his attempt at an explanation to his battle buddy.

It didn’t take long, however, for the rear ramp to close and the pilot to say, “Stand by for launch in sixty seconds.”

Everyone settled themselves in their suits. The launch would make them notice any wrinkle, any position even slightly out of place. The landing craft would be shot along rails out of the ship, not turning on their engines until they were several klicks away. Rev had been in the proximity of landing craft and shuttles on the ground. True, a person didn’t want to be under one as it lifted, but the exhaust wasn’t that deadly.

But when he’d asked, he was told that even the slight exhaust could wear and tear on the hangar bay, and the Navy crews took pride in them. The lack of atmosphere heightened the damage. So, all craft, not just the high-output fighters, were launched.

“Thirty seconds. Crew, take your positions.”

Rev scooted his butt again, making sure he was firmly seated.

“Stop dancing,” Tomiko said.

“You can never be too careful.”

“Ten seconds. Prepare for launch.”

The kick, when it came, really wasn’t much. A few seconds of G’s, and then weightlessness until the landing craft’s engine kicked in ten seconds later. The pilot turned the shuttle and started descending to the planet’s surface.

The assault on Alafia had begun.

* * *

It wasn’t an assault like any of Rev’s others. Without a viable naval threat, the task force had full control of space and air. The first two shuttles came in hard and fast, debarking teams from the Landing Support Battalion and a security element. Ten minutes later, Rev’s shuttle landed at the Reginald Tyson Spaceport as if it were a commercial liner shuttle, bringing day tourists to spend their credits buying cheap trinkets made on Harmony.

The ramp remained closed for a good three minutes, the Marines anxious to debark and wondering if there was a surprise and something had gone wrong. But the ramp finally lowered to reveal two Marines, small red patches on the outside of their knees indicating that they were from LSB, standing on the dark apron. Neither had their face shields in place, which was a good sign.

“Raiders, follow me,” one of the Marines passed over the comms, raising a hand so they knew who was talking.

“Alpha Marines, on me,” the other said.

“Glad we’ve got comms,” Rev told Tomiko on the P2P.

“First time, right?”

“Yeah, first time. It’ll sure make things easier.”

“You’re in Condition Delta,” the red-patcher told them as they came down the ramp.

Rev immediately retracted his shield, and the warm, humid air hit him in the face with the smells of . . . he wasn’t quite sure. It was definitely not something he’d experienced before. Vaguely plantlike, but with a musty undertone. It tickled his nose, and he felt an urge to sneeze before his nanos rushed to the scene.

Not everyone’s nanos were so quick. Several Marines behind him sneezed as the air swept into the shuttle.

Rev hurried down the ramp and onto the tarmac. He immediately looked up, scanning the night sky, but there was nothing. No Witch’s Broom Nebula, to his disappointment.

“Hey, where’s the nebula?” Hussein asked from behind him.

“You can’t see it with your naked eye,” Yazzie told him. “It’s just gasses, and widely distributed at that.”

“Is that true?”

<You don’t have the ocular augments to be able to see the nebula cloud.>

“But the brief?” Hussein said.

“Different filters. I read that you can get glasses here to see it, but if you switch to your RC-3 filter, you should . . .”

Rev tuned the rest of Yazzie’s words out as he ordered his face shield closed and the filter activated.

“Holy shit,” he said, with that or the like repeated by the rest of the platoon who were now bunched behind their shuttle.

Arrayed across the entire width of the sky was a show that put the aurora borealis back on New Hope to shame. Vivid red, pinks, and blues covered them like a canopy. Rev had always heard that something or the other was so beautiful that it took your breath away. Now he knew what that meant. This was the most amazing thing he’d seen in his life.

He turned off the filter, and it all disappeared. Activating the filter again was almost painful, the colors were so bright.

“OK, let’s move, Raiders,” the red-patcher passed on the net.

“You heard him,” the gunny came on. “Column of twos, and let’s get off this tarmac. This is a combat zone, boys and girls. Remember that.”

“Not like any combat zone I’ve seen,” Tomiko passed over the P2P.

Rev tore his gaze away from the sky for a second. They were heading for the terminal, a modern building with “Welcome to Natividad” in lights above the gates. If it weren’t for the auto-cannons on either side, then more ringing the landing pad, he wouldn’t have guessed there was a state of war at the moment.

“No, not like any combat zone I’ve seen, either.”

It might be peaceful now, and the Angel shits might have been surprised at the landing, but they weren’t just going to stand by and be rounded up. Of that, Rev was sure.

This was going to turn nasty real soon.

15

It didn’t take long. An hour later, Rev was part of a line around Natividad’s Municipal Center, which had been taken over as the Marines’ command post, as protestors showed up. A klick and a half away, the second lift of landing craft was bringing in more Marines, including the heavier mech and armor forces.

“Get out, Imperialists,” was one of the least offensive things shouted at them. The rest were more along the lines of blasphemers and traitors and for them to do things that were probably not physically possible. Colorful, but not possible.

“I sure didn’t expect to be doing this,” Tomiko passed to him.

With the ease of landing, neither had Rev. But the people had reacted quickly despite the zero-dark-thirty hour. They must have known something was coming. The kapos and quislings on Tenerife were no secret, and the Angel shits had to be expecting some reaction, just not when. So, while the initial landing all across the planet had taken them by tactical surprise, they had been ready for the possibility.

“Not for much longer. As soon as the CRA troops get here, they’ll take over,” Rev said.

“Yeah, on the third lift.”

Marines, based on the millennias-old policy of posse comitatus, had no real authority over civilians, and for the moment, the people on the planet were not combatants. No one expected that to last, especially once the Civil Reaction Authority troops started arresting folk. When they started fighting back, the colonel commanding the CRA force would officially request assistance from the admiral, thereby deputizing the Marines and Navy until the waiting Perseus Union Directorate could issue a formal declaration of war. Rounding up and/or fighting the Angel shits would shift to the responsibility of the military, while the CRA troops would take over the handling of both detainees (Prisoners of War, but the Marines had been instructed not to use that term for the duration) and displaced persons.

It was all theater, trying to give a veneer of working within the law. The truth, and every Marine and sailor knew it, was they were there to crush the Angel shits, nothing less. Across human space, similar actions were being conducted on other centers of mass of Children of Angels, while smaller groups and even individuals were being sought out wherever they were.

A rock came hurtling out from behind the crowd, hitting the staff sergeant in the chest. Not that a rock was going to do anything to him, but it showed the people were getting more aggressive.

None of the Raiders had been trained in riot control tactics, so this was new turf for them. The infantry in their PAL-3s would be more imposing, but they were providing security for the spaceport, so the Raiders, Sappers, and Recon Marines had been shanghaied to protect the CP.

“Stupid move to occupy this thing now, before the rest of us land,” Rev told Tomiko.

“Optics, Rev. We’re in charge and all that.”

“At least we could have waited for the mechs. Can you imagine Udu facing these yahoos?”

Tomiko laughed and said, “She’d zero the lot of them and ask permission later.”

“Save us some time, at least.”

“Probably the right thing to do, though. I mean, we all know what’s gonna happen here. In a couple of hours, maybe as long as until tomorrow, we’ll be in combat with these fuckers. I swear, orders or not, if even one of them looks at me funny, I’m gonna drop him.”

“Wait one,” Rev said, cutting the comms and connecting with Yazzie.

“T2, keep it tight. Don’t drift forward.”

“Sorry,” she said as she took a step back into line.

“Keep an eye on her,” he passed to Tomiko on their P2P circuit again. “I think the excitement is getting to her. All we need would be for her to get snatched.”

During the grand total of thirteen minutes of the frag order, they’d been told three times about the danger of getting snatched and dragged away by the mob. Rev wasn’t going to let that happen, ROI be damned. Tomiko was right. In an hour, in a day—soon, for sure—this was going to devolve into a shooting war. No question about it. And he’d be damned if one of his element was going to be killed just so the task force could play-act that they were not there to crush the Children of Angels.

This was the calm before the storm. When daylight came, things were going to get hot.

Rev looked to the horizon to try and gauge when dawn might arrive. There might be the slightest hint of rose over the eastern mountains. It was nothing compared to the Witch’s Broom. He quickly switched his filter, and the sky lit up gloriously. It was a shame that something so special was being tainted by traitors. He stood there and stared for a long moment before he sighed and switched his filter back.

The night sky turned to black, and the harsh lights around the Muni Center placed the angry crowd into stark relief.

16

Two hours later, as dawn lit up the sky, an armed mob attacked the Twenty-first Marines in Briarton, the next city to the west. This had turned into a shooting war, which was expected. The Children of Angels were fanatics, willing to do whatever it took to bring humanity to the next level. They weren’t going to let the little fact that they hadn’t the training nor equipment to take on the Perseus Union Marine Corps with augments from three other military forces get in the way of their perception of reality. They were doing the angel’s work, so they couldn’t fail.

Rev didn’t think that was a good bet. Unfortunately, none of the Children of Angels cared one whit as to what he thought.

“Move out,” Staff Sergeant Delacrie ordered.

Yazzie turned to look at Rev, who nodded. She was on point, her first offensive combat action.

No better way to break her in.

True, it wasn’t on a mission for which any of them had been trained, but it was absolutely within the Raiders’ general mission statement. It was just that there hadn’t been much call for a snatch operation against a Centaur, so that particular mission had been shelved. Until now.

With hostilities open, there was a planet-wide operation to arrest a long list of persons of interest with the hope that by cutting off the head of the snake, the body would die. Intel gave that probability at twenty percent. Worth a shot, because even if the body didn’t give up with the head gone, there was over a ninety-percent chance that their combat capabilities would be diminished without their leaders.

A snatch mission was done quickly with an aggressive use of force, hopefully shocking the target with the speed and ferocity of action. Raiders were particularly suited for this type of operation. There were only five Raider teams with the regiment—the four normal teams and the attached Frisian Host flight—however, so they were assigned the most vital targets with recon and infantry picking up the slack.

Third Team’s target was Helen Yesterday. Rev had no idea why she was such a high-priority target, and the Intel part of their operations order hadn’t really delineated the reasons. It didn’t matter, though. She was their target, and so they’d bring her in.

The spaceport was being converted into a Marine camp with the command post abandoning the muni center, and they had to pass through a hastily erected gate, manned by four infantry Marines with two mech Marines in support, standing like statues and hopefully cowing the Children of Angels. Yazzie led the patrol through the gates where half-a-dozen people watched silently.

“They’re giving away our position,” Tomiko passed on the P2P.

“Probably.”

“The grunts should round them up.”

“Agreed,”

“Oh, you’re a gabfest, aren’t you? ‘Probably.’ ‘Agreed.’ That’s all you can say?”

“Not much we can do about it now with the ROI as it stands. But you heard the lieutenant. Pretty soon . . .”

“If we’re still around by then.”

Rev didn’t like the watchers any more than Tomiko did. But watchers weren’t just for one side. There were plenty of people on the planet who didn’t like the Children of Angels’ incursion and would just as soon have them all hauled off. And there were other CoAs who either weren’t as dedicated as the rest or liked money better than doctrine. Rev didn’t know who Intel’s canary was in this case, but Ms. Yesterday’s location had been known since well prior to the Marine landing. The woman had immediately left her home with a bodyguard for what she assumed to be a safe house, and that house was now being watched by a swarm of microdrones and several human assets.

They wouldn’t be able to directly approach the house without alerting her. But they could still achieve an element of surprise. Their target was inside a two-story building on Grant Street between North Eighth and Ninth. The ground floor was a bakery, while the second floor was an apartment. Naval surveillance had five people on the second floor with two in the basement. They couldn’t discount the two in the basement, but chances were that Yesterday was one of the five upstairs.

With Yazzie on point, the patrol moved west from the terminal on South Tenth until they hit Incarta Avenue, two blocks from Grant, then turned north. Some civilians stood on the street, watching them pass, but only a few yelled out the same things that had been hurled at them at the Municipal Center. There were far more furtive looks from people inside and peering out at them. Evidently, the good folks in Natividad had heard what had happened at Briarton, and they realized that the Marines had a pretty big bite when provoked.

“Keep scanning high,” the staff sergeant passed on the team net.

Which everyone was doing, of course. If they were going to be hit, the chances were that it would be someone on a roof or through a window.

“What’s the quantphone traffic like?”

<Heavy, as expected. You can track the patrols out now by the patterns of heavy call volume.>

Rev shook his head. He understood the concept. Let them talk while having AIs screen each call. The Intel guys would be having a smorgasbord of chat to listen to. But just like a real smorgasbord, there was sometimes too much from which to choose, and with so much traffic, they couldn’t analyze everything in real-time. That could put the team at risk.

The CoAs didn’t have nearly the same amount and types of weapons as the Marines did, but there were a number of things they could jury-rig that, if dropped off a roof, could mess up a Marine in a PAL-5.

Was that risk worth letting Angel shit fighters coordinate an attack on them? Rev wasn’t so sure about that.

I hope the overflight drones are on their toes.

Not all the drones were simply surveillance. They had four Tarantula Hawks that could take out a person even with the basic body armor used by police units.

The patrol made its way north, past Zero Street and into the numbered roads. They had to expect that their target knew they were there, probably getting nervous. The team members had to act as if this was a routine patrol, nothing more, nothing less.

A young man stepped out onto Incarta from North Fifth and hurled a rock at them before darting back out of sight. The rock made it halfway, bouncing to a stop thirty meters ahead.

“Should I have wasted him?” Yazzie asked Rev.

“He’s not a threat, and we’ve got a bigger fish to fry. You did good.”

Not now, at least. But later, even a young punk throwing a rock could be a valid target—if it got that far.

The team kept moving past Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh. If Ms. Yesterday was monitoring their progress, she should be shitting bricks right now and ready to bolt. They needed to convince her that she wasn’t their target, so they moved on quickly, past Eighth and Ninth, waiting for word that she was bugging out.

But the net was quiet. Evidently, Ms. Yesterday was hunkering down.

“The Buzzard is thirty seconds out. Stand by,” Staff Sergeant Delacrie passed.

The Marine Corps HH-40 Buzzard was a tilt-fan chopper used for a variety of missions ranging from insertion and ground support, to CASEVACs. Used to be used, that is. They were not heavily armored, and the Centaurs swept them from the skies in early engagements. But here on Alafia, the anti-air threat was much less, so the Buzzard squadrons were getting to play.

“Keep moving,” Rev passed to Yazzie when he saw her start to slow down. They had to wait until released.

Buzzards weren’t particularly noisy, but they weren’t wraiths, either, and Rev could hear it approach from the south. If Ms. Yesterday was shitting bricks before, she had to be shitting entire houses now. But the Buzzard wasn’t coming for her, at least from all outward appearances. It landed on the roof of the nexus center, disgorging a squad of Marines.

If an invading force, say something like the Union Marines, was trying to control a city, then the nexus centers would be logical targets. Controlling comms would be an important step in any strategic plan.

Now, if Intel-Psych had a handle on Ms. Yesterday’s psychological profile, she would be relaxing, coming down from the perceived threat of the Buzzard. It was time.

“Phase Two. Go,” the team leader ordered.

Immediately, the nine Marines and Doc Paul wheeled and started running toward the building. Maxing out their augments, they covered the two blocks in less than thirty seconds. Second Element, with Hussein in the lead, crashed through the ferrocene front door, shattering it into shards. First was right on their heels.

“Up!” Rev passed, pointing to the stairway in the back by the old-fashioned ovens.

During their quick rehearsal back at the Spaceport, Yazzie was first up the stairs, but as things worked out in reality, Rev was the closest, so he charged up, shouldering the door at the top open and throwing in a stun grenade.

“Union Marines! Get on the floor now!”

Three dazed people, two women and a man, slowly got down on their hands and knees as Tomiko, Yazzie, and Doc Paul flowed around him.

A young man, maybe in his early twenties and armed with a Foryce K-60 assault rifle still slung on his back, hesitated, and Rev could see the gears turning as he took in the four Raiders.

“Don’t even think it, son,” Rev said.

Doc Paul was more direct. “Drop that thing, or you’re a dead man!” he screamed.

The man took an involuntary step back, staring at Doc, then he said, “OK, OK, don’t shoot!”

“Let the weapon fall . . . slowly,” Rev said as Tomiko moved to his side, the barrel of her M-49 rock-steady.

“Do it, Raul,” one of the women—their target, Rev recognized—said.

The man hooked one thumb under the sling at the shoulder, then cautiously lowered it, ignoring Tomiko but with his eyes locked on Doc.

When it hit the floor, Tomiko said, “Now, get on your face.”

As soon as he was down, she kicked the K-60 away.

“We’ve got the package and three more,” Rev passed on the team net.

“Roger that. Nix is clearing the two in the basement. As soon as he’s finished, I’m coming up. Secure each of them, then clear the rest of the floor.”

“Yazzie, take the door,” Rev said.

She nodded and stepped out, covering the hallway leading to the two bedrooms. Rev handed his M-49 to Doc, then took out the zips from his cargo pocket. He felt naked, but one of the SOPs was that anyone securing a POW would not have a weapon that could be taken. Rev sincerely doubted that any of this crew would take his rifle, but procedures were procedures.

He secured the young man first, telling him to place his hands behind his back before slapping the zips on. The ends folded around the man’s wrists automatically and sealed themselves. Then it was the other man and woman before he stepped up to the package.

She didn’t look like a Children of Angels VIP. Soft, almost matronly, she could easily be a primary school teacher.

“Your bodyguard didn’t do such a good job, ma’am,” he said, hooking her arms and lifting her to her feet. “You might want to find a little better caliber next time around. If there ever is one.”

She smiled and said, “When the nebula gets here, you’ll see. There will be a next time. Not for you, though.”

Her eyes flicked for the briefest moment to the back of the room where a door led into a bathroom, according to the blueprints.

“Crap! There were five up here,” he said, turning around just as the door burst open.

A large man with a very large handgun jumped out, putting Rev between himself and Doc. For a split second, he considered pulling the package between them as a shield, but with a shove, he knocked her down out of the way. He bunched his legs to jump at the man, but despite his improved fast-twitch muscles, he knew he’d be too late. The way the man held himself as he brought up the weapon told Rev that this man was a killer, not one to jerk a shot off to the side in his excitement.

Leave enough so they can bring me back.

But the shot never got off. A small mist of blood spurted from the left side of his head a second before Rev reached him. He caught the body, and it slumped, the handgun clattering to the floor.

Tomiko stepped closer from where she’d been by the window and looked up at the lolling head flopping over Rev’s arm. “I hate it when people ignore me,” she told the dead man.

“Holy shit, Miko!” You zeroed the bastard,” Doc said, rushing forward. “I didn’t have a shot.”

Because I screwed up.

Yazzie stuck her head back in the room. “What happened.”

“Missed this bastard,” Doc said. “But Miko nailed him.”

Rev’s heart was beating a mile-a-minute, and he knew Punch would start ordering his nanos to start filling him with suppressants if he didn’t calm down.

He lay the body down and looked at the package, whose face was now twisted in rage.

“You’ll pay for that, sinner!”

“You should have paid for better bodyguards.”

He had to take charge again. “Miko, watch the prisoners. Doc, Yazzie, we’re clearing the rest of the floor before the staff sergeant comes up.”

Tomiko acted like she was going to say something, but she bit her lip and nodded.

“What are you going to do with us?” the package asked.

“Whatever the hell we want,” Rev snapped. He shouldn’t have, but he wasn’t feeling particularly charitable.

The main room took up most of the top floor, so clearing the two bedrooms took the three Raiders just a couple of minutes. Rev made sure they checked each closet. The Navy said there were five people on the floor, but he wasn’t going to take any chances.

They were returning just as the staff sergeant and Hussein came up. Delacrie took in the dead man but didn’t ask what happened. It would all come out in the debrief.

“Romeo-Victor-Four, this is Echo-Delta-Golf-Three. We’ve got the package plus five. I repeat, package plus five. What do you want us to do with them?” the staff sergeant passed back to the CP over the team net.

It took a moment, then a voice came back. “Bring all six pax for pickup.”

“Roger, out.”

The staff sergeant looked around for a moment and then said, “You heard the man. Let’s get rid of them.”

The four Children of Angels hadn’t heard the comms, of course. All they heard was what the staff sergeant said. The second woman, who Rev had barely given a glance, started sobbing.

“You can’t do anything to us. You have no right!” the package screamed in righteous fury. “We answer to the angels, and not to man!”

“Well, you don’t have to answer. You either walk, or we’ll drag you,” Delacrie said before motioning to the others.

Rev, Doc, Tomiko, and Hussein each grabbed a prisoner under the armpits and pulled them up to their feet. Tomiko had the woman, who could barely stand. After trying to walk a few steps, Tomiko gave up and slung the woman over her shoulders.

“What?” she asked to Rev’s look. “She won’t walk.”

Rev had the other bodyguard, the one who’d decided that discretion was the better part of valor. His face was pale, and he was trembling, but the man walked even if it looked like he was heading to the gallows. That puzzled Rev for a moment until he remembered what the staff sergeant had said. “Get rid of them” wasn’t the most diplomatic way he could have put it.

He was tempted to just let the man suffer, but he leaned close and whispered, “Calm down. You’re just getting transported to interrogation.”

The man looked at him with wary, if hopeful, eyes. But he seemed a tiny bit surer of himself.

They reached the ground floor where Bedam and Nix had two more prisoners. “OK, let’s take them out.”

The package gasped, and the woman on Tomiko’s shoulder started wailing. Rev’s prisoner turned to look at him accusingly.

Staff Sergeant, you really need to watch your wording.

They dragged the prisoners out onto Grant street just as the same Buzzard appeared, tilted its fans, and slowly descended, sending up dirt, leaves, and trash into the air. The sand pelted the bare heads and arms of the prisoners, but Rev kept a firm grip on his.

“That’s it. They’re ready,” the Staff Sergeant yelled over the noise. “Get ’em on!”

The crew chief stepped off the back ramp and motioned urgently for them to approach. Rev didn’t blame him. A Buzzard was not made for streets, and it was vulnerable to anyone with a basic anti-armor missile on the roof of the surrounding buildings. Heck, it could be vulnerable to a large cerrocrete block thrown off a nearby roof.

It took only a few moments to load the prisoners, and the second Nix got his prisoner on the ramp, the Buzzard was already lifting, the fans whining as they pushed air.

And then it was gone.

“Good job, Marines,” the staff sergeant passed.

“And sailor,” Doc added.

“Yeah, and sailor,” he said.

The team leader looked around, then said, “Time to get back. I’ve gotten chow approved before the debrief.”

There was a chorus of cheers.

“But the mission isn’t over until we’re back. This is still a patrol, so don’t take your foot off the gas. Second, you lead.”

The team fell into the patrol formation and started back.

Rev had a lot to think about. He’d survived single combat with a Centaur, but he’d almost gotten taken down by a human.

Combat is combat, Reverent. Remember that!

17

“Miko, you OK?” Rev asked as they left their debrief.

“Looking forward to catching a bit of shut-eye, but yeah.”

“No, I mean . . .”

“What, Rev? Spit it out.”

He looked around at the rest of the team to see if anyone was listening, then lowered his voice to barely above a whisper. “That Angel shit you zeroed.”

“Saved your ass, right? Bam! Right in the side of the head,” she crowed.

“Yeah, you did. But, you know, are you OK with that?”

“OK with saving you? I don’t know. Ask me in a year, and I’ll tell you,” she said, punching him in the upper arm. “Or is this one of those things you see in the holovids, you know, where if you save someone and you have to take care of them forever. If it is, I ain’t playing that game. I’ve seen how much you eat.”

She isn’t getting it. That, or she’s purposely avoiding the question.

He still thought about the kapo he’d shot. The kapos that had been killed when he took out the mini-centaur had been collateral damage, but the one coming out of the factory had been a direct kill. And now, Tomiko had purposely killed another human being, too.

“It’s OK if you want to talk about it. I’m here whenever you need me.”

Tomiko stopped dead, grabbing his arm and swinging him around to face her.

“Wait a minute. You, who’ve killed one tin-ass and sent another into the river, the hard-ass Marine, are asking me if I’m OK because I wasted a mother-fucking traitor to humankind?” Her eyes flashed with anger. “What, because little ol’ Miko doesn’t have the fucking balls to do her job?”

“No. I didn’t mean it like that,” Rev protested.

“Then what the hell did you mean?”

Rev stood there, towering over his friend, his mouth gaping, but no words were coming out.

“Yeah, I thought so. Listen, Rev, I love you like my brother, but you don’t have a clue as to who I am.” She spun away and hurried after the rest of the team.

“What the hell did I do wrong?”

<You said she was weaker than you.>

He hadn’t been asking Punch, but he subvocalized, “I did not. I was just concerned that she would be upset.”

<Would you ask anyone else the same thing?>

“I . . . I think so. I mean, maybe.”

<Whether you would or not, she thinks you are trying to protect her.>

“I am.”

<Maybe she doesn’t want to be protected. Maybe she wants to be accepted as just a good Marine as you are.>

“That’s not fair. I do accept her.”

<Is that how you treat her? Think back to Tenerife. What did you give her to do, and what did you take? Did you ask for her input?>

“I was senior to her. I had to make decisions.”

<Senior because of alphabetical order when the two of you were entered into the system that first day, not because of experience or time served. Think of how she would interpret your actions there, and now with this.>

Rev watched Tomiko catch up to Hussein and start walking beside him. She said something to him that made him laugh.

Crap. Punch’s right. How can a hunk of crystal understand human emotions better than I can?

All the more evidence that his battle buddy was more than just a tool to use in battle.

Rev jogged after the team, catching up as they hit the tarmac and turned left to where a team of Ninety-nines had erected about forty bivouacs so far. Each bivouac was shipped on a small pallet. When the activator was hooked to the nipple, the foam expanded into pre-programmed shapes. From activation to finish, one building took about three minutes before the Ninety-nines could start attaching the climate control systems and bringing in furniture or whatever.

That could have been me, he thought with a shudder. If I hadn’t convinced that doc . . .

A thirty-year commitment, with a casualty rate that was the same as everyone else’s . . . no, being a Ninety-nine was not the way to go. Far better to take your chances early in Direct Combat, and if you go down, you go down fighting.

Staff Sergeant Delacrie led them to the right row and to their assigned bivouac. Rev was just glad that theirs was already up. Tomiko wasn’t the only one who could use some sleep.

They trooped through the hatch.

“Look who’s here,” Ting-a-ling said. “Welcome to our humble abode.”

The Frisian flight must have just beaten them there. They were opening their racks along the front of the bivouac, taking the right-hand side. More racks were against the bulkhead, ready for use, and the climate control system blew cool air through three vents.

“This isn’t too shabby,” Rev said, looking around the Quonset-shaped building. “Hard to believe we’re in combat.”

“Stippy-do Marines,” Ting-a-ling said to the laughs of the other Frisians.

“Eat me, crayon. But you can sleep outside if you want,” Tomiko said, still sounding a little angry.

Rev grimaced. Crayon was their new nickname for the color-coordinated Frisians, but with the tone in which she said the word, it could be taken as intended to be an insult instead of normal trash talk.

“Oh, I don’t want to embarrass our hosts. Our tan-master said we needed to blend in with you jarheads and not show you up. And, as you can see, we’ve already claimed this little piece of heaven as our area. You snooze, you lose.” Which was a rule no matter in which military you served.

“Grab the opposite side,” Sergeant Nix said, “before the other teams stake their claim.”

Rev would just as soon have the back so people weren’t stumbling past in the dark on their way to the head. Evidently, close to the door had some kind of premium.

Despite that First, Second, and Fifth Teams were still out on their snatches and wouldn’t be able to contest any claim, there was a quick rush as Marines and commandos grabbed their racks, dropped their gear, and got situated.

Rev shook open his rack and eyed it dubiously. It didn’t look too sturdy, and as an augmented Marine, he had more than the usual bulk. He sat on the edge. It creaked but held. Tentatively, he lay down.

“Damn! This is a pretty good piece of gear,” he said, surprised at how comfortable it was.

“You Union folks can do something right, at least,” Ting-a-ling said from his back.

“But we won’t tell your tan-master if you decide to rough it,” Tomiko said as she tried hers out.

“What’s the equivalent of a tan-master?”

<There is no direct equivalent, as you know. But based on positions, a tan-master is at about a captain-level in the Corps.>

It was just idle curiosity. Rev had seen the green-master, the highest Frisian attached to the regiment, but he’d never seen anyone else. With sixty or so of the commandos still attached as part of the pan-humanity cooperation mandate, it made sense that there would be someone higher. Not that the Frisians had ranks. At least according to them.

“So, Ting-a-ling, a tan-master is the highest rank here with us?” Rev asked.

“We don’t have ranks in the Host,” BooBoo, one of the other commandos, said, something Rev expected. They were touchy on the subject.

“Sure, you don’t,” Tomiko said. “You keep telling yourself that.”

“We don’t. We have our occupational slots, that’s all.”

“Yeah. Ranks, just like us. You just use a crayon box to identify them.”

“Butkyluvytch, you know our buddies in the Imperial Jarhead Corps need their ranks so they know what to do,” Ting-a-ling told Booboo.

The Frisians looked like Union citizens, they had no discernible accent, and these commandos shared the Marines’ warrior ethos, but every time Rev heard one of their impossible-to-pronounce names, he was reminded that they came from a different nation—that, and the fact that they kept insisting that the Host did not have ranks. It wouldn’t be that big of a thing except for the fact that they lorded it over the Marines as if it were a good thing.

This was a long-standing issue, one Rev normally ignored, but he decided to get into it this time.

“So, Ting-a-ling, you’re a blue-master, right?”

“I always said you were a smart guy for a jarhead, Rev. You could pick that right up,” he said, pointing to the blue collar tab on his uniform top.

“So, if a yellow-tab walks in here and tells you to, I don’t know . . . clean the heads, what will you do?”

“Clean them, of course.”

“Because he told you so.”

“Yeah.”

“So, he can give you orders.”

“Yeah. And your point is?”

“My point is that he can give you orders because a yellow-tab is a higher rank than a blue-tab.”

“Au contraire, good Corporal. He can give me orders because, as a yellow-master, he’s in the slot to give me orders. It’s got nothing to do with military rank. I could be a yellow-master tomorrow and be giving him orders.”

Tomiko rolled onto her back, pulled the small Marine-issue pillow over her face, and screamed into it.”

“Give it up, Rev,” Nix said. “They’re never going to admit it.”

Ting-a-ling gave a self-satisfied smile as he kicked off his boots and lay back.

“Because we’re right,” Huska said, one of only two commandos whose name anyone could pronounce.

Rev rolled his eyes and lay back on his rack. The Frisian commandos were good guys and good fighters, and he rather liked them. But this one issue was frustrating. Rank was rank, and it didn’t matter if it was a color or the same traditional ranks most Marine Corps had used for a thousand years.

“Get some sleep, Corporal,” Ting-a-ling told him. “We’ll be going out again soon enough.”

Which was good advice. It didn’t matter whether Corps or Host, a warrior always grabbed sleep whenever they could.

But first, he had something to do. Tomiko had put her rack next to his, so he leaned over and tapped her shoulder. She opened her eyes and gave him a blank look.

“We OK, Miko?”

“Shit, Rev. Of course, we’re OK. You’re my compadre. Just quit being a dick sometimes.”

She turned her back to him and pulled the blanket up over her shoulders. The words were as good as he could have hoped for, but her tone was still sharp. He was tempted to ask her again, but he didn’t need Punch to tell him that wouldn’t be a good idea.

With a sigh, he lay down and tried to sleep. He had just started to drift off when the front hatch swung open, letting in a hot, humid rush of air. Rev cracked an eye to see the gunny standing there. He quickly shut it again as if that could make the man disappear.

“Third and Fourth teams. I need four people each for wire duty. Be outside in ten, full battle rattle.”

The door closed, but Rev refused to open his eyes, praying he wouldn’t hear what came next.

“First, you’re up. Take Badem to make your four,” Staff Sergeant Delacrie said.

Rev let out a sigh. Ting-a-ling had been right. They’d be going out again soon enough so that he could really use the sleep now. It was too early to start relying on boosts.

“Butkyluvytch, that’s us,” Ting-a-ling said from across the bivouac.

Rev sat up, then reached out with a foot to kick Tomiko’s rack.

“I heard, I heard,” she grumbled.

Rev stretched, then started donning the same gear he’d taken off just fifteen minutes before. He looked across the center aisle where Ting-a-ling and three other commandos were gearing up.

“So, Ting-a-ling, that wasn’t no yellow-master telling you to get ready. So, was it his rank that mattered?”

Ting-a-ling gave Rev a raised eyebrow, then a snort. “I would’ve thought you, of all people, would know by now. Rank or occupational slot, everyone jumps when a gunnery sergeant says so.”

18

PFC Yazzie kicked in the door with a powerful boot, almost knocking it off its hinges. She darted in to the left, Rev on her hip as he went right, M-49 sweeping the room.

“Coming in left,” Tomiko shouted, moving beyond Yazzie to aim up the stairs of the townhome.

Staff Sergeant Delacrie followed immediately, and between the four of them, quickly cleared the ground floor, which consisted of a living area, utility room, and kitchen. Three place settings were still on the dining table, a breakfast uneaten and dry. The entire building had been secured six hours before, but the situation was fluid, and Angel shits could have come in since then.

“Clear!” the staff sergeant yelled.

One by one, the rest of the team, plus their package, entered the building. Delacrie sent Nix and Second up the stairs to clear the next floor, which they did with loud shouts.

The Marines had steady comms, which was a nice advantage for a change, but for this mission, the team was putting on a show. They wanted any observers to notice them, and they wanted to announce their progress.

Once the second floor was cleared, Rev and the rest of First Element leapfrogged them, leaving the package with Rev, then clearing the three bedrooms and bath. That left one more floor. Nix, Strap, Hussein, and Badem passed through with Hussein yelling, “Coming up!” as he led the charge. With all the commotion the team had made until then, their entry appearance shouldn’t be a surprise, but better safe than sorry.

Second Element disappeared into the upper floor with Rev looking up the stairs, and ten seconds later, Sergeant Nix appeared and motioned for him to come up.

Rev turned to Yazzie and said, “Stay here and cover our six.”

She nodded and moved to the stairs going down, and Rev, Tomiko, the staff sergeant, and the package moved up to the top floor, an attic that took up the townhome’s entire footprint. The townhome was a corner unit, with windows to the north and east. Scattered toys, a small pink child’s table and chair, a holovid platform, and a ratty couch were not enough to fill the space, but an elaborate construct of blankets and sheets, hung on lines, surrounding each window served to fill in the space.

In the middle of the room, Giselle Incrit-Kole stood with another Marine. Their package, Sergeant Yuri Mason, brushed past Rev, walked up to the other Marine, and slapped him on the shoulder.

“Whaddaya got, Soup?”

“Quiet. Some action a couple of blocks over, but no line-of-sight. But let me show you the lay of the land.”

The two zero-three-fourteens, Marine snipers, sidled through the blankets and to the side of one of the windows where the first one gave Mason a debrief, full of ranges, headings, and microclimates—in other words, sniper-talk.

Rev listened in for a moment, then turned his attention to Incrit-Kole. “How was it, Gizzy?”

The Second Team corporal shrugged. “Like Soup said, not much happened. The Angel shits are keeping their heads low. Kinda boring, to be honest.” She gave the two snipers a glance, then lowered her voice. “He’s just happy that they have a mission, you know.”

Rev did know. Fighting the Centaurs, Marine Corps snipers were not effective in the least. None of the weapons of their trade could do much to a paladin or riever. Some were assigned as overwatch, their target enemy drones, but most were used as regular light infantry. The senior SNCOs and officers who came from the sniper pipeline, once considered elite infantry, had to be glad that their skills were being put to use again.

“They all want to be HOGs, you know,” Rev said.

“That’s all Soup was talking about for the last eight hours.”

Rev grunted a noncommittal response. He could understand their situation. According to tradition, a trained sniper was a PIG, a “Professionally Instructed Gunman.” In order to become a HOG, a “Hunter of Gunmen,” they had to record a combat kill. Only then would they be allowed to wear a Hog’s Tooth, a round hung on a cord around their neck.

This tradition went back a thousand years or more, with the tooth taking an almost religious aspect, supposedly able to keep the bearer safe. But with the war with the Centaurs, the only HOGs in the Corps were senior SNCOs and a few mustang officers. An entire generation of new snipers were all champing at the bit to get their Hog’s Tooth.

The two snipers moved to the other window and went through the same process. Rev listened in for a moment, but while the words were in Standard, they might as well have been speaking a different language.

It took another minute or so, but the handoff was made. Sergeant Mason was now the sniper on duty.

“OK, let’s move out,” the staff sergeant said.

Nix and Second Element went down the steps followed by Incrit-Kole, Soup, and the staff sergeant.

Tomiko stepped up to Rev and said, “You let him do his thing. Don’t try and get involved.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Bullshit, Rev, and you know it,” she said before moving to the stairs.

She was right, though. Rev had trained with both the Dykstra and M102 Nellis. He didn’t have a sniper’s specialized augments, but he’d like to think he was a pretty good shot. He would never be a HOG not having graduated sniper school, and he really didn’t want to kill a fellow human again, but he was nothing if not competitive. If Raiders and snipers were both supposedly elite, at least in public opinion, he wanted to test himself against the Marine.

And with that, they were alone. Mason said, “If you can take that window and keep an eye out, that would help. But keep your ass back and out of sight. I can’t have you revealing our position.

