Berlin climbed on board, turned, smiled, and held out his hand. “Knew you’d come!”
Wash was going.
03
Wash didn’t know what the max capacity of the SLIC was, but he felt they must be close to it. Still, he was able to find a jump seat and wedged himself between two of the jungle-camoed hullbusters.
The marines wore greasepaint on their faces, some in stripes, others practically wearing black masks. Their durable green fatigues were paired with black combat boots and heavy flak jackets, some sealed up and others hanging open to reveal bare, muscular chests and tattoos of the Republic Marines insignia: a sea serpent tearing apart the hull of a capital ship.
Wash felt the man next to him looking him up and down. He wasn’t intimidated—his Legion training had equipped him with suitable self-defense skills—but he did feel out of place. Though he had his ruck and weapon, which rested between his knees, he knew he didn’t exactly look like a leej fighter.
Wash locked eyes with his black-haired observer and nodded. The marine’s flak jacket was open, revealing a stomach tattoo of a human skull, its mouth wide open with a naked Endurian provocatively arching her back inside it. The marine nodded back, then fixed his attention on the jungle that sped by in a green blur outside the craft’s open doors. The SLIC’s passengers jostled and banged into one another from the turbulence of the flight.
A big mountain of a man with a strong cleft chin and a heavy full-auto blaster sat directly across from Wash. His face was smeared with greasepaint and a thin sheen of perspiration. He was working something over in his mouth—probably stim—slowly and methodically moving the round lump from one cheek to the other. The marine stared unblinkingly at Wash. Another admirer. Wash nodded, and was answered with a brownish-red stream of spit which landed just shy of his boots.
Berlin stood near the open door, right next to the SLIC’s crew chief, holding onto a handhold, the wind blowing through his hair. He was following the gaze of the gunner, who vigilantly swept his weapon around in search of doro hostiles. But no dog-men seemed to be out. Berlin caught Wash looking and cracked a wide smile as if to say, “Isn’t this great!”
Wash meekly smiled back. It didn’t feel all that great to him. The rush of taking off and heading into the jungle had worn off now. As the marines eyeballed him, his mind ran through images of his CO launching a surprise inspection on the now-abandoned office hab. He could see his career circling the drain. Worse, he could see himself becoming the poster boy for everything wrong with this new program of appointed officers.
He shouldn’t have come.
It had been foolish and rash, on more than one level. The most pressing of which was how utterly unprepared he was to be in the field for an undetermined amount of time doing jungle recon. He had just sort of assumed this would be a day trip. Maybe an overnighter. He didn’t think Berlin would be keen on the weeks-long patrols that the Legion undertook. But Wash didn’t actually know how long they’d be out here or what the mission entailed.
He had rations for three days and water for two, though he was comfortable in his ability to survive off the jungle if needed, and there were plenty of hydration options on Psydon. The whole planet was dripping wet. Charge packs might be sufficient for a few engagements—it would depend on how much he had to shoot. He had his knife and a med kit. But he wore no armor. If he had kitted up this morning, his decision would already have been made. He couldn’t tell his friend no after that.
And along with the armor went other important items—like his ultrabeam, datamaps