“Aaron, Kyle went down with his ship. I am so sorry.”
Seconds passed, creeping on toward a minute before he asked, “What were the circumstances?”
“Kyle blocked three frigates to buy the fleet more time for evacuation. He destroyed one and delayed the others before the Astoria was destroyed.”
“Were there any escape pods? Do we have confirmation?” Though he knew the answer, his mind refused to accept it.
“There were no escape pods detected.”
Erskin realized he grieved not only for Kyle, but for all the things left unsaid between them. She wondered if Hella had ever commended Kyle in person, had ever told him how proud he was of his son’s achievements.
She embraced her ex-lover as a dear and hurting friend. He stood in her arms yet did not return the gesture, rigid as a totem pole, arms at his sides. She found his emotionless response uncomfortable, but her feelings didn’t matter at the moment.
Aaron pulled away from her. His usual countenance—scarred, tenacious, intimidating—returned. “I’ll need your after-action report by eighteen-hundred hours tomorrow. It’s a lot to recap, so that should give you enough time.”
“Aye aye, sir. I’ll see you have it on time.”
“Very good, admiral.” He moved toward the door.
“Aaron?”
He turned. “Yes?”
“If Kyle hadn’t held off those frigates, we wouldn’t have escaped. I’m recommending him for the Medal of Valor. He’ll be remembered as a hero who sacrificed all serving the Alliance.”
Hella snorted derision, then unleashed a dark and mirthless chortle. “The Alliance…” His voice dripped venom. “Is that what he died for?” He stalked from the room.
Which was for the best. She had no answer to his question.
CHAPTER 37
Serving as acting platoon sergeant, Rizer stood before second platoon. Of the five hundred plus Marines comprising 123rd Battalion at the time of invasion, only 104 survived the day, many with critical wounds. Captain Carr, ranking surviving officer, took command. Company level did not exist at the moment; two platoons made up the battalion standing in morning formation within a hangar, perhaps fifty Marines altogether.
The gunny acting as battalion sergeant major addressed the 123rd. “Command has ordered that all combat units from the Verdant campaign receive seventy-two hours of liberty, beginning this morning after a mandatory awards and promotion formation at 0900. At my command to fall out you will proceed to quarters to square away your uniforms for the ceremony.” He ordered the platoons to attention. “Fall out!”
The formation dispersed.
The ceremony didn’t start for another ninety minutes. Rizer, his uniform as squared away as he felt like making it, decided to visit Bach and Duran in sickbay. He was going to ask Leone along but caught only a glimpse of her back as she departed for her quarters.
Not surprising.
Leone had been withdrawn since last night. She’d come to Rizer’s quarters with a bottle of synthos. He didn’t know where she’d gotten it and didn’t ask. Neither said much as they split the bottle, but after his third shot Rizer became more talkative. He made the mistake of telling an amusing story about Stubs from bootcamp, which only disturbed her. She left, leaving the half-full bottle behind, though Rizer drank no more. This morning she barely spoke to him, sounded weary and forlorn when she did.
She just needs some time.
They all did. Still decompressing from perhaps the most terrifying day of their lives, they were only beginning to come to grips with their losses and the sting of defeat.
“Rizer,” Captain Carr called from behind.
Rizer stopped. “Yes, sir?”
“You’re going to be front and center at formation, along with several others. You’ll be awarded the Navy Star for valor and receive a meritorious promotion to sergeant.”
“With all due respect, sir, I don’t want either.”
“Too bad. You’re a hero in the eyes of the Alliance, whether you want to be or not.”
Rizer shook his head. The promotion he could live with—he’d receive one sooner or later—but he couldn’t accept the Navy Star. “That’s not true, sir. The real heroes are dead and planted on Verdant. They deserve the Navy Star, not me.”
“Then honor them when you receive your awards, because General Hella says you’re getting a star, one way or another.”
That settled that. “Aye aye, sir.”