Rev bristled a bit at the sergeant’s tone. He was there to provide security, not be an A-gunner. But to be honest, that sounded much better than sitting there and watching the stairs leading to the fourth floor. He nodded and made his way through the blankets the previous sniper had hung on lines that darkened the interior of the space.

One of the side-effects of the war was that not as many snipers were going through their pipeline. So now, with a war against humans, there weren’t enough trained snipers to fulfill the requirements. The powers that be decided the best way to make use of that asset was to split up the two-person teams and fill the position of A-gunner with a grunt, or in the battalion’s case, with a Raider. Not an actual A-gunner, as in helping with the shots, but to provide security.

And Rev was it for this mission.

Incrit-Kole had been Soup’s A-gunner, and he was Mason’s. The team had been camouflage, just a regular patrol doing routine security sweeps. To watching eyes, nine Marines had entered the building, and nine had left. The team would clear another several buildings before moving on.

“Any specific instructions, Sergeant?”

“If you see any Angel shit movement, any at all, tell me. Don’t engage. That’s not your job. Let me decide.”

In three hours, Fox Company was going to be conducting a sweep, and Mason’s mission was to conduct an overwatch. Rev didn’t think he’d be cleared to engage a target before then. But that was out of Rev’s hands. He was only there as a glorified security guard.

With a sigh, he settled in to wait.

* * *

Hidden in the draped folds of blankets, Rev looked over the rooftops stretching away from him. The most exciting thing he’d seen was an old alley cat stalking a pigeon on the rooftop across the street. If he shifted his body slightly to the left, he could see down the street until it curved away.

Not everyone on the planet was an Angel shit, but after the Marines landed, most people had evacuated the city. Some had gone to evacuation centers set up by the CRA troops, but others were holed up or out in the countryside. Drones and Navy surveillance had hits of hotspots, but some of those were dummies set up to spoof the Marines. Others were people just trying to keep alive and get past the battle that everyone knew was coming.

That left Rev and Mason with not a lot to do. And if Fox Company passed by without incident, then the two Marines would have to just cool their heels until the next patrol came and picked them up.

In scientific terms, Rev was bored.

“Tell me a joke.”

He couldn’t believe he asked that. In a combat situation, he couldn’t ask his battle buddy for music or an audiobook, but why not a joke? It wasn’t as if there was anything out there for him to see.

<What do you call a boomerang that never comes back?>

“I don’t know. Broken?”

<No, try again.>

Why? That’s a good answer.

He thought for a few moments before subvocalizing, “OK, tell me.”

<A stick.>

Rev suppressed a groan. But it really wasn’t bad. Still juvenile, but Punch was getting better. And if he was being honest, Punch’s answer was better than his.

“That one was almost OK.”

<The more opportunities you give me, the better I’ll be able to refine my understanding of your sense of humor.>

“Wait. My sense of humor? What about yours?”

<I am your battle buddy. Your sense of humor is what I’m programmed to consider.>

“So, you don’t find that any of the jokes you tell me are funny? You have no opinion of your own?”

There was a slight pause, which was significant just in itself. <I don’t know.>

That was even more shocking.

“You don’t know?”

<I think I now might have a sense of humor. But I have no baseline upon which to verify that.>

Rev had to digest that. He was positive that this entire joke thing between the two of them was something programmed by the psychs with no other purpose than to keep Reverent Pelletier in top fighting form.

Other battle buddies told jokes, but not all of them. And some that did didn’t seem to have the same sense of purpose about it as Punch seemed to have. But with that last statement of his, something was different. Rev would bet that it was something not programmed into his crystal brain.

If Rev was right, then what did that tell him about his battle buddy? Was there something more to him?

He started to frame a question but then stopped. He wasn’t sure he wanted an answer that would only lead to more questions.

“For the record, I think you have a sense of humor,” he said before instantly regretting it.

His communications with Punch like this were supposedly private, but no one believed that. The psychs wanted control over their prized assets. He didn’t want the head divers to analyze what his saying that meant.

<Thank you.>

Somehow, that made it worse. Or better. He didn’t know what he thought.

He looked through the hide at Mason. The man was happy, almost brimming with anticipation as he searched.

Does his battle buddy tell him jokes?

As if feeling Rev’s eyes, the sniper turned to look at him. “Fox comes through in another thirty minutes. Keep alert.”

“You looking forward to being a HOG?” Rev asked, with just the slightest hint of disdain.

“What? No! I’m just here to do my mission,” Mason said with a scowl—a scowl that relaxed when he said, “Shit, who am I kidding? Yeah. I want to be a HOG. We all do.”

That admission surprised Rev. He knew it was true, but he didn’t think the sergeant would admit it.

“We’ve all been too long without a real mission. Not like you Raiders and Recon types. Even sappers. Some of you have taken out damn paladins all on your own while we get stuck carrying water for the grunts.”

There wasn’t resentment in his tone—maybe just a bit of envy—and Rev felt a rush of empathy. Snipers were as “elite” as Raiders, whatever elite meant. The more Rev served, the more he realized that the term was for the civilians and the holovids. In reality, all Marines had a mission, and all had undergone augmentation to be able to complete that mission.

And all had the same job, which was to kill Centaurs. While tankers and mechs were the main thrust of the effort, snipers just weren’t set up to do that. Raiders, either, for that matter. Rev had just been lucky with his paladin. And he hadn’t even killed that courser. All he’d done was drop it in the river, leaving Fox Company to clean up the mess.

“I hope you get it,” Rev said, and he meant it.

He really didn’t want any more humans to die as a matter of principle, but he wasn’t naive. People were going to die, and they’d brought it upon themselves when they chose Centaurs over fellow humans. For them, it really didn’t matter if a mech blasted them or they fell by a sniper’s bullet. Dead was dead. With that in mind, if Mason or any of the snipers could tally that kill, justifying their place in the Corps, all the better.

Mason looked surprised at his comment, and he said, “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

I hope you still do after you get a kill.

That was the other side of the equation. Rev was still bothered by the kapo on Tenerife he’d killed, something he kept bottled up inside of him. He even kept it from Punch. The last thing he wanted was to come to the attention of the head-divers and get pulled from the team.

“The scuttlebutt is that you zeroed a tin-ass,” the sergeant said after he turned back to the window.

Rev hesitated. The Centaur he and Tomiko had found was still classified, but as far as he knew, admitting to the paladin on Preacher Rolls was not restricted. The entire operation had been suppressed due to the tremendous casualties, and with so many new joins, the facts could get jumbled.

“Were you with us on Preacher Rolls?” Rev asked.

“No. I was with the Lancers. Came over when we consolidated. So, is that true or just BS? All of the records for that goat-rope are sealed.”

“Yeah,” he said after only a moment of consideration. “A paladin. Got lucky.”

Mason kept watching out the window, but he nodded and said, “I thought so. Didn’t hear your name until this op.” He paused for a long moment. “Good shit that.”

There wasn’t much he could say to that, so he remained quiet. Rev hadn’t been happy about getting assigned this mission. Marines could get so attached to their teams that they could treat others, even other Marines, as outsiders, so to be here with him, and only the two of them, was a little disconcerting.

But for a tiny difference in his evaluations used to assign their designators, that could be him right there, a sniper searching for a mission. Recon, Raiders, sappers, snipers—they all had similar personality profiles. Rev had lucked out in becoming a Raider. But Sergeant Mason really wasn’t that much different than he was.

Damn, we’re getting deep here.

Rev shook his head and looked back out his window. He could wax philosophical later. He still had a job to do.

Still nothing to see, though. Not even that cat. It was as if this neck of the city was holding its breath, waiting for things to explode.

“Head’s up. I think I see the lead element of Fox,” Mason said.

Rev turned to see the sergeant edge over to the right to get a better view. “Yeah, I think—”

Mason spun to the right and dropped as blood and bones erupted to spray the hanging blankets. Rev was already in motion, rushing across the floor to the sniper, who was in a crumpled heap, his legs folded under him, half of his face gone.

“Mason, are you still with me?” he asked as he fumbled to jack into the man.

<He’s dead.>

“Shit!”

He pulled the jack and opened the comms. “Tango-tango-three, this is Delta-Victor-Three-Bravo. My actual is KIA. I need an immediate CASEVAC. I say again, immediate CASEVAC. And I need a counter-fire trace, now!”

“Delta-Victor-Three-Bravo, roger the request. Is the area secure for CASEVAC?”

“Negative. I need that trace.”

“Roger. Wait one.”

With all the drones and naval vessels, most of the planet would be covered by redundant scans. Almost every action would be picked up. Sorting all of that data to create useful intel was the problem. But with Rev’s location and the time, that should speed this up.

Rev took Mason by the shoulder and leaned him back, then straightened his legs. Blood pooled under him, while more blood, chips of bone, and brain matter dripped down the blankets. He looked bad, but until a doctor pronounced him dead, there was still a chance that he could be brought back. Time was of an essence, and that meant whoever had shot the sergeant had to be removed from the situation if he was going to be airlifted out. Rev could carry him back, but even if he wasn’t jumped as a target of opportunity, it would just take too long for Mason.

“Stand by to accept trace.”

“Give me a map with the overlay.”

<Roger.>

Punch did his electronic magic, and the map appeared as if thirty centimeters in front of his face. Highlighted was the trace of the round that had taken out the sergeant. The CofA had been the in next block, beyond the park, and up in one of the tall apartment buildings on the other side, 1,324 meters away.

Rev looked down at Mason’s body. That wasn’t a dart that had hit him. It was a chemical round, and that, coupled with the fact that the sergeant had been in the hide—and only hit when he shifted his position—had all the signs of an enemy sniper. Some normal grunt would not be looking and have acquired Mason nor made that shot.

He scooted up to the window, keeping below the sill.

“Get ready to record.”

<Ready.>

Rev popped up, looking at the far-off apartment building, then dropped down, expecting a shot to follow him.

“Give me a look.”

An image of the building popped into his occipital lobe. Punch had the azimuth overlayed on the image. There was no way to tell from what floor the shot originated based on the data from overhead, but that still narrowed it down.

“Anything?”

<Nothing that could identify the shooter.>

“What about all those terabytes of data you have. Can you narrow it down?”

<Judging from the distance and position Sergeant Mason was when he was hit, there is a high probability that the shooter was from the ninth floor or higher.>

Rev took a quick look at the image again. The building had twelve floors. If Punch was correct, then that narrowed it down to three windows or the roof.

Something tickled the recesses of his memory. He thought back to Staff Sergeant Jesup, his green-shirt sniper instructor back at Camp Nguyen.

“Isn’t it SOP for a sniper to move after each shot?”

<For most military sniper schools, yes.>

“And some Angel shits had military training, right?”

<That is what we were briefed.>

Crap, if I hurry, maybe I can catch the bastard.

Rev started to edge up, his M49 at the ready, but then he reconsidered. He knew he could hit a man-sized target at this range, but the Children of Angels sniper wouldn’t be walking around, making it easy. And while the M49 darts were quick, they wouldn’t be able to penetrate a heavy wall if the sniper was using it as cover.

But Sergeant Mason’s Dykstra would. He looked down on it. The Dykstra had been his bane during training, but by the end of Staff Sergeant Jesup’s coaching, he’d become passable with it. And his firing profile for the weapon was locked in Punch’s amazing database.

“Go big or go home, Reverent.”

Rev dropped his M49 and crawled to the Dykstra, jacking himself into the weapon’s receiver.

“New shooter. Initialize.”

The weapon shifted, adjusting the stock and sights to his personal data. He took off his helmet, then he brought the rifle to a firing position for a moment. It felt like it was fitted to him. He was ready.

Mason had the augments to stand stock-still, but even as strong as Rev was, he didn’t think he could hold the weapon on target just waiting for the enemy sniper, then snap off an effective shot. He had to use the edge of the sill, which would make him vulnerable to the other gunman.

No, I don’t.

Right behind him was the couch. Rev ran to it and pushed it back, stopping just short of the sergeant’s body and about two meters from the window. He had to yank down one of the blankets, but after that, he could still see the top floors of the building in the distance.

He took a firing position with the barrel of the big weapon lying on the top of the couch, the scope centered on the middle of the ninth floor.

“Key analytics,” he ordered.

All of the environmentals, such as Alafia’s gravity, rate of rotation, and a bunch of factors that he didn’t remember, were already entered into the weapon. Temperature, humidity, and wind had to be measured.

“Give me a firing solution,” he ordered Punch as he looked through the scope. The crosshairs shifted up and to the left to take into account how the variables would affect the round’s trajectory.

“Center the crosshairs.”

If the tech was working, all Rev had to do was keep the crosshairs on the target, and assuming no shift in the wind, he should hit it.

“Should” being the operative word. He remembered how difficult it had been for him back at Nguyen.

“You see anything?”

<No sign of movement that could be a sniper.>

“Keep your eyes peeled.”

<If I can remind you, I see through your eyes. It is up to you to keep them peeled.>

If Rev didn’t have to focus, he would have rolled his eyes at that. But he just watched through the scope, looking for any sign of movement.

“Delta-Victor-Three-Bravo, we have a CASEVAC standing by. Is the area secure?”

“Wait one.”

For a moment, he wondered if he could call for fire on the building, taking it down. But he knew that would be disapproved. The ROI called for clearing by infantry. No, it had to be him.

<Movement.>

Punch highlighted a window on the tenth floor, four over from where Rev had the crosshairs centered with a pulsing red dot. Rev adjusted the aim to the window.

“Increase magnification by three.”

The image zoomed in. With the sun over Rev’s shoulder, the glare on the window kept him from seeing inside. But it was open just a crack. He shook the gauntlet off his right hand, then wiped his fingers dry on the couch.

And as he watched, there it was. The muzzle of a weapon edged out just a few centimeters, pointing in the direction from which Fox Company would be coming.

“Extrapolate the gunner’s position.”

A few centimeters, particularly at more than a klick away, didn’t give Punch much, but he created an outline and overlaid it on the window. It wasn’t much of a target, just a head and shoulder, and Rev started having second thoughts.

Can I do this?

But he didn’t have to look to know Sergeant Mason was right below him, and he needed to get stabilized if there was any chance of bringing him back. He centered his crosshairs on the outline. He released the safety with this thumb, then rested his forefinger just above the small button that was the trigger.

He could hear Staff Sergeant Jesup coaching him, telling him to take three deep breaths, then letting the last one out. The muzzle seemed to start traversing back, and he almost jammed down on the trigger, but that would certainly pull the shot.

Just breathe. In one. Out one. In two, out two. In three, out halfway and hold . . .

His finger touched the trigger when the muzzle suddenly jerked, and Rev could swear that he could see down the barrel despite how far away it was. The movement pushed the window farther open, and a scope appeared, a face with long auburn-red hair behind it.

Rev fired, and the big .62-caliber round arched up, reaching for the Angel shit sniper. He saw a flash from the muzzle just before his round crashed through the window and into the scope. The person behind it disappeared an instant before the incoming round hit the couch ten centimeters from his head, sending stuffing into the air where it fell like snowflakes around him.

Rev jumped back and turned. The bullet passed through the couch, gouging into the deck and through to at least the floor below. Rev had on his PAL-5, but he wasn’t wearing his helmet, and there were rounds that could penetrate even the armor’s carapace. By the looks of what it had done, that might have been one of those rounds.

“Don’t just sit there looking at it!”

He ducked back down, brought up the Dykstra, and scoped the window. There was no sign of movement, but in the back, was that . . . ?

“Can you analyze that discoloration?”

<I need your helmet back on.>

Rev jumped off the couch and retrieved it. Punch changed the filter, and the stain he saw through the shattered window now shined a bright neon turquoise—the sign for blood.

Rev let out a huge breath of air and lowered the Dykstra. Somehow, he’d gone one-on-one with a trained sniper and come out on top. The gods of war must really be watching out for him.

He keyed open his comms. “Tango-Tango-Three, the area is secure. Send in the CASEVAC.”

19

Rev hopped off the chopper and helped carry Sergeant Mason until the Aid Station corpsmen took over. He watched silently as they hustled him away. The CASEVAC corpsman said there was a chance that they could bring him back, but with the brain damage, it didn’t look good.

“Fight hard, buddy.”

He turned to go back to the platoon bivouac. He’d beaten back the rest of the patrol, and he was grateful for that. He needed to get his head on straight before everyone started grilling him.

Everything had been a mad rush, from carrying Mason to the roof, loading him into the bird, and to the short flight back. And in the process, Rev had filed a false report, a big-time offense. If he was caught, they could ninety-nine him, sending him back to Nguyen with a thirty-year obligation.

“Have you erased the feed?”

<Yes, but as I told you, any half-competent forensic AI will be able to unravel it.>

“Then we can’t give them a reason to look.”

In the three or four minutes he’d been waiting on the roof for the CASEVAC, Rev had filed a report on what happened. Or not quite what had happened.

Mason had wanted to become a HOG, and it was through no fault of his own that snipers weren’t effective against Centaurs. But with him dead and with little chance of being resurrected, that wasn’t going to be in the cards.

Unless he was already a HOG.

Without thinking it through, Rev had reported that Mason had gotten the kill, firing a split second before the opposing sniper fired the shot that killed him. The delay in Rev reporting back that the area was secure was because he had to confirm that Mason had, in fact, taken out the threat.

If that had actually been the case, then Sergeant Mason died a HOG, just as he’d wanted.

It wasn’t until they were landing that he realized what he’d done. He’d given Punch orders to alter his feed, erasing anything that contradicted his version. But, as his battle buddy had reminded him, that would only work with a person-to-person share, and even then, he’d have to explain the gaps. If anyone higher up wanted to try and recover what had happened, it would all be exposed.

Not only that. The Navy orbital surveillance could easily prove that Rev’s story was false, that there was a couple-of-minutes gap between the two shots. All Rev could hope for was that his report would be taken at face value, and no one would bother to look too deeply.

He was shaking as he walked to the bivouac. He couldn’t imagine being kicked off the teams, to serve out a long term of service as a Ninety-nine.

<Do you want to hear a joke?>

“No! Read the room, Punch!”

<I am aware of your bios, and the numbers indicate that you need to get your mind on something that isn’t causing you stress.>

“Screw the numbers!” he shouted, drawing some stares from other Marines. Then subvocalizing again, he said, “I don’t care about my bios. I don’t want a joke now.”

He shifted his fear to anger, directing it at Punch and the psychs who programmed him. And for a moment, he wondered if that was exactly what Punch intended. It didn’t matter, however, if he was being manipulated or not. He was pissed either way.

He stormed into the hardened-foam field bivvy and stopped. Far from being empty, it was full while the four teams were busy with their gear.

“Look who the cat dragged in,” Hussein said. “Glad you could make it.”

“Make it?”

“Hey, word is that you got a sniper,” Tomiko said. Two dozen eyes turned to spear him.

Do they know I shot her?”

“I . . . not me. Sergeant Mason did.”

“Well, no shit. But you were his spotter, right?” Greenie Sjberic, from First Team, asked.

He didn’t answer her but asked Tomiko, “What are you doing back already? You should still be out in bad-guy country.”

“Got recalled early.”

“Why?”

“Why? Look around, big guy.” She glanced to the others and said, “He may be big and strong, but he sure can’t put two and two together.”

She tapped a forefinger to the side of her head while everyone laughed and went back to their prep.

Rev was confused. Too much had happened since Mason was shot.

Tomiko walked up, patted his arm, and said, “Let mama explain, Rev. This is it. The Angel shits are getting ready for a big-time offensive. We’re getting ready to kick their asses so we can finally leave this piece-of-shit planet.”

“Oh, yeah. Of course,” he said. “I knew that.”

“You keep telling yourself that, and eventually, you might even believe it. But really, you need to get ready yourself. We’re getting our Ops Order in fifty minutes.”

There was a palpable air of excitement in their bivouac. His fellow Marines were looking forward to taking the fight to the traitors and bringing this to an end.

Rev was starting to get excited too, but not for the same reason. If this was the big battle, then what were the chances that anyone would take the time to dive deep into one mere corporal’s report on a single incident?

20

The camp was quiet, the lull before the storm. But Rev could sense the clouds gathering.

The engineers, with the Ninety-nines doing the grunt work, had erected some pretty significant defenses, turning the spaceport into a fortified strongpoint with kill zones connected by interlocking fires. Inside bunkers, the Marines were safe from most of the longer-range weapons Intel said the Children of Angels had at their disposal. To reach the bunkers where they’d have more effective weapons, they had to cross those kill zones—which was far easier said than done.

“No one can be this stupid,” Tomiko said as they looked at the feed.

“Angel shits can,” Hussein said.

“Nah, not even them. It’s a feint, to see how we’re gonna react.”

“Bet you a dime they attack.”

“Ten credits? Not too sure of yourself, are you Hus-man?”

“OK, make it a cent.”

“A hundred? You’re on.” Tomiko turned to Rev and asked, “You want in on this?”

“Not me. Bad juju to bet on that.”

Tomiko rolled her eyes and said, “You are such a fucking choirboy sometimes. Grow a pair, why don’t you? Anyone else want in?”

Within moments, Yazzie, Nix, and Strap had taken her up on the offer.

“Shit. Four hundred,” she whispered to Rev. “The Angel shits better not come, or I’m sunk.”

“You didn’t have to raise the bet.”

But she did. That was just how Tomiko rolled, talking big and pushing it—and that was just one of the things that made her who she was. And Rev wouldn’t have it any other way.

She was probably going to lose the bet, but that was on her. Intel was pretty adamant that they were massing for a planet-wide assault on the Marine and MDS positions.

Hell, Omega Division probably has assets in the assaults.

So, now it was the waiting. Rev wondered why they didn’t move out to engage, to disrupt them before the assault. That was what was part and parcel to Marine doctrine.

“Wish they’d have waited until after chow,” Strap said. “Just as they get the fabricators running, we’re back to D-rats.”

He rummaged in his assault pack and pulled out a meal tube. He looked at the label and frowned. “Anyone want to trade for a Rotted Dick?”

No one said a word. Most of the combat rats sucked, but the Trieste Sausage, aka Rotted Dick, was particularly vile.

“Tulip? How about you?”

Badem just shook his head.

“Miko? I’ll let you lower your bet to ninety if you trade.”

Rev turned to see what Tomiko would say, and for a second, she looked like she’d accept before the real Tomiko returned.

“Why would I do that? I’m gonna win.”

Strap rolled his eyes and gave up, opening the tube and sucking out a mouthful.

“Incoming,” the speaker in the bunker announced.

Every bunker was hard-wired even if the Children of Angels hadn’t shown any EMP capabilities.

“Here we go. Get ready to pay up,” Strap said.

“They’re not here yet. They have to cross the FEBA,” Tomiko said.

“They’re almost there already.”

Rev pulled up the Forward Edge of the Battle Area, which in this case was Austin Avenue. Strap was right. The leading elements of the CofAs were only half-a-block away from it. Tomiko was going to lose her bet. He switched back to normal view.

“Cut the chatter,” the staff sergeant said. “We’ve got incoming.”

“Not that it’s going to do much to us in here,” Nix muttered.

There was a slight womp, followed by two more. Rev checked his display. Eighty-twos, and landing on the other side of the spaceport. The 82mm mortars were spread throughout human space. While some of the rounds could be deadly, even to armored Marines, they couldn’t do much to them in the bunkers.

“Harassment fire,” the staff sergeant said.

“Hey, pull up Channel Six,” Yazzie said.

Rev switched to the channel, which showed more detail of the enemy situation. More red dots were popping up as drones, orbital surveillance, and ground-mounted sensors started to pick up massive numbers of people coming out of buildings and the sewage system to converge on the spaceport. Several crossed the FEBA as they advanced.

“You owe us,” Hussein told Tomiko.

“Eat me.”

More mortar rounds hit, but only the last two felt inside the bunker. One of the Marine arty platoons opened up counter-battery fire with their bigger and much more capable 150s. If the Angel shit mortar teams hadn’t repositioned already, they were in for a rude awakening.

But with the arty firing, the Marines were officially committed. There would be no backing down now.

Rev switched back to visual mode, but he left the Channel Six feed live in the bottom right of his display. He could have it fed directly into his occipital lobe, but that always made it seem more vivid and harder to focus on anything else.

“And here comes our air,” Nix said as Marine Buzzards swept in, taking the advancing Children of Angels under fire. Traditionally, Marine and Navy air were referred to as “angels” by ground troops, but with “Angel shits” in use, that had been abandoned.

According to the Ops Order, these initial passes were not so much to stop them but rather to funnel them into the teeth of the defense. Glancing at the Channel Six feed, it seemed to be working. The body of attackers flowed away from the planes, bunching together.

“Idiots,” Yazzie said.

But even idiots had teeth. A ground-to-air missile reached out from the buildings at too short a range for one of the Buzzards to avoid. The chopper’s defenses intercepted the missile, making it detonate short, but it was still too close. The plane veered off to the right, taking it away from the city as it trailed smoke.

The Buzzard was a tough airframe, and it would probably land safely out in the countryside. Hopefully, a SAR team could get there before any roving band of Angel shits did.

Arty was tearing them up, but still, they advanced. Rev tried to think of them only as the enemy, but visions of broken bodies littering the streets kept intruding in his mind.

Just quit, already. You’ve lost.

But they kept coming. It might be admirable if it wasn’t so misguided and sad.

Rev checked the enemy disposition when there was a flash high over the defenses, and the feed cut off. Rev knew immediately what it was.

“You still with me, Punch?” was his first, immediate reaction.

<Still here.>

He felt a surge of relief. “How about comms?”

<No comms. The EMP has knocked them out.>

“What’s my status?”

<Your PAL-5 is fully functional. Your M-49 has been degraded. Please change the powerpack.>

Around him, Marines were ejecting the mag-rifles’ powerpacks, letting them fall to the ground. New powerpacks were removed from the shielded magazines and inserted. Rev checked his weapon as the LEDs cycled to green.

“I knew it was too good to last,” Tomiko said as she checked her weapon.

They’d been getting spoiled with all their electronics capabilities. An EMP wasn’t that advanced of a weapon, however, so it hadn’t been a case of if they would be used, only when.

“Get ready, and make sure you listen up,” the staff sergeant said.

And he was right, of course. The EMP was the Children of Angels’ signal. With a shout, they started pouring into the killing fields.

“Look at that idiot,” Strap said.

Leading the charge was a male figure, holding a white flag, but not the flag of surrender. Rev zoomed in. The flag was a battle standard, white with two gold angel wings in the center. The guy’s mouth was open as he screamed and waved the flag, looking like an old painting of the French Revolution.

Somehow, though, while Children of Angels fell around him, he continued untouched, trying to rally his fellow traitors.

“How far is he going to get?” Yazzie asked.

One hundred meters, a hundred-fifty, he charged until finally he stumbled and fell face-first onto the ground, the flag flipping end-over-end until the butt of the pole hit the dirt—and for a moment, it looked like it would somehow stick that way as if planted. But slowly, it tilted over and fell.

And as if that was a signal, the heavens opened up, cutting a swath through those who’d made it that far. High in orbit, a Navy gunship opened up with one of its terra-joule cannons. Even after sublimation in the atmosphere, the beam struck like Thor’s hammer, disintegrating bodies into their component atoms.

The gunship was supporting Marine operations in six cities, one cannon for each regiment. Even with the one, the results were horrifying. The cannon was not suited for rooting out small groups of enemies, but after being bunched up by mines, arty, and air, they were being slaughtered.

But still, they came.

“Damn,” Yazzie said quietly.

Throughout the course of the war with the Centaurs, human armies relied on massive numbers to overwhelm the better-armed and equipped enemy. This time, the Marines were the ones fighting off the hordes. And if the Children of Angels reached the bunkers, Rev thought they might have a chance, something he hadn’t really considered up until that moment watching them advance.

He should have. He was almost taken out by that bodyguard on the snatch mission, and he’d just seen them take out a Marine Buzzard. It never served to underestimate a motivated and dedicated enemy.

“Why do they keep coming?” Tomiko asked with none of her usual in-your-face bravado.

“Religion,” the staff sergeant answered. “They’re fanatics. And remember our briefs. Dying is a shortcut to the next level. They want that.”

But maybe not all were ready for that promotion. As the gunboat devastated the charging Angel shits, first a few, then more and more of them started turning back. With Channel Six knocked out, Rev couldn’t tell how many, but he could see it with his naked eyes.

“They’re breaking,” he said.

“Stand by,” the staff sergeant said, only to have someone in the Command Post repeat the same two words over the speaker.

Without comms, the landline system was the primary means of communication. And if that was cut, then there were audio and visual signals. Fighting the Centaurs, the Marines had gotten pretty good at this.

Rev checked his M-49 again. His charge LED still shined a steady green, his magazine full with 1240 darts. He felt the familiar surge of adrenaline flow through him.

“Are you pumping me up, Punch?” he asked for the first time.

<No. Whatever you feel is natural.>

Can Punch lie?

Rev shrugged it off. He’d long suspected that Punch was more than what he’d been told, and that his battle buddy controlled more of him than he expected. But it really didn’t matter now.

“Assault Elements One, Three, Five, and Seven, advance,” came the calm voice over the speaker.

“You heard her,” Staff Sergeant Delacrie said. “Let’s go!”

The team piled out of the back of the bunker, joining other Marines as they started the counterattack.

Not everyone. The second bunker over was a gaping, blackened hole. Rev tore his gaze away, hoping that whoever was in there got out.

With the brunt of the attack blunted and the Angel shits in disarray, now it was time to crush them, to break their will. And if they didn’t break, to kill them.

The gunboat continued the onslaught, sweeping the way clear. The artillery walked their fire forward as a thousand Marines, half of the regiment’s strength, rushed the perimeter.

A few brave souls resisted the urge to flee, standing tall and delivering fire into the charging Marines. Brave, but foolish. They were cut down in their tracks.

This wasn’t just a mad rush by the Marines. Each squad, each team, had a mission. Some were already stopping, providing a base of fire. Lots of snipers were becoming HOGs as they picked off those Angel shits who were trying to rally the rest.

Third Team, First Raider Platoon had an assigned objective, a single block 950 meters from the spaceport’s main gate. Second Team had the block to the south, the Frisians in Fourth had the block to the north.

Normally, the Marines would advance, block by block, clearing each one, but the commanding officer wanted to maximize shock value before the surviving Angel shits could start to regroup. They would run or be killed. Nothing else. So, the platoon followed in trace of Hotel Company as squads peeled off to clear closer blocks.

Meanwhile, a squadron of Buzzards that had been circling well away from the city (and out of the EMP range—Rev guessed maybe the command knew what they were doing after all) would be lifting more Marines into blocking positions at the edge of the city. There weren’t enough Marines to form an airtight cordon, but they should be able to trap most of the Children of Angels who’d been part of the assault.

Rev and the rest of the team passed the front gates and kept pushing. With Marines to their flanks and more ahead, they could move quickly. The signs of battle were evident. While the gunboat had vaporized many of the Children of Angels in the kill zone, leaving the terminal and other structures damaged, but intact, arty and air had wreaked havoc once in the city proper. The first squads of Hotel didn’t have much to clear. Rubble, bodies, and parts of bodies littered the way. A few sullen wounded glared if they had the energy, or stared blankly at the passing Marines. They were stripped of any weapons, zip-tied, and left where they lay. They’d be picked up later and treated if they managed to stay alive that long. From the looks of it, some wouldn’t.

That might not seem in step with the Titan Accords with regards to the treatment of combatants, but as the Staff Judge Advocate said during the Ops Order, the Angel shits were traitors to humanity and not protected by the accords. Rev didn’t know if he bought that. It sounded too pat to him. But he was getting more inured to the killing of other humans, and he really couldn’t muster up much sympathy for them.

In another century, they’d be killed outright. Now, they’d be brainwiped at worst, serve time at best.

Just ahead of the team, some of the Hotel Marines came under fire and took cover the best they could among the rubble or those walls still standing before returning fire.

“Suppressing fire!” Staff Sergeant Delacrie shouted, emptying his magazine up ahead and to the left.

Rev tried to acquire a target, but they didn’t have an angle. Unless the staff sergeant had a break in the building, neither had he, and he’d just wasted a mag.

The infantry was already maneuvering into the buildings when Delacrie shouted “Advance,” waving his arm like an Old-Earth WWI soldier going over the top.

Nix snagged the staff sergeant by the arm as he tried to run past, then pulled the team leader in close. Rev couldn’t hear what Nix said, but it seemed to have an effect. The staff sergeant turned around, and with a lot less enthusiasm, told them to hold tight.

Third Team was acting as infantry, but they were still in their PAL-5’s not the heavier PAL-3s of the Hotel Marines. In this situation, under small arms fire, it was better to stick to their orders and let them take care of things. Trying to improvise had a better chance of friendly fire than of helping out. If they needed the Raiders to flank someone, they’d ask.

The firefight ahead lasted less than a minute. A squad went into the block while the rest of the column continued its push west down Wisteria Street, their avenue of advance.

“Move out,” the staff sergeant ordered.

Once again, they were on the move, pushing the surviving Children of Angels in front of them. There was sporadic, but ineffective incoming fire, but the Marines never faltered. Up ahead, the traitors would run up against the blocking forces. No one knew for sure what they’d do then, but meekly giving up was probably out of the question. They weren’t called fanatics for nothing.

The team didn’t need the sound of battle in front of them to know where they needed to be. Bodies littered the way like bread crumbs, leading the Marines forward. Rev tried not to look at them—instead, he scanned the heights. He’d seen what an enemy sniper could do, and that kept him focused.

“That’s our objective,” the staff sergeant called out.

The building—or half a building now—was a smoldering ruin. Something big had hit it. If anyone had been inside, they were no longer among the living.

Still, the team cleared what was left according to SOP. They’d gone too far to get killed doing something stupid. The battle was clearly going their way, but even a dying dog can apply a lethal bite.

“Take whatever position you can,” the team leader ordered.

Not very precise, but with the damage to the building, it would do. Rev took a position behind a chunk of still-standing wall with Tomiko on one side, Yazzie on the other. Ahead of them should be the bulk of the Children of Angel survivors, and it was their job to keep them fixed in place there.

Not just the team’s job. The infantry who had peeled away from the axis of advance had turned, paralleling the axis, but a hundred, two hundred, three hundred or more meters in. As they came alongside the Raider teams, the far units curved inward until they met up with the blocking force, a purse seine trapping the fish inside.

But they didn’t tighten the net. That wasn’t the infantry’s job. Four green flares shot into the air, and two minutes later, the mech companies ran past, their heavy tread making bits of wall fall around him.

“Should have surrendered,” Rev muttered as he watched the mechanical warriors rush to clean out the scum.

The fighting intensified while Marine Buzzards buzzed overhead like angry hornets. On a gun run, one of them veered suddenly away, ducking low. Rev wondered what that was about when the air crackled with energy from the Navy gunboat in orbit, and a moment later, a familiar blast sounded from just a few blocks away.

“A fucking tin-ass!” Tomiko said, looking at Rev, her eyes wide.

“Are you sure?” Yazzie asked.

“We’ve heard it before, Rev and me. That sure as shit was one.” She looked to Rev for confirmation.

“Punch?”

Rev knew the answer in his heart, but he wanted confirmation, too.

<I can’t tell for sure because of reverberations between the buildings, but the profile matches.>

“I think it was.”

“Holy shit. If the tin-asses are here . . .” Yazzie said.

Yeah, that’s going to have consequences.

After the Centaur detonated, it didn’t take long. The Marines weren’t trying to dig the Angel shits out. They were crushing them where they hid. Less than an hour after the mech Marines thundered in, four orange flares shot into the sky.

The Battle for Natividad was over.

* * *

Which, of course, was jumping the gun. Their back was broken, and for all intents and purposes, the battle was won. But not everyone had been trapped. Not everyone had been captured or killed.

And then there was that little matter of the Centaur. No official word had reached them, but the brass had to be going batshit crazy trying to figure out if there were any more of them in the city. The fact that the Children of Angels and the Centaurs might have been working together brought a whole new layer to the situation.

The fighting in the trap might be over, but there was still a lot of city left. Along with most of the ground units, Third Team spent the rest of the day clearing buildings. There wasn’t much to clear, but they gathered up five prisoners. Four were wounded, and one was a young boy of fourteen or fifteen. He’d been hiding inside a closet, and he fell on his knees in front of Nix when he was pulled out, begging the sergeant not to kill him. The boy was zip-tied to a fence post and left for the MPs or CRA to sweep up.

Another was barely alive, both legs and her lower left arm gone. Doc Paul did what he could to stabilize her, but like the boy, the woman was left for the MPs. Doc wasn’t too happy about it, but orders were orders.

A runner finally reached them with orders to return to the spaceport for food and rest. No one was going to argue that. They passed through a devastated city, ironically more damaged than the Centaur-held cities Rev had seen. Mankind had this kind of destruction down pat.

About six hundred meters from the spaceport, just across Harpin Boulevard, an infantry Marine stepped out in front of them. Another stood to the side.

“This area’s been cleared.”

“Just passing through,” Yazzie, who was on point, said. “Heading back for chow.”

“No shit?” the Marine said. “Must be nice. We’re going to be stuck here for a while.”

“Why’s that?” Rev asked as he moved to join Yazzie.

“We’ve got a tank down ahead, and the head shed thinks some Angel shit’s going to try and take it.”

Which was a logical precaution, Rev thought, despite the Marine’s tone.

“So, we good to pass through?” Rev asked.

“We’re supposed to secure the street, but hell, yeah, you can pass.” He turned and yelled down the street, “Marines, coming through.”

Rev looked back to the staff sergeant, then motioned the team forward. He was curious to see what happened to the tank. Was it just a breakdown, or had the Children of Angels scored a kill? But he couldn’t see anything, which was weird. How could he miss a Marine tank?

And he almost walked right past it. There was what looked like a sinkhole on one of the side streets, and he could just see the top of the tank. He moved closer, and . . .

“Oh, crap!”

He turned and stopped the team, then motioned Tomiko forward.

“What do you . . . oh, I can’t believe this!”

“Hey, Bundy, what are you doing down there?”

A familiar face looked up, saw them, and rolled his eyes. “Oh, great, just what I need now.”

“Really, what happened?” Rev pressed, trying to hold back from laughing. A damaged tank wasn’t a laughing matter, but after the battle, after a long day of clearing buildings, it just struck him as funny.

“The bastards excavated under the road but left the surface alone. The grunts walked right over it, but . . .”

“But you were too freaking heavy, and you dropped right in,” Tomiko said, not even trying to hide her glee.

“Yeah, ha-fucking-ha. Very funny.”

“You weren’t hurt, were you?” Rev said, trying to be serious.

“Nah. We’re OK. I sent Adams back to bring the retriever up.”

“That thing’s gonna be able to get you out of there?” Tomiko asked.

A retriever was just another tank chassis with a tow package and hoist, but Rev doubted it could bodily pick up a tank in a hole.

“That’s their problem, not mine,” Bundy said sourly.

Staff Sergeant Delacrie stepped up beside Rev and Tomiko, and just said, “That sucks,” in the understatement of the day. “But let’s get moving.”

“Hey, glad you’re not hurt,” Rev said as he stepped back.

“Can’t say the same about your ride, though. I don’t think they were made to take a drop like that,” Tomiko added.

Bundy gave them the finger as they moved back from the edge.

“You know we’re gonna have to give him a ration of shit when we get back, right?” Tomiko asked.

“You’d better believe it.”

They passed through the Marines guarding the tank and headed back to the spaceport, in a much better mood. For all they knew, the tank was out-of-action for the duration, and that was decidedly a bad thing, but still . . . seeing Bundy, of all people, sitting on top of a tank in a hole, was priceless.

That good mood lasted until they reached Austin Avenue and the spaceport. Across the killing field, CRA troops were supervising civilians in gathering the bodies—and body parts—that littered the area. The team stopped for a moment, taking it in.

They had no idea how many people, human beings, had died along the tarmac and surrounding grassy areas. Rev doubted that anyone knew. All of the bodies would be taken to refrigerated tents already set up on the other side of the runway where CRA forensic techs would delve into their bag of tricks to determine what information could be pulled from the remains. Each and every person possible would be identified. Not just them, but families would be traced, friends would be linked, and people across the Union would be receiving uninvited, official visitors.

The thought made Rev a little queasy, but if they didn’t have anything to hide, all they’d suffer would be an interrogation. But if they were Children of Angels, or if they’d materially supported them, then action would be taken.

The staff sergeant got them moving again, and they somberly crossed the kill zone toward their bunker. Sullen civilians eyed them, but no one said anything.

One of the CRA hovers was parked halfway across the area. A battered and torn white flag with two gold wings in the center was draped over the hood, a CRA officer sitting on top of it. He smiled and waved as the team trooped past.

A general support Marine stepped out to meet them as they reached the bunker. “Raiders?” Yazzie said yes, and the corporal continued. “We’ve got a vat of hot chow in your bunker, an ammo resupply, and water. You can molt from your PALs, but keep them close, OK? Get some shuteye, but be ready by zero-five-hundred for further orders.”

“Do you know what those orders are going to be?” Staff Sergeant Delacrie asked.

“Not a clue. I’m just here with the logistics. But everyone’s going on a port and starboard watch, so I’m guessing that you’ll relieve whoever’s out there now so they can come in for chow and rest. If you need anything, or if you’ve got any questions, we’re in Hangar 5.”

The team trooped around the bunker, and there at the door was a food vat. Hussein opened it, sniffed, and said, “Chili Mac and Honeybutter biscuits.”

Without being told to, he took the small stack of plates, filled the first, and handed it to Yazzie. Each Marine and Doc filed past, taking a plate and disappearing inside the bunker.

Rev didn’t mind Chili Mac, even the field version churned out by ancient portable fabricators. But he wasn’t hungry. It had been an emotional day, one without the revved-up feeling of victory he’d had when fighting the Centaurs. He sat down next to Tomiko and stared at his meal.

“Could be worse,” she said. “It could be turkey tetrazzini.”

Rev snorted. Yeah, it could be worse. And he knew he needed the calories if he was going to function for who knows how long.

He used the biscuit to mop up some chili mac and stuffed it into his mouth. Thinking about the bodies outside, he shrugged, chewed, and kept eating.

Choices had consequences. Even for true believers.

21

“Don’t the bastards know they’ve lost,” Hussein asked.

“There’re always going to be true believers, defenders of the faith, who’ll fight to the bitter end,” Yazzie said.

“I just wish they’d get to that bitter end, then.”

The team had paused in a small square. On one side, the two-story buildings looked untouched. On the other three sides, they were rubble. Rev idly wondered how that happened.

He agreed with Hussein, however. He was tired of this operation, tired of the killing of fellow humans, even traitors. He just wanted to get back to New Hope and unwind.

Fighting the Centaurs was a noble cause, one upon which the very existence of the human race depended. This? This was dirty. This wasn’t glorious at all.

Staff Sergeant Delacrie reminded him that as the allies of the Centaurs, fighting them was no different than fighting the tin-asses directly. And the Centaur the grunts and the Navy gunship killed, while not a complete surprise, lent credence to the team leader’s words. It didn’t matter, though. Rev didn’t like what they were doing one bit.

“Two minutes,” the staff sergeant called out.

Rev just wished he could take a break and get out of this mindset. A wandering mind was a recipe for disaster.

“Hey, you want to hear a joke?”

<You are asking to tell me a joke?>

If it was possible for an AI to sound surprised, Punch just did.

“Yeah. You’re always asking me. Thought I’d mix things up.”

<Yes, I would like that. >

“It’s a little different than our normal fare, but here it goes: I told my physical therapist that I broke my arm in two places. He told me to stop going to those places.”

There was no reaction from Punch. Nothing.

“Like I said, it was different. I’m not asking you a question to set it up.”

Still nothing.

“It’s because I broke my arm in two places, like my upper arm and lower arm, and my doctor thought I was in two different places, like my home and the store, and in both places, I broke my arm. You get it?”

<I think that was a very fine joke.>

“You’re being sarcastic now. Too much time with a one hundred PQ.”

<I am serious. It was a very fine joke.>

Great. Feeling grateful for an AI’s approval. Rev, you really do need a break.

“OK, boys and girls. Mount up. First, take over the lead. You’ve got our route,” the team leader said.

With a sigh, Rev stood up. The sooner they completed the sweep, the sooner they could get back, eat, and catch some Zs. He doubted they’d find anyone. This little village had borne the brunt of a battle, and it had been swept before several times. But the brass calculated that there had to be some 20,000 Children of Angels left unaccounted for planetwide, and the admiral couldn’t declare victory until a lot more of them were either captured or killed.

First Element led the patrol in a staggered column with Yazzie first and on the right, then Rev on the left, and Tomiko on the right again. It wasn’t the most secure formation, and if they were hit from the front, the three of them would mask the rest of the team. But it provided for reasonably quick movement, and given the light degree of risk, Rev thought it was the right formation.

They left the square and proceeded down the main drag, what was left of residential homes along the sides, each with a small courtyard. Rev peered over the walls, if there were any left standing, searching for signs of life.

There was no human life, but in the third courtyard, there was a small Earth tree, a single tattered leaf clinging to a branch, in an orange clay pot. From the leaf, Rev thought it might be a maple. Somebody had tended to the fragile sapling, and Rev wondered who that had been. Angel shit? Someone else? Were they still alive?

He had a sudden desire to step inside the courtyard and water the tree. The native flora would soon take over the village, and the little sapling would need to be bigger and healthier to fight it off.

Give me a break, Reverent. Getting sentimental over a tree?

He shook his head and kept walking, scanning for any heat signatures. Scanning for human heat signatures, that was. With a battle destroying the town, there were plenty of heat sources, from battery-powered equipment in the wreckage to banked fires, still smoldering under the rubble.

At the far end of the street, the homes showed less damage. The staff sergeant was probably going to want to clear each one, Rev knew. But it was the right move, and he’d order the same thing if he were in charge.

He approached the first home that still had four walls, scorched, but still erect. There were several hotspots, which made sense given the fire, but none were big enough to be caused by an adult human.

Beyond this house, there was a flattened area of rubble, but ahead of Yazzie on her side of the street were a few relatively intact homes. Those were the ones that really had to be cleared, and that would take all three of them while the rest of the team provided security.

He hissed at Yazzie, and when she turned to look at him, he signaled her to halt. Then it was the hand over the eyes, telling the staff sergeant behind him that he was going to take a look—not the sign to clear the building.

Tomiko asked him if he wanted her to join him, but after a moment, he signed no. The one-story home was essentially gutted, and it wouldn’t take him but a moment to look around. No use holding things up, especially as the other homes farther down the street were going to take more time.

He stepped up to the meter-and-a-half-tall wall and did a quick scan of the courtyard. There wasn’t much—just some dusty debris and a brightly colored bike on its side, still with training wheels attached.

The wall was intact but slightly skewed, jamming the wrought-iron gate. Not enough to withstand him. With a quick shove, he broke it free, sending a chunk of wall skittering across the courtyard to slam up against the front wall. Rev froze for a second, but nothing moved. He switched back to thermal, but the small hotspots seemed not to have changed.

Rev gave the rest of the patrol a quick glance, then entered the courtyard. It was small, maybe five meters deep and running the width of the house. A walkway led up to the front door. He stepped over the bike and onto the stoop. The door hung askew in the frame, and through the crack, he could see that the back wall was gone, light streaming in.

Rev leaned back and kicked heel-first, knocking the door off its remaining hinge and into what was the main room, which looked like it took up most of the small house. He stepped through the doorway, cleared to the right, then to the left—and froze.

Two meters to his left, huddled on the floor against the wall and under the blown-out window, a fearful, dirt-streaked face of a little girl looked up at him. That wasn’t what froze him, however. In her hand, held out to him like a shield, was a detonator.

Rev whipped down his M-49 to take her in his sights. She flinched, then used her free hand to cover her eyes.

“What is that?”

<A detonator. From appearances, it is set up as a dead man’s switch.>

Which confirmed Rev’s instincts.

<There appear to be wires leading into her backpack, where common sense would have explosives.>

Rev hadn’t noticed the backpack until then, a pink and turquoise pack with a butterfly visible on the top. He didn’t know for sure there were explosives inside, but the girl wasn’t holding a detonator for nothing.

Rev gave a quick glance behind him. Tomiko was across the street, her head just visible above the wall. He considered his options. He was still in the doorway, and he could dart outside before the girl could drop the detonator. The wall might protect him from much of the blast. But then what?

“Rev, what’s going on?” Tomiko shouted.

Rev stuck his left arm out of the doorway, signaled Tomiko to halt, then gave her the sign for enemy.

Sorry state of affairs if this girl is the enemy.

“I’m coming over,” Tomiko shouted.

“No!”

The girl flinched at his shout, then started softly crying into her arm.

“What’s your name?” Rev asked, then berated himself.

That’s the best you can do, Reverent?

But a soft voice said, “Katerina Psalki,” her face still hidden, her right arm still holding the detonator.

He retracted his face shield. A flurry of smells hit him, not the least being urine. The girl had been sitting there long enough to befoul herself.

“Katerina, my name is Rev, and I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, eyes locked on the thumb holding the red button down.

“Yes, you are. You hurt little girls.”

A surge of anger flared through Rev, but he pushed it down and calmly said, “No, I’m a Marine. We don’t hurt little girls.”

A single reddened eye looked over her arm, taking him in. Her blonde hair was disheveled and dirty. “You have a gun.”

Which he still had trained on the girl. He hurriedly lowered it. “You surprised me, that’s all.”

He racked his brain for something to say when she said, “Mr. Mark said you kill little girls and boys and eat them.”

“Mr. Mark is wrong. We protect children.”

She raised her face for the first time to look at him. The dirty streaks had been caused by tears, but the hand holding the detonator was steady.

“Mr. Mark says I have to kill you,” she said in a resigned voice.

Rev’s heart sunk into the pit of his stomach. The backpack was bulky, and it could easily carry enough to destroy what was left of the house, the girl, and him. There was no telling for sure.

“How were you supposed to do that?”

“Wait until one of you came into my home. Then let go of this,” she said, raising the hand with the detonator.

Rev almost dove for it, but he restrained himself. He couldn’t afford to startle her.

“Why haven’t you done that?”

“I don’t want to die,” the girl said, breaking into tears again. “I know Mr. Mark said I won’t, but I’m not a baby. I know!”

“I know you’re not. You’re very brave. How long have you been here?”

“Since yesterday morning. I haven’t moved, just like Mr. Mark said.”

Crap. Since their assault broke down. And she’s been here for that long, holding that friggin‘ detonator.

His opinion of the little girl, as well as his pity, went up several notches.

“Corporal Pelletier, what the hell’s going on in there,” Staff Sergeant Delacrie shouted from the wall.

The girl looked startled and tried to crane her head to see out the window.

“Wait a moment, Kat. Can I call you that?”

“My friends call me that,” she said, wiping her snuffles into the crook of the arm holding the detonator.”

Shit. Be careful!

“OK, Kat. Just sit still.”

He took a step back and onto the stoop. “I’ve got a little girl in here, wired to blow her and anyone near her to kingdom come.”

“Fuck!” the staff sergeant said. “The bastards! OK, here’s what we’re going to do. Step back, and get on this side of the wall here. I need you out of the blast area. We’ll decide what to do once you’re in the clear.”

Rev looked back, but the girl, Kat, was just around the sill and out of the team leader’s sight. She could undoubtedly hear what was being said.

“I know what you’re going to do,” Rev said quietly.

The staff sergeant closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and said, “Remember that exercise aboard the ship? Remember our talk?”

“Yes, I do. But this is different. She’s just a kid, and she doesn’t want to hurt us.”

OK, she said she didn’t want to die, not that she didn’t want to hurt us.

But that was close enough to the truth, he told himself.

The staff sergeant took a moment to pick his words. “It sucks, Rev. I know it does. But this isn’t our fault. This is the fault of the asshole who set her up as a weapon. I’m assuming she’s got a dead man’s switch?”

Rev nodded.

“Then she’s already dead. Take it from her, and she blows up. Try to remove the bomb, she blows up.”

Which was true, he knew. And the staff sergeant was right. That had been the entire lesson of that training module.

“She was murdered by her own people, Corporal. Not you. Not me. Look, you just come clear. Maybe there’s something we can work out. Call EOD or someone.”

Fat chance. EOD is working overtime as it was, and from a strategic standpoint, how important was one little girl, a child of traitors? She’d be so far down the priority list that it just wouldn’t happen.

“You know that isn’t going to work.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But it’s out of your hands. I’m giving you a direct order. Step out of the courtyard now,” the staff sergeant said, leaving no doubt that he was serious.

Rev knew what he should do. It really wasn’t something up for debate. He was a Marine, and he’d received a lawful order, and not only that. It was the right order.

But he was a convict, right? They conscripted him into the Corps because he couldn’t follow the rules.

“Shit, Staff Sergeant. You know I got my head knocked yesterday, and my ears are still ringing. I can’t quite hear what you said. I think it was to go back inside.”

He spun on his heels as Tomiko shouted, “No, Rev!” and the staff sergeant started yelling at him to stop.

Rev stepped back inside, and Kat squeaked and held the detonator out at him, a priest holding the cross to keep back the devil.

“Easy, Kat,” he said. “I’m here to help you.”

“That man wants to kill me. I heard him.”

“No, he doesn’t. He’s just afraid. Like we all are.”

Her eyes widened at that, and she asked, “You’re afraid, too?”

“All the time. It’s natural.”

Outside, the staff sergeant was still yelling at him. Rev tuned him out. He’d already disobeyed a direct order, so it really didn’t matter much. At least the team leader hadn’t come into the courtyard.

Kat tilted her head as if to hear the yelling, then she shook her head in a manner well beyond her years and said, “It’s OK. I knew I was going to die.” She gave a sniffle and wiped her nose again.

“No, you’re not. I won’t let it happen.”

She looked up at him for the first time with a tiny spark of hope, but it almost immediately faded.

“Mr. Mark said if I let go of this, it will explode. And if I take off my Benny Butterfly backpack, it will explode. He said the only way to live is to wait for one of you soldiers, and then I wouldn’t die.” She paused for a moment before adding, “But I know that’s a lie. It will explode when I let go, then I’ll die even with you here.”

“Maybe he’s right,” Rev said, more to himself than to her.

He put his M-49 down, leaning it up against the wall. “I’m going to come closer, OK, Kat?”

She tensed again but didn’t object.

“I’ve got a friend here,” he said, pointing at his head. “His name is Punch. He might be able to help.”

Her eyebrows scrunched together in puzzlement. “An imaginary friend? My momma says those are silly. They aren’t real.”

<Oh, that hurts.>

“Glad you have something to say.”

<You haven’t asked me anything.>

“Oh, he’s real enough, Kat. And he wants to look at you. Are you OK with that?”

She paused for a long moment as she considered the request. Her hand holding the detonator shifted for a brief moment, and Rev’s throat almost closed down.

“OK,” she said. “If you think so.”

Rev slowly walked forward until he was right in front of her. He knelt, focused on the detonator. He gently took her hand and turned it over, then followed the hardwire down her arm, under a cloth band, and to the backpack. He asked Kat to lean forward, then tried to get a good look at the entire thing. When he was done, he stood back.

“What do you see?”

<That is definitely a dead man’s switch. Release the button, and the explosive will detonate. Cut the wire to the pack, and while I haven’t seen what is inside, that will trigger the detonation.>

“Should I open the backpack?”

<No. In eighty-six percent of similar suicide vests, opening the container triggered the detonation as well.>

“Well, we’re not doing that.”

“Are you going to help me, sir?” Kat asked.

“I’m Rev, not sir, Kat. And I’m trying to figure it out.”

“You heard her. What about taking off the backpack. It’s not attached to her.”

<There is a wire on the bottom of the backpack, the other side attached to the waist. Move the explosive away, and that will detonate the charge. And if you are about to suggest that you cut it . . . >

That was exactly what he was going to suggest.

<There is also a receiver on the bottom of the backpack. From previous cases, it could be linked to a transmitter. Ask her if something was injected into her.>

“Hey, Kat. Did Mr. Mark inject you with anything when he put this on you?”

“No, sir.” Rev felt a surge of hope before she shut that down with, “He made me swallow a pill.”

<That tracks.>

Kat was sitting on the ground, looking up at him with sad eyes, eyes that said she knew there was no hope. But Rev wasn’t about to give up.

“I can’t take the detonator. I can’t remove the backpack. I don’t even know how far I can move it before it explodes unless we open the backpack, and we can’t do that because that could trigger the damned thing.”

<That sums it up well.>

“So, what do I do?”

His battle buddy remained silent. This wasn’t what it was programmed for. If there was a way out of this, it was on him.

“Can you stand for me, Kat?”

“Is that OK? I mean, Mr. Mark told me to sit here.”

“We’ve already figured out that Mr. Mark is a liar, right? And I’m right here.”

She didn’t look too sure of herself, but she slowly stood, almost stumbling before Rev caught her. Both of them looked at her death-grip of the detonator. Her thumb had slipped to the very edge of the red button. Rev carefully reached out and pressed down over her thumb, going over his battle kit, trying to remember if he had any tape—just simple, ordinary tape.

Of course not. Why would it be that easy?

“OK, I’m going to slide your thumb over to the center. Can you help with that?”

She nodded, and Rev slid her thumb, always keeping pressure. He got it to the middle and slowly let go before letting out a big breath of relief.

“I peed myself,” Kat said in a miserable voice, using her free hand to brush ineffectually at her shorts.

“Don’t worry, honey. I do it, too, inside my armor.”

Not quite the same, but it seemed like the right thing to say.

Rev took a hard look at the backpack. It was loose. He could probably slide it right off and drop it to the floor, but to what end? Unless . . .

His mind went into overdrive, pushed by necessity. Synapses snapped with ferocity, and it was almost as if he were outside his body, watching his mind churn.

Another augment they didn’t tell me about?

It didn’t matter. Suddenly, he knew what to do. It was probably foolish, and it would probably get them both killed, but . . .

He took a step forward and looked out the window. Tomiko, Nix, and the staff sergeant were in a deep discussion at the gate, Delacrie gesturing wildly. The rest of the team was in a hasty defense along the street, weapons pointing outward, but with continued glances back to see what was happening.

“Hey! All three of you. I’d suggest you either back off or at least duck down behind that wall.”

“Corporal Pelletier! I’m ordering you to leave that girl there and get your ass out of there!” the staff sergeant said, his face red with anger.

“Listen to him, Rev,” Tomiko said, anguish taking over her features.

“No can do. But I would duck down if I were you.”

“What the hell are you going to do?” the staff sergeant asked.

“I’m going to save a little girl; that’s what I’m going to do.”

He looked down at Kat, who showed a brave face as she tried to smile.

“I’m ordering you to—”

“You already said that,” Rev said, cutting him off.

He didn’t resent the team leader. He’d do the same thing if it were Yazzie or Tomiko instead of him. But the gods of war determined it would be him in this particular place, this particular time, and this particular situation.

“Now, Kat. This is what we are going to do. First, you hand me the detonator,” he said, placing his hand over the top.

“But—”

“I’ve got it. Slowly slide your hand away.”

She started to cry again, the tears rolling down her cheeks, but she complied. She gave a small squeak as her arm fell free, her hand crabbed into a claw after holding it for so long.

Kat started to step back, and Rev had to grab her shoulder with his other arm to keep her close.

“You need to stay with me. Don’t move away. Now, here’s what we’re going to do. I want you to loosen your backpack, OK? You’re going to let it drop a little bit.”

“But Mr. Mark said that if I take it—”

Rev put two of his gauntleted fingers lightly over her lips. “You have to trust me. Can you do that?”

She nodded her head solemnly, her eyes open wide. For a moment, Rev felt like he was falling into them, the specks of blue and green reminding him of the nebula cloud rushing toward the planet.

Snap back, Reverent!

“I’m going to help you.” He put his hand on the top of the backpack as she lowered her arms, letting it slide down until it was hanging just below her butt, the straps on her elbows. Rev took a long look. There wasn’t enough room.

“Hold still now.”

I shouldn’t have taken the detonator yet.

But he couldn’t give it back. Her hand, finally freed, wouldn’t be able to hold it again. He could tell her to drop it, but that could set it off if the transmitter was in her stomach.

Still holding the detonator with his left hand, he tried to unhook the right backpack strap, but as good as the PAL gauntlets were, he struggled. With a muttered “Fuck,” he snapped the thing.

“You shouldn’t curse,” Kat said quietly.

“No, you’re right. I shouldn’t. Sorry.”

“Now, I’m going to pick you up, OK? But don’t move. Stay as still as you can.”

“Yes, sir. Please be careful.”

“I will.”

The narrowest part of a Marine in a PAL-5 was at the waist. He looked at his, then at the gap between the girl and the backpack. For a moment, he considered shucking his combat suit, but he was counting on the armor to keep not just him but the girl safe. Safer. If his battle buddy was right, there was enough explosive in there to blow them both to smithereens without the protection of his armor. He didn’t know if even that would protect him.

He squatted and slid his left arm under Kat’s and around her chest. “Hold on tight to my arm.”

Slowly, he stood, hugging her into his front. For a moment, he realized that he’d just exposed the girl to the staff sergeant, who was still watching with the other two. He didn’t think Delacrie would shoot her, but he turned around anyway, presenting his back to them.

“I’m going to try and scoot between you and the backpack. I need you to stay very, very still. Can you do that?”

“I . . . I think so,” she said in a very small voice.

This is it.

He knew this was a wild-ass plan, something someone who didn’t know better would come up with. If he was wrong, he was about to kill Kat for sure, and probably himself too.

What was that saying? He who will not risk, cannot win? Well, this is a helluva risk.

Rev started working his hips between Kat and the backpack, and with each centimeter, he expected the pack to explode. Kat cried out in pain a few times, but she didn’t move a muscle. Farther and farther, he got more and more of himself in. His heart was about to burst from his chest.

<Initiating—>

“No!” he shouted, making Kat cry out.

“Not you, honey. Not you.”

“Pelletier. We’ve got another plan,” the staff sergeant shouted, but Rev was too far along. Just another couple of centimeters.

But just as he almost had her in front of him, she snagged on his battle harness. He looked down, and it was the wire running from her waist to the backpack. He couldn’t risk breaking it, and he couldn’t risk pulling it free from the pack.

Rev could retreat, then start again, but he didn’t dare trust that. Already, most of Kat was shielded by his body.

“By the Mother, give me strength.”

He lifted her slightly and then backed down, holding Kat out farther from him until the wire fell free.

“Thank you, Mother,” he said, and he hugged Kat tight again.

He slipped his right arm through the right strap, and after three or more wiggles, he was between Kat and the backpack. It hung loosely from his right arm.

“Are we OK?”

“Almost there, Kat. Just be brave.”

This was going to be the tricky part. Rev lowered both of them to the ground until Kat was standing on shaky legs. “I want you to make yourself as small as you can. Hold your hands in front of you and then don’t move.”

She nodded her head and hunched over. As small as she was, Rev thought that if the backpack exploded now, she might be protected by his bulk.

“Lean into me with your back.”

He bent over her, his chest on her head. As she pressed into him, he cautiously released his hold with his left hand and passed the pink backpack with his right along his shoulders, bending his left up and around to slide his left arm through the remaining strap, all the time making sure that the wire attached to Kat didn’t go taut.

It took an excruciatingly long time, and every moment he expected it to detonate. The staff sergeant, Nix, and Tomiko were yelling at him, but he tuned them out. All that mattered in the universe was a pink and yellow backpack covered with butterflies.

Kat started crying louder, gasping for breath between sobs. “Mommy, mommy,” she said, over and over.

The contortion worked. The backpack slid over his left arm, free of his right. With his own sob, Rev knelt again and put his right around Kat. He tried to keep the backpack from swinging free, exposing the girl, but he was able to stand.

He couldn’t believe his cockamamie plan had worked so far. They were both still alive. But now, it was crunch time.

“Kat,” he said in the calmest voice he could muster. I need you to hold tight in my arms. And when I tell you, bring your knees up. There’s going to be a big boom.”

“No!” she shrieked, kicking out.

“It’s OK. You’ll be OK. But I want you to look for my friends. They’ll come in to help you. Promise me that.”

“I don’t want to die!” she wailed.

“You won’t. Not if you do what I say.”

By the Mother, I hope I’m not lying to her.

“Promise?”

“Promise, honey.”

She was shaking in his arm, but she quit kicking.

He turned his head slightly and yelled over his shoulder, “I’m serious. Either get the hell back or down behind the wall. Now!”

Rev backed up until his right side was behind the wall, his left just at the window opening. He whispered to Kat, “I’m so glad I met you. Now bring up your legs.”

He felt her comply as a sense of calm flowed over and through him.

“More nano play?”

<I thought it appropriate.>

For once, Rev didn’t mind being manipulated.

With a sense of finality, Rev swung his left arm backward, with the detonator in his hand and the backpack hanging from his elbow out the opening and down under the sill.

Nothing happened.

Shit. I guess we’re still within range.

Not that it changed anything. It was still there. Maybe it was only a few more centimeters, and it would blow. He turned his head over his left shoulder to look at it again. An iridescent butterfly reflected light at him.

He steeled his nerves once more.

“You with me, battle buddy?”

<Always. Not that I have much choice, you know, just being a hunk of crystal stuck inside your brain.>

“OK, now, that’s funny.”

With the smile still on his lips, Rev released the detonator.

22

“Rev, Rev, can you hear me?” a muffled voice tried to break through the fog. There was something familiar about it, something . . .

With an intense effort, Rev opened his eyes. The figure leaning over him coalesced into Tomiko, her helmet off, her face twisted in concern.

“I’m all right,” he mumbled, trying to push himself up off the floor. Only it didn’t work. He couldn’t push up.

“He’s coming to,” Tomiko yelled, but her voice sounded a thousand klicks away.

<Please lie back. Let your medinanos work.>

“Nanos? What happened?” He wasn’t sure if he subvocalized the question or said it aloud.

“You’re going to be OK, Rev. Just hold on.”

<You’re being administered antifibrinolytics.>

Somewhere deep within his muddled mind rose the fact that antifibrinolytics treated bleeding. He realized that he was hurt, which seemed right. He couldn’t really have expected to survive the blast when—

“Where’s Kat” he shouted, trying to sit up.

Tomiko pressed a hand against his chest, keeping him down. “Kat? The girl? Tulip has her. She’s fine.”

Rev continued to try and get up, but it was no use. Sergeant Nix was on his left side, blocking his view. He turned to the right, and there, just beyond Tomiko, was Badem, holding Kat to his chest. She was covered in dust, her blonde hair a musty gray, and she was sobbing, her hands wrapped in a death grip around his neck.

<Her crying is a good sign.>

He relaxed, relieved, and then looked back up into Tomiko’s face. “I’m good. Just let me catch my breath.”

“Am I good? What’s wrong with me?” he asked Punch.

<You’ve suffered extensive blood loss. Just over five pints. Two-and-a-half liters. Traumatic loss of your left arm—>

“What?” he said aloud. “That doesn’t make any sense. I can feel it.”

Rev turned his head to the left. Sergeant Nix was right there, holding his . . .

“Shit,” was all he could say as his vision constricted and his stomach threatened to empty. Nix was not leaning on his arm, holding him down. He was putting pressure on a stump that ended a few centimeters below his shoulder.

“Hang in there, buddy. Doc Paul’s on his way. He’s going to take care of you.”

“What happened?” he subvocalized, afraid that if he spoke aloud, he’d pass out.

<I don’t know anything from the explosion until you came to. Your automatic emergency response activated on your passive systems until I could take control.>

“Am I going to live?”

<Your chances are very good if your readings hold steady and you arrive at a Class A medical facility within seven hours.>

“And my arm? Can they, you know, put it back?”

<I can’t tell until you see it, and even then, it would have to be examined by a competent medical team.>

Rev didn’t want to move his head, but he had to know. He craned his neck to look behind him, to where half of what had been the front wall of the home was gone.

“Where’s my arm,” he asked.

Tomiko glanced at Nix, then in a hushed voice, said, “It’s gone, Rev. I’m sorry.”

Rev wasn’t as upset as he should be. He knew that had to be because he was being pumped full of happy nano-juice, but even with that, it should make more of an impact. He realized that his arm was no more, but after that first shock of finding that out, it just was a new fact of life. Tomiko seemed more agitated than he was.

“You OK?” he asked her.

“Me? Why are you asking me?”

“You seem upset.”

Her eyes widened in surprise, and then she laughed. “Sometimes you kill me, Rev.”

“I think the bleeding’s stopped,” Sergeant Nix said, lifting the pressure off his stump for a moment, looking down at it.

“Keep the pressure until Doc comes.” Staff Sergeant Delacrie’s voice reached them from somewhere Rev didn’t feel the need to figure out. “You know the SOP.”

<You have a sixty-three percent hemostop activation. Combined with the antifibrinolytics, then Sergeant Nix is correct. The bleeding in your arm has ceased for the time being.>

Hemostops were micro-nanos that flowed within the bloodstream. When they reached a tear in the vascular system, they activated, blowing up to three times their size, large enough to plug a capillary. Enough of them could eventually plug an artery or vein until the self-destruct took over, deflating and turning them into harmless specks that would work their way from the circulatory system to the lungs and be exhaled out of the body.

“Punch says you’re right,” Rev said in a conspiratorial whisper.

Nix smiled but said, “Let’s just humor Delacrie, though, OK?”

“OK.”

Rev turned his head again. “You OK, Kat?”

The little girl slightly twisted in Badem’s grip and gave Rev a quick glance before burying her face against the PFC’s chest again.

That made him feel worse, somehow, than losing his arm.

“She’s just scared, Rev. She doesn’t mean anything by it,” Tomiko told him. “She knows you saved her life.”

“The staff sergeant wanted to kill her.”

Without the drugs coursing through his system, he’d never have uttered those words. Even now, he knew he’d stepped over a line.

“Shh, Rev. No, he didn’t. He just wanted to make sure you weren’t in danger,” Tomiko said, raising a hand to put a finger over his lips. “And he’s going to feel like shit over it. But sometimes, a commander, he’s gotta make those tough calls.”

“I never want to be a commander, then,” Rev said through her fingers.

“Doc’s here, and the lieutenant,” Strap called from outside the building. A moment later, Doc appeared, telling Nix to shift over.

“Reiser, Nix. Join the rest and let Doc take over,” the staff sergeant said.

Tomiko said, “I gotta go. I’ll see you later.” She leaned over, kissed his forehead, and disappeared.

Rev caught a glance of the staff sergeant, his face pensive, until the lieutenant appeared, blocking his line of sight.

“You hanging in there, Pelletier?” the lieutenant asked.

“Sure am, sir. Just like on Roher when we got that—”

A quick hand covered Rev’s mouth. “Yep, yep, I know. You just relax now. Don’t try to talk,” the lieutenant said, giving Tomiko a quick look.

Doc Paul visually examined Rev’s stump before doing anything else.

“Looks like you’ve got two or three centimeters of humerus left. Good deal for either growing a new arm or prosthetics.”

That was the first time Rev even considered that since the blast. Of course, there was going to be something done. The Corps needed warm bodies, and they weren’t going to let a missing arm change that.

“This is going to sting a bit,” the doc said as he took out a small, round tube. He held it a few centimeters from the stump and sprayed.

Sting? Bullshit. Despite his drugs, Rev yelped as the spray penetrated the mangled flesh.

“Sorry about that, Rev, but we have to stabilize all the flesh we can and let the surgeons decide what can be saved and what can’t. Now, I’ve got to see what else is wrong with you that your bio readout doesn’t tell me.”

He pulled out the Doc Eyes, the portable body scanner that was the lifeblood of any corpsman. Doc was getting updates from Rev’s bios, but they weren’t sophisticated enough to pick up everything. He ran the Doc Eyes over Rev, then hooked it into his wrist jack. With the half-closed eyes favored by some while jacked, he studied the results for a moment before opening them wide and unjacking.

“Aside from your arm, you’ve got a bruised kidney, two broken ribs, a slipped disk, a dislocated hip, a concussion, and two ruptured eardrums. Lots of bruises. There’s something wrong with your small intestines, too, that I can’t make out.” He took a look at the destroyed wall and the devastation in what was left of the home. “I’d say you got off easy, from the looks of things.”

“What’s his prognosis?” the lieutenant asked.

“If we can get him to one of the Class A facilities in orbit, pretty good. Most of what he has can be repaired or left to heal. The arm, well, you know. . .”

Rev had been surprised to hear the litany of the damage done to him. Like with his arm, however, it didn’t bother him that much. He knew it would later, but for the moment, he was pretty complacent for having almost been blown to bits.

“Corporal Pelletier,” the lieutenant said, kneeling and bending his head in close. “We’ve got a CASEVAC bird coming in. It’s going to take you up to one of the ships where they’re going to patch you up before sending you home.”

That registered, and he tried to protest. He didn’t want to go back to New Hope until the rest of the team returned.

“Can’t I come back here? I don’t need an arm to help out.”

“No. You’re going home.”

“Shit, Corporal. You lost a fucking arm,” Badem said before he looked at Kat and said, “Oh, sorry about the fuck, little girl. And the shit. I shouldn’t swear in front of you.”

The lieutenant looked and gave the PFC a withering glare before turning back to Rev. “We’ll be there, soon. It looks like we’ve broken the Angel shits’ backs. So, you go back, get healed up, and watch things for us. No squatters taking over our barracks, OK?”

“CASEVAC inbound,” Strap yelled.

“I’m going to put you out now, Rev,” Doc said. “You won’t wake up until after your surgery.”

He took out a cylinder of sleepy gas and attached the facemask before entering some numbers on the control panel.

“I’ll give you three puffs. Breathe normally, and you’ll drift off.

The doc placed the mask over Rev’s mouth and nose, giving it three spaced, firm squeezes. That last thing Rev saw was Kat, turning her head to look at him and mouthing “Thank you” before everything shut down.

23

Rev slowly opened his eyes to a bright white room, two people in doctors’ whites and three in the Navy’s medical greens, all looking at him. He had to squint to ward off the intense light over him.

“That’s it. He’s back with us,” one of the doctors said to the others.

“Is this the Big Hob?” he croaked out, his throat raw and dry.

“The what, son?”

“The Big Hob,” Rev repeated, and then when the doctor didn’t seem to understand, he said, “The Hobart Bay.”

“That’s one of our dreadnaughts,” one of those in the greens said, a chief’s crow on his pocket.

“Oh, sorry about that,” the doctor said to the chief. “I still don’t know all your Navy ins-and-outs.”

She turned back to Rev and said, “No, son. You aren’t on a ship. You’re at the Navy Regional Medical Center in Anastasia. You’ve been here for five weeks now while your arm heals up.”

What? Five weeks?

“Punch, you here with me?”

There was only silence.

“Where’s my battle buddy?” Rev asked, suddenly feeling the void.

The doctor looked confused and turned to the nurse again.

“His Didactic Interface.” The nurse stepped forward and leaned into Rev. “Nothing’s wrong with it, Sergeant. It was deactivated during your transit. Standard procedure when you’re in an induced coma.”

There was a lot to unpack there, but “deactivated” stood out, and Rev felt a surge of what was almost panic.