“Very good. Carry on.”
Rizer reached sickbay. He had visited last night to get his arm wound patched up and check on his men. Since then the grievously wounded Marines occupying the beds had all received decorations.
Bach had a purple heart pinned to his hospital gown. Two ceremonial documents lay on the table by his bed. Rizer craned his neck to read the first line of one: To all who shall see these presents, greeting.
“Lance coolie again, I see,” Rizer said. “Congrats, brother.”
“Why, thank you. Compliments of General Hella, no less. It only took a war and some shrapnel in my ass to get back my rifles. Small price to pay.” He fingered the Purple Heart. “And these damn things are starting to grow on trees.”
Rizer couldn’t help but laugh. “What’s that, number four? Wear it with pride.”
“Yep, I’ve got a hard-earned collection. I’m going for number five next.”
“You’re gonna become the ace of injuries.”
“Damn right. Aim high.”
Rizer told Bach of his upcoming promotion and his reluctance to receive his award.
“Are you fucking kidding me? Take it!”
“As if I have a choice.”
“You shouldn’t need one. That’s a door opening, my friend. All you gotta do is step inside.” He paused. “Hey, where’s Marie?”
As Rizer told him, Bach didn’t appear concerned. “She’s a hard-chargin’ lifer; she’ll get over it.”
Rizer chuckled. “And what would you know about being a lifer?”
“Not much.” Bach shrugged. “But I think we’re all lifers for the time being. We’ll go to war over this, and I doubt anyone’s going home until it’s over.”
***
Several thousand personnel, the majority sailors from the Resolute, stood in formations that filled Drop Bay One, the ship’s largest hangar. Flanked by General Brox and Admiral Erskin, General Hella opened the awards ceremony with a speech he promised to keep short. Never one to bullshit his Marines, he delivered. After honoring the fallen, he finished with a powerful statement: “In yesterday’s battle we lost brothers, sisters, family bonded not by blood but with blood. This tragedy has discouraged some of you, but I implore you to fight on in their memory.
“Even our high state of combat readiness couldn’t save us from overwhelming numbers. Had we even half of their forces, we would have prevailed. What you experienced yesterday was not how the Marine Corps should be operating, and I will use every last ounce of my influence to see that such a catastrophe never occurs again, not on my watch or any other commander’s.”
Hella tacitly put the blame where it belonged: on brass demigods who led from the rear along with the bought-and-paid-for politicians who enjoyed thousand-credit haircuts. They had written the rules of engagement, allocated too small a force to Verdant, and kowtowed to mining company management at the expense of sound tactics. The general promised a return to warfare as it should be: “Adequate resources to ensure victory is possible. My Marines need nothing more to accomplish their missions.
“War is here, people, and it will be my great honor to fight alongside you until victory is ours and peace is earned. Semper Fidelis.”
No applause was the rule during such ceremonies, yet a lone someone clapped as Hella stepped from the podium. The applause rapidly multiplied, infecting all in the hangar.
Rizer had listened to disgruntled grumblings from Marines bitter about the defeat. Some even cur
sed Generals Hella and Brox, accusing them in hushed voices of negligence and incompetence. Yet as he clapped, a couple of these same Marines applauded just as loudly.
Once the room quieted the ship’s chaplain gave a simple yet eloquent eulogy in reverence for the dead. Next Erskin spoke, praising the sailors of Sixth Fleet, the living and the dead. More sailors had died than Rizer estimated, and rumor was that all hands aboard the Deliverance had perished.
Lesser medals such as Purple Hearts would not be awarded here. Groups receiving the same medals would line up before the brass for awards. Rizer stood with the final group: Marines and sailors receiving both medals and promotions.
Marines Rizer had served with received a variety of decorations. Uninjured in the fight, Leone received the Marine Corps Commendation Medal for her heroism during the Excelsior battle and civilian rescue operation. Though she showed no emotion, and perhaps felt none, Rizer was happy for her. That medal will do a lot for her career.
The ceremony adjutant called Rizer’s formation forward. Second in line, he stood at attention and listened as Admiral Erskin promoted a pilot named Borland to commander and awarded her the Distinguished Flying Cross for selfless acts of valor during engagement with the Union fleet. He’d seen damn few pilots awarded anything, none left to decorate.
After pinning on her medal, Erskin said, “Your actions, commander, and those of your fallen squadron mates saved thousands of lives. None of us would be here if not for you. You have the eternal thanks of the Navy, the Alliance, and myself.”
Borland did not respond. Rizer wondered how many pilots she’d seen blasted out of existence.
Hella made a right face and stood before Rizer. They stared at each other, expressionless, Rizer directing his gaze between eyes as cold and blue as frozen moons.
The huge master sergeant, Rocco, stood at the general’s side with warrants, rank insignia, and decoration in hand. “To all who shall see these presents, greeting…” he recited, his deep voice rumbling like an artillery barrage.
After reading Rizer’s meritorious promotion warrant, Rocco read the warrant for his Navy Star. Lost in thoughts of those left behind, Rizer only caught snatches of it: fearlessly led his squad from the surrounded Excelsior mining camp, routing a vastly superior enemy force … at great peril, selflessly helped to evacuate wounded civilians and Marines from Camp Shaw … his fortitude and dedication to duty represent the highest values of the Marine Corps and the United Systems Naval Service.
“Congratulations, sergeant,” Hella said, flat and unemotional, unlike his fiery opening speech. His handshake, though firm, lacked vigor, despite his efforts to hide his drained and grim visage. Rocco and Hella pinned three stripes on his collar, then the Star over his heart. “We need more Marines of your caliber in the field, Sergeant Rizer. It is men like you who are going to win the coming war.”
Rizer did not answer. None was expected. Hella had a full lineup of heroes left to decorate, and Rizer saluted so the general could get on with it. Hella returned the gesture and moved on to face the next man.
***
Rizer’s roommate for the thirteen-day trip to the Koral System, a corporal formerly with Killer Company, had gone to the enlisted club, planning to get, “Tore down.”
Rizer had declined to join him; he had business to take care of.
He’d thought nothing of his family during the battle, gave them little consideration since reaching the fleet, period. They had likely seen reports of the invasion, and no matter what he thought of them, they had a right to know he’d survived.
He activated a handheld holo-recorder and greeted them neutrally, as though they were acquaintances in a business transaction. Are they anything more? Have they ever been? Perhaps they were less, blood relations bordering on strangers. Yet even to a stranger, a man might unburden himself.
“I just wanted to let you know I’m all right, luckier than most. We lost a lot of good Marines on Verdant.
“Looking back on everything, my joining and your opposition, I think you were right about one thing: I had no idea what I was signing up for or why. You also told me that I wouldn’t find what I needed here. You were wrong about that. This is my home now, and I won’t be returning to Arcadia anytime soon. This is where I belong.” After an impersonal closure, he ended the message and sent it.
I have a new family now. Despite the mass destruction and utter waste of life he’d witnessed on Verdant, he couldn’t picture himself anywhere else but among his fellow Marines, his brothers and sisters, people he would never have met as a civilian. I might die in action, but fuck if I have any regrets.
Not about the Corps anyway.
He sat before the room’s holo-screen terminal to check again on Kasra. Yesterday it had seemed she might make it—maybe it was false optimism—yet she remained in critical condition when he checked her status that morning. They allowed her no visitors, forcing him to check her status on the ship’s computer system every few hours.
He typed her name into sickbay’s database.
The response came immediately: PATIENT DECEASED 1745 HOURS.
He didn’t weep, wondered how well a man had to know someone to elicit such reaction. How well did I know her? Not at all, really. He doubted if he would have gone back to her, had she survived. But she had been his friend, damn it, even if just for a short while, and it still hurt.