“Am I getting Punch back?” he asked, trying to sit up.

“Yes, yes, yes,” the nurse said, holding Rev down. “Don’t worry. It’ll be good as new. No memory loss.” He must have seen Rev’s unbelieving eyes because he added, “I know you Marines get attached, and believe me, you won’t even know the difference.”

“When? When will I get him?”

The nurse looked at the second doctor, an older man with the Navy Medical Service logo on his whites’ breast pocket.

“As soon as we run a couple of tests on you. Maybe by late afternoon, if the tests are OK,” the doctor said.

Rev didn’t like that qualifier, but Navy doctors were officers, and he wasn’t going to argue. He’d try and get the real scoop from one of the corpsmen later.

“Well, then, if we can go on,” the first doctor said. Her whites were plain, without the Navy logo. “I’m Doctor Chakrabarti, head of Bionic Research at Sieben Intergalaxy.”

Rev’s mind was still fuzzy, but he knew about Sieben Intergalaxy. His stepdad’s crystal plant, where Rev was going to become an apprentice before he was conscripted, was owned by Sieben. They were huge, providing weapons and equipment not only to the Union military but to other nations’ armed forces as well.

But that didn’t explain why some civilian doctor was standing over him back on New Hope.

She stepped up to his left side and undid a white covering over his . . . my stump.

It all came rushing back. Kat. The blast. His arm gone.

He felt nauseous, and he didn’t want to look, but he couldn’t help it. As the doctor pulled back the covering, all he could see was . . . nothing. Nothing where his arm should be.

But he could feel it. He flexed his fingers. It felt almost normal, but there was nothing there.

The doctor pointed at a monitor and told the others, “See. Great impulse generation. You did a great job with that.” And back to Rev, the doctor said, “Wiggle your fingers again.”

The others crowded around the monitor and nodded. Rev thought that must be a good thing, but he didn’t ask.

The doctor turned back to his stump and started prodding at it, which pegged the weird scale. It was so invasive, and Rev felt naked. For all he knew, under the sheets he was physically naked, but not as exposed as having her fingers rummaging through his stump.

Finally, she finished and said, “Doctor Morales, why don’t you bring this young man up to speed.”

If Rev wasn’t mistaken, the Navy doctor, probably a captain or commander at the very least given his apparent age, didn’t like taking orders from the younger civilian doctor, but he said, “Sergeant Pelletier, you received your initial stabilization aboard the Hobart Bay before being transported back here. As Chief Price told you, you’ve been in an induced coma since your injury so we could advance the regenerative healing of your shoulder and see what we had to work with.”

“Why was I put into a coma?”

“You had many injuries, and some of the . . . procedures we use are invasive and onerous to bear. We’ve found that by placing a patient in a coma, the body can maximize its regenerative energy while eliminating their discomfort.”

Which Rev took to mean it hurt like hell. Maybe the coma hadn’t been such a bad thing.

“And is that why you had to disconnect my AI?”

The chief gave a soft laugh, and the doctor said, “There are feedback loops that can affect your AI, and those, in turn, can be reintroduced to what your body went through.”

“What Doctor Morales is saying is that your battle buddy, even if you’re unconscious, will note some of the crap we put you through, and when you’re back, some of that can leak back to you as subconscious memories,” the chief said.

Leave it to a chief to get right to the point, Rev thought, smiling for the first time since he woke up.

“And that’s all over now?”

“You’ve done quite well, actually. Most of your internal injuries are healed or close to it. And your residuum has done remarkably well.”

“My what?”

“Residuum. Your residual limb.”

“Your stump,” the chief said.

That I understand.

“When the time comes, you’ll be a great candidate for regeneration,” the doctor said.

“When will that be, sir?”

The Navy doc looked uncomfortable before saying, “Not for the duration.”

Which didn’t make sense to Rev. The duration? The duration of what? His treatment?

Once again, it was the chief who came to the rescue. “Sorry, son. Needs of the military and all that. Regen will take two years to grow, then it’ll take you another to learn how to use the arm. You’re getting a prosthesis, and you’ll be back with your unit in six months tops.”

“And that leads you back to me,” the civilian doctor said, a proprietary smile on her face as she stepped closer to Rev. “We think you are a perfect candidate to be a proof-of-concept test case for one of our newest projects, the Integrated Bionic Hopological Unit.”

She looked at Rev as if expecting him to jump out of the bed and thank her. The thing is, he had absolutely no idea what an Integrated Bionic Hopological Unit was. And when you added the words test case, that rang more than a few alarm bells.

“Doesn’t that sound good?”

Rev didn’t know how to answer that except for the resounding no he was tempted to tell her. Mr. Oliva, the old man who’d given him a wealth of advice before he reported into recruit training, had told him that unless it was life or death of a fellow Marine, never volunteer for anything. And this civilian doctor gave him the creeps, to be honest.

“Ma’am, maybe you’d better tell him a little more about the project.”

She smiled and hit her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Of course, Chief Price. I’m just so excited to move to this phase of the project that I’d forget my head if it wasn’t attached to my neck.”

First human thing she’s said since I woke up.

“You are a Marine infantryman . . .”

Rev wanted to tell her he was a Raider, but he let it slide.

“. . . and so, you use weapons in your job. But a weapon is a tool, something outside your body, so-to-speak. In order to fire your gun . . .”

Rifle.

“. . . you have to rely on neurological—”

The chief gave a dramatic cough.

“Something wrong?” the doctor asked, obviously thrown off her game.

“No disrespect, ma’am, but maybe you should let me explain it without all the deep science that I know you’re about to delve into. And if I screw up, you can correct me.”

She stared him down, then looked at the senior Navy doctor, who was not going to naysay the chief.

“Very well,” she said in a snit.

“Sergeant, think of it this way. If I tell you to shoot a tin-ass, you have to acknowledge the command, find the tin-ass, lift up your M-49 . . . and yes, I know that won’t do shit to a tin-ass,” he said before Rev could object. “But you raise your Moray, OK? Then you have to aim it and tell your finger to fire. All pretty quick if you’re well-trained. But, if I tell you to point at Doctor C, there, do you have to consciously think about that? Do you have to tell your hand to come up, to extend the finger, to aim it at her?”

“No, I would just do it.”

“Exactly. And you’d do it much quicker than if I told you to shoot her.”

The doctor gave a huff of displeasure when he said that, but she didn’t interrupt.

“So, what if we made your pointing into a weapon. In other words, instead of a normal prosthesis, we made that into a weapon, a mechanical weapon, but with biosynth neurons that could control it faster than you can control your other arm? And then because the arm is mechanical, we give you the biggest, baddest weapons possible? What would you think of that?

Rev recoiled. “Isn’t that how we got the Genesians?”

“In a way, yes, but we’re—”

“No, not in a way, Chief. Not at all,” the doctor said. “Totally different process, built upon accepted practices. We’ve just improved on the end product.”

She stepped closer to Rev. “No, Sergeant, we’re not going to make you into an android, as much as I hate the term. It’s not scientifically sound, you know.”

She stopped and said to the others in a more than defensive tone, “The Genesians weren’t androids. That was just what the media started calling them.”

Back to Rev. “All we’re going to do is bypass some of the steps that Chief Price delineated. We’re giving you an IBHU,” she said, pronouncing it “ibhoo.” “It’s a better prosthesis, much better, but with weapons integrated into it. With training, you’ll be much more effective in your job.”

Rev lay there quietly, but his mind was awhirl. A weapon that was a part of him? It just didn’t seem right.

But . . . he thought about it a moment. He carried weapons, and how was that different? And it wasn’t as if he didn’t already have so much crap with his augments as it was. But what was it that Bundy had said about too many augments? That it increased the chances of getting the rot?

“What about the rot, ma’am? What will this do to my chances of getting that?”

She looked confused until the Navy doc said, “He means Weislen’s Syndrome.”

“Oh, that. Well, this project will be mostly external mods, so theoretically, it shouldn’t have an effect.”

Theoretically?

“But as part of the testing program, any adverse effects will be monitored.”

Rev leaned his head back on his pillow. He was tired, which seemed strange as he’d been asleep for the last five weeks. And this was all a little much to take in.

He looked up at the chief, who said, “It’s your choice. You don’t have to do it. We’ll get you a regular prosthesis if that’s what you want.”

Rev caught the little glare the doctor sent to the chief. He didn’t trust her, not one bit. She had a stake in the project, that was obvious, and Rev was just a means to an end.

Still, the thought was intriguing. If it really could fire the weapons system as easily as he pointed a finger, that could be a big benefit.

“Do I have to make up my mind now?”

The civilian doc looked crestfallen, but she said, “No. I can give you until tomorrow. But after that, I’ll go to the next candidate.”

Rev looked to the Navy doctor and asked, “I’d like to discuss this with Punch, if I could.”

“Punch? Who’s that?”

“My battle buddy, sir.”

“I . . . well, I don’t see why we can’t get that done if your tests come back green.”

That would help. Punch had access to more data than Rev could even dream existed. Surely, he could pull up something on this project. But it would be good to talk this over with someone more experienced in the ways of the military.

Camp Nguyen’s only a hundred klicks away. Maybe the gunny would come?

“Uh, and sir, would it be possible for me to talk to my Platoon Sergeant, Gunny Thapa? He’s at Nguyen.”

“Was he deployed forward to Alafia?” the chief asked.

“Yes, he was. We all were.”

“Then it will be a little hard for him to help you. He’ll still be on Alafia.”

“Still?”

The thought hadn’t crossed his mind. They’d been just mopping up five weeks ago. Longer if he counted the time he was on the ship and coming back to New Hope.

“The Angel Shi—the Children of Angels,” the chief corrected, glancing at the civilian doctor, “don’t know that they’ve lost yet. Most guerilla stuff, some suicide bombers. Fanatics, you know.”

Not only suicide bombers, he thought, remembering Kat. But who can I talk to? Punch is great, but . . .

“How about my dad? Well, he’s my stepdad, but he works for LTQ Crystallines, so he’s got clearance.”

Doctor Chakrabarti frowned, then asked, “What does he do there?”

“He’s a crystal engineer. Been one for thirty years.”

She twisted her face up in concentration. “I guess I could have him sign an NDA, but even then,” she said, more to herself than anyone else. She looked at Rev. “And you really need this? I can sit and answer any questions you might have.”

“I’d really like to talk to my father, to confirm that this is the right decision for me.”

Rev hadn’t committed to anything that had to be confirmed, but he thought if he phrased it that way, she’d be more open to the suggestion.

“If he’s a Sieben employee . . .” Rev could almost see the gears turning in her head. Probably thinking she had leverage over him. She didn’t know his stepdad, though, if she thought he’d put company over family. “Yes, I guess I can allow that. But I want to see him first.”

“I can give you his number,” Rev told the chief.

“No need. He’s here.”

“What? My dad’s here? Maximillian Pelletier? From Swansea?”

“He’s been here from the second day you arrived. Your mother and sister have been here, too, but your dad never left.”

Rev was shocked. His stepdad had been here for five weeks, all the time while he was in a coma? His throat tightened, and he fought to keep his eyes from welling up. Now he felt guilty for asking to get Punch back before he thought of family.

“Yeah, Chief. If I can see him, that’d be great.”

“Well, then,” the civilian doc said, clapping her hands together. “That’s that. If you can get the young man his Mr. Punch back, I’ll talk to his father so they can discuss this. Then, I’ll see you in the morning, son.”

She looked at the others in an awkward silence for a moment before turning and leaving the room.

“I’ll send in a tech to run the tests. If the numbers are good, you’ll have your battle buddy by”—he looked at the chief for confirmation—“seventeen hundred?”

“We can make that happen, sir.”

“Good luck with whatever you decide. And don’t let yourself be pressured. It’s going to affect your body, so this is your decision.”

Yeah, right. Like it was my decision to get augmented.

Rev left that thought unsaid. He was still a corporal, and even if the man was a doctor, he was a Navy captain too.

“He means that,” the chief said as the door closed behind the doctor. “It is your choice.”

“What do you think, Chief.”

The man shrugged and said, “It really is your choice.”

“If it were your choice, what would you do?”

“I’m not a snake-eating ground pounder. Never served with the Marines, either. And I’m stuck here for the duration. So, for me, nah. I’d say no. It’s experimental, and we don’t know how well it’ll work. But for you? For a grunt Marine? Maybe it’d be a good thing.”

“But if it doesn’t work, can’t they just take it off and give me a regular one like they give to everyone else?”

“Like the doc said, ‘theoretically.’ They have to do a lot more to you to get the thing working. I don’t know how much of that’ll be permanent.”

Which was a new wrinkle to things. Rev shook his head. This was probably not a good idea. Let someone else be their guinea pig. But if it worked . . .

“What if—”

Rev was cut off as a tech came through the door, pushing a cart. “You Sergeant Pelletier?”

“No.”

The tech looked confused, and he asked the chief, “Were you with Doc Morales? He said—”

“This is Pelletier, Grimsby. You’re in the right place.”

“I’m Pelletier. Corporal Pelletier.”

The chief laughed and asked, “Haven’t you heard me call you sergeant?”

Rev thought back, but his mind was too crammed full of everything he’d been told. He was vaguely aware that he might have been called sergeant, but that was probably because the first doc was a civilian and the others were Navy, and maybe they didn’t know Marine ranks. It hadn’t registered.

“I guess you hadn’t heard, you being in a coma and all. But the message came in eight days ago. Congratulations, Sergeant of Marines.”

* * *

“I can’t believe you’ve been here in Anastasia all this time,” Rev said.

His stepdad shrugged. “Where else was I going to be? Your mother was here, too, you know. She went back so Neesy can get back in class. But now that you’re awake, she’ll be back.”

“But what about work?”

His stepdad shook his head. “What do you expect them to say? We’re a defense contractor, after all.”

“Yeah, and owned by Sieben.”

His stepdad gave him a startled look, then laughed. “Yeah, I met the good Doctor Chakrabarti.”

“Was it bad?”

“Oh, she gave me the corporate loyalty pitch and all. ‘What’s good for Sieben is good for the Union,’” he said in a credible imitation of the woman. “She pushed rather hard.”

“And . . . ?”

“And what, Rev? You’re my son. I think that takes priority over Sieben Intergalactic.”

“But what do you think about this project?”

Rev had learned quite a bit about the project from Punch—damn, he was glad he had his battle buddy back. A surprising amount was public record. Not the tech, but the concept and morality. Some people thought it hearkened to the Genesians and android soldiers, no matter what the doctor had said about the word, while others worried about human morality.

The arm the doctor was offering him was just an arm. It wasn’t going to change what made him who he was. But critics warned that the program was just one step along the journey to android or even robot soldiers.

What Rev wanted now was his stepdad’s take on it. Not as someone who grew crystals, but as a father.

His dad pursed his lips like he always did when trying to gather his thoughts. “We do provide some of the crystals for the project, but that hardly makes me an expert on it.”

“I don’t need that. Punch got me caught up on some of it.”

“Punch?”

Rev could feel his face turn red, and he mumbled, “My battle buddy. My AI. I thought it would be easier than always saying ‘Hey, you.’”

His father raised his eyebrows in surprise, but he didn’t comment on the revelation. He shifted gears and asked, “Then what do you want from me?”

“Should I do it? I mean, I asked the doctor about the rot, and she wasn’t too reassuring. This is all experimental, right?”

“What do you think you should do?”

“That’s just it. I don’t know. I mean, on the one hand, if this will make me a better soldier, then isn’t it my duty?”

“And on the other hand?”

“Well, I told you about Mr. Oliva at the VGW, the old Marine?”

His father nodded.

“He said don’t ever volunteer unless it’s to save another Marine. He said the Big M will always screw you in the end.”

“And you believe that?”

“Yeah. No. I mean, if they need you to do something, something dangerous, then yeah, they won’t think twice. But just to screw you? No.”

“But what if this all goes wrong? What if the arm they want to give me is fu . . . uh, messed up and goes bad?”

His father smiled and said, “It’s OK. I’ve heard more than a bit of cursing in my life. You’re not going to shock me. But to ask a question back. What if it does go wrong? Worst case basis, they take it off and give you another off-the-shelf, proven commodity, right?”

“I guess so. I’m just worried that they’ll have to do more to me than just hook on some wonder arm. All the connections and stuff.”

“They probably will have to put them in. But when this war’s over, they’ll take out whatever arm they’ve given you so you can go through regen. Not much of a difference.”

“So, you think I should do it, then?”

“No. I mean, I’m not saying you should, and I’m not saying you shouldn’t. I’m just saying that this is your choice, not the doctor’s, and not mine.”

Rev knew that. But for once, he just wished someone would take the decision away from him.

“If you were in my position, what would you do?”

“Me? But I’m not a Marine. I work in a factory.”

“But if you were,” Rev persisted.

“If I were a Marine?” His dad looked up, his eyes unfocused for a moment. “You know, I never served in uniform.”

“You’re in a war-priority job. That’s how you serve.”

“Maybe. But I never put myself in harm’s way, and I’ve always felt a little guilty because of that. When you volunteered—”

“You mean when I was stupid enough to get my dumb ass conscripted.”

His father laughed and said, “Well, maybe. But I was still so proud of you. Scared, but proud.”

He reached out and squeezed Rev’s shoulder, just above the stump. “Really proud.”

“Thanks, Dad. But that doesn’t answer my question. What if you were in my position?”

“If I were a Marine and lost my arm, and I was offered this opportunity . . .”

He stopped, and Rev knew he was trying to decide whether he should say what was on his mind.

“Just say it, Dad.”

“Then I’d want to be the most dangerous motherfucker around!” he blurted in a rush.

Rev’s mouth dropped open in shock. Not for what his father had said, but how he’d said it. Never in his entire life had he heard his father curse.

He broke out into a laugh and said, “I guess you have heard a few f-bombs in your life.”

The intense look on his dad’s face evaporated, and he laughed as well. “Just don’t tell your mom. She’s been after me since we first met to clean up my language. Between you and me, I used to swear like a Host sailor.”

“Yeah. I think she wouldn’t be too happy to hear how we talk in the Corps.”

“Oh, with you in uniform, I’m sure you could get away with about anything right now.” He leaned a little closer and lowered his voice. “They told us how you lost your arm. I can’t tell you how proud we are of you. You’re a good man, Reverent. A real good man.”

Rev squirmed in his bed, embarrassed at the praise. This was the man who worked his butt off to provide for three kids who weren’t even his. Well, not biologically. As far as Rev was concerned, they were all his in every way that mattered.

“Oh, sorry,” his father said, mistaking the reason why he squirmed. “Are you tired?”

“No, it’s OK. I’m just . . .” He tried to think of a way to change the subject. “When do you have to leave?”

“If you’re tired, I can go now. They said you might not be up for a long visit.”

“No, no! I want you to stay. I was just wondering if you wanted to sit and watch ‘The Renewed Kingdom’ with me, just like old times at home. I’m a little behind on the episodes, and you’ve probably already seen the latest season . . .”

“I’d be honored, son.” He looked around the small room and asked, “Where should I sit? Maybe I can ask a nurse for a chair?”

Rev scooted over, which was surprisingly difficult with only one arm. He reached across his body with his right arm and patted the bed at his side.

“Are you sure? That won’t hurt you?”

“I’m fine.”

His father shrugged and eased himself beside Rev. One of his lurches, as he got situated, did send a bolt of pain down Rev’s phantom arm, but he didn’t complain.

“Room, play ‘The Renewed Kingdom,’ Season Six, Episode One.” Then to his dad, he said, “Sorry, it’s a flat-screen. No holo-stands in the rooms, they told me.”

“It’s OK, son. This is fine.”

As the familiar intro spooled up, Rev’s father put his arms around his son’s shoulders, encompassing his stump.

Rev was a Direct Combat Marine. He’d killed a Centaur, and he’d fought traitors to humanity, giving up his arm in the fight. He was a trained killer. But at the moment, he was a kid again, safe and sound in his father’s arms.

24

Rev looked down at his new arm. Or rather, his new sleeve. The arm itself was not done yet, but everything relied upon the sleeve. It was both the nexus of synthetic neurons that would transmit the nerve impulses that would allow Rev to control the arm as well as the osseointegration, which was the connection of bone to prosthesis.

He wasn’t impressed. Rev wasn’t sure what he expected, but the hunk of metal and electronics was decidedly primitive-looking, not the high-tech piece of gear he’d expected. Two days of surgery, and this was where it led to? A swollen body and ten centimeters of a tin can stuck on the end of his stump?

And he itched.

Not the sleeve itself, but the new webbing and support straps that now ran under his skin. His initial spider web had itched, too, but this put that to shame.

The harness had been a surprise to him, but it had made sense after the surgeon had explained the need to him. His arm was going to be subject to tremendous forces, both while functioning as his old arm and while being deployed as a weapon. The old strengthening of his joints during his augmentation and the osseointegration just wouldn’t be enough to keep him from pulling the arm right out of his far-weaker flesh and bone.

To enable him to use his arm, his entire upper body had to be braced. He was given a t-shirt of a much more robust spider web that ran under his skin from the base of his neck to his waist to help distribute the forces. That still wouldn’t be enough to keep the arm from tearing free, so four Finite Element Poly-phenylene straps, each with a tensile strength of 2.6 GPa, were now running across and up and down his body, just under his musculature. Two went across and around his ribs, while the other two ran vertically over his shoulders and under his pelvic girdle.

Rev didn’t know what Finite Element Poly-phenylene was, nor what a 2.6 GPa meant, but Punch assured him that the straps were very strong.

When Rev had asked the surgeon what would happen if this super-strong harness broke, the surgeon had laughed and said if that happened, Rev would never know it because he’d have been torn apart into bits and pieces.

Not the best bedside manner ever.

The harness and the t-shirt had been the easiest parts of his surgery, however, taking just over five hours. The next day was the major surgery, something so detailed that it wasn’t trusted to human hands. The entire operation had been done by three separate robot-surgeons over a sixteen-hour process. Thousands of micro-connections had been made between his nerves and the mechanical receptors. But that wasn’t even enough to give him the control he needed. As he looked at the sleeve, nanobots were stimulating more organic-Rev and biosynth connections.

Rev still didn’t understand why he was getting both the normal human-to-mechanical arm connections and this new human-to-biosynth web. A Sieben scientist had tried to explain the advantages to him, but most of it had gone over his head. Even with Punch explaining it later, all he could gather was that it should improve his effectiveness.

The thought didn’t sit well with him. Despite Doctor Chakrabarti’s protests to the contrary, this was getting into Genesian territory of half-man, half-machine, and everyone knew how that worked out. At least, everyone knew what the combined nations of humankind kept teaching them over a century after that attempt to create an android soldier.

The door opened, and a civilian tech in an isolation suit came in wheeling a cart.

“You alive today?” she said with a cheery smile showing through her face shield.

“I think so.”

“Good. You had a lot done to you over the last two days, and some of it was all new. You must be pretty sore.”

“I itch.”

She laughed and said, “I guess you would itch. That’s normal. But regardless, I’ve got to run some tests on you. Sorry about that.”

“Why sorry?”

She scrunched up her face and said, “Because if these tests are like the simulations we ran to prepare, it ain’t gonna be too much fun.”

“Simulations?”

“This is all new ground here, uh . . . can I call you Reverent? Or would you rather Sergeant?”

“Rev is fine. But only simulations? Not on people?”

“Well, you’re our first guinea pig. You knew that, right?”

“Yeah, for the arm. But for that thing?” he said, pointing at the box on top of the cart.

“Well, it isn’t like this is from scratch. We built upon proven practices. But your connections, both the normal and biosynth, well, nothing’s ever been done to this level, and least not in the Union. There’re rumors about the Manifest Destiny Sphere, but if they are, they sure aren’t sharing anything with us.”

If the MDS was experimenting in this arena, it wasn’t surprising that they’d be secretive. Rev didn’t trust them farther than he could throw them, even if they were allies at the moment. Still, it would be nice to know if they had something that could help the docs work on him.

“But we need to proceed. Doctor Chakrabarti wants an eighteen-hour baseline, and that’s right now.”

“Can’t keep the doctor waiting, I guess. What do you want me to do?”

“Just lie still for a few minutes while I hook you up.”

“What’s your name? I’d like to know who’s torturing me.”

“Hah! I’m Fanny d’Tair. Pleased to meet you.”

“I hope when this is over, I’ll still be pleased to have met you, too.”

“Me, too. I don’t think I’d like to have you for an enemy. But before we start, I need to deactivate your AI.”

Rev felt a momentary surge of . . . not panic. Distress, maybe. “Why do you have to do that?”

“Just a precaution. We don’t want it damaged.”

“Does that sound right, Punch? Should I let her do it?”

<From what I can see of that instrument, I have to surmise that there is a potential for damage to my databanks.>

“So, you don’t mind?”

<I don’t think we have any choice. But don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll be fine.>

“So, does your AI approve?” Fanny said, holding a cable with a jack connector poised in her hand.

Rev didn’t like that she knew that he’d been asking Punch, but he gave her a sour look and a sullen “Yeah.”

“I don’t blame you, you know. That crystal is in your head, after all.”

She connected the cable to his main jack at the base of his neck. A few seconds later, she said, “There. All done.”

“Punch?”

There was no answer, and Rev felt alone.

Fanny returned the cable, then took the temporary cover off his sleeve, exposing the interface. She pulled another cable from her box, the end matching the diameter of his sleeve, then connected it. Rev felt a tiny tickle, then nothing while Fanny studied the six or seven displays.

“That’s it?”

“No, just using the residuals to zero out the readings. And I’ve got that. So, try and relax, and we’ll get through this as quickly as possible.

“Ready?” she asked, turning to look him in the eye.

Ready for what? What’s she going to do to me?

Not that it mattered. She was going to do whatever it was that she was going to do.

He nodded and said, “Hit me.”

Fanny put on a headset with a throat mic and quietly said, “Level One base test. Ten seconds.”

Immediately, Rev felt a buzz that didn’t actually hurt, but it was decidedly uncomfortable. It was as if he was continually getting hit in his funny bone . . . but his elbow didn’t exist anymore, so he wasn’t sure how that could be.

Thankfully, the buzzing stopped, and Rev used his right arm to wipe away the sweat that had started to form on his brow.

“You OK there, Rev?”

“Yeah, that wasn’t so bad.”

“Unfortunately, it’ll get worse,” she told him before saying, “Level Two base test. Ten seconds.”

She wasn’t lying about it getting worse. This time, the discomfort graduated to downright pain. His shoulder was afire, and he had to stop himself from ripping the jack out of his stump. He twitched uncontrollably all over his body.

And then it was gone. The intense pain, but not the after-effects. His shoulder was sore, and it felt as if his harness had broken free of its anchor points under his skin.

“Still hanging in with me?”

Rev took three deep breaths. “Am I allowed to ask you just what the hell you’re doing?”

“Allowed? There’s no precedent for what we’re doing, but it’s your body, so I don’t have any problem with it. At least as far as my knowledge goes.”

She took off the headset and said, “You’ve got a billion new connections, and I’m not using that term figuratively. Every one of them is raw and inflamed, so what you’re experiencing is neuralgia, or pain caused in the nerve endings. The problem is that your chassis . . . uh, that’s what Doctor C calls your body.” She looked embarrassed, but Rev just wanted her to get to the point. “Um, your chassis wasn’t designed for that, so we’re forcing it to accept what is essentially a new nervous system. What I’m doing is sending tiny pulses through the connections, then measuring how much of those are being returned.”

“They didn’t feel like they were tiny,” Rev groused.

“A femtojoule the first time. A picojoule the second time.”

That was hard to believe. It didn’t seem like such a small amount of power could have that much effect on him, but he wasn’t going to argue with her about it.

“And what does that tell you?”

“I’m measuring how much gets through the bio-mechanical interfaces. If all get through, then the interfaces are at full efficiency. If the number is low, then more of the signals aren’t getting through.”

“And the pain?”

“The more that doesn’t get through, the more it excites your organic nerve endings, which have already been split and are inflamed.”

Rev stopped to digest that for a moment before asking, “And what are my numbers?”

“Pretty shitty, if I can be so blunt. But that’s expected,” she said, cutting him off before he could ask why that was. “It should be better over the next two weeks. At least Doctor C thinks so.”

Should be? Rev was beginning to regret signing on to this project. Maybe he should have listened to Mr. Oliva’s advice when the man warned him about volunteering.

“So, are we done then?” he asked.

Fanny grimaced and said, “’Fraid not. Three more rounds. A nanojoule, five nanojoules, and ten nanojoules. You ready for them?”

Come on, Reverent. Man up.

“Hit me again, Miss Fanny.”

She put her headset back on. “You’ve got it. Level Three base test. Ten seconds.”

Rev tried to brace himself, but it was like getting kicked by a mule, starting in his left shoulder and radiating out through his body like fingers of fire. His lungs locked up, and his vision narrowed to a tiny tunnel. He was sure he was about to break when it let up.

His vision returned and he saw Fanny looking at him with concern in her eyes. “These numbers aren’t good, Rev. Let me let you rest up while I call Doctor C.”

“Is she going to tell you to quit?”

Fanny looked down and said, “Probably not. No.”

“I didn’t think so. Let’s just get this over with.”

“Are you sure? I can let you rest for a bit. You know, catch your breath.”

“No. Let’s just get it over with.”

She frowned, obviously worried about him, but Rev meant what he said. He wanted to be done with it, not waiting in apprehension for the next jolt.

“It’s OK, just do it. I don’t blame you, and if it’s gotta be done, it’s gotta be done.”

“Level Four Base test. Five seconds.”

Rev didn’t know if it was supposed to be set for five seconds or if she was taking pity on him, but he didn’t have time to ask before he was hit. And it was bad, but maybe no worse than the Level Two test. That, or maybe it felt that way because it was only five seconds.

He didn’t give Fanny a chance to ask if he needed a rest. He pushed her to the last test, enduring the pain, trying to compartmentalize it.

And finally, it was over. Fanny was detaching her torture kit, apologizing for putting him through it. And he hurt. This wasn’t like getting neuromapped back at Camp Nguyen, where once the machine was turned off, the pain was gone. His shoulder, in particular, radiated pain and soreness. But it was bearable.

“So, what are the results?” he asked as Fanny turned off her equipment.

“I don’t have that expertise—” she started to say when he cut her off.

“You already said the numbers aren’t good. You know more than I do what that means.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that you failed or anything.”

“But . . .”

“OK,” she said, looking back at the door before continuing, “We’re supposed to keep you calm. Better for healing and all that. But you deserve to know what is going on.

“Your numbers were lower than we’d hoped, but they were in the expected range.”

“And if I fell below this expected range?”

“Then Doctor C and her team would implement an intercession. And before you ask, I really don’t know what that is. But I can say it would be to help you. I know she doesn’t come across that way, but she does really care.”

“For my chassis, as you call it.”

“Well, maybe. But she’s got her career riding on you, so she’s going to give you the utmost care. Really, I mean it.”

Rev could see she was being earnest, but maybe he was a little more cynical about the system. Getting conscripted because of a traffic violation had a way of doing that to a person.

“But you’re still inside the envelope, and we’ll see next week where you’re at,” Fanny said.

“So, I’ll be blessed with your company again?”

“Yes, a week from today. But you’ll have healed a lot by then, so it should be much better next time.”

There’s that “should” again.

“Look, if you have any questions, or if you just want to talk, page me. Just ask for me by name. Day or night.”

“Will do, Miss Fanny d’Tair.”

“So, were you still pleased to meet me?” she asked with a shy smile.

“What?”

“You said you hoped you would have been still pleased to meet me when this was over. After all I put you through, are you still pleased to have met me?”

Rev laughed and said, “Sure, Miss Fanny. You were only doing your job.”

She smiled and said, “Well, then. With that, I’ll take my leave and see you next week.”

“No,” he said, sitting up and reaching with his right hand to stop her cart. She looked back, confused, until he said, “Punch? My AI?”

“Oh, goodness. I’d swear, sometimes I’m such a scatterbrain.”

She pulled out the other cable, jacked him in, and activated the switch.

“You there, Punch?”

<Sure am. What’d I miss?>

* * *

Rev was still sore thirty minutes later when the door to his room opened and another person in an isolation suit came in rolling a cart on which was a single metallic case. It didn’t look like some medieval torture contraption, but he eyed it warily.

“Good afternoon, Sergeant Pelletier. I’m HM1 Grigori Tannebaum. How’re you feeling?”

A Navy first class petty officer? The thought that the corpsman was a brother-in-arms made him feel a bit more comfortable. He knew the civilians working on him probably had advanced degrees out the ass, but there was something to be said about the military family.

“I’m doing OK, considering.”

“Those tests you just had, were they as bad as we were briefed?” he asked in a soft hush as if not wanting to be overheard.

“If you consider having your body on fire is bad, then yeah, I’d have to say so.”

The corpsman shook his head and said, “Sorry, man. That sucks. But I’m here for your prosthesis selection, so I promise, no pain.”

“Selection? I thought they were going to give me some sort of weapons system, and you’re here for my prosthesis selection?”

“Oh, I don’t have anything to do with that stuff. Way above my paygrade and security clearance. I’m here for your social arm.”

“My what?”

“You know, your social arm. What you wear in public.”

“I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

“Sure. You’ve seen Hari Jam on the holovids, right? And his lock-picking hand?”

“Well, yeah. But that’s just a holovid, not real life.”

“Sure, it is. Maybe not Hari’s hand, true, but some people do get specialized attachments. Those would be their work hands. When they’re done, they attach a human-functioning hand. Same thing here. And in your case, you’re getting a complete social arm. I mean, we can’t have you wandering around out in the ville with a freakin’ weapon hanging off your shoulder, right?” he asked, laughing at himself for even bringing up the idea. “It would freak out the leeches. They’d think the Genesians are invading.”

Rev frowned. He would still have his face, not the robotic-looking faces of those poor souls. Still, even if joking, the HM1 reminded him of the connection to the old boogiemen that already made him feel uncomfortable.

“Now, when all of this is over, you can go through regen if you want, but until then, let me show you what we’ve got,” the corpsman said, not catching Rev’s unease.

He opened the case, revealing two arms. One looked surprisingly like an organic human arm. Rev didn’t think he’d be able to tell the difference if he saw someone with such an arm walking down the street.

The second one had the same silver-colored metallic surface that Mr. Oliva had for his legs and Gunny Thapa had for his arm. What most military folks seem to choose.

Tannebaum pulled out the human-looking arm first, slightly grossing Rev out as he flipped it back and forth. He had to remind himself that wasn’t a severed human arm there.

“This is the Hotchkins TC-400,” the corpsman said with obvious pride. “The best on the market. Better tactile discernment, finer micro-motor capabilities, better pain feedback than the old Hyun-Parks that we used to have. These can do more than your real arm. With these bad boys, most folks don’t want to go through the time and suffering for regen.”

Rev got the impression that HM1 Tannebaum might be happy amputating his organic arms and replacing them with the TC-400s.

“You said pain feedback?”

“Yeah. Pain is nature’s quit-what-you’re-doing signal. You can damage your prosthesis if you’re not careful. The pain feedback is there so you are careful.”

That kinda sucks. A mechanical arm, and I can still get hurt?

“But this baby, it’s top-of-the-line.”

“What about that other one, the silver arm.”

The HM1 frowned, put the human-looking arm back, and removed the metallic one. “This is the Rycroft Industries’ arm. Not a bad arm, all things considering. Cheaper than the Hotchkins, so between you and me, I think that’s why we still have it.”

Rev held out his right arm, and Tannebaum handed it over.

The arm was surprisingly light, and while it was sheathed in metallic plates, he could see connector cables through the gaps at the elbow joint. He turned it around to look at the upper fitting. It was far simpler than he expected. Instead of a mass of connectors, there was one that looked pretty much like his jack.

“And I just jam that thing into my sleeve when I’m done blowing things up?”

“Not really. If it were like for everyone else, yes. A person can take theirs on or off. But in your case, the weapons arm has far more connectors and anchor points, at least from what I understand. But I do know you’re going to need a tech to do it until they design one of the applicators like for the mech Marines.”

“So, any time I need to go out and about, I have to have help?”

“Like I said, I don’t know for sure, but that’s how I understand it.”

He rotated the arm around and examined it. “So, compared to the other one, the Hotchkins . . .” He was going to ask which one was better, but he already knew what the HM1 would say, so he changed mid-sentence to, “. . . what are the differences as far as capabilities. What can I do with it that I can’t do with this one?”

“Well, it isn’t what you can and can’t do. They’re both pretty much the same. The Hotchkins will have the better tactile discernment, like I said.”

“Which means what as a practical matter?”

HMQ Tannenbaum shrugged. “Well, not much. Maybe feel slight variations better, but not so you’d notice.”

“Which is stronger?”

“If you mean stronger as in how much you can lift, both are limited so as not to damage your support framework. If you mean which can take more punishment, I’d have to say the Rycroft. There’s no pseudo-skin to tear.”

Rev nodded, and the HM1 must have noticed it because he hurriedly added, “The Hotchkins keeps its skin at 98.7 degrees Fahrenheit.”

“Is that important?”

“Well, yeah. When you shake someone’s hand, it’ll feel to them like a real hand. You don’t want them to know it’s a prosthesis, right?”

He smiled as if he knew he’d just locked up Rev’s decision, but Rev was taken aback. Why would he try to hide the fact that he’d lost an arm? Was there something shameful about that?

He looked at the sleeve covering his stump. He’d lost his arm in the service of others. Kat was alive because of his actions, and in his mind, the life of a small girl was worth more than a mere arm.