What burned him most was that she hadn’t deserved what fate had dealt her, both in life and death. First Sawyer, then me. Was I an upgrade from the insane warrior or merely a different incarnation? Even after all he’d experienced, the question left him wondering.
Then he remembered the synthos and decided to forget, or at least make an honest attempt. Feeling restless, he stuffed the bottle in a backpack and left his quarters.
He aimlessly walked the Resolute’s hallways and ladder wells. Harsh white light reflected from polished black floors, giving him a headache. He passed Marines and sailors on liberty or going about their duties. Whether alone or in groups, all personnel were somber and subdued, still in a state of shock.
He must have walked at least a couple of kilometers before arriving at the end of a dimly lit hallway. FLIGHT OBSERVATION DECK 1G: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, read a sign above the hatchway’s double doors. He tried the button; the doors slid open with a hiss. Several large viewing windows formed the darkened room’s walls. Rizer stood before one, staring at the vast expanse of stars.
As good a place as any.
He’d yet to touch the bottle but now felt the thirst upon him. He thought of Stubs, their time in bootcamp together, their conversations, the man saving his ass in a firefight. And then holding him on the dirty bar floor as the last words left his lips.
“I took care of Sawyer. You should be with us, pal,” he muttered before taking a drink in his honor.
He then silently toasted Kasra. To better luck in your next life. He couldn’t think of anything she deserved more. Maybe wisdom, enough to stay away from guys like Sawyer… and me.
He drank one for Murder Company: Leone, Bach, Duran, and all the poor bastards left behind.
After that, he just drank. This wasn’t like him at all, drinking alone, but much had changed over the last couple of days. People had perished and destinies had been decided. When he joined the military, his life took a turn down a path he never expected to follow. He hadn’t intended on becoming a warrior for his life’s profession, but here he was. He didn’t like killing but found a kinship in war he never found as a civilian, as if the savagery lowered men’s guard so they could truly connect. It forged a bond he had never felt, even with his family, one he couldn’t explain to someone who had never served. He still found it hard to believe. You’re not the man you were that first day on Forge, not even the man you were two days ago. He might have fingered several catalysts for causing the change, yet as he tried, he found they were just signposts pointing to one root cause—himself.
I
wanted to see if I measured up. And I did.
There was no going back.
***
Sitting in a plush leather chair in a dark alcove, General Hella cut a cigar, then stared out the huge window at the sea of stars. He thought of Kyle.
Am I to blame?
He’d never pushed Kyle to join the military; his son had taken to it on his own. A smile—genuine, not the malicious rictus he unleashed to intimidate—broke on his face when he remembered coming home one day to Kyle, who couldn’t have been more than two, standing at the door wearing his dress blue cover. Hella had recently been promoted to first lieutenant, put in charge of a fucked-up infantry platoon in a company with subterranean morale, commanded by a martinet captain who reveled in making everyone’s lives miserable.
Late at night, I’d just come home from an inspection.
That travesty of leadership had been an all-day affair. The skipper failed men over and over for the tiniest infractions, invented them on the fly if he found none, and scolded his officers and staff for failing to square away his company.
One of those days when I wondered just why the fuck I joined.
Then he saw his boy at the door wearing his cover, saluting him, and forgot all the bullshit he’d waded through that day. He gave the cover to Kyle, bought another for himself. The rest just happened.
Kyle strove to prove himself from a young age, excelling in sports and academics. He grew up to be handsome, charismatic, a shrewd and easy leader. Perfect officer material.
But I never told him that.
For Hella, the easiest thing about being an officer was becoming one. He never struggled in school or at the Academy, assumed everything came just as easy to Kyle. All of his achievements were expected: team captain, all-Alliance academic scholar, top five at the Academy. Praise had seemed pointless to Hella; the boy was simply doing what he’d been born to do. Might as well praise him for waking up or not pissing himself.
War's Edge- Dead Heroes Page 49