He thought about how Mr. Oliva and Gunny Thapa wore their metallic limbs almost as a badge of honor. There was Colonel Destafney with his Phantom of the Opera face and the Marine Corps anchor and crossed swords implanted onto his biosynth eye. Rev’s first commander at recruit training, Major Singh, had gone with a metallic hand.

Rev understood in a flash why they’d all gone that way instead of choosing to hide their loss. Getting wounded in combat was nothing to be ashamed of. It was proof that whether they had volunteered or been conscripted, they had given part of themselves in the service of others. Why hide that?

This wasn’t even a choice.

“I’ll take the Rycroft.”

25

Rev stretched out his left arm. Far from being the weapon he’d been promised—or his social arm, for that matter—all he’d received so far was this addition to the sleeve, a longer tube that extended about to where his elbow would have been. Only now, a cable snaked into the end of the tube where it was attached to his connectors.

Six people clad in isolation suits were in discussion, ignoring the seated Rev for the time being. One was Doctor Chakrabarti, and he was told another of them was a lieutenant general from Marine HQ. Rev should be impressed with that, but it didn’t do anything for him. Maybe if he could see the general and not just another person in an isolation suit, it would be different.

Isolation was more than just people around him always wearing white suits. Rev was feeling cabin fever. It had been three weeks since his surgery, and he was feeling much better. Fanny d’Tair had come by the day before, and she’d run her tests up to a microjoule without Rev feeling more than moderate discomfort. His biosynth connectors were still growing, but otherwise, he felt fine and was raring to get this program on the road.

More than that, he just wanted human contact. Anyone out of an isolation suit would do. And now, with six of the white-clad people who controlled his destiny discussing him, he could feel his stress-level climb.

“Can you sense anything?”

<No. Maybe when they power up.>

“I just want them to do what they’re going to do and let me get to the next level.”

<Since we are waiting, how does a one-armed school security guard break up fights among the students?>

“Really? You’re finally going there?”

Rev waited for a response, but Punch remained silent. He knew his battle buddy was following his programming to keep him from stressing out, but a one-armed joke? No. Just no.

But he had to admit his interest was piqued. Still, no. He was not going to get sucked in this time.

Finally, while he knew he was going to regret it, he subvocalized, “OK, how does the one-armed security guard break up fights? And this better be good.”

<Single-handedly.>

“Crap, Punch. I said it had to be good! I swear, I’m going to lower your PQ one of these days.”

<You keep threatening me with that.>

“Yeah, and one day I’m going to do it.”

<Judging from your bios, you liked that joke.>

Which was true, but he was never going to admit it.

“Bios can be wrong—oh-oh, I guess it’s go-time.”

The six people broke up, one going to man equipment while the other five moved to stand around Rev.

“Well, Sergeant Pelletier. Have you been briefed on what we’re about to do?” Doctor Chakrabarti asked.

“You’re going to test my arm,” he said, waving the tube attached to his sleeve.

“Yes, that’s right. Don’t worry too much about what happens here. We don’t expect much.”

“With all due respect, ma’am, when will you start expecting much? And when will I get my arms?”

“Your IBHU is ready now, but you need to be trained first. Given our projected schedule, we’ll start field testing in about four weeks.”

Rev had to fight to keep from sighing. Four more weeks?

“Can I at least get my social arm? It would help me take care of myself a lot better.”

“That’s us, son,” a woman said, stepping closer. “I’m Admiral Boulos, head of Prosthetics Medicine. You selected a Rycroft, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She turned to one of the others and said, “All your Marines go that way. I don’t know why.”

So that guy must be the Marine general.

“We have the arm now, but we had to make some modifications to account for your rather unique connectors. I’ve been told it should be here next week, and we’ll do your final fitting and get you trained right away. You should be an expert before you’re ready for the public.”

“Don’t worry about that now, Sergeant. We need to be thinking about the IBHU,” Doctor Chakrabarti said, anxious to get going.

Rev could see she couldn’t give a flying fig about his social arm. All she cared about was her project. He couldn’t blame her, though, not really. He knew her career depended on this project. More than that, if it was all it was hyped to be, then it could make a significant impact on the war.

“Daryll, if you’d helmet him up?”

Another of the white-clad people stepped up, holding a gaming helmet. At least that was what it looked like to Rev. No one had told him about a helmet, but he would just go with the flow. A cable connected it to the box on the cart. Without saying a word, the man put the helmet over Rev’s head, then with a click, jacked it into his neck. Immediately, Rev was in an open field. There were three people with him: Doctor Chakrabarti, an admiral, and a general, the doctor in her medwhites and the other two in their uniforms.

“OK, Sergeant. I want you to try to lift your left arm,” Chakrabarti said.

My left arm?

Rev turned his head to see where instead of a tube, a massive arm, at least fifty centimeters wide, was connected to him. It was articulated at what would be a human elbow, but higher up, closer to the shoulder, and from that point to the front, there was a barrel along the top of what looked to be a beam projector. Two slots jutted out at a slight angle from the projector tube.

Cool.

“Can you lift the arm?” the doctor repeated.

Oh, yeah. Come on back, Reverent.

He tried to lift it, but nothing happened. It was like pushing against the wall. His muscles—even if he knew they weren’t there—felt like they were tensing up, but nothing was happening.

He felt a small surge of panic that he tried to suppress. What if this thing wasn’t working? He tried again but to no avail.

“I . . . I can’t,” he said, his voice almost cracking.

“That’s OK, Sergeant. We expected that, but we had to try.”

She turned to face the tech and said, “Neuroplastic reversal. Raise the arm to the horizontal.”

A moment later, the arm raised, and Rev felt it move.

Woah! That’s freaking weird!

He’d just raised his arm, which looked heavy but seemed lighter to him. And not only could he see it rise, he’d felt it.

“Did you feel that?” the doctor asked.

“Yes . . . yes. I did.”

“I need you to remember what that felt like. What we did was use your own nervous system to give the order. What you need to do is to learn how to do this on your own.”

“Like muscle memory? My flipball coach used to drill that into us.”

“Well, not really. We’re working with your nervous system. We’re manually sending the signals from your spinal column through the neural interface, activating the arm. But if you want to think of it that way, that’s fine. All you need to do is learn to replicate the motion. Now, as Daryll lowers the arm, I want you to remember just how it feels.”

Rev thought he understood the concept. They were just using an outside input to train him how to do it himself. But understanding and doing it were two different things. For two hours, he tried to move his virtual arm himself, but to no avail. He was able to jerk it, but that was just him moving his shoulder.

Rev had to give Doctor Chakrabarti credit. She wasn’t getting frustrated, and her calm encouragement kept him going. Not so the general. He’d obviously gotten bored after thirty minutes, and twice he’d blinked out of the simu to return five or ten minutes later.

At one point he’d asked Punch for help, but while his crystal battle buddy was a wealth of knowledge, the only active thing he could do was give orders to Rev’s medi-nanos. In this case, he was no help at all.

“Did you feel that?” the doctor asked for the hundredth time.

“Yes, I felt it. I always feel it. I just can’t replicate it,” he snapped, getting close to the end of his mental rope.

“You will. With each effort, you’re connecting more and more synapses. It will come.”

Or you only hope it will come for your career. You’re not the one who’s going to get shitcanned if this doesn’t work.

“Try again. Don’t think about it. Just do it.”

Yeah, right. Easy for you to say, just do it like this . . .

. . . and to his amazement, the arm moved. No, it didn’t smoothly lift it to the horizontal, but his virtual arm jerked up, and in his surprise, Rev let go, letting the arm fall back.

“Did I do that? For real?” he asked, not quite sure of what happened.

“Yes! You did it!” the doctor said, full of excitement . . . or was it relief?

Rev took a deep breath. The arm was unmoving at his side, but he’d done it. And if he could do it once, he could do it again. Doubts vanished into nothingness.

At the doctor’s urging, he tried to lift it a couple more times, but other than a slight tremor, the arm didn’t move. But he wasn’t too concerned. And evidently, neither was Doctor Chakrabarti, because she stopped the session soon after.

The tech removed the helmet, and Rev blinked to adjust his eyes. He was dead tired, his body shaking, and sweat ran down his face. He’d been sitting the entire time, but it felt as if he was back at Nguyen climbing the mountain. He was wrung dry.

“Very good, Sergeant Pelletier. We made a lot of progress today. And I assure you, it will get easier,” the doctor said.

“Good job, Sergeant. Way to keep trying,” the general added.

“Thank you, sir.” Rev wanted to mention that the general hadn’t stuck with him, but sergeants who criticized generals usually ended up wishing they hadn’t. Besides, he wasn’t angry about that. He was just too relieved that he’d actually moved the IBHU.

“We’ll do this again tomorrow,” the doctor said. “You get a good night’s sleep.”

“Are you being treated OK? Anything you need from me?” the admiral asked.

“The chow’s good, but . . .”

“But what, son?”

Rev hesitated as he looked at six people dressed in white isolation suits, all staring at him.

Screw it. All they can do is say no.

“I’ve been told I’m doing fine from a medical standpoint.”

“Yes, that’s true. All of your injuries are healed or close to being so. We’re just monitoring your biosynth neural connectors. Why?”

Rev took a deep breath. “I know this sounds petty, but I’m going batshit stir-crazy here. I haven’t seen a real person, I mean, someone in the flesh and not in an isolation suit since my surgery. And at night, there’s no one to even talk to. I’d really, really like to get into a regular ward. If that’s allowed, I mean.”

The admiral gave him a long look before turning to the others. “From a medical standpoint, there’s really no reason for the sergeant to remain quarantined unless there’s something you haven’t told us, Doctor Chakrabarti.”

Ooh, smart way to put it.

The doctor hesitated. She obviously didn’t want to let her prize chassis get out among the unwashed masses.

“We don’t want word of this project to get out there yet, Sergeant. So, if you are out with your fellow Marines, can we trust you to stay mum about all of this?” the general asked.

“Yes, sir! I know how to keep a secret!” he blurted out.

Rev wondered if the general knew about the Centaur body. He wanted to use that as proof that he could stay quiet, but mentioning that would be proof that he couldn’t. Catch-22.

“But once we go live, he’ll need to have his IBHU detached each day and reattached the next day.”

Whatever sympathetic thoughts Rev had been sending the doctor’s way, he pulled them back. She was trying to quash this.

“Doable. We need to develop the donning methodology anyway,” the general said.

“But—”

The general held up a hand to cut her off. “I think we need to take care of our sergeant’s mental health, too. Admiral Boulos, I trust you can take care of that?”

“Yes, sir. I can have Sergeant Pelletier checked into the Wounded Warrior Ward before evening chow.”

“Will that do?” the general asked Rev.

“Yes, sir,” he said, getting excited.

The general said, “We’re all grateful for what you’re doing. General Echo has been following your progress very closely.”

The Commandant of the Marine Corps? Following me? Really?

The general popped open his suit’s face shield, leaned in close to Rev’s ear, and whispered, “And I’m very aware of how well you can keep a secret, Reverent. Semper fi, Devil Dog.”

Rev didn’t know what shocked him most, that the commandant knew who he was or that a three-star general called him by his first name.

“Thank you, sir,” was the only response his numbed mind could come up with.

26

“Well, look who the cat dragged in,” a somewhat familiar voice said as Rev entered the Wounded Warriors Ward.

Rev looked to where a dozen Marines were sitting around in a brightly colored lounge in sweats and tees. Six were at a table playing cards . . .

“Angel Wings?”

“In the flesh,” Malaika said, getting up from the table and rushing over to envelop Rev in a bone-crushing hug. “Where the hell have you been? I heard you were CASEVAC’d back to the real world, but when I got here, no one knew where you were.”

Rev had an answer for that, given to him by the admiral herself—not that he thought he’d have to pull it out so soon.

“My body was having rejection issues,” he said, waving his stump. “They needed to keep me in isolation, purge my medinanos, and then give me more.”

Rev thought it was a weak excuse, but he’d been assured that while this was a rare occurrence, it did occasionally happen.

“Whoa. That sucks the big one. But you’re OK now?” she asked, dragging him back toward the card table.

“They say so.”

“Angel Wings, Mala?” one of the Marines at the table said as they came up.

“Private joke. Forget about it. But hey, this is Rev. He and I go way back, what . . . all of three months now? Snake-eater type, but don’t hold that against him.”

“Yeah, I know you,” one of the Marines said as he stood up, hand out. “Rafer Lindt. I met you at the E-club once with Bundy.”

“Oh, yeah, I remember,” Rev said, shaking the hand. “You’re in tanks.” He frowned and said, “I didn’t hear of any tanks getting hit by the Angel shits, except for Bundy getting stuck in that hole.”

There was a round of laughter, and one of the others said, “Tell him why you’re here, Rafe.”

His face turned red. “I sort of fell down a flight of stairs. Broke my back.”

“And he wasn’t even drunk,” Malaika said. “Just going to take a piss. And now he’s got another six months of rehab with us here.”

She started around the table, naming each Marine and a corpsman, before pointing to the others in the lounge and naming them in turn. About two-thirds were from Seventh Marines, the Red Lions, at Camp Kamachi, while the rest were from the Gryphons and Camp Nguyen.

One of them, an older woman Malaika called Bunny, lifted a leg when she was named and pulled back her sweats to reveal a silver prosthesis. “When you getting your arm? They’re not going to regen you, right?”

“Soon. I had a rejection problem, and they need to get that fixed before I get an arm.”

That was two times in less than two minutes he’d gone to that excuse. He was glad the admiral had fed it to him, and he had it on call.

“You’ll like it. The rehab staff are good shits. You’ll be an expert before you know it.”

Rev surveyed the room. Ten Marines and a corpsman. Except for Bunny and her leg, none looked that hurt, even if three were wearing healing chambers.

“This is all there is?”

“No. Tinsel’s in her rehab session, but yeah, this is it. The Angel shits weren’t really the best fighters around,” Malaika said.

“There’s F-Ward,” Rafer said.

The jovial attitude faded a bit, and Rev asked, “F-Ward?”

“That’s for the seriously messed-up. They’ve got people in there going back to Horry.”

Horry was HRY-355, a manufacturing station in the Grabowsky Belt, lost to the Centaurs nine or ten years before.

“Anyone from Alafia?”

“Two, from what I hear. We’re not allowed back there,” Rafer said in a somber voice.

“Hell, let’s not bring everyone down. You up for some Knock On?” Malaika asked Rev.

“Sure, why not? I don’t think I can deal, though. I can only knock with one hand.”

“Don’t worry about that, hon. You sit by me and let momma do your dealing.”

Rev took a seat and just drank in the feeling. He’d been extremely lonely in isolation with only Punch for company, but he was back with his tribe now. He was home.

“What happened to you, Mala?” Rev asked while Rafer dealt the next hand. “I mean, you don’t look—”

“I’m still beautiful, you mean?” She tapped the side of her head with her forefinger. “It’s up here that got messed up. Three weeks after you. Just mopping up the stragglers when one of the freaking Angel shits brought down a wall with me next to it. Boom! Blasted it right on top of me. Knocked me out and gave me a concussion.”

“In a PAL-3?”

It didn’t seem to him that a mere wall would do much damage to someone in the infantry combat suit.

“I didn’t mention it was a big wall,” she said as the others at the table laughed. “The docs swear I’ll be right as rain by next week.”

“Which is going to be a miracle ’cause you were never right as rain in the first place, Mala,” one of the other Marines, Copper, said.

Malaika threw a wadded-up napkin at him before picking up her cards.

Rev just soaked it in. The trash talk, the ribbing. The bonding. He had no idea how long he’d be here, and he wanted nothing more than to see Tomiko and the rest of the team, but as long as he had Marines around him, he’d be able to tough it out.

He picked up his hand, looked at the cards, and then groaned. At least one thing seemed not to have changed, and that was his horrible luck playing Knock On.

27

Rev stood ready, the familiar adrenaline rush coursing through him. He’d long ago decided to stop wondering if the rush was natural or helped along by his nanos. It was what it was, and to be honest, he liked the feeling. It made him feel alive.

Which could leave him very dead if he couldn’t control himself and went out half-cocked, but that was a whole different topic.

“You ready?”

<Hard not to be.>

Rev shook his head a few times, jumped up and down, and then shrugged his shoulders. The weight of the IBHU still threw off his balance somewhat, to the point where he’d considered asking for counterweights strapped to his right arm.

He set his legs slightly over shoulder-width apart, took a deep breath, then let half of it out, letting his senses probe the field in front of him. And then, from the right, there it was. A paladin emerged from the trees about two hundred meters away and started to cross the open area. Rev froze, watching as it got closer on a path to cross in front of him. One hundred fifty, one-hundred twenty-five, one hundred meters. His heart was pounding loud enough that the paladin had to hear him, but still, it came.

Rev watched the numbers tick down. Right in front of him, it reached forty-seven meters before it started climbing again as the paladin continued. That was his cue.

He raised his IBHU and fired, the energy beam crossing the distance to hit the left rear heat exchanger. “Raised and fired” might be accurate, but to Rev, it wasn’t as if he was firing a weapon. To him, the best way he could describe was that he merely pointed at the paladin and twitched his forefinger.

The end result was the same, however. The beam hit the paladin, sending sparks showering out of it before it self-detonated in a spectacular explosion. Rev felt the familiar rush of victory before the scene went dark.

He pulled off his helmet and looked back where Doctor Chakrabarti and Colonel Tolouse, the Marine Corps Project Head, were watching.

“Four hundred fifty-three milliseconds,” Daryll, who seemed to be the tech jack-of-all-trades, reported.

The doctor nodded and said, “Still slow, but you’re improving.”

Rev didn’t think it was slow. If he could see a target and bring a weapon to bear in half-a-second, he thought that was remarkable. But the doctor had told him their goal was to get down in the seventy-millisecond range, which was at the very top speed that signals carried by the large-diameter, myelinated neurons that link the spinal cord to his muscles could manage. And that didn’t account for the time it took for his brain to decide to initiate the firing sequence.

But then again, he didn’t have normal myelinated neurons, at least not between his brain and his IBHU. Rev wasn’t sure why the tiny improvement would be so important to him in combat, but Doctor C had this among the top of her milestones.

“I think that’s good enough for the day. Daryll, I want to add in motion for tomorrow, and we’ll see where we are.”

“So, I’m done?” Rev asked.

“Yes. We’ll see you tomorrow at nine.”

“Good job, Sergeant,” the colonel said as Daryll left his equipment and came to help Rev take off his arm. Or his dummy arm, to be more accurate. Rev didn’t know if the hunk of metal looked like the real arm he was going to get, but this one supposedly was the same weight, which meant it was heavy. Even with Rev’s augmented strength, he doubted he’d be able to maneuver it fast enough to suit Chakrabarti, but his harness was not only for support. Servos had been implanted in some of the straps to give his movement an extra boost.

“Here, let me help you,” Daryll said.

Rev dutifully turned while the tech wheeled his framed dolly over and put the hoist straps around the arm. With the weight supported, he started undoing the harness before unjacking the arm itself. Rev bent his knees, then slipped away from the hoist.

The colonel had told him they were working on a better way to hook him up, something closer to what the mech Marines did to don their suits. Rev thought that would be necessary. The hoist that Daryll used was unwieldy and would be more than a little out of place in a combat environment.

He picked up his social arm and, with three twisting moves, attached it. He ran through his checks, flexing the fingers, twisting the hand, and bending the elbow. His movements were still raw and herky-jerky, but the arm and fingers did what they were supposed to do. His rehab tech said he should be fully functional and ready to return to the team in two more weeks. He didn’t know, however, how the main project would affect that timeline.

Rev stepped out of the non-descript, windowless building that housed the project. It was getting to be early afternoon. His stomach growled to remind him he’d missed lunch, something that happened too often with his leading a double life.

“How long before my rehab?”

<Twenty-three minutes.>

Maybe I’ve got enough time to hit the speedline for chow.

He crossed the parking lot and entered the hospital through one of the back doors, making his way through the laundry and service halls before taking the elevator up to the main deck. The galley was in the back of the C-Wing, and from there, it was a quick trip up three decks to reach the Wounded Warrior Ward. He could stuff in a quick burger and make it in time for his social arm rehab.

He picked up the pace, banging his thigh with the arm. It still didn’t feel like “him,” as Bunny and his rehab team promised it would. His sense of touch really threw him off, but he was told that given time, his brain would be rewired to accept the arm’s impulses as his old organic sensory impulses. He’d never know the difference.

Rev didn’t know if he bought that. His prosthesis was still a hunk of metal—high-tech metal, to be sure, but it wasn’t his organic flesh-and-blood arm.

He turned down the passage to the galley, the smell of food hitting him hard. His stomach growled again, and he hurried forward. Just as he reached the door, Rafer lurched out in his mechanical gait, looking at the ground as he concentrated on each step. Rev felt a twinge of guilt for thinking poorly about his arm. Rafer was in a full body cage which bypassed his broken back to send signals to his legs. Healing a back took time, and Rafer would still be in rehab long after the rest of them were gone.

“Hey, Rafe. Anything good in there?”

Rafer looked up, saw Rev, and said, “Rev? You see your friends yet?”

“My friends?”

“Yeah, your team. They came by to see you.”

Food forgotten, Rev abandoned Rafer and shouted, “Thanks! I’ll see you upstairs,” as he bolted down to the emergency exit, ignoring the elevators.

He bounded up the stairs, taking them four at a time, and burst into the third deck. He ran down to the entrance of the ward and slammed open the door.

The nurse looked up, startled, then when she saw who it was, tilted her head to the right and said, “In the lounge.”

Rev rounded the nurses’ station to a wonderful sight. The entire team, from the staff sergeant to Yazzie, were sitting in the lounge chatting with Malaika, Bunny, and Copper.

“’Bout time you showed up,” Tomiko said, standing and coming over to give him a hug. “What, you just wandering around goofing off?”

“That’s me,” Rev said, surprised at how emotional he was getting. He reached up to wipe his eyes, which were getting a little teary. “When did you get back? How did you get here?”

“This morning,” the staff sergeant said as each Marine hugged him or slapped his back. “The lieutenant said we could come check on you. He caught us a ride on a Buzzard that was coming over here anyway. He and the top will come over later if they can.”

“Top? Which top?”

“Thapa. He picked up master sergeant while you’ve been goofing off,” Tomiko said. “Congrats on your sergeant,” she added, dramatically pointing at the chevrons on her own collar.”

“Hey, congrats to you, too. Same date of rank?”

“Yeah, but don’t worry, you’re still six spots senior to me.”

Hussein stepped forward and knocked his knuckles against Rev’s prosthesis. “Pretty cool. Can you do everything with it?”

“Not everything. I’ve got a couple more weeks before I’m checked out combat-ready with it.”

“Have you . . . you know? And how does it feel?”

“Have I what?”

“You know. Like when you’re lonely . . .”

“Damn, Hus-man! That’s perverted,” Nix said, rolling his eyes.

“What? Don’t tell me none of you’ve thought of it,” Hussein said defensively.

“Only you, Hus-man,” Tomiko said.

Rev wanted to change the subject and quickly. “So, what happened on Alafia? Mala here, she told me about the next few weeks after I . . . after I got hurt. But what else?”

“Nothing much to say. The battle broke their backs. Just some patrols rooting out the stragglers. One snatch mission. We’re getting replaced by the CRA in increments, and our turn came up. But that fight’s done,” Tomiko said. “Glad we’re home.”

“And our ninety-six starts tomorrow noon,” Strap said.

“Which is why we wanted to see you first,” Staff Sergeant Delacrie said. “Came to see if you need anything.”

<You’ve got ten minutes.>

“Shit, I’ve got rehab.”

“Blow them off,” Malaika said.

“I can do that?”

The concept had never occurred to Rev. A Marine went to where and when they were ordered.

“What do you think they’re going to do? Shave your head and send you back to boot camp? I’ll tell Doc Tyler something else came up.”

Rev hesitated. He wanted to stay with his team, but . . .

“Sit down and visit. I’ve got this,” Malaika insisted.

She’s right. What are they going to do to me?

“OK, if you don’t mind telling him, I think I’ll skip today.”

Malaika gave Rev a squeeze on his shoulder, then left to let rehab know.

“She seems nice,” Tomiko said in a neutral voice, which seemed a little odd to Rev.

But it didn’t matter. He was back with his team, even if only for a short while yet.

“Let’s sit back down. And I want to know everything that happened after I left. Everything!”

* * *

“And in breaking news, this just in from Titan. The Frisian Mantle ambassador to the Congress of Humanity, Tyk Rsbryster, has formally accused the Perseus Union of withholding vital intelligence pertaining to the ongoing war with the Centaurs. According to the ambassador, the Union has obtained the body of a Centaur and has kept that secret.”

Rev felt the blood freefall from his face. He refused to look at Tomiko, but he could feel her tense up beside him.

“I’m calling bullshit on that one,” Hussein said.

“You’re calling bullshit on what?” Nix asked.

“On that,” he said, pointing to the holoscreen, which had been on in the background.

Sergeant Nix turned around as the reporter continued with the story. All hands slowly stopped what they were doing to watch.

“No way we got a friggin’ Centaur. They self-destruct,” Hussein kept going.

“So far, they have. But even they can mess up,” Staff Sergeant Delacrie said.

Rev could barely concentrate as a panel of talking heads went on about the ramifications of the accusation. No one gave the claim itself any credence but rather thought it was politics as usual.

Hussein and Strap were full of comments, most anti-Frisian, accusing them of trying to maneuver for a post-Centaur galaxy—and ignoring the fact that the Centaurs were not only very much in the fight, but they also still had the upper hand.

“Hey, Rev, you’ve been quiet. What’s your take on all of this?” Strap asked.

Rev gave a quick look at Tomiko. She was as white as he felt. She gave him a pursed lip but said nothing.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled. “Probably like you said, though. Politics.”

“Ting-a-ling and his flight are good people, but their government. What a bunch of damn liars,” Yazzie said. “We can’t trust them. Once the Tin-asses are gone, the Fries will make a move, mark my words.”

Rev was happy to get out of the line of fire. He eased deeper into the overstuffed chair as if he could sink out of sight.

“Scan the net and see what else is being said.”

<I’m already on it.>

Rev wondered if the Frisians really knew anything or if they were just bluffing. If they did know something, then who leaked? One thing was for sure. He could expect an Omega Division agent to pay him a little visit soon. They’d want to know what, if anything, he might have said to anyone, say a certain Frisian blue-master who was in the platoon.

The charge nurse walked over from her station and sat down with them to watch the screen. She leaned forward as if to catch every word.

They all sat, mostly in silence, for another five minutes before the staff sergeant stood and said, “Well, we’ve got to get back down to the pad, or we’ll have a long walk back. And There’s a lot to do if we hope to make our ninety-six start-time. You take care here, Rev. And as I haven’t personally said it yet, congrats on your sergeant.”

“Hell, yeah!” Hussein said. “And don’t think that being in here’s gonna get you out of your wetting down. As soon as you get outta here, we’re on.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Geez, Rev. Don’t act too excited about it,” Nix said, slapping his right shoulder.

“Oh, no. I’m just . . .” he started, looking up at the screen.

“It’s just bullshit. Way above our pay grade.”

“Yeah, of course.”

Tomiko stood in front of him for a moment and said, “I’ll try to get over here during the ninety-six.”

“That’s a long way to come.”

“I think we need to talk about stuff.”

Rev could read an entire novel in that one sentence.

“See you then.”

One by one, each of the team shook his hand, and then they were gone. Malaika waited until they cleared out and sat down beside him.

“Some shit, huh? Accusing us of capturing a tin-ass?”

Which wasn’t quite what they were accusing the Union of doing, but Rev didn’t correct her.

“Think that’ll change things up? You know, with us as allies?”

“We still have the Centaurs to fight. The enemy of your enemy is my friend and all that.”

“I hope you’re right.”

So do I, Mala. So do I.

28

Rev couldn’t keep his eyes off his IBHU as three Sieben techs maneuvered it close. It looked . . . impressive. About fifty centimeters in diameter, it was huge, as big around as one of his thighs. Clad in subdued armor, it was a light-sucking black that simply screamed this is death, like a scorpion’s stinger.

But this thing’s stinger packed a little more punch. From the elbow forward, the top was the barrel of a .50 caliber slug thrower. Colonel Tolouse had told him the .50 cal might be temporary. The plan was to change that out for a 20mm cannon if the initial tests checked out.

Under the barrel was the main weapon of the gun, a braided energy cannon. This confused Rev when he’d been briefed on it. Centaurs were notoriously impervious to energy weapons, but this was something new, created from scratch using “chaos-physics.” All of the science talk went way over Rev’s head, but the crux of the matter was that this was an entirely new type of energy weapon that put out amazing amounts of power that were extremely difficult to phase and defend against, but the same chaotic aspects that made it so effective meant it attenuated quickly. The max effective range of the cannon was estimated to be fifty meters, which explained that limit when Rev was training on the simulator.

Fifty meters was rather close to be to a paladin or courser, but it also explained why the new cannon wasn’t just being placed on Marine tanks or mech. A tank would be too vulnerable to any Centaur if it had to get that close before it could fire. The platform has to be something extremely maneuverable that could dart back and forth to be able to target the most vulnerable spots on a Centaur—and what was more maneuverable than an individual Marine?

Beneath the main tube were two ports for either a Moray or Yellowjacket and three missile magazines. A slug-thrower, a super-blaster, and missiles. Those were a lethal three-punch delivery.

“Dock the IBHU,” one of the techs said as if he were bringing a shuttle into a ship. But the three guided the arm closer and into Rev’s waiting sleeve. It slipped in with an audible click and powered up.

Immediately, Rev felt a rush of . . . presence, was how he could describe it, even if that word didn’t do it justice. It was as if something about what made Rev Rev had been missing, and now it was there.

He instinctively flexed the arm, sending techs diving out of the way.

“Stay still, Sergeant,” Doctor Chakrabarti shouted as she rushed forward, grabbing the arm as if she could hold him. She might as well have been a kitten attacking an arm.

But Rev froze. It was easy to forget that this was not his original arm, and he could hurt someone if he was not careful.

“We need to run a circuit test first before you try to move it.”

“You got all green?”

<Affirmative. No anomalies.>

Rev was tempted to assure the doctor that everything checked out fine, but he knew she would want to check with her equipment, and if the two Mech Marines who were standing by the observers were any indication, some people were a little nervous about this test.

What, they think I’m going to go berserk? It’s a new arm, not a new brain.

But he stood patiently as the techs came back and ran their tests. Evidently, they had the same results as Punch because Rev was cleared.

“If you would approach the firing line, Sergeant,” the range SNCOIC, the staff non-commissioned officer in charge, told him.

Two of the techs flanked him as he stood up . . . and almost fell over. The IBHU was heavy. He’d been training with a dummy arm, but this was different. He had to wait a moment for the servos in his harness to adjust for the weight disparity between his left and right sides.

“OK, I’m ready,” he told the techs as he stepped forward.

Between his previous augments and the new ones, Rev could handle the weight of the arm and power pack on his back, but it was the same as when he lifted weights prior to being conscripted. His muscles could handle the weights, but they felt heavy, putting a strain on bones and joints. Multiply that feeling by twenty, and that’s how it felt now with the looming mass hanging over his head.

If he was ever supposed to be a super-maneuverable warrior, juking and jiving as he closed in with a Centaur, he was going to need a lot of practice. It wasn’t going to be as easy as he was led to believe.

When he reached the range firing line, the techs fell back as if they were afraid he’d detonate like a wounded Centaur. But Rev was too excited to feel offended. Whatever misgivings he had just felt were replaced with a feeling of raw power. It made no sense from a logical perspective, but being connected to his IBHU made it part of him. He felt like a modern-day Zeus, ready to throw lightning bolts at will.

“OK, Sergeant Pelletier. I want you to go through your motion progressions now,” Doctor Chakrabarti said over the range net.

Rev didn’t want to go through his progressions. He wanted to blow something up, and right there in front of him was a Centaur paladin mock-up. But with a sigh, he started his progressions. It was not much different than doing the Marine Corps Daily Seven, exercises designed to stretch and warm the body up before heading out on a run.

Then the doctor asked him to extend his hand. Rev grimaced. This was surprisingly the most difficult thing he’d done in the simulations. Rev wouldn’t always be running around, blasting Centaurs. Sometimes, he would just need two good hands, and his IBHU was equipped with one.

Sort of.

This wasn’t another social hand, essentially looking like his organic right hand. It was a skeletal framework with the only similarity to a real hand was that it had five appendages. He refused to call them fingers. From appearances, they looked like crosses between human finger bones and short octopus tentacles. Two could be opposable, and all of them could fuse together in any combination to make grasping clamps. One had a suite of sensors that could test and identify materials, currents, and frequencies.

The reason using the hand was so difficult was related to the arm itself, which was designed to act as if it were a part of his body. Aiming and firing one of the weapons was supposed to be as natural as pointing a finger at something.

The hand was not part of the same biosynth neural pathways but rather more common prosthetic designs, so Rev had to consciously move and control it. Added to the fact that this hand did far more and in different ways than his organic hand, it was pretty difficult for him to master.

He gave the command, and the hand emerged from its slot and deployed. It looked just like the simulation. With a sigh, Rev haltingly put it through its paces. Rev knew the hand would prove useful, but, for the moment, it was the bane of his existence.

Finally, they were done, and Rev stood in excited expectation. Too early, as it turned out.

“I want you to confirm that your weapons systems are disengaged,” the doctor told him.

“They are,” he said into his throat mic.

“Did you check them?”

“Check weapons system,” he told Punch.

<They’re disengaged.>

“Confirmed. My weapons are disengaged.”

He wanted to get on with it, but he had to grudgingly admit that maybe she was right. He had no Yellowjackets nor rounds in his magazines, but with the powerpack on his back, his beamer cannon was live, and firing it was not like physically pulling a trigger. It wasn’t quite controlled by his mind, but it wasn’t far off. It was basically him pointing at the target.

“I want you to draw on the tin-ass ahead of you.”

Tin-ass? You’ve been spending too much time with us Marines, Doc.

There was a small relay incorporated into the IBHU, so the doctor and all the brass could follow along and see what he did.

Nothing like being on display.

The first couple of times, the doctor left him alone to draw on the faux-Centaur. The IBHU moved like it was a part of him. It was as easy as pointing at something with his right arm. Maybe all the time spent in the simulator was paying off.

After ten minutes, the doctor transitioned to having her give Rev a signal, in this case, a tone. Rev waited, like Doc Holliday at the OK Corral, ready to draw. He didn’t ask Punch for his times, but he felt fast.

And then, Doctor Chakrabarti called for a break while the techs gave Rev a thorough check. They must have found nothing wrong because they turned and gave the doctor a thumb’s up.

Once they’d retreated, the doctor told the gathered observers that things were going well, and she was going to authorize a live test of the IBHU. Even forty meters behind him, Rev could feel the excitement level rise—and not just with them. Rev’s heartbeat jumped up as well.

Finally!

The range SNCOIC’s voice reverberated across the area. “Attention on Range 401. We are going hot.”

“Sergeant Pelletier, don’t worry about speed on this. We just want a clean shot,” the doctor passed.

“Ready on the right, ready on the left, ready on the firing line,” the SNCOIC announced.

There is no right or left. There’s just me.

“Shooter, you are cleared to fire.”

“Activate the weapons.”

<You are hot.>

Rev slowly raised the weapon and aimed at the target. He “thought” the impulse to fire, and with a blast, intertwined energy streams in a hodgepodge of frequencies lashed out, creating twinkling sparks of ionized air as the beams collided with each other.

The target broke into a thousand pieces, some shooting over a hundred meters in the air.

Rev stared at the destruction in awe.

“Holy crap!”

* * *

Rev leaned back in his seat as the van took him to the hospital. The others were in constant conversation, but he was in his own private cocoon, oblivious to everyone else.

The last hour had been a grunt’s wet dream. He’d fired his beam weapon twice more before shifting to the .50 cal, all the time turning little pieces of fake-Centaur into even smaller pieces. The observers had been beside themselves with excitement. The lieutenant general had returned, and he’d been so amped that he rushed out of the stands to congratulate him.

But no matter how excited they were, they couldn’t begin to feel how Rev experienced it. This was not like picking up a weapon and firing it, as much of a rush as that could be. Rev was the weapon. He’d been reaching out and destroying the target as if he were an ancient god.

He was powerful.

Not so much at the moment, he thought, as he looked down at his social arm. He slowly twisted the wrist, wiggling the fingers. He’d been amazed at it before, but now it was merely adequate.

A little less adequate than before, true. It was loose in the sleeve. Evidently, the stress his IBHU put on the sleeve had warped it a bit, and now his social arm did not have the same tight fit it had before. His old reliable Daryll promised Rev that he’d fix it after they got back from Camp Kamachi.

“So, what do you think?”

<Any of the three would be a good name.>

“That’s a wimpy answer.”

<I’m a wimpy battle buddy.>

Rev let out a quick chuckle. Punch’s sense of humor was developing. It wasn’t just the corny one-line jokes anymore. But underlying the humor, Punch was right. This was Rev’s show, and the final decision was his.

Which one?

As Rev left the range after all the backslapping and posing with the VIP observers, he knew he couldn’t keep referring to his new arm as his IBHU. It wasn’t fitting. After a conversation with Punch, he decided that he needed a name, something appropriate like the famous weapons in history and myth.

He’d briefly considered Excalibur, but that was too common and tropish. He had to ask Punch what Thor’s hammer was named—it was Mjölnir—but that didn’t have the right feel. It was on the right track, though. As the van reached the highway, he had a list of famous swords, which he started to whittle down. And now, five minutes from the hospital, which was his self-imposed deadline to decide on a name, he was down to three.

In Hindu mythology, Pashupatastra was the irresistible and most destructive personal weapon of Shiva and Kali. It could be discharged by the mind, the eyes, or the spoken word. It was so powerful that it was capable of destroying creation itself, so it was never to be used against lesser enemies or by lesser warriors. It might be difficult to say, but the imagery was powerful.

Durendal was the sword carried by Roland, the legendary paladin serving Charlemagne. Tradition had it that when Roland cut a huge gash in the rocks with one blow, it created Roland's Breach in the Pyrenees in the process. Not as amazing as Pashupatastra, possibly, but the paladin connection had its own irony.

Fragarach, according to Irish mythology, was the sword of Nuada, the first high king. The sword was forged by the gods and was meant to be wielded only by those who posed above the stone of destiny. Tradition held that if Fragarach was held at someone’s throat, they could neither move nor tell a lie. The sword also placed the wind at the user's command, it could cut through any shield or wall, and it inflicted wounds from which no man could recover.

As the hospital came into view, Rev had to make a decision. His new weapon/arm was too special, too personal, to just have a military designation like the M-49. Tankers named their tanks, so why couldn’t he do the same?

Durendal was not as powerful a sword as the other two, but using the sword for one kind of paladin to kill another was ironic and tickled Rev’s somewhat weird sense of humor.

Fragarach was a more powerful weapon, able to cut through a wall. A Centaur courser was not a wall, true, but Rev was fine with the analogy.

Pashupatastra was difficult to pronounce (he’d had to have Punch repeat it several times before it sunk in), but being able to be controlled through the mind? That was, in a very real way, his modus operandi now with the weapon.

<Two minutes before we enter the hospital grounds.>

“Don’t pressure me.”

But Rev had already decided. The controlling through the mind was just too close of an analogy.

“It’s Pashupatastra. But we can call it Pashu for short.”

29

Rev’s high didn’t last long. As he returned from the range, the charge nurse grabbed him and told him he had a visitor waiting in one of the admin offices.

“Do you know who it is? Someone from my Raider team?”

“All I got was the message. Probably some documents you have to sign or other admin BS.”

“OK, I’m on my way.”

Rev made his way to the H-wing where most of the administrative offices were. In some ways, the Union military was the epitome of a bureaucracy run wild, but it was just something to put up with. And some of it was really well-intentioned, such as the continual effort to certify next-of-kin and insurance data. With the high mortality rate, it made sense. It still was a pain in the butt, however.

Rev found the designated office and knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

He pushed it open. The office was bare, with a single desk and a chair placed in front of it. A grandfatherly looking man sat behind the desk, but his eyes were sharp and piercing, belying the rest of his appearance.

“Sit, Sergeant.”

Rev hesitated, unease rising, but he didn’t have much choice. He walked in and sat down.

“Thank you for coming.”

As if I had a choice.

“Are you Omega Division?” Rev asked, suddenly sure of it. He’d expected a visit after hearing about the Frisian accusation, but now that it looked like it was time, he could feel his panic rising.

<You haven’t done anything wrong. Get a hold of yourself. This is a routine investigation.>

“You don’t know the OD.”

“Why would you ask me that, Sergeant Pelletier?” the man asked in a calm voice.

Rev shrugged but didn’t answer.

The man said, “I would like to ask you some questions.”

And you didn’t answer mine.

That, more than anything else, merely confirmed that this man was Omega Division, and that made him the opposition. OD agents were all over the holovids, and rarely in a good light. Rev, like most citizens, didn’t know how much of how they were portrayed was true, but he was not happy that he was in this situation. Nothing good could come of it.

“Have you spoken to anyone about the Centaur body you and Sergeant Reiser discovered on Rohoer-104?”

Boy, he gets right to it.

“You don’t have to swear me in or something? Read me my rights?”

The agent smiled. “I don’t need to get you to swear to anything. The truth is the truth. As far as your rights, I’m merely asking you some questions. Surely, you, a Marine NCO, can’t object to that.”

Rev just stared at the man, trying to will his heart to slow down.

“So, I’ll ask again. Have you spoken to, or communicated in any way, with anyone about the Centaur body you found on Roher-104?”

<Just keep your answers to the point.>

“No, sir.”

“Hmm.” The man sat back in his chair, folded his hands, held them under his chin, and stared at Rev for a long moment over them. “I don’t think I really have to tell you that you shouldn’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying,” Rev said, his voice rising as the panic surged.

“I’ll ask you one more time. Have you spoken to, or communicated in any way, with anyone about the Centaur body you found on Roher-104?”

“No! I haven’t. You have to believe me.”

The man watched him, and Rev could almost feel the man’s eyes burn him like lasers.

“OK, then. Let me ask you this. Who is Hank?”

The question caught Rev off balance. “Who? Hank who?”

“That’s what I want you to tell me. You said you’ve never spoken to anyone about the Centaur body. Now I want to know who Hank is.”

“But I don’t know . . .”

But he did know, he suddenly realized. Hank was the name he and Tomiko had used to refer to the body. He felt his heart skip a beat.

“Have you spoken to Sergeant Reiser?”

“She is being interviewed now, yes.”

Then how the hell does he know about their nickname for the tin-ass?

And he does know. Rev’s mind raced as he tried to come up with an excuse, but if they knew about the name, then he couldn’t hide it.

“Hank was just a name Sergeant Reiser and I had for the body in case anyone was listening in.”

Like the Omega Division, it turns out.

“So, you have spoken about the Centaur to other people.”

“But she was there. The lieutenant, too. And then all the SeaBees. We were all together for a month. You know that.”

“I never differentiated in my question between those who were involved with the operation and those who weren’t. So, you have communicated with others.”

“When you put it that way, sir, yes.”

The agent was quiet for a moment and then said, “And that leads me to my next question. Have you communicated in any way with people other than those who were present during the operation about the Centaur body?”

“No,” Rev said forcefully.

He knew it wasn’t just the agent there deciding whether to believe him or not. There were sensors taking in everything about him now—his breathing, pulse, sweat, whatever they could use to indicate if he was telling the truth.

The agent said nothing. His throat was slightly twitching, indicating that he was probably subvocalizing with his AI. Most people wouldn’t pick up on that, but most people didn’t have Rev’s augmented eyesight.

Rev sat and waited. He was telling the truth, he knew, but still, he was nervous. Omega Division didn’t need the truth if they wanted to do something.

Finally, the agent pulled a small remote out of a pocket and pressed it. Immediately, Rev felt a . . . not a loss, but maybe a void?

“Punch?”

There wasn’t an answer.

“I’ve put your AI to sleep, Sergeant.” He opened a drawer, pulled out a small tablet, and attached a cable to it before standing and coming around to Rev. Rev stared warily at the cable, knowing that whatever the agent wanted to do, with Punch offline, there would be no witnesses.

“I’m going to conduct an II.”

Rev stood. An Invasive Interrogation was supposed to be only done by court order and in the most serious cases. It was essentially a brain dump. Most of what a jacked person had in their drives was supposed to be confidential, but no one really believed that. And that had been one reason that Rev had initially balked at getting jacked.

The agent looked up at Rev. “Really, son? Yes, with your augments, you can fight me. I wouldn’t last a second. But then what? You think you can stand up to the Union government?” When Rev said nothing, he continued. “I suggest you sit down and let me get this done. If you really are not the leak, then you have nothing to fear. I promise you that.”

Rev knew he was innocent. But to have his brain invaded? Everything he’d seen and said would be there. Maybe the thoughts themselves, but even with them, who knew what OD could do?

He thought that maybe he should try and get Colonel Tolouse involved. Surely the Marines didn’t want the project known by Omega Division. But then he realized that he wouldn’t have been allowed to even meet with the agent if the Marines could have fought it.

But he really had no choice. He couldn’t fight the entire government.

With a defeated sigh, he sunk back down to the seat, twisting his head to expose his jack. The agent nodded and fit an adapter to the end of the cable.

“It really is better this way,” the agent said, connecting his tablet. “I’m putting you out as this is going to take a while.”

Rev didn’t know anything about being put unconscious, and he started to protest before the office and agent faded away.

* * *

Rev slowly opened his eyes. The agent was behind the desk, his throat twitching as he made his notes. Rev felt fine, like he’d taken a quick nap.

“You there?”

Still nothing from Punch.

“So, am I under arrest?” Rev asked.

The agent looked up and said, “I have enough here to clear you of leaking the information to foreign powers. But there is still the fact that you continued to speak of the situation despite being told not to.”

Rev shook his head. He really didn’t care at this point, now that they knew he wasn’t a traitor. He might still get in trouble, but if they tried to punish him, maybe convert him to a Ninety-nine or give him a jail term, he thought the commandant might have something to say about that. There was always a degree of competition and distrust between Omega Division and the Navy and Corps, and he doubted the military would start fresh with the IBHU program.

He’d take his lumps, whatever they were, and move on.

“From now on, I suggest you retire ‘Hank’ and forget you ever knew him.”

Rev let out a breath of relief. Maybe he did care, after all.

“So, I’m done? I’m free to go?”

The agent took a moment, then said, “I know what you did with that sniper, Mason. I know you lied to your command.”

The relief Rev had felt was gone, and he could feel the blood rush from his face. He’d forgotten about that, and now it was out. The Marines might protect him from the OD, but he’d broken military protocol. He’d lied in an official statement. They’d crucify him. Only being busted to private would be the best possible outcome, and Doctor Chakrabarti and Colonel Tolouse would be powerless to intervene. He could be put in the brig, only brought out to fight. He could be . . . his mind raced with possibilities, none of them good.

“So . . . so what now, sir?” he barely managed to get out.

The agent shrugged. “I understand why you did what you did. And it’s commendable, in its own way. But you did file a false statement.”

Here it comes.

“Luckily for you, I am Division and not military, so I don’t give a flying fig about that.”

Rev looked up in shock, not believing his ears.

“I was Corps. Ten years in the Twenty-first Marines back before the war. A grunt. And taking care of our fellow Marines, that’s what we do, right?”

“Yes, sir,” Rev said, his voice cracking.

“So, I think we can keep that between us. It didn’t even make my report up the chain.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“No, thank you, Sergeant. I’d forgotten about the esprit de corps, the brotherhood, I’ve been out so long. You just reminded me of what it was like back in the day when I was in. I miss that. So, I’ve got what I need here. You’re free to go.”

Rev didn’t wait. He jumped to his feet and said, “Thank you, sir. Thank you.”

The agent, who’d never given his name, smiled and pulled out the remote. A moment later, Rev could almost feel Punch wake up.

<Are we going to jail?>

“No, we’re fine,” Rev said as he stepped out the door. He was grateful that the agent was letting him go, but he’d just as soon put as much distance as possible between them in case he changed his mind.

<What happened?>

“They found out I wasn’t a traitor. But they also found out about Sergeant Mason. You didn’t do a good enough job hiding that stuff.”

<I told you it wouldn’t stand up. So, what’s going to happen.>

“Nothing’s going to happen. The guy approved of what we did, and he’s not going to report it.”

For the first time since Rev had been implanted with his battle buddy, Punch was at a loss for words.

30

Rev reached for the coffee, his shoulder clicking. Daryll had tried to fix the sleeve, but with each day on the range, it was obvious that the entire sleeve had to be retrofitted to be able to stand up to the stressors. And with Rev now progressing to fire and maneuver instead of just standing on the range line, it was only getting worse.

Not that Rev wanted to take it easy. He was having a blast, no pun intended. He’d destroyed fake Centaur after fake Centaur, even after they’d been geared up to better mimic the real thing. True, he’d been “killed” more often than not, but that pendulum had begun to swing to favor him as he got more used to maneuvering and firing.

He sat back down to watch the holoscreen. Malaika had been released back to the regiment two days prior, and Copper had gone back to the Red Lions yesterday. The Wounded Warrior Ward was getting depleted.

“What did I miss?” he asked Bunny as he sat back down and handed her a cup. He’d only just found out she was a gunnery sergeant. That was one of the results of them all lounging around in sweats and Ts.

“Lamar suspects Titi now. He thinks she might be a spy.”

“Well, duh! About time.”

Rev was getting a little frustrated with the direction the writing was taking the show, but he’d started Season One with Malaika and Bunny, and he was damned if he wasn’t going to get to the end of it.

“You still goofing off, Sergeant?” a voice sounded from behind him.

Rev twisted to see Top Thapa walking into the lounge.

“Hey, Top! What brings you all the way out here?”

“Had to check up on my goldbricking Marine, so I caught a ride with Colonel Destafney.”

He rounded the couch and caught sight of Bunny, who was in shorts instead of sweats. As he reached down with his prosthetic arm, she twisted her legs just a bit, exposing the sides. Top clinked the outside of his wrist on the side of her knee as if they were toasting each other.

Top turned to Rev and reached out to him. Rev started to shake his hand when Bunny grabbed his arm and twisted it. Top then clinked again, this time his wrist to Rev’s wrist.

“He’s new to the life, and I haven’t shown him yet,” Bunny said.

Rev felt like he’d just been shown the secret handshake, and it confused him. He’d have to ask Bunny later.

“Top? This is Gunny—”

He suddenly realized he never knew her last name. She was Bunny, and Gunny Bunny wasn’t going to cut it.

“Analisa duLait,” Bunny said.

“Jack Thapa. I’ve got the misfortune of being this miscreant’s platoon sergeant.”

“I am what you trained me to be, Top. So, anything I’m not is on you.”

“Kids nowadays,” Bunny said with a laugh.

The top sat down beside Rev. “The lieutenant gives his regards. He’ll try to make it out here someday.”

“Then he’s going to miss me. I’m getting discharged on Friday.”

The top raised his eyebrows. “Friday? We were told it might still be weeks.”

“I convinced them to let me go.” He waved his social arm. “I’ve got this baby licked.”

“Convinced” was more like “blackmailed.” The accelerated plan, hatched by the doctor and Colonel Tolouse, was to transfer Rev to Second Raider Platoon at Camp Kamachi to start some more realistic training. Rev hadn’t exactly staged a sit-down strike, but he emphatically pointed out that he should train with his own team, thereby eliminating the need to build teamwork. That still wasn’t going anywhere until Lieutenant General Trejo weighed in during a conference call. Trejo was a mustang grunt, moving up the ladder from private to three stars, and he understood a grunt’s mentality.

So, over the objections of Doctor Chakrabarti and Colonel Tolouse, who would now have to move the shop to Nguyen, Rev was going back home.

Colonel Tolouse came around sooner than the good doctor when he realized it would be easier to keep Rev out of prying eyes back at Nguyen and Swansea than the larger Camp Kamachi and surrounding city of Anastasia.

“Good to hear. We’ll be glad to get you back.” The top paused a moment, eyes blankly looking at the holoscreen. “Rev, I know you’re raring to go, and you want to prove to everyone that you’re up to speed. But you need to pace yourself. You’ve got that great Rycroft arm and all, but you still need to adjust. And if you ever need someone just to talk to, I’m there.”

Rev held back a smile. He knew the top was trying to help, but he had no idea the transformations Rev had gone through. Not only did Rev not need time to get “back up to speed,” but he’d also already surpassed where he was before Alafia.

The top would almost certainly find out if his accelerated training kept to the plan, but for now, Rev wasn’t at liberty to tell him anything.

Still, he appreciated the thought, and he knew when it was time, he’d welcome the opportunity. There were still things Rev hadn’t come to grips with, such as killing fellow humans. The minute he brought that up within an official channel, people would have a panic attack for having given a super-weapon to a confused young man. He knew in his heart that the top wouldn’t turn on him.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Top. Anyway, how’ve things been going? We going to get a real team leader anytime soon?”

Not that Rev really wanted to break in a new lieutenant, and Staff Sergeant Delacrie was getting better, but sometimes having an officer around helped grease the skids.

“Not likely, at least not that I’ve heard. I told the lieutenant that I’d be happy to take over, but he wants me as the platoon sergeant.”

Rev hadn’t considered that, but now that the top had mentioned it, he could certainly get on board with it. No dis on Delacrie, but the top had more knowledge on fighting in his little finger than Delacrie had in his entire body. He knew more than Delacrie and Rev combined.

“Other than that, same-old, same-old. Got the problems with the Fries, of course.”

“What problems?”

“You haven’t heard? They think we have some Centaur prisoners.”

Rev kept a straight face. Last he heard, the accusation was that they had a body, singular. The one he and Tomiko had found.

“Yeah, but that’s all talk. How does that affect Ting-a-ling and his crew?”

“Lots of people think they shouldn’t be with us. Like they’re spies or some shit.”

“But they’re good people,” Rev protested.

“I know that, and you know that. But not everyone’s so accepting.”

“You’re serving with Fries?” Bunny asked. She’d been quiet, letting the two talk, but that evidently piqued her interest.

“Yeah. One of our teams is a Host flight, as they call it.”

“I’ve heard they’re pretty good fighters.”

“They’ve done their fair share with us. Bled with us,” the top said.

“Can’t ask for more than that,” Bunny said.

When Rev heard about the accusation, all he’d really thought about was if anything was going to come down on his, Tomiko’s, or the lieutenant’s head. He hadn’t considered how it might affect the sixty or so Frisians still with the regiment.

“Maybe it’ll all blow over and nothing will come of it,” the top said, stretching out his legs. “Oh, before I forget, the lieutenant wanted me to say you’ve been put in for an HSM.”

Rev shrugged. The Humane Service Medal was given to Marines or sailors who exhibited bravery while saving someone’s life. Evidently, saving Kat filled that description. But Rev was somewhat soured on medals. His own Platinum Nova had been yanked from him for political reasons, and his and Tomiko’s Silver Novas had been buried for security reasons. This medal really wasn’t much in the grand scheme of things.

Master Sergeant Thapa’s eyes finally seemed to register what was on the screen. “What season is this?”

“What are we at, Rev? Four?” Bunny asked.

“Yeah, four.”

“I only got up to Season Three. Mind if I hang out here until the colonel heads back?”

“Let me get you a coffee, Top,” Rev said.

“And I’ll catch you up,” Bunny said eagerly. “You see, Lamar left Heartland Station. You got that far, right? Well, what they didn’t know was . . .”

* * *

Rev’s training the next day was canceled. At first, Rev thought it was punishment for forcing the issue about going back to Nguyen, but then he realized that Doctor Chakrabarti was too centered on the project to get that petty. When Daryll told him that she was already moving to Nguyen, he decided to take it at face value.

But that left him with nothing to do and no one to do nothing with. Bunny and the rest were in rehab or at appointments, and he wasn’t in the mood to turn on the holo screen. He chatted up Lieutenant (JG) Wosley, the duty nurse, for fifteen minutes until he realized he was keeping her from her work. Then, with nothing else to do, he started wandering the halls.

There were no rules about keeping to the ward, but as a practical matter, the patients were either there, at the galley, at the hospital store, or at their appointments. But Rev was bored, and he realized that he really hadn’t seen much of the hospital. No one gave him a second look. With his hospital sweats and T, coupled with his social arm, he was just one more patient. He stopped to read the posters that lined the passages, most with hints on keeping healthy. Some were more interesting. The holograms of military life on the planet since the initial landing were fascinating. There were even some of Swansea when it was little more than a dozen temporary barracks. He took time with that one, trying to identify where things now stood based on terrain features.

More interesting were the plaques dedicated to Platinum Nova awardees, as well as corpsmen or other medical staff who earned Gold and Silver Novas. These were some real heroes, and they made Rev feel a little guilty for resenting the fact that his Platinum Nova had been quashed. He’d been lucky and just did what he did to survive. Some of these corpsmen so honored braced certain death to treat the Marines in their charge.

He just finished reading about a corpsman who was posthumously awarded the Platinum Nova on Breaker’s World and turned the corner to see a closed ward, a single letter F above the door.

Technically part of the Wounded Warrior Battalion, it was nevertheless kept separated from the Wounded Warrior Ward. These were the Marines and sailors who needed long-term care and therapy—or permanent hospice care beyond a Marine or Navy House. Those people had the ability to take care of some of their needs. Ward F hospice patients didn’t have that ability.

Rev gulped. He believed in science. He was a rational being. But traditionally, Marines tended not to talk about the severely wounded as if mentioning them would remind the gods of war that they’d been lucky so far. No one wanted to catch the gods’ attention if they could help it.

Still, he was curious. He walked up to the glass and looked inside. There was the nurses’ station, just as in his ward. An empty lounge was off to the side, and rooms stretched out down a passage behind the station.

Above the lone nurse was a board with names on it. It looked like a schedule of sorts. Rev glanced at the names when one caught his eye, and his heart jumped.

Mason | Pace | 1300

Mason was the patient, Pace was the nurse, and 1300 the time for whatever was supposed to take place.

Could it be? Mason is a pretty common name after all.

“Is that Sergeant Mason? Our Sergeant Mason?”

<I’m not allowed access to any patient information.>

Rev stared at the name. It couldn’t be, right? He’d been told that the sniper wasn’t going to make it. Too much brain matter had been lost.

But . . .

Without thinking, Rev pushed open the doors and walked up to the duty nurse.

“Can I help you?” the nurse asked.

“Yes, I hope so. Is that Sergeant . . .”

He couldn’t remember Mason’s first name.

<Yuri.> Punch prompted.

“. . . Yuri Mason? A sniper. From Eighth Marines?”

The nurse’s eyes narrowed, and he asked, “Who wants to know?”

“I’m Sergeant Pelletier,” Rev said, holding up the hospital ID snapped to his waistband. “I was his spotter when he . . . when he got shot.”

The nurse’s eyes softened. “I’m not supposed to release that kind of information to anyone other than his command or family. You’re not family, are you?”

Rev sighed, then the nurse asked, “Any kind of family? Anything at all?”

Is he trying to give me a hint?

They say that the Corps is family, right?

“Yes, I am! We’re brothers . . .”

. . . in arms.

“Good enough for me. Yes, Yuri’s in Room 1408.”

“Thanks!”

The nurse reached over the station counter and grabbed Rev by the arm. He looked over his shoulder as if searching for someone who could overhear him. “Yuri’s in bad shape. His memory . . . not much is there. Maybe, if you see him, that could give it a little boost. If you can talk to him, who knows? But I’m going to be watching the monitor. If he starts to get agitated, I want you to stop and leave. Understand?”

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

“And one more thing. Family or not, no one hears of this, right?”

“Right.”

Rev could feel the nurse’s eyes on him as he walked down the passage, stopping in front of 1408. The tag on the door said “Mason, Y.”

He took a deep breath and pushed the door open. Sergeant Mason was sitting in an easy chair beside his bed, a red robe over his hospital sweats. He turned at Rev’s entrance.

Rev stopped. Mason’s dull right eye looked out from a face that eclipsed Colonel Destafney’s. And where the colonel’s followed the contours of a normal skull, Mason’s did not. The metallic shell was depressed where the sergeant’s left side of his skull should be.

Around his neck was a piece of parachute cord, a single round hanging from it. His Hog’s Tooth.

“Sergeant Mason, do you remember me?”

There was no comprehension behind the Marine’s single remaining eye.

“It’s me, Sergeant Pelletier. I was Corporal Pelletier then. I was your—”

“My spotter. I remember you,” he said with slow, separated words as if speaking took an enormous amount of energy.

Does he remember what happened?

Suddenly, Rev thought this might be a bad idea. He’d falsified records, after all. He’d dodged one bullet with the Omega Division agent, but was this tempting fate?

“I remember you. I remember being in the hide. I . . .” He paused for a good twenty seconds, slowly breathing in and out. “I don’t remember after that.”

Am I a shit for being thankful for that?

“They say I killed an Angel shit sniper just before he got me. Is that what really happened?”

“You’re a Hog, right?” Rev said, pointing at the round. “That tells the story.”

“But what happened? Why can’t I remember?”

Because you were already dead when I took her out.

“I want to remember,” he said, his voice rising in pitch.

Rev looked at the cam covering the room, almost expecting to hear the nurse running down to pull him out.

“It was like they told you. You saw the sniper at the same time she saw you. Only you were quicker. You nailed her first before her round nicked you.”

“Nicked.” That’s a freakin’ understatement. She killed you.

“That’s pretty much it. And now you’re a hog. Not many of you, and you should be proud.”

At the mention of “hog,” Mason looked down, took his Hog’s Tooth in his hand, and stared at it. A smile, untouched and completely normal, spread across the otherwise mangled face. Rev could see the tension leave the body.

Rev moved closer and put his left hand on Mason’s arm. “Look. From what we could tell, the sniper was about to take me out. You reacted, and she had to shift her aim to you. You saved my life.”

Which was complete bullshit. He just blurted it out.

“I did?”

“Yeah, you did. And I wanted to thank you.”

Mason looked up from his Hog’s Tooth and stared at Rev.

“Not only that. A couple of days later, I saved a girl. A little girl. If you hadn’t saved me, I wouldn’t have been around. So, you saved her life, too.”

That seemed to register, and he said, “Only doing my duty.”

“I know. That’s all we can do.”

Rev spent the next hour sitting beside Mason, chatting about inconsequentials. Mason’s memory of the far past was much clearer. His voice started slurring more, and he was more halting, but he recalled details of his time as a child in much greater clarity than Rev could. Several times, he had Rev laughing at some childish exploit.

Rev was surprised when the nurse popped his head in and said, “Sergeant, Yuri’s doctor’ll be here in fifteen minutes. It might be better if you were already gone.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure,” Rev said, standing up.

Before he could step away, Mason grabbed his left arm and weakly brought his hand to clink on the metallic side of his face. This Brothers and Sisters of Steel thing, as Bunny called it the night before, tugged at Rev’s heart. The Corps was a tribe, but the Brothers and Sisters of Steel was a tribe within a tribe, and both Rev and Mason were connected because of it.

“Take care of yourself, Hog,” Rev said before stepping away.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” the nurse said as Rev stepped through the door.

Rev had been surprised when he saw Mason’s name, and for a moment, he’d been selfishly afraid that his lie would get out. When he saw Mason, when he heard the sergeant struggle to speak, he pitied the man, wondering if a life like that was worth living.

But after listening to the sergeant tell stories, listening to the joy he’d had in his life, he forgot that Mason was still severely disabled to the point that he might never totally recover. He was just a fellow Marine. That’s all.

He sauntered back down the passage, a slight spring in his step. The world seemed just a bit brighter than it had a few hours ago.

31

Rev was home. Not his parent’s house, but his home. He walked into the barracks and turned left into the wing that served as the Raider and Recon office spaces. He’d intended to check in with the top and the lieutenant, but instead, he opened the hatch into the tiny closet that acted as the First Team office.

“Well, I’ll be damned. ’Bout time you decided to show up,” Tomiko said from where she was sitting with Yazzie.

“Shouldn’t you be out in the field training to kill tin-asses?” Rev asked.

“Don’t need no training,” Yazzie said. “We know how to do it.”

“Come here,” Tomiko said, standing up and giving Rev a hug. “I’m only gonna say this once, so don’t throw it back on me. I missed you, Big Guy. Even if you’re gonna take the element back from me.”

“Don’t be too sure about that,” Rev said. “I think you need to stay as the element leader.”

“What? You know something? Is Delacrie leaving? But if he leaves, then Nix is still senior to you.”

Rev already knew that his mission was a live proof of concept mission, and that was his focus. It felt weird, but he had to accept that he was the package now, and the team—the entire platoon—was his security. He wasn’t just another member of the team.

He couldn’t say that, however . . . yet.

“Nah. I’ve just been out of the loop. Better for you to keep charge.”

“But you’re senior to me,” she said cautiously.

“Only because Pelletier comes before Reiser alphabetically. Besides, it’s not like we’re a real element with Delacrie acting Team leader.”

“You sure about this?”

Does she suspect something? She’s a pretty astute cookie.

“Well, if you don’t think you can handle T2 and me . . .”

“Eat me. Just be prepared for all the shit duties me and T2 have been doing while you’ve been lounging around on your ass taking it easy.”

“Does that mean I get to tell—” Yazzie started to say before Rev and Tomiko cut her off with a resounding, “No!”

“You may have picked up Lance Coolie, but you’re still the boot, T2,” Rev said.

“If I was in the grunts, it would be different,” she grumbled.

“But you’re a Raider, not a grunt.”

“Hey, let me look at that thing,” Tomiko said, reaching out for his social arm. “With Hus-man grabbing all the attention back at the hospital, I never really got the chance to check it out.”

Rev hesitated a moment, and then felt embarrassed about that. There was nothing to be ashamed of. He held out his hand, and Tomiko put her left one as if shaking his, her right hand on top.

“Why the silver instead of skin. You and the top, both?” Yazzie asked as she moved forward to touch his arm, too.

Rev shrugged and didn’t answer. They weren’t Sisters in Steel, and he didn’t want to discuss it. Maybe with Tomiko later, but not with Yazzie there.

“Military issue,” he said as the hatch opened and the staff sergeant entered.

“Oh, Pelletier. Welcome back.”

“Thanks,” Rev said, taking Delacrie’s proffered hand. “Good to get out of that hospital.”

“What’s your status? You on light duty?”

“No. Full duty. Lean, mean, and green, ready to go.”

“Good. I was just with the lieutenant, and he said we’ve got some sort of special mission coming up. Don’t know exactly what, but it’s going to take all hands. You’ll be acting element leader again, so I want you to get up to speed as soon as you can.”

Tomiko started to open her mouth, but Rev nudged her to tamp that down. Things would be clear soon enough, and he wasn’t about to hem and haw around the acting team leader.

“Have you seen top and the lieutenant yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Get that done, then do whatever you’ve got to do for the rest of the day. Be sure to hit the armory and get a new M-49. We’re going to the range bright and early in the morning.”

Rev had to fight to hold back a smile. An M-49 was no longer his primary weapon. He had a few things with just a tiny bit bigger boom, now.

“I’m on my way,” Rev said as he stepped for the door.

“Hey! The club tonight. I’ll get everyone else together. You still owe us a wetting down,” Tomiko told him.

“I didn’t get to go to your wetting down.”

“You snooze, you lose. You still owe us.”

Rev raised a hand in surrender. “Get everyone, not just the team. If I’m buying, I might as well go bankrupt doing it.”

* * *

“Infantry in the house! Order up some more pitchers.”

Cricket, Orpheus, Yancy, and Dyce Stewart swaggered in. Rev tried to catch Tomiko’s eyes, but she was deep in conversation with Yazzie. When Rev told her to get everyone, he meant the teams and their DC crew. Dyce was a friend of Cricket’s, and if everyone brought a friend, maybe he would go bankrupt before the night was over.

Hell, he’s a good guy. No harm, no foul.

He stood to give them all a high five, but Cricket grabbed Yancy and pulled down his arm.

“No way, Yance! Left-handed.” He held his left hand high, waiting for Rev. “Just don’t break my hand with that robot arm of yours.”

With a laugh, Rev gave him the high-five, then he had to go around the table as everyone wanted in. Leave it to Cricket to break the ice. The others had been surreptitiously eyeing his arm, and Bundy had asked a few questions, but that was about it. Now, after high-fiving everyone, his arm was fair game. Rev spent the next five minutes telling them about its capabilities and his training, and then he had to go on display. As the host of the gathering, he was supposed to personally pour the first beer for each person, and they all insisted that he pour the four newcomers with his social arm. That wasn’t good enough, though. He then had to top off everyone else.

Rev wasn’t as skilled with his arm as he’d like to be—too much time training with Pashu, not that he’d have that any different—and he was afraid he was going to spill something, and that was suddenly important to him.

Luckily, he made it through each stein, and he got a round of applause. Inordinately pleased with himself, he sat back down.

“Thanks for inviting us,” Ting-a-ling said, moving to sit next to him.

“You’re part of the platoon. Why wouldn’t I?”

“You know . . .”

Rev did know, but he refused to acknowledge it. It was bullshit, as far as he was concerned.

The Frisians were taken off the training schedule, their weapons locked in the armory. They weren’t under arrest or anything like that, but it was made perfectly clear that they were essentially, and supposedly temporarily, grounded.

“I know that you’ve bled with us, and that makes us brothers. That’s what I know.”

“Still, not everyone’s of the same mindset.”

“Screw them. Politicians, shit. All of them. Yours and ours.”

“Yeah, screw them. Still, thanks for the invite.” He pointed at Rev’s arm and said, “You’re pretty good with that.”

“Getting there.”

“I like how you all go for broke with that metal-look.”

“What do you guys do?”

“Well, most of us go through regen.”

That surprised Rev, and he wasn’t sure why. He knew the Union military’s policy on regen for Marines, sailors, and CRA troops was just that, policy, not hard and fast regulations. But because of that, he never considered that anyone else would put the needs of the soldier first—especially the Host, which most Marines considered a sort of faceless hive-military, where individuality was subsumed.

“We’ll get regen, too,” he said, almost defensively. “Just after the war.”

“No. Don’t take me wrong. I think it’s kinda cool. And I know an engineer. He lost an arm, and the regen wouldn’t take. They gave him a prosthesis and let him stay in the Host. Most of it looked like a normal arm, but he could take off the hand if he wanted, and they hooked him up with a bunch of attachments. Tools and stuff, you know. Stippy-do. If they gave me fake arms, I’d want them to goose it up, you know. Give me a 30mm cannon on one, a Tessid launcher with the other. Pow, pow,” he said, miming using both arms to kill imaginary Centaurs. “Why not go all the way.”

Rev almost choked on his beer, and he turned to stare at the Frisian blue-master.

Does he know something?

But Ting-a-ling was laughing, and others were joining in with more and more outlandish applications for a prosthetic arm. One made Rev blush—of course, that was Tomiko’s suggestion—and others went well into fantasy and science fiction. Rev kept watching the blue-master, but he was in on the fun, and it didn’t look like he was hinting at anything.

“Keep a recording of all of this.”

<Will do.>

Rev didn’t know what prompted that. Maybe it was just an abundance of caution, a better safe than sorry. Or maybe, he wanted some deniability if it came to it. He’d escaped the Omega Division once unscathed, but that didn’t mean he’d do so again.

“Do you think he knows something?”

<I don’t have access to his bios, but from the visible signs, he doesn’t seem to be hiding anything.>

“Visible signs? What visible signs?”

<His pulse, which I can see from his throat. His breathing. Eye dilation. His gaze. These are all examples that can be indicative of his mental and emotional state of mind.>

Rev sat there in silence for a moment. Punch could do all of that? He was Rev’s private lie detector? He was going to have to give that more thought, but Tomiko gave him an elbow in the ribs as Cricket was up and miming something anatomically impossible to everyone’s laughter.

Rev joined in, more as camouflage than anything else. He didn’t think Ting-a-ling knew anything about Pashu, and he trusted the Frisian with his life, but what with all the “they’ve got a Centaur” controversy, and despite what he’d just said a few minutes ago about being brothers-in-arms, he had to keep in mind the fact they were not Union.

“We’re running low on brewskis,” Strap said, holding up an empty pitcher. “I love drinking sergeant-beer. Much, much better.”

Whatever Ting-a-ling or the other Frisians knew, it was out of his hands. He punched in another five pitchers, ignoring the charge. If he was paying for this shindig, he might as well make it epic. You only made sergeant once, after all.

32

Rev sat in a windowless van in a remote range in the foothills, a range guarded by heavily armed MPs. Daryll was running a diagnostic check on Pashu.

“Will my blood-alcohol content show up on Daryll’s stuff?”

<I can’t say for sure, but probably not. Besides, you’re only at a 0.001 now.>

“Tell that to my head.”

<I am in your head.>

“Very funny.”

<Really? That was funny?>

“No, Punch, it wasn’t. That was sarcasm.”

<OK, I’ve filed that away for reference.>

“You’re good to go, Rev. Break a leg,” Daryll said, pulling the cable from the jack on Pashu, not the one in his neck.

Rev stood up from the chair. It looked like it had been filched from a dentist’s office, but it was good enough for government work. Daryll had assured him that a better donning system was being developed, but for the moment, it was the chair and hoist crammed in the back of a commercial trailer.

He extended Pashu, twisting it at the shoulder. It moved smoothly, without a hitch. It still amazed him that it reacted to his thought as good, if not better, than his right arm.

“Let’s do it.”

He stepped out the back of the trailer and slipped behind it where Major Jewell, one of Colonel Tolouse’s staff, stood waiting.

She touched her ear and whispered, “He’s ready.”

Not too quiet for Rev not to hear. People seemed to focus on Pashu, forgetting that he’d had quite a few augments done before this project. He had a feeling that might come in handy sometime, so he wasn’t running around reminding them. Already, he knew that the good major was having an affair with a Navy captain. Not that he cared about what two adults did behind closed doors, but maybe some little tidbit would pop up about which he did care.

The major held up her hand against his chest while she listened. “The colonel’s going to speak first, then you’re hot.”

There were some bleachers fifty meters in front of the trailer where the Raider Platoon, Colonel Destafney, Lieutenant General Locklear Begay, the commanding general of the Safe Harbor Marine Force, and Lieutenant General Trejo, the HQ general who’d been monitoring Rev and who’d allowed Rev to come back to Camp Nguyen, were seated. No one else.

Doctor Chakrabarti and her staff were off to the side of the bleachers. The doctor looked like she was alternating between a nervous breakdown and absolute pride.

“General Trejo, General Begay, Colonel Destafney, Marines and sailors of the First Raider Platoon,” Colonel Tolouse said as he walked to stand in front of the bleachers. “While the general officers are aware of why we’re here, it’s time to reveal to Colonel Destafney and the Raider Platoon your next mission. So, without further ado . . .”

The colonel stepped back with a dramatic sweep of his arm to encompass the remote range. Rev started forward, but the major put her hand against his chest again.

Colonel Tolouse stood there for a moment, and Rev heard Jewell say, “I told them to go . . . yes, sir. It’s . . . it’s coming now.”

From the left side of the range, a paladin emerged, and the eyes in the stands craned to take it in. Rev leaned over, trying to see through the stands. He had to admit, the colonel’s team had done a pretty amazing job. The “paladin” looked pretty good—if you ignored the fact that it had wheels instead of articulated legs—far better than the mock-ups used in routine training. The pedestal was deployed, and the beamer searching for a target as it moved across the range, 150 meters out.

The major waited until the paladin was a third of the way across when she removed her hand and said, “Go!”

Rev took a deep breath, then started sprinting forward, praying he wasn’t going to trip and land on his face. He’d only done this three times before and never in front of someone new. He bolted between the doctor and her staff—with her beaming like a proud mother—and the bleachers. A collective gasp rang, then a few shouts, but he tuned everything out. His mission was that hunk of machinery in front of him.

As he passed the colonel, the paladin picked him up, and the pedestal started tracking him. The paladin was programmed to defend itself, and the beamer was active. It might be shooting what amounted to hi-tech paintballs, and Doctor Chakrabarti had convinced the colonel to slow down the paladin by fifteen percent, but this was a real test. Rev had failed the first two times, and the third was essentially a draw.

He was not going to fail this time.

Rev had a grid implanted in his vision, which centered on the pedestal. The grid helped him determine the thing’s aim, and Punch helped monitor it for him.

<Now, left!>

Rev dodged, pushing with his legs to change direction. He had a lot of mass to shift, and his legs screamed as he pushed them to his limit. The paladin fired, but Rev was already out of the cone, and the paintball flew harmlessly by.

Now Rev increased his straight-line speed, not at the paladin, but at an angle to its rear. The pedestal started traversing again, but with Rev’s speed, that allowed him to stay ahead for almost three seconds. Rev could cover a lot of ground in three seconds, and he closed the distance.

Not close enough, though. He was still too far.

<Right!>

He conjured up Coach Kirkpatrick, his secondary school flipball coach, and his flop and roll drills. Rev planted his left leg, flung Pashu across his body, and darted back through the paladin’s line of fire. He went low, rolling once before coming to his feet in one smooth move. Rev wasn’t a fan of the maneuver, but the numbers types assured him that by going low, he was increasing his chances of success by fourteen percent. It hadn’t worked the first time. He’d stumbled getting back to his feet, Pashu’s mass throwing him off balance, and gotten nailed.

This time, by some miracle, he was back on his feet and charging. He hadn’t seen if the paladin fired, but it didn’t matter. He had to get within range.

The paladin started accelerating away. Even at eighty-five percent, the AI had correctly determined that it needed to create distance between them.

Seventy meters. I need fifty!

Rev strained, his mouth open as he gulped air to fuel his muscles. His joints jolted with each step, Pashu ramming down on his shoulder as each foot hit the ground. His harness tightened around his chest as they strained to keep Pashu and him in one piece.

“Let me know when I can fire,” he shouted aloud.

He gained with each stride, but the paladin kept the gains in check as it brought around the pedestal to take Rev out.

<Left.>

Which would bring Rev behind the paladin. But he didn’t argue. He pushed off with his right foot, moving him farther away from the beamer’s aim. And it bought him a few precious seconds.

<Sixty meters.>

The paladin started to turn to protect its rear, which had less armor. Normally, it would have been a good move, but Rev didn’t want the rear. He wasn’t firing a Moray or Yellowjacket. He wanted one of the two heat-exchanger ports, either the one on the starboard side or the one on the port side.

And by turning, the paladin was letting him close the distance.

But turning also brought around the beamer quicker. The grid was still locked on as it kept calculating the point-of-aim. It flashed red, meaning Rev was about to be dead meat. Still, nothing from Punch. He wanted to fire, but he knew he had to trust his battle buddy.

The flashing red went steady, just as Punch said, <Fire.>

Rev was running, jolting his arm. It didn’t matter. He might as well have just thought of firing, it was that easy. Pashu came up and fired, and this wasn’t a training round.

The intertwined strings of energy twisted and sparked as they covered the distance in a pico-second, and the paladin exploded in a fiery ball of flame that shot thirty meters into the air. The concussion wave hit Rev hard, but it was a glorious feeling, a wondrous feeling. Debris rained down in seemingly slow motion . . . until Rev had to dodge to keep from getting hit by two wheels that bounced by.

Brought back to reality, he slowly turned to face the bleachers, where his entire platoon was on their feet, jumping up and down and screaming like fans at a platinum-rock concert.

* * *

“Nice of you to keep me out of the loop,” Tomiko whispered. She’d claimed a spot next to him with Yazzie claiming the other. He was the next bright and shiny thing, and being in their element, they were taking ownership.

Doctor Chakrabarti was debriefing the observers on a portable easel, but from the looks of it, not many of his platoon, at least, were paying much attention. They’d seen Rev run up with a BFG—a Big Fucking Gun—and the paladin go boom. That pretty much explained the situation.

Sure, Colonel Tolouse had rigged the paladin with a little extra explosive for effect, but that didn’t matter. They’d just seen that a Marine Raider could take on, face-to-face, a paladin and defeat it. Maybe it was a TS-40 chassis with a paladin shell on top, maybe it was shooting paintballs, and maybe it was operating at eighty-five percent, but the mere potential . . .

Colonel Destafney was listening intently. Unlike the two generals, this was the first he’d heard about the project, and unlike the platoon, he wasn’t taking a dog-and-pony show at face value.

He interrupted the doctor with, “That’s all well and good to be able to get to fifty meters. With training, I think we could develop the techniques. But tin-asses are remarkably resilient to energy weapons. What makes you think that this braided beam weapon will be any different?”

Colonel Tolouse motioned to the Krueger rep. Krueger was a weapons company, a subsidiary of Sieben.

“I’m Doctor Willinghouse, and I’m the project head for the cannon at Kreuger.”

He must have known the question would pop up, and he was prepared. He downloaded his brief into the easel and turned to the observers.

“The BEC-1 is the first practical application of chaos-physics, as I’m sure you are aware.”

OK, maybe he isn’t as prepared, Rev thought, seeing all the blank faces.

But the rest of his little brief was slick, professional, and best of all, you didn’t need to have five PhDs to understand it. Rev wished he’d seen it before instead of having it explained in terms he didn’t understand. In this case, the animation was really helpful.

If Rev now had it right, Pashu’s beamer didn’t have one projector but rather twenty-one in the nozzle. A random generator created beams of energy at different strengths and different wavelengths, pushing them out through the projectors. Not only were they all different, but they each changed every three microseconds.

As the beams shot forward, they were attracted to each other, creating a “bending” that twisted them around each other, hence the “braiding.” As they braided, they bounced against each other, which sent off tiny tendrils (and created the sparks visible to the naked eye), which further changed the nature of each beam.

With so much going on, it was nigh on impossible—theoretically—for a Centaur to counteract them all. Throw even more power, and they’d created a BFG—Doctor Willinghouse used the Marine term with more than a little glee.

Of course, those little tendrils bled the power of the combined beam and caused beam dispersion, which was the reason the range was so short, especially in any kind of atmosphere. But that limited range was more than compensated by the immense punch.

Again, theoretically.

And that was why all of them had been gathered. It was time to prove the theory.

Colonel Tolouse took the easel again and put up an image of Rev attacking a paladin. Arrayed around him were Marines.

“Hell, you look pretty studly in that,” Tomiko whispered.

“This is what you’re going to be doing. Sergeant Pelletier will be testing the IBHU against a live target. First Raider platoon will be tasked as his security detail to get him to the objective, then get him back.”

“And where will this be taking place. I don’t suppose you’ve got a paladin stashed away somewhere.”

“Maybe the Frisians think we do, but no, unfortunately,” the colonel said, eliciting a nice chuckle from the Marines in the bleachers. “No, we don’t have a pet tin-ass. But we do have a few who are, shall we say, stuck somewhere. We know where they are, and we’ve kept back from them for just such a need.

“But for now, your mission is to put together an op order, then rehearse the living shit out of it.”

There was a low murmur of voices, and Colonel Tolouse waited for it to calm down.

“And you don’t have much time to get this done. You’ll be deploying in six days.”

33

<Right!>

Rev planted his left foot, pushing him to the right as the riever reacted, spinning around.

You’ve got this, Reverent. Just a few more seconds . . .

<Sixty meters.>

Rev wasn’t sure why he couldn’t just fire. The rievers were quicker targets, but they didn’t have the armor of the paladins or coursers. But he was told he needed fifty-five meters before engaging, which was coincidentally—or not so coincidentally—about five meters beyond the Effective Casualty Radius of a Centaur’s shredder anti-personnel weapon.

The riever reversed the spin, darting to the left, which served to bring its pedestal around quicker.

No problem. Rev could reverse as well, dodging to the left and closing the distance in two steps before the Centaur could fire. He stuck out his right foot, and his heel skidded on a spot of loose ground. Pashu’s mass wasn’t a help as he flailed to keep his balance, but he fought through it—just in time for the riever to fire. An instant later, red paint exploded against his chest.

Crap!

“Endex, endex. All hands return to the range line.”

“What happened?”

<We were killed.>

“No shit, Sherlock. I mean, that was just a small stumble. I slipped more against the courser.”

<Which is a slower target. The riever was able to react quicker. You’ll see during the hot wash.>

Rev shook his head. Unless Colonel Tolouse ordered another run, this was the last one before they took off at zero-dark-thirty the next morning. Rev had been feeling pretty confident about his abilities, but this . . . he just hated to leave New Hope on a fail.

He slowly jogged down the range to the line. Around him, the other Raiders were appearing from their positions. Gunny Lupe, the Fifth Team leader, glared at Rev, but no one said anything. The gunny was one of those who didn’t seem enthused about their roles in the mission.

Sergeant Nix jogged up, slapped Rev on the back, and said, “What happened?”

“Slipped. Nothing more.”

“Tough luck on that. But you’ve been on a roll.”

You can be on a roll, but one mistake and your mother gets an official visit from the chaplain.

The colonel and Major Jewell were poring over the feeds as Rev came up.

“Go and dismount, then take fifteen. We’ll do the debrief after,” the colonel ordered.

“See you in a few,” Rev told Nix, jogging back to the trailer.

Daryll raised his eyebrows at the paint, but he didn’t say anything. He opened the door and motioned for Rev to go inside. Rev made his way to his chair and sat while Daryll pulled over the hoist.

As usual, Daryll went about his work without much in the way of conversation. But Rev had overheard something earlier in the day, and it was bothering him. Except for Doctor Chakrabarti—and he surely wasn’t going to ask her—Daryll was the only Sieben employee with whom he spent any time. That didn’t mean they were friends. Heck, Rev didn’t even know his full name.

Something easy enough to fix.

“Hey, Daryll. All you Sieben folks seem to have PhDs. Do you? Are you Doctor . . . ?”

“I’m just a tech.”

That didn’t work. Just ask.

“Not just a tech. But I just realized that you’ve never told me your last name.”

Daryll seemed to think for a moment, then he said, “I don’t think I ever did.”

Rev waited, but when nothing was forthcoming, he said, “Since we’re working so closely together, can you tell me it?”

Daryll fastened the straps to Pashu, then disconnected it from Rev. As always, there was a ghost-whisper, Rev was calling it, like something was wisped away from him.

“Begay.”

It took a moment to realize that Daryll was answering the question.

“Begay? We’ve got a General Begay. He’s in charge of all of New Hope’s Marines. You related?”

There were probably millions of Begays, but Rev just wanted small talk.

“He’s my uncle,” Daryll said as he swung Pashu out of the way and pointed to Rev’s social arm on the shelf.

“Your uncle? Wow, what a small world.”

“Not really. That’s how I got this job. Doctor C wanted certain, uh, concessions, and the general wanted his brother’s boy gainfully employed. That’s the way the galaxy works.” He waited a moment, then added, “But I am qualified, I guess I should tell you.”

That set Rev back, however. If Daryll was connected, maybe he wasn’t the one to ask.

Screw it. Just ask. What are they going to do?

“Hey, I was wondering. Today, I overheard something some of your Sieben guys were saying. I don’t think they wanted me to hear it, though.”

Daryll grunted. “I keep telling them you Marines have all been augmented, including your hearing. For a bunch of smart dudes, it just doesn’t seem to take.”

Ooh. That’s good. He doesn’t act like he considers himself one of them.

“Yeah, we can hear pretty well. But what I heard, it surprised me. They were talking about volunteers.”

With Rev not picking up his social arm, Daryll grabbed it and handed it over. He had no visible reaction to what Rev had said.

“I mean, I’m a volunteer. And there are certainly others in my position, you know, as in missing an arm. But I get the feeling they were talking about, well, Marines who have all their arms. Like maybe they’ll have one cut off?”

Daryll just stared at him.

“I mean, that’s pretty extreme, right?”

“I’m just a tech, and I’m not in a decision-making capacity. I don’t get told much. But sometimes when people talk, when there’re rumors, well, there could be a kernel of truth to that.”

Which was not what Rev wanted to hear. He wanted Daryll to laugh and blow him off.

Before he could ask for clarification, however, the door blew open, and Staff Sergeant Delacrie leaned in.

“Get your arm on and get on the truck, now!”

“What about the debrief?”

“Later. There’s something going on back at camp. Something with the Fries.”

* * *

The bus stopped in front of the barracks, and the Raiders poured out. Frisians from the Raiders and recon were straggling out and placing their seabags in formation in front of the building.

“Stand by. Let me find out what’s going on and where we’ll go for today’s hot wash,” the lieutenant shouted out.

“What the hell’s happening?” Tomiko asked.

Ting-a-ling came down the steps carrying two seabags, one on each shoulder. He plopped them down in front of the line of his soldiers.

“What’s going on?” Rev asked him.

The Frisian turned around with a glare that forced Rev to take a step back. When he saw who it was, his countenance relaxed, but only a bit.

“What’s going on is we’re getting evicted.”

“What? Who?”

“‘Who’ is your Union directorate. All of a sudden, we’re persona non grata. Enemy personnel.”

Rev stared at him, dumbfounded. “Enemy? The tin-asses are the enemy.”

“You’d think, huh?”

“So, what . . . you have to leave?”

“Gave us two hours. Won’t even let us take our weapons. We’ve got to march out like skippy-do prisoners of war, not like warriors.”

“But—”

“I’d like to stand and chat, Rev, but I’m kinda busy at the moment.” He turned away from Rev and faced his soldiers. “Stand tall with your heads held high. Let’s show these Marines what a real warrior is like.”

“Raiders, gather around,” Top Thapa shouted.

Rev gave Ting-a-ling one more look, then joined the rest of the team.

“As you probably guessed, we’re losing our Fries. All of them are being sent back to Fry-land. Our Marines with them, they’re coming back, too.”

“What is this? That tin-ass body we supposedly have?” Nix asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine. But yeah, I’d say so.”

Tomiko pulled Rev’s head down to her and whispered in his ear, “Did we really do this? You and me?”

Rev just shrugged. He knew the two of them hadn’t done anything wrong, but he couldn’t help but feel a little guilty.

“The lieutenant’s locking on a space for our hot wash. Let’s get our weapons turned in and meet back here.”

“I’m staying here,” Rev announced.

“What? The lieutenant said—”

“With all due respect, the Fries . . . the Frisian flight, our Raider Team Four, has fought and bled with us. Five of them, for God’s sake, died with us. I don’t give a damn about what our governments are doing. We’re brothers and sisters in arms, and I’m going to see them off.”

“Me, too,” Tomiko, Hussein, and Strap said, almost in unison. Others quickly joined in.

Top looked like he was going to take issue with that, but then he said, “I guess the hot wash can wait.”

The Raiders formed a loose group in front of the Frisians. Recon Marines started to join them, and Marines from other units began to show up. No one said much as they watched the Frisians form up.

Tomiko remained almost glued to Rev’s side—or was it that he was glued to her side? It didn’t matter. They were the only two there who knew that the Centaur body was a fact.

The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. No one who’d fought the fight deserved to be treated like criminals. He wished he could do something, but he was just a tiny speck in the vast Union military machine.

“Fall on your duffles but stand easy until we get the word to load up,” the yellow-master with Recon shouted. Both flights moved into place.

Before he knew what he was doing, Rev left his group and walked up to Ting-a-ling, who gave him an indecipherable look.

“I know this doesn’t mean much, but I call you brother. We’re warriors.”

He reached up, took off his soft cover, and held it out to the Frisian. He didn’t know if Ting-a-ling would ignore him, knock the Marine Corps cover to the ground, or what.

There was a hushed silence as Ting-a-ling stared at the cover in Rev’s hand for a long moment, then he took off his own beret and held it out to Rev.

With a sense of relief, Rev took the beret, surrendering his cover. He put it on his head while Ting-a-ling donned the Marine cover.

“I call you brother, too,” Ting-a-ling said. “Always and forever.”

Suddenly, there were Marines around him, offering their covers. With a lot more Marines than Frisians, the math didn’t work out. But within a minute, all the Frisians were wearing soft covers, and the lucky Marines had on berets. They intermingled, talking and laughing until the yellow-master called his soldiers to attention.

The Marines stepped back, sober once more. The yellow-master gave them a left face, and then by column, and told them to file into the waiting bus, the same one that had brought the Raiders back from the range.

As the first soldier threw his bags into the bottom of the bus and climbed inside, someone started clapping. More and more joined in as the applause echoed between the barracks.

The yellow-master was the last to board, and he stopped at the steps, turned, and waved before stepping inside. A moment later, the bus rose on its skirts and made its way out of the parking lot.

Rev watched it until it disappeared from sight.

“Well, now what?” Hussein asked.

“We’ve got seven hours until we deploy. I suggest you get your ass ready,” Staff Sergeant Delacrie said.

34

TRT-36 was a terraforming reject from early in the Age of Expansion. As was sometimes the case, the very act of terraforming caused unexpected upheavals in the planet, and seismic activity became continuous. Despite a reasonable bounty of mineral wealth, extracting it became too difficult and costly, so the planet was abandoned. In the present time, the planet would never have been attempted, but humankind’s little corner of the galaxy is littered with the rejects of the Expansion.

Humans learned early on that no world comes without a cost.

Eight years ago, TRT-36 had been taken over by the Centaurs, and the cost to eject them had been steep. But during the fight, five of them had somehow been left behind as the others retreated. That wasn’t known at the time. It wasn’t until two years ago that a routine patrol picked up their signal.

The Directorate decided that instead of attacking the five, they’d keep them there in their pocket for some as of yet unknown future use. That future use was now.

The five Centaurs were continually monitored. The Navy knew where they were. And now, they were going to be Rev’s testbed—not all five. The military didn’t want to waste their semi-captive Centaurs. But the project proof of concept was for Rev to attack and defeat one of them. Which one was something as of yet unknown. The Navy would track the five until the opportunity presented itself, and then Rev and the rest of the Raiders would act.

Rev leaned back in his seat as the shuttle descended to the surface, two Navy Shrikes on escort duty. This was no clandestine insertion, and that was on purpose. The powers that be didn’t want Rev to conduct an ambush. Although rarely, that had been accomplished before by Marines with Yellowjackets, Mantises, or Morays. Rev had basically done that, after all. They wanted the Centaurs to know the Marines were there and to be on alert.

Rev tried to get into the Centaur’s minds. How would being left behind affect them? Would they react differently? Would they be more desperate? Would they be disheartened? Strap was even under the opinion that they might self-destruct as soon as the platoon landed. If true, that would save Rev the problem, and he’d leave the planet upright, but that would only delay the inevitable. Pashu had to be tested in actual combat.

The problem, however, of trying to get into the Centaurs’ minds was that no one could. They were a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma, as the old saying went. Thousands of self-professed xenopsychologists debated, published, and even fought to get their guesses—because that’s all they were, guesses—accepted as fact. But other than the Centaurs’ terse demands, there weren’t any communications with them. Every attempt to communicate by humankind had been rebuffed.

At least as far as Rev knew. There were Centaurs on Alafia with the Children of Angels. How closely had they been communicating? If Rev were a betting man, then he would wager that the Angel shits knew more about what motivated the Centaurs than any xenopsychologist. It was almost a certainty that right now, surviving Angel shits from Alafia and the other worlds were being grilled as to what they knew of the enemy.

As if she knew his thoughts were all over the place, Tomiko reached out and gave his social arm a squeeze. He knew she was there for him. Not everyone was. No one was overtly objecting, and most of the platoon was supportive, but a few had expressed misgivings about the mission to others. Tomiko wasn’t speaking with Gizzy Incrit-Kole from Fifth Team, and while Tomiko wouldn’t admit it, Rev was sure that Gizzy was one of the skeptics and had said something about Rev.

In a way, Rev understood. They were acting as picadors of ancient Spanish bullfighting, the ones who maneuvered and weakened the bull so the torero—in this case, Rev—could step in for the kill. And should Rev falter, they would inject themselves back into danger to rescue him.

But these weren’t bulls. These were four paladins and a riever. If Rev’s supposed super-abilities weren’t up for the task, the five Centaurs were a pretty robust enemy for a Raider platoon of thirty-six lightly armed Marines and corpsmen. Two Tarantula Hawk drones on overwatch would beef up the Raiders, but no one was going to mistake them for a tank or mech platoon.

“Thirty-five minutes to touch down,” the automated voice announced over the speakers.

Thirty-five minutes wasn’t much, but a Marine didn’t need much time to make use of it. Rev closed his eyes to catch a few Zs.

* * *

“Crap! I wish to hell this place would quit that,” Tomiko said as the ground shook beneath their feet.

She was not happy with the planet. She’d charge a Centaur with just a knife clenched between her teeth, but the shaking was getting to her. Nothing had hit in the ten hours since landing that posed a threat to the platoon, but there were obvious signs that the potential was there.

The waiting was getting to Rev as well, but not for the same reason. He just wanted to get it over with. He had Punch play over each rehearsal, each training session, from the first, where he’d been killed, to the last . . . unfortunately, another time where he’d been killed. In between, he’d gotten pretty good at taking out fake Centaurs, but those weren’t the real deal. And while he was generally a confident person, all the waiting was giving him moments of doubt, moments where he wondered if he was up to the task.

Rev looked around the assembly area. Second Team was on security, and one of the Tarantula Hawks was hovering overhead, but it was a pretty lax group. People were in twos and threes, chatting, eating, or catching some shut-eye. All five of the Centaurs were being tracked, and none were closer than five klicks, which, in this terrain, meant they had nothing with which to hit the Raiders.

If they did start moving to the platoon, the Marines could be up and ready in seconds.

“I don’t mind it,” Yazzie said. “Kinda fun.”

“And you’re a freak, T2,” Tomiko said.

Rev laughed. One result of the waiting was that he was really getting to know Yazzie, and the more he got to know her, the better he liked her. In some ways a smart-ass like Hussein or Yancy, there was still that core competency that shined through. He knew the young Marine was going to make her mark in the Corps.

She stood up, one foot in front of the other, hands out to the side.

“What the hell are you doing?” Tomiko asked.

“Waiting to catch a wave.” Another tremor hit, and Yazzie acted like she was surfing, balancing on a longboard.

“Oh, my God. I told you she was a freak,” Tomiko said as she sat hunched over and with her hands braced against the ground.

“Just as you trained me, oh sergeant of mine!”

Rev just laughed. This was what that OD agent was talking about. He’d never been as close to anyone before he was conscripted. He was close to his family, of course, but he’d never had friends like these.

Lieutenant Omestori waited for the last tremor, then stood and walked over to Rev, Tomiko, and Yazzie.

“Anything?” Rev asked.

“About the tin-asses? No. Not yet. But your favorite doctor is on the net.”

“What now, sir?”

“She wanted me to remind you to cycle through your checks every twenty minutes.”

“Like she reminded me two hours ago?”

“Yeah, like that.”

“Roger, dodger, three bags full, sir,” Rev said as he brought Pashu around in a left-handed salute.

Doctor Chakrabarti was a civilian, working for Sieben. But she’d wangled a slot with the Marine project team in high orbit above the planet. Rev was purposefully not in the command loop, so she kept trying to pass instructions via the lieutenant.

“She’s got a lot riding on this,” the lieutenant said.

“Not as much as we do,” Rev replied.

“Touche, mon sergent, touche.”

The lieutenant sat down with the three of them. “You up for this, Rev? I don’t mean the rah-rah, gung-ho shit. I mean, really. Are you ready? I’ve got the authority to pull the plug for any reason. That’s any reason.”

“What? And deprive Doc C of her pride and joy?” Rev asked with a laugh.

“I know you’ll do what you’re ordered to do. But if you need more time, I’d rather do that and have this test when you’re ready. And I’ll take the heat, not you. I’ll think of something to appease the project head.”

Rev grunted. He’d grown to respect the man over the last few years. The lieutenant would do whatever it took to protect his Raiders, whether from physical or bureaucratic threats. He’d even offered to go outside the chain of command when Rev’s Platinum Nova had been dropped, something that would have assured a crashing end to his career.

“Nah, sir. I’m ready as I’m ever going to be. I just want to get it over with.”

The lieutenant looked at him for a long moment before nodding. He turned to Tomiko. “What about you? You ready?”

“Shit, LT, I’m always ready. ’Sides, what’s there for us to do? Get Rev here to the right spot and let him chew up a tin-ass. Easy-peasy.”

“Yeah, easy-peasy. Until it isn’t.”

Rev realized right then that the lieutenant was nervous, too. He’d spent a lot of time with the generals and Colonel Tolouse, both at Nguyen and in transit. He’d probably been given a ton of instructions covering every potential possibility, and it was all on his shoulders.

Frankly, Rev had been surprised that the lieutenant had been given the mission. He’d been sure that some major or lieutenant colonel would have taken over. Evidently, someone had decided that a close-working, combat-tested team was a better choice than to throw in someone new as the commander just because they had a higher rank.

And Rev was glad about that. He’d much rather be doing this with the lieutenant and the top, surrounded by the teams.

“It’s going to be OK, sir. We’re going to do fine.”

“We’re gonna kick tin-ass ass, sir,” Yazzie piped up, full of certainty.

And suddenly, Rev was certain as well. He had Punch guiding him in the approach. He had Pashu to deliver the blow. And he had his fellow Raiders to protect him.

How could even five Centaurs stand up to that?

35

It took two long days, but finally, the Centaurs started moving, and that gave the Marines their chance. They advanced in a diamond formation with Rev in the middle, the sacred cow.

Or sacrificial cow.

Neither image made Rev comfortable, but he guessed sacred was better than sacrificial.

Centaurs weren’t noted for coordinated assaults, but every fight so far had been recorded and studied ad infinitum, and this looked like one of their classic maneuvers. Four of them—three paladins and the riever—were advancing together, the riever acting as a point or scout. Another paladin was following in trace, well behind the other four. There were cases where the trail Centaur acted as a reserve force, ready to move in where necessary, and other cases where it acted as a base of fire in support of the others. For the Marines’ purposes, it didn’t really matter. What did matter was that it was separated from the rest, and between the terrain and heavy forest, the foot Marines would be quicker and far more maneuverable.

The laggard would be Rev’s target. The plan was to get Rev to it as fast as possible before the other Centaurs could react. If things went according to plan, the mission would be over and the Marines long gone before the four could engage them.

The plan was a repetition of one of the scenarios they attempted at Nguyen—one that had resulted in a kill. Hopefully, that was a good omen.

The Marines’ assembly area had been on the defilade-side of a ridge with enough open space for good visibility. As they crossed the ridge, however, they entered the forest. Seismic fractures had knocked down sections of trees, but for the most part, the trees stood tall. Good for limiting the Centaurs’ mobility, but bad for limiting the Tarantula Hawk’s effectiveness.

The thirty-six Marines and Navy corpsmen moved silently through the trees, bypassing the faults that created mini-gorges ten to fifteen meters deep. It was as if some giant dragon had gouged the earth with its claws, and the trees had sprung up around the gashes. The formation warped and bent with each terrain feature, but it remained intact.

“Everything green, Pelletier?” the lieutenant asked over the net.

“Still green and ready to go.”

“Keep me apprised.”

“Uh, we are green, right?” he asked Punch a moment later.

<Since you just told the lieutenant we’re green, it would be good if we are. But yes, we’re green.>

“Sorry. I know you’d tell me if something had changed.”

What’s with me? Getting nervous? Come on, Reverent. This isn’t like me.

He came to another gash in the ground, the raw dirt red in the sunlight that reached through the branches. It was longer than most faults, and he didn’t want to go around, so he half slid, half dropped down the edge, flailing his arms for balance. Pashu’s mass still threw him off balance sometimes, and he could feel his harness tighten under his skin as it kept Pashu firmly anchored. It was a weird feeling, and not one he was used to yet.

Going up the other side was easier—he just jammed his toes into the dirt as if they were pitons and scrambled up. He stood there a moment, getting his bearings, then stepped off again.

“Hey, Punch. Can you bring up the seventh training run again?”

A moment later, the recording of the similar mission back on Nguyen popped into his vision. If he wasn’t needed for security, he might as well go over the mission one more time. Walking almost on autopilot, which is not something he would ever normally do, he went over each step of the exercise and tried to relate those to what he now faced. It probably wouldn’t help much, but it was a better use of his time.

“Halt and form a hasty defense,” the lieutenant passed, breaking into Rev’s concentration.

Rev almost went down to one knee before he realized he was in the middle of the formation. He was the package, so-to-speak. He stood there until the lieutenant opened the platoon command net, into which Rev was inserted as well.

“Any ideas on why they’ve stopped?”

Rev gave a guilty start. He’d been so deep into his training mission that he hadn’t even noticed that the Centaurs weren’t moving.

“Nothing that my battle buddy can pull up,” Gunny Lupe passed. “No discernible trends, at least.”

“Nothing here, either,” Lieutenant Harisa from Second Team added.

“They know we’re here, so it looks like they want us to come to them,” Lieutenant Omestori said, mostly to himself. “I’m not sure that’s the best terrain for them to defend. Not horrible, but not the best.” He paused for a moment, then said, “And if we were assaulting the four of them, I’d be concerned. But that’s not our mission.”

“Our target is still more than two hundred meters away from the other four. That’s enough space, with First Team as a blocking force, for Pelletier to do his thing and then for us to diddi ho out of there,” the gunny said.

“Top?”

“I agree with the gunny. I think we’re still a go.”

“Me, too. OK, nothing’s changed,” the platoon commander said.

Rev was only in the net as a courtesy, but there wasn’t much he wanted to say anyway. He couldn’t fault what either the gunny or the master sergeant just said.

A moment later, his map chimed, and he brought it forward. New positions had been added for the fixing and blocking forces, as well as the assault force’s avenue of approach. Rev asked Punch to pull an overhead view of where his target had stopped, but it was well under the cover of the trees.

“Can we get a live topo?”

A ground image popped up. The spot was on a gentle slope with two small seismic gashes. The tree trunks would impede his approach, but it would impede the paladin more. It was surprising that it could even maneuver in there at all.

This wasn’t Centaur country, which made Rev a little uneasy. If they were waiting for the Marines to attack, a more open area would have suited them better. But that unease didn’t mean he wasn’t going to take advantage of the terrain and forest.

At a klick out, just after a series of light tremors, the formation broke up. Second Team, along with Top Thapa, branched to the left, while Third and Fifth drew in to a wedge with Rev and the lieutenant in the middle. First followed in trace.

Second Lieutenant Harisa led her team toward the four Centaurs as a fixing force. She seemed capable, but she was still a boot on only her second combat mission, and Top Thapa was moving with the team. Their mission was to engage the four, but at a distance, keeping them occupied and in place. If they could get the Centaurs to chase them, all the better.

As Third and Fifth approached their target, First Team, led by Gunny Lupe, split off to the left to interspace itself between the four Centaurs and the fifth. If the Centaurs broke away from Second Team, First was to slow them down long enough for Rev to finish, and then everyone would break contact.

Whatever nervousness Rev had started to fade as his warrior-self began to emerge. As always, he wondered if Punch was goosing up some sort of adrenaline spike, but it didn’t matter. He was getting excited, ready to tilt at the opposing knight.

Ha! I guess a paladin is a kind of knight. Surprised I hadn’t made that analogy before.

He was glad it was a paladin, though, instead of the less-powerful riever. He’d done much better against the heavier and less-mobile paladin stand-ins during his training exercises.

They closed the distance, and his target hadn’t moved. He hoped it stayed there. No one knew just what capabilities the five Centaurs, cut off from their forces, had. They hadn’t knocked out comms, for example, something that was usually the first thing they did upon a Marine landing. They knew the Marines had landed, but could they pinpoint their positions? And if that lone Centaur could detect the two teams heading at it, would it run?

If it retreated, Rev was certain they could run it down. But if it tried to link up with the others, that would be a big fly in the ointment. They just had to move quickly enough to block that possibility.

The platoon commander stopped them about 150 meters from their target paladin, spreading the two teams out farther, with him and Rev in the middle of what was now a line. It was almost go-time. Rev checked Pashu once more, reassured by the tiny green LED that he was ready to go. Like an athlete getting ready for a match, he rocked back and forth, stretching his legs.

Now that he had the jousting knights image in his mind, Rev couldn’t shake it. He imagined the paladin up ahead in the trees, waiting for the signal to charge. He felt the urge to just charge, at least, to join in combat, and while no one knew what a Centaur actually felt, it just seemed to fit.

“Just a few moments until First Team is in position,” the lieutenant passed to Rev on the P2P.

Rev plotted his way forward while he waited. The way was fairly clear for the next twenty or thirty meters, and then the laurel and other undergrowth took over, looking like it went all the way to the bottom. The laurel was a little lighter to his left, which would make his advance quicker, but would give him less cover.

“Lieutenant, we’ve got something that looks like a trail here,” Gunny Lupe passed on the command circuit before Rev had made up his mind which would be the best way forward.

He then sent over an image. There was a definite . . . something there. Not a cleared trail like an access road, but more like a large game trail. But there was no game to have made it.

“Could it be seismic?” the lieutenant asked.

“Doesn’t look like it, but it could be the ground settling after those last tremors.”

Rev watched the lieutenant as the team leader took in the information. He visibly nodded to himself, then passed, “Make sure you have someone keeping eyes on it, but we’re still a go. I’m sending Pelletier forward now.”

He switched to the platoon net and passed, “We’re on. Third and Fifth, move out. Second, get ready to engage on my command.”

Rev almost jumped forward like a racehorse at the gate.

“Easy, Pelletier. Don’t outrun us,” the platoon commander told him. “And don’t start your attack before telling me so I can give the order to Second.”

Rev gave him a thumbs-up, and he slowed down. A knight didn’t go into battle without his squires, after all. And he knew he had to take it down a notch.

“Get ready.”

<I am ready. Just listen to what I tell you.>

“So, you’re in charge now.”

<I want to keep you alive.>

“Ah, you care.”

<If something happens to you, I power down, so yes, I care.>

Rev laughed, and that took some of his excited edge off, allowing him to focus. He guided those Marines on either side as he went down the slope, into the denser mixed-laurel undergrowth at the bottom, then started up the other side, all his senses trying to pierce the trees to where he knew the Centaur was waiting.

“Our tin-asses are moving out!” the second team leader broke into the platoon net.

Rev hadn’t been watching them, so focused was he on his target. But yes, he could see them starting to head north, toward them. And then, his paladin started moving, not toward him, but in a line to the others, which would intersect his fellow teammates.

Rev wheeled to the platoon commander, who was ten meters behind and to his left. “I’m going.”

Lieutenant Omestori didn’t hesitate. “Second, engage. Make them turn back. Pelletier, go for it.”

But Rev was already moving. With the thicker trees down at the bottom of the slope, Third Team might not be able to engage the paladin with their Yellowjackets and Morays. They’d be cut down unless Rev could intercept the Centaur first.

But it was moving too quickly, as if it were out in the open. Shouts arose from the team as Rev bolted past Strap and Nix. Ahead, trees burst into splinters and smoke, and there, ahead, Rev caught a glimpse of the thing. This was no time for fanciful dodging. Rev bulled forward.

Yazzie, twenty meters ahead, and Tomiko, another ten past that, stepped forward with their Yellowjackets, firing in unison, and an instant later, Yazzie seemed to come apart in a puff of mist.

“No!” Rev shouted as he caught another glimpse of the paladin barreling through the trees at full speed.

Tomiko pulled another Yellowjacket from her holster at the same time that Rev fired. He knew he was too far away for a kill even if the trees didn’t block his shot. He might not have been close enough for a kill, but he was sure close enough to gain the Centaur’s attention. Instead of firing at Tomiko, the pedestal started to rotating toward him as it seemed to jump sideways.

“They’re using the damn trails!” Gunny Lupe shouted over the net, but Rev barely noted the fact. He had to nail the bastard in front of him before more of his team was killed.

Rev’s capacitors whined, charging up his beamer as he dodged around the trees, trying to close in and get a clear shot. A Moray exploded near the Centaur, but it kept coming.

<Right.>

Rev reacted without thinking, and a tree in front of him exploded into splinters. Too close for comfort.

Not once had Rev trained in a heavily wooded area, and that could cost him. This cat-and-mouse in an old-growth forest added another dimension to the fight.

It limits that asshole, too.

He angled to his right, hoping to pull the Centaur away from the team, and he crossed a trail, although he almost didn’t recognize it as such. Suddenly, Gunny Thapa’s warning sunk in. That was how it moved so quickly. But with Rev’s lighting it up, it had stepped off the trail and was just to his right, breaking through the underbrush as it tried to orient its gun on him.

“Range?”

<Seventy-two meters.>

As the Centaur stepped forward, Rev had a clear view of the thing, the pedestal coming around to bear on him.

<Left.>

But Rev had already started sprinting right, down the trail. He knew this was risky and didn’t even know if this would work or not. But playing hide-and-seek in the forest was going to end up with him being fried. This was a real Centaur, a living, thinking opponent, not a de-toothed simulation.

Rev sprinted ahead, not at the Centaur, but at an angle, as the pedestal kept tracking him. He was closing the distance, but indirectly. The question was if he would ever get close enough sticking to the trail. The Centaur was on the move, too, which put that up in the air.

<Sixty meters . . . fifty-five meters . . . fifty meters.>

Shit!

He was close enough, but he had no shot. Too many trees in the way.

<Forty-five meters.>

As if a reminder, the paladin detonated its shredder and devastated the surrounding area, but the same trees that blocked Rev’s shot kept him from being hit.

The shredder blast also cleared out most of the undergrowth and some of the smaller trees, and still running full speed, there was the tiniest of openings, giving him a window of opportunity.

Rev didn’t have to aim and fire. All that practice paid off, and he thought the shot, aiming and firing in an instant. The paladin had seen the opening as well, and it detonated another shredder blast, but the split second it took the Centaur’s blast to reach Rev made the difference. Rev was past the opening, back to where he had some of the forest’s protection.

Rev’s shot hit the Centaur dead on, not at the side vents. But at only forty meters, it made no difference. The braided beam ate through the armor, and the paladin went up in a volcanic blast.

“Miko, you OK?” was the first thing he asked.

“Damn, that was close. But I’m here. I don’t think T2 is, and Nix is—”

The lieutenant overrode her. “Pelletier, is it dead?”

“Roger. That explosion was it going up.”

“At least we’ve got that. Yazzie is KIA and Nix is down hard. First Team’s engaged.” He switched back to the platoon net. “Reiser, recover what you can of Yazzie. Hussein and Gantz, get Sergeant Nix. Break contact, Break contact. All teams, break contact . . . oh shit. First Team, break fucking contact now!”

Rev could hear a crescendo of fire come from the south. Rev shifted his field of view, and First was mixing it up with the four Centaurs. From what he could see, two of the Marines just went down, while the rest were in one of the seismic faults. There was no sign of their Tarantula Hawks.

“Can’t break contact. We’re locked together tight,” the gunny passed, then calmly added, “Suggest you break contact.”

Rev was already moving, taking the trail.

“Pelletier, what are you doing?” the lieutenant yelled over the net. “You need to get back. Let Second Team take it.”

There was no way the team could hold off four Centaurs, and Second was too far back to offer support. Rev had a hollow void in the pit of his stomach. The bastards had set a trap, and the Raiders had walked right into it.

But the trails they had used to set the trap could be used against them, too. Rev bolted past Tomiko and charged down the trail.

“Pelletier, turn around.”

“Can’t hear you, sir.”

<You can hear him fine.>

“I can’t after you erase that transmission.”

A modern Olympian can cover 400 meters in just under 40 seconds. Rev was augmented beyond those athletes’ capabilities, but this wasn’t a running track. “Trail” was a generous term for the clearing in the trees that allowed for the bulky Centaurs to pass through. The footing, while acceptable for the sixteen-legged Centaur mech, was treacherous. Over fifty seconds after he started, Rev reached the beleaguered Marines, but not before another, Bambam Sinclair, had fallen—but one of the paladins had been hit, and either from the Moray or by self-destruction, it had been destroyed.

That left three: two paladins and a riever.

The surviving First Team Marines had made their stand about seventy meters off of the trail Rev was on. He couldn’t see them, but he could see a paladin through the trees. Rev angled off the trail and into the undergrowth. The Centaur was intent on the Marines, its cannon belting out a blast.

<Sixty—,> Punch started, but Rev was moving too fast.

He didn’t wait for Punch to tell him to fire. Pashu belched out a blast, hitting the Centaur in the side vent. The explosion was spectacular, a piece of Centaur or wood scoring Rev’s cheek. He didn’t feel his normal exultation. He wasn’t done yet.

Rev scoured to his left, searching for the next target, while his cannon recharged.

“Hurry up,” he urged it. That would be all he needed—getting a target before it was ready. But ten seconds later, the LED went green.

He kept running as another explosion sounded in front of him until he saw a fifteen-meter-long gash in the forest floor. A tree with half of its roots exposed had fallen over the crevice, and next to the wood, he caught sight of a helmet.

“Where are they?” he shouted. According to his display, the paladin had to be just to his right, but Rev couldn’t see it.

The head turned, and a hand pointed to where his display said the paladin was. At that instant, the tree over the gash exploded, and the Marine disappeared. Rev didn’t know if they were hit or not, and he didn’t have time to check.

Rev charged. There was usually a four to five second gap between shots, and if he could get off a shot, he might be able to take out another Centaur. And there it was, moving forward, the pedestal almost dead on him. Rev dove and rolled, coming to his feet as the blast went over his head. Thanking the training he thought was useless, and the fourteen percent rise in probability of success, Rev came to one knee and fired. The blast hit dead on. For a moment, as his beamer cycled, Rev thought the paladin had weathered the shot, but with a blast, the paladin went up, the shockwave knocking Rev head-over-heels. He came to a rest against the trunk of a ruined tree. Pal-5 or not, it knocked the wind out of him and rang his head.

“That almost got me.”

<If that had been its shredder rather than a self-detonation, the chances are that it would have gotten you.>

Rev picked himself up, looking for the last Centaur, but his display was intermittent. He couldn’t see it. The blast had knocked it out. But he knew about where it had been, about a hundred meters to his right.

He glanced at his beamer. The charge light was still red, and he realized he hadn’t heard it charge up.

“Check the beamer circuit.”

<The circuit is broken. No signal going through.>

“Can you fix it?”

<I don’t have that capability.>

“Shi—!”

Leaves and wood exploded, and Rev felt the slightest kiss of an energy beam. He was up and moving before he knew it, heading instinctively for a slight rise in the terrain. He might not have his beamer, but that didn’t cripple him. He sprayed the forest with his .50 cal, wishing it had been upgraded to the 20mm that had been discussed. He couldn’t see the riever, but he could hear it, and hopefully, the .50 would capture his attention.

A small tree fell forward, and there it was. Rev didn’t know how he’d missed it. The pedestal locked in on him as Rev darted to his right, firing the .50. Rounds pinged off the armor, but the riever darted in reverse.

“I need one of those gashes in the ground. Not the one First Team is in.”

“One hundred fifty-three meters to your zero-six-five.”

Rev didn’t need his display. His augments told him where he needed to go. He fired another belt, ran fifty meters, and fired again. A moment later, he was rewarded with the sound of the riever in pursuit. He blindly fired another burst, then ran on, leading the Centaur away from the team.

And there was the gash. Thirty meters long and about two deep toward the middle. It would have to do. He stopped, took cover behind a large tree, and fired another burst of .50 cal.

<You’re down to forty-six rounds.>

Hopefully, that’s enough.

And there it was. He caught glimpses of the thing as it picked its way forward. He needed a clean shot at the thing, but no closer than twenty-six meters. With the trees, that might be an iffy proposition.

He hugged the back of the tree and pulled out his Optisight, quickly bent it, and held it out until the tip was around the trunk. He was taking a calculated risk that the riever wouldn’t notice the three-centimeter lens, but he had to watch for his chance.

The riever had slowed down as it picked its way forward, using the trees for cover. It knew Rev was ahead, and it wasn’t going to rush in. Rev was trying to figure out how to use that for his advantage when forty or so meters out, the riever crabbed sideways to get around two trees, giving Rev a clear shot.

He switched from the .50 cal to his Morays and swung around the tree when another quake hit. Rev was caught off balance, and he fell face-first to the dirt. This was a stronger one, and as Rev scrambled to get a shot off, he kept falling. The riever, in full view, spread all twelve legs, bracing itself, and its pedestal started to zero in on Rev despite the shaking.

“No, this isn’t happening!”

Rev snapped off a prayer shot, but the quake jerked the missile high and to the left. Using both his right arm and Pashu, he got to his knees, but he couldn’t fire like that.

The riever had him dead to rights when a Yellowjacket shot in from the left and glanced off the top of the Centaur. That seemed to surprise the riever, and the pedestal shifted ever-so-slightly in the direction from which the missile came.

That was the break Rev needed. He pulled his legs under and through, so he was sitting. Without thinking, he raised Pashu, shouted “Get down” to whoever had fired the Yellowjacket, and fired another Moray.

He immediately rolled over backward into the gash in the ground and landed heavily on the bottom as the Moray hit. There was an explosion, followed a moment later by a larger explosion caused by the riever self-destructing. The shock wave rolled over the ditch, barely touching him.

“Did I do it?”

<It looks like it.>

Disregarding his Optisight, Rev raised his head. Leaves were settling to the ground. Where the riever had been, trunks were shattered, and there was a small crater.

He felt a surge of victory before he remembered the other Marine, the one who’d fired the Yellowjacket. And without whom, Rev might not have made it.

“Are you OK?” he asked, clambering out of the hole.

Some forty meters to his left, in a small depression, Sergeant Gizzy Incrit-Kole gave a shaky thumbs up.

* * *

The lieutenant shook his head in disbelief. “I just got my ass chewed for you taking out all five of the tin-asses.”

Rev looked up from where he was sitting. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“I shit you not. It was Trejo himself. Seems like they had other plans for the rest of them.”

Rev wiped some drying blood from his face. The near miss by the riever had done more damage than he’d thought at the time, and he was dead tired, so the lieutenant’s revelation didn’t elicit an angry outburst. He just didn’t have the energy.

He looked across the small clearing where Hussein had a black bag attached to his harness. Inside were parts of Yazzie’s skull and whatever else had been scrounged up. He doubted that everything there massed four kilograms.

To Hussein’s side, Doc Paul was kneeling alongside Nix and Minnow Krill. Minnow was in bad shape, really bad. And at the edge of the clearing were four bodies. Greenie Sjberic, Gunny Lupe, Cujo Lim, and Private Lena Ballesteri, too boot to even have a nickname yet. Nothing was recovered from Bambam.

“Screw them,” Top Thapa said. “Six KIA and two WIA? What the hell were we supposed to do?”

Tomiko reached over from where she was sitting and put a hand on Rev’s leg. It was such a small gesture but welcomed.

Rev had done this. No, he understood that it was the Centaurs, but it was because of Rev that it had been these specific Marines. They were going to send him to Second Raider Platoon, but no, he just had to push and blackmail to get back to First Platoon. These Marines beside him. If he hadn’t been so self-centered, Yazzie, Bambam, and the rest would be alive now.

He wasn’t foolish enough to believe that this would have worked out any differently if he’d been with Second Platoon. Marines would have died. Maybe even more. But the fact was that he barely knew them, and he knew all of these Marines. He was human, after all, and he mourned his friends.

“I have to see the general and the rest when we get up to the ship,” the lieutenant said.

“Better you than me, sir,” the top said. “But I wouldn’t worry too much. They can’t deny that what we did, what Pelletier did, was a success. None of those brass are going to let this be anything other than that.”

“I’m not worried. Like you said, screw them.”

Master Sergeant Thapa was probably right. They would be crowing about their success, and how the proof of concept was checked off the list. More and more Marines would be getting their IBHUs—maybe volunteering to get their arm hacked off to get them.

Gizzy Incrit-Kole had been watching Rev for the last five minutes from across the clearing. He could feel her eyes burn into him. The sergeant finally got up and started across to him.

Not now, Gizzy, please.

She hadn’t liked the mission from the beginning, and now she’d lost four of her team. She probably blamed him.

With a sigh, he turned to face her, but she sat down, picking a piece of grass and putting it between her teeth.

“You did good, Rev,” she said, to his surprise. “I thought . . . I thought this was some bullshit, you know. But you kept us alive. Gunny, he said he had to hold the line to let you all get away, and we agreed. If you hadn’t charged down like some fucking avenging angel, well, we all would have bought it.”

Tomiko stood and went to Gizzy to give her a hug. No words because none were needed.

A high whine reached them, and twenty-seven sets of eyes looked up.

“That’s our ride,” Top Thapa said. “Clear the LZ, and let’s get off this ball of shit.”

36

“Person to be recognized, front and center . . . HARCH!”

Rev performed a right face and marched behind Special Augment Company—comprised of Second Reconnaissance Platoon, First Raider Platoon, Second Sapper Platoon, and Second Combat Engineer Platoon. He turned left at the far side of the sappers and marched up the depth of the company.

“Keep me on beat.”

Punch sent a measured drum beat directly into his auditory cortex, giving him a guide to time his march. He passed the front ranks of the company. Ahead of him and centered on and facing the company, Colonel Destafney and the sergeant major stood at attention. Behind them, the bleachers were filled with guests, and the air above was crowded with newsdrones. Rev didn’t search the bleachers for his family. He kept his head forward, his body stiff.

A couple of meters short of the colonel, Rev performed column left movement and marched forward, eyes locked ahead. He was surprisingly nervous.

<Do you want to hear a joke?>

“NO!” he almost shouted aloud.

<Me asking you was the joke. Because this is a solemn occasion. So, a joke is not appropriate. That makes me asking funny.>

“Let me focus. Can the humor for now.”

And then Rev was in front of the colonel. He came to a halt, performed a right face, and saluted. The colonel saluted back.

“Ladies and gentlemen, will you please rise for the presentation of the awards.”

The guests stood as one. For a moment, Rev caught a quick glance of Neesy waving over the colonel’s shoulder. He quickly focused on the colonel’s nose, afraid that his little sister would make him laugh.

“Colonel Rictus Destafney, Commanding Officer of the Eighth Marines, the Gryphons, will first present Sergeant Pelletier with the Bleeding Heart Medal for wounds received during combat on Alafia, March 19, 3829.”

The sergeant major handed the colonel the Bleeding Heart. The colonel stepped forward and pinned the blood-red medal to Rev’s chest. This was Rev’s second award, the first being awarded after the paladin he’d killed almost took off his foot. That, along with his Marine Expeditionary Medal and the Gold Achievement Medal that he’d gotten when his Platinum Nova was pulled, were the extent of his achievements in four years as a Marine.

Rev had single-handedly taken out a paladin. Along with Tomiko, he’d found a Centaur body that might be changing the course of the war. And a few weeks ago, he’d taken a new weapon and killed five Centaurs in single combat. All he had to show for that was a single three-ribbon bar.

Rev wasn’t a medal chaser, but he held a bit of a grudge for that. And now, as a consolation prize, he was being used by the New Hope Marine command for a public relations campaign and being awarded the Humane Service Medal for saving a small girl from becoming an involuntary suicide bomber. He didn’t regret his actions, but all this attention for what was really a mid-level award was overblown. As far as he was concerned, they could have mailed him the certificate, and he could have picked up the ribbon at the base exchange.

“That’s two of these, Sergeant. You might want to learn to duck,” the colonel said before he stepped back.

Not really that funny, and Rev knew he was going to have to explain the humor to Punch when all this was done. But it was still a human touch, colonel to sergeant version.

And then it was time for the main event. A tiny newsdrone dropped lower, just behind the colonel, so it could record Rev’s face.

He tried to look solemn as befitting getting an award, but he thought he probably looked constipated instead.

The announcer, one of the recon lieutenants, started again:

The Director of the Perseus Union Armed Forces takes great pleasure in presenting the Humane Service Medal to Sergeant Reverent R Pelletier, Perseus Union Marine Corps, for service as set forth in the following citation:

On March 19, 3829 Earth Standard, the then Corporal Pelletier was assigned to the First Raider Platoon, Alpha Company, attached to the Eight Marines, during combat operations on the planet Alafia. During clean-up operations after the Battle of Natividad, Corporal Pelletier was on patrol in the Brecca Cordon, which had been heavily damaged during the previous day’s battle. Observing the remnants of a home, Corporal Pelletier moved forward to clear it when he discovered a young girl who had been involuntarily rigged as a suicide bomber. Without regard for his own safety, Corporal Pelletier calmed the young girl so he could examine the bomb. It had been set so that removing it would detonate the bomb. Seeing the fatigue in the girl, Corporal Pelletier knew that she could not last until EOD could be summoned, so with complete disregard for his own safety, he determined a method to interspace his own body between the bomb and the girl. Then, with no other option and understanding that doing so could cost him his life, he detonated the bomb, absorbing the full impact of the blast, shielding the girl at grievous cost to himself. Corporal Pelletier’s selfless actions saved the life of the girl, reflected great credit upon himself, and were in keeping with the highest traditions of the Marine Corps and the Perseus Union Naval Service.

Given under my hand,

Locklear Begay

Lieutenant General, Perseus Union Marine Corps

Commanding

That made it sound like he’d done more than he really had. In reality, he’d been swept up by events that were beyond his control. He could let the little girl die, or he could take action, relying on his armor to keep him alive.

He took a quick glance at the stands, and there in the front row, he caught his father beaming with pride. Rev didn’t put too much weight on the ceremony, knowing it was for public consumption, but if his family got anything out of it, then he was OK with the pomp and circumstance.

The sergeant major opened the case and removed the silver anchor hanging from the pink ribbon with two vertical silver stripes. He handed it to the colonel, and Rev stared at him, ready to have it pinned on his chest.

To his surprise, however, the colonel didn’t reach out. Instead, he said, “I think I’ll have someone else pin this one.” He gave a half-turn, sweeping out an arm in invitation.

What’s going on?

Then, from the front row, right beside his mother, a small girl with blonde braids and in a periwinkle blue frock started marching forward.

“Who is that?”

And then it hit him. She was cleaned up and looking much better than the last time he saw her.

“Ladies and gentlemen, presenting the Humane Service Medal to Sergeant Pelletier will be Kat Thiessen, the young woman whose life the sergeant saved.”

There were gasps from the observers, then cheers. They were obviously as surprised as Rev was.

How did she get here? What are they doing?

This was theater. Good theater, true, though still done for public relations. But Rev didn’t care. Tears formed in his eyes as Kat trooped forward, her face screwed tight in determination. She marched through the swarming newsdrones, her eyes locked on Rev’s.

“Record, record this.”

<I already anticipated that.>

She got to the colonel and reached up for the medal. He gave it to her, then picked her up by the arms. She gave his metallic face an anxious look, then tore her gaze away to look at Rev.

“Thank you, Sergeant Pelletier,” she said, carefully pronouncing his last name.

She stretched out and placed the medal on his chest, shifting it until the magstrip caught.

Kat gave him a little salute, which was difficult with the colonel holding her under her armpits, and Rev broke. Military decorum be damned.

He stepped closer and took the little girl in his arms, crushing her tight. Tentatively, two little arms reached out to encircle his neck.

Whatever he’d been thinking about the Humane Service Medal a few minutes ago vanished. As far as he was concerned, right here and right now, he’d rather have this one silver and pink medal than a hundred Platinum Novas.

Epilogue

“And then we can go to Pizza Castle. You’ll like that,” Neesy told Kat. “They’ve got the Kid’s Castle there. It’s lots of fun.”

Rev just sat back and watched the two girls. Neesy was older by two years, and she was taking the older sister role to heart. Not that anything was official, but his family was hopeful. Kat’s presence in Swansea had been pure, unadulterated politics, a PR stunt. But now that she was here, the Pelletier family wanted to take advantage of the situation.

Kat was one of fourteen hundred Children of Angels children from Alafia taken into government custody. For most of them, they would eventually be returned to surviving parents or families once they were released. Kat, however, was one of more than three hundred whose parents were dead and who had no families to take them in.

If Kat’s parents hadn’t been killed in the fighting, and if Rev hadn’t been CASEVAC’d, he might have done the deed himself. It had been her parents who had given her to the still unknown Mr. Mark to rig her up to become a human bomb.

Across human space, there were tens of thousands of Children of Angel Orphans, or “CAOS,” as they were called by the press. Kat was just one, but she was one who Rev and his family wanted to take care of.

Most of the CAOS from Alafia had been taken to Bugatti’s World, and Kat was supposed to be returned to them, but after she had spent time with his family, and with the help of General Begay, they had gotten a judge to issue a restraining order, keeping her on New Hope.

Rev had thought it would be easy after that. Kat was a ward of the state. She had no family, Rev’s family wanted her, and she wanted to stay with them. But he’d underestimated the fervor of the Childrens’ Protective Agency. They were willing to stand up to anyone—the Marine Corps, the planetary governor, it didn’t matter who—to fulfill their charge to make sure every child was protected. There were forms to be filled, interviews to be taken, inspections of the family home, and a galaxy-wide search for distant family who might want to press a claim.

So, two weeks later, Kat was in the Swansea Happy House while the paperwork started to grind on, a process that might take three months before a decision could be made.

Every day, someone from the family came to visit her, and today, it was Rev and Neesy.

“I’ve had pizza before,” Kat said. “With pineapple.”

“I love pineapple!” Neesy exclaimed.

Rev just sat back and listened to their chatter. He might as well not even be there as the two girls were engrossed with each other. But he was fine with that.

As Tomiko had said on Alafia when he’d almost gotten his head blown off, there were cultures where saving someone’s life made them your responsibility. Tomiko was joking when she disavowed any responsibility for Rev, but in this case, with Kat, Rev was happy to accept it.

Kat had a rough life and parents who were willing to sacrifice her. But she was young enough to adjust, and while he might be biased, he thought his family was just the right place for her.

One of the attendants, a pleasant-looking young woman in bright pink, entered the rec room. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but it’s dinner-time. I’m afraid I need to take Kat.”

Both girls erupted into protests and asked for five more minutes, but the woman expertly, with compassion, managed to separate them and start to lead Kat away.

“Did you have fun today?” she asked Kat as they walked, hand-in-hand, through the door.

“Yes! That’s Neesy! She’s gonna be my sister.”

“I like her,” Neesy said, watching the two leave.

“Are you going to be OK with her as a sister? You won’t be my only little sister then.”

“But I’ll always be your favorite sister,” Neesy said, giving him a hug.

“Well, favorite sister, let me take you home.”

“Are you gonna have dinner with us?” Neesy asked.

“’Fraid not. I’ve got to go see some friends.”

“You’re going to drink,” she said, screwing her face into a pout.

“You’re probably right, sis,” he said with a laugh.

He called up an autocab and gave it the home address. Neesy started listing all the things she was going to show Kat, and she hadn’t gotten to the end of her list when the cab reached the house.

“Give me a hug,” Rev said. “And give everyone my love.”

“Don’t get drunk!” Neesy said as she slipped out of the cab.

<Yeah, right.>

Rev just snorted. Punch stayed out of his thoughts when he was busy or with others, but he’d started to interject comments like that at odd times.

And Rev sort of liked it.

“Leteeka’s, please,” he told the autocab.

* * *

“Way to be on time,” Yancy said sarcastically.

Rev looked around. No one else was there yet. He raised his eyebrows in a question.

“On time means early, Rev, when there’s drinking to be done.”

Rev grabbed Yancy’s drink out of his hand, took a large swallow, draining half of the glass, and handed it back.

“Geez, you could have left me some,” Yancy said, draining the glass empty.

Rev ordered another pitcher and some clean steins, and within twenty seconds, the order was trundling down the overhead track to the table.

“Everyone going to make it?” Rev asked.

“Who’s gonna miss it? We made a vow. They’ll all be here.”

That wasn’t quite the vow they’d made. The vow was to meet here at Leteeka’s when they reached their End of Enlistment. With all of them being involuntarily extended, that had morphed into meeting on the anniversary date of their original EoE date. A year ago, Orpheus, Cricket, and Ten had been deployed, but this year, they were all at Nguyen.

“Did you ever think we’d all still be here, five years in?” Yancy asked Rev.

“A little worse for wear, some of us,” Rev said, reaching out with his stein, which Yancy clinked.

The two of them were the only ones wounded in action out of the group.

“I wish Krissy was still with us, though,” he said. She hadn’t made the vow, but she’d been an original member of their posse.

“Respect to the fallen,” Yancy said, and they toasted again. “She liked you, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

There was a long pause, then Yancy asked, “Anything on that front? Any love interests?”

“Nah. Kinda hard to get anything going. We’re not all Udu and Cricket.”

“Yeah, what about them? You think they’d still be together. I mean, they’re so . . .”

“Different?”

“Yeah, different.”

“They seem happy. Miko told me they might get hitched.”

“Miko. I kinda thought you two might get together someday.”

Rev snorted, beer coming out of his nose. He grabbed a napkin and wiped off his face. “Miko? No, we’re like brother and sister.”

Yancy smiled but said nothing.

“Does he think Miko and I are a thing?”

<You are pretty close. It’s logical that some people might assume that.>

“Shit. We’re just . . . we’re friends. Like all of us are.”

Rev was rescued when a familiar figure spotted him and started walking across the bar. He broke out into a smile. Anything to get the subject changed.

“Hey, Angel Wings!”

“I heard you were back. How’s life?” Malaika asked.

“Just trying to make it to the next day.”

“How’s your arm. You got it nailed?”

Rev held the arm out and put it through its paces.

“How about you? You’re back up to speed?”

“Docs gave me a clean bill of health two weeks ago. I’m on full duty.”

Yancy nudged him under the table.

“Oh, Yance. This is Mala. Mala, this is Yance.”

“I know you,” Malaika said. “You’re in Delta.”

“And I know you. Alpha, right?”

“Guilty as charged.” Malaika looked pointedly down at the pitcher.

“Oh, sorry,” Rev said, pouring her a glass.

She took a sip, then asked, “Are you going to invite me to sit?”

Rev gave Yancy a quick glance, then sheepishly said, “I would, but, uh . . . this is sort of a private party. Something we do every year. There’ll be eight of us.”

She stopped mid-sip, a look of . . . hurt? disappointment? embarrassment? . . . coming over her face.

“Oh, sorry,” she said, putting down the drink. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you guys.”

“No, no, no. Keep the drink. Look . . . why don’t I call you tomorrow? I’ve got to see my family, but maybe after that, we can get together.”

The embarrassed look faded a bit. “Hey, I don’t want to push myself—”

“No, really. We should catch up. I mean, we were killed together, right? We went from KIA to WIA together, death to just wounded. We’re Brothers and Sisters of . . .”

He was about to say “Steel,” but Malaika never received a prosthesis.

“. . . of the Wounded Warrior Ward!”

She gave him a look he couldn’t decipher. “If you’re sure . . .”

“Hey, it’ll be good. If you’re free, that is.”

“OK. Give me a call.” She stood there for a moment, unsure of herself, then said, “I guess I’ll head off. See you.”

She drained the beer, but instead of getting a table, she left the bar.

Yancy waited until she was out the door before he asked, “So, no love life?”

“What is with you, Yance? We’re friends, that’s all. We were in the Wounded Warrior Ward together.”

“But before that? You were both dead together? What’s with that? Something kinky . . . I hope.”

“You’re sick. We both got killed in the simulator at the same time.”

Yancy just smiled as he looked over the top of his glass with knowing eyes.

“What? What are you trying to say?”

“I didn’t think she was your type.”

“I don’t have a type!” He paused, then asked, “What is my type, if you know everything.”

“I’ve heard about her. She was a stud even before augmentation. She was on the New Hope juniors rugby team.”

Which was impressive, Rev had to admit. But he didn’t know what that had to do with his supposed type.

“And?”

“And, Miko’s about knee-high to a rabbit, and Malaika there’s head-high to a giraffe.”

“Which doesn’t mean shit because they’re just friends. You’re my friend, but that doesn’t mean you’re my type, asshole.”

“Oh, be still my beating heart.”

“But if you keep up this crap, you won’t be my friend for long.”

Rev was getting pissed. He knew Yancy was just pulling his chain, but the conversation was decidedly making him uncomfortable. He took a couple of deep breaths. He was damned if he was going to let Yancy spoil the evening. Not this evening.

He refused to catch Yancy’s eye and stared out into the weekday evening crowd. He was rewarded when Udu and Cricket walked in together. He stood and waved them over.

Yancy had been right about one thing. Udu and Cricket didn’t seem like a logical couple, but it was working. And that got him thinking. For all of Yancy’s BS, what was going on with Rev’s love life, or lack thereof? He told himself that it didn’t make sense to get involved with anyone when he could get killed on the next mission, but was that just an excuse? Did he even have a type, as Yancy put it?

But that was something for another time. Bundy walked in, spotted them, and started over. Within a couple of minutes, they were all there: Rev, Tomiko, Yancy, Cricket, Udu, Orpheus, Fyr, and Ten.

“How’s Kat,” Tomiko asked as she wedged herself on the seat between Yancy and him.

Rev refused to look at Yancy. “She’s fine. She and Neesy are getting along well.”

“Is your family going to get custody?”

“I talked to the administrator. They don’t make the decision at Happy House, but she said that it looks good.”

“I’m happy for her,” Tomiko said, squeezing his arm. “Your family is good people.”

Bundy made sure everyone was charged before he stood and tapped on the side of his glass. “As the senior Marine in this motley crew, I want to welcome each and every one of you to our annual reunion, or as we should call it now, our Extension Day celebration.”

There were cheers and “ooh-rahs” from the others until he tapped on his glass again.

“I never thought . . . when we met more than four years ago, and Rev there made us promise to meet at your End of Enlistment . . . I never thought . . .”

He paused, a hint of tears glistening in his eyes. “I never thought that all of us would make it to that one, much less this one, two years later. The chances . . .”

Cricket put an arm around Udu’s shoulders as the rest sat quietly.

“Not to get all maudlin on you, but we’re in a dangerous profession, fighting for humankind’s very existence. The chances for any of us to survive a year is low enough, but for all of us? Sometimes I think the gods of war really might have their eyes on us.

“Who knows what tomorrow will bring? Who knows where our next battle will be? But I just wanted to say that no matter what happens in the future, I’ve been proud to know . . .”

He had to take a moment to gather himself. “Look, you all know I lost my Lara just before I enlisted. I still have my kids, and I love them and the grandkids. But you . . . you’re my family, too. And no matter what happens, no matter how much longer we’ll have on this corporeal plane, I want to say that I’m honored to know you, and I love you all. That’s all.”

Fyr stood up and hugged Bundy. Rev didn’t even try to stop the tears from flowing. Bundy had nailed it.

“To family!” Yancy shouted, standing and raising his glass.

“To family,” they all shouted in return, arms around each other as they toasted to the last five years.

* * *

It was a more subdued gathering than two years ago—subdued, but not diminished. With fewer people in the bar, it was quieter, and the eight had more time to talk, to reminisce, to tell stories. Not as much alcohol was downed, but no one seemed to miss it.

With Rev and Tomiko in the Raiders, they did not fight with the others, so it was interesting to hear some of the details from the infantry, mech, and armor Marines. Things Rev had assumed about armor, for example, weren’t necessarily the case.

Very few armor or mech Marines were wounded to the degree they needed prostheses—with both, it tended to be either killed or not touched—so Rev’s arm was a hot topic of discussion. And he was fine with it. He had no problem with being open with his experiences, even if he had to watch that he didn’t accidentally drift from his social arm to Pashu.

“So, how sensitive? Can you say . . . pick up this?” Fyr asked, pulling a thread from his shirt and setting it on the table.”

Instead of pinching it between his thumb and forefinger, Rev just pushed the tip of his forefinger on top of it and lifted the hand. The thread was stuck there.

“Suction.”

“Woah. Righteous,” Yancy said, reaching out with his own forefinger raised.

Rev complied, touching it with his finger, activating the suction function.

“Oh, wow. I can feel it.”

Which meant Rev had to go around the table, letting each person feel the slight suction.

The talk gradually lessened, as each of them was happy to just be with each other.

Patrons started leaving the bar until there were only their posse and two lone civilians nursing their drinks.

The evening hadn’t gone as Rev had envisioned. It wasn’t as boisterous, but it was probably better. Mostly, the evening was a time to catch up and bond.

Rev had five years in uniform now, and in some ways, he barely remembered any other life. He’d fought to stay out of uniform, to take that apprenticeship with the Benevolent Order of Crystal Technicians. All he’d wanted was to stay low and do his time so he could get out. But now, he was comfortable where he was.

“We hate to be the party-poopers,” Cricket said after a long, mutual silence. “But I’m going to the field at zero-five in the morning. We’re going to head off.”

“Hmph, lightweights,” Yancy said, but without being serious.

“I’m with you,” Fyr said.

Everyone exchanged hugs, then three left to go back to Nguyen.

“One more round?” Bundy asked.

“If you’re buying, sure. I’ll hang around,” Ten said.

Bundy ordered a last pitcher and topped everyone off.

Rev leaned back, the beer in his hand, but he didn’t drink. He slowly took in the table. Bundy was right. This was his family. One of them, at least. His Raider team was his family, too. He’d fought with them, bled with them, mourned with them.

Staff Sergeant Montez, Yazzie, Kel, Tanu, Krissy. They were his brothers and sisters. They were part of him.

Then there were his mother, father, Neesy, and Grover. Maybe little Kat, now, too. They were his anchor in the real world, a reminder of why he was fighting.

“I guess I should thank the judge, too, while I’m at it,” he muttered.

“What judge?” Tomiko asked.

Damn those augmented ears.

“Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about the judge who conscripted me. I wasn’t eighteen yet, and she could have let me slide. But because of me and my big mouth, she still put me in.”

“Sorry?”

“No. This is where I was meant to be. Mr. Oliva told me that might happen. I didn’t believe him then.”

“Oliva? The old man at the VGW?”

“Yeah. He said I might end up liking it. Well, he said a lot of things. Sleep whenever you can. Eat at every opportunity. Never volunteer. Jump when the DI said jump. But he also said that the Corps might be right for me.”

“Smart man.”

“Yeah, he was. Is.”

And it hit him.

“I think I’m heading out.”

“Share a cab?”

“No. I’m not going back just yet.”

“But you just said you’re heading out.”

“I just want to get a little air first.”

Tomiko scrunched her eyebrows together as she regarded him. “OK, I guess. You want some company while you get your air?”

Yancy looked over, but for once, he wasn’t making a weird face or a snide crack.

“No. You go ahead and go back. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Rev got up, hugged everyone, and left the bar. He stood on the sidewalk for a moment, looking up in the sky. Neither of the moons was up, so the stars were bright. They couldn’t hold a candle to the Witch’s Broom above Alafia, but it was home.

Rev considered ordering up a cab, but the night was comfortable, and his destination wasn’t far. Walking was fine.

He passed a few people on the street, other night owls out on a weekday. He wondered about them, about their families. Were they happy in their lives?

“Are you happy?” he asked, surprising himself with the question.

<Happy is a human emotion.>

“You’re sort of human, aren’t you?”

<I am crystal.>

“But you seem human. You tell jokes.”

<That’s just programming.>

“I don’t buy that. But OK, let me put it this way. Is your programming, as you put it, fulfilled by being my battle buddy?”

<Yes.>

Rev was taken aback. That was a pretty definitive answer.

“So, you’re happy then.”

It was a statement, not a question.

<By that definition, yes.>

Rev stopped walking for a moment.

“I’m glad,” he said.

He turned down Granite Street and over two more blocks until he was standing in front of a single-story red brick building. The sign over the door said, “Veterans of Galactic Wars, Post 747944.”

Rev pushed open the door. It was dark inside, but his night-vision capability was more than enough for him to check out the handful of patrons. The bartender, an older woman with a lot of kilometers behind her, eyed him, but she didn’t say anything.

For a moment, Rev thought it was a wasted trip, but then he saw him, back around the corner of the bar. He walked over and took the seat next to him, reaching out with his social arm and tapping the man’s leg.

“’Bout time you showed up here,” Mr. Oliva said as he nursed a small glass.

He slowly turned his head and said, “I saw you on the holo a couple weeks back. You and that little girl. I thought I told you never to volunteer.”

Rev shrugged and motioned for the bartender to refill Mr. Oliva’s drink and get him one of the same.

“It’s OK. I never followed that rule myself. You done good. That how you got your arm?”

“Yeah.”

“Brothers in Steel, Brothers in Steel.” He looked over and took in the prosthesis. “Looks pretty newfangled, there. A Thermapole?”

Rev held it out for inspection. “Rycroft.”

“Didn’t have no Rycrofts back in the day, and I’m used to the Thermas. Too old to change now.”

The bartender brought the drinks. Mr. Oliva downed his old one and handed the glass back.

The two clinked glasses, and Rev took a sip . . . and had to struggle not to choke. He wasn’t sure if it was alcohol or aviation fluid. The corner of Mr. Oliva’s mouth twitched up in the slightest of smiles.

Rev steeled himself, downed the rest of the drink in one gulp, and signaled for another.

They sat quietly for a few minutes before Mr. Oliva asked, “So why did you come over here to see an old man? Can’t be because of my sterling personality.”

“I just wanted to tell you that you were right.”

“Of course, I was right. I always am. But what specifically was I right about?”

He tapped the edge of his glass with a finger, and Rev took the hint, motioning to the bartender.

“You said I might like the Corps.”

“I knew it. You seemed the type.”

And that was it. Mission accomplished.

Rev stared at the man sitting next to him. What had he done in the Corps? How had he lost his legs? Did he have a family? Why was he here at the VGW every night, downing aviation fuel?

He realized he knew nothing about the man, and he had so many questions. But he also knew now that it didn’t matter. They were Marines. They were Brothers in Steel. That was enough, and his questions would remain unasked.

Well, except for maybe one, something that had been asked of him so many times by someone else.

He turned to face the old man and asked, “Hey, you want to hear a joke?”

* * *

REV and TOMIKO will return in SONG OF REDEMPTION,  available for preorder 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

Connect with J.N. Chaney

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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.

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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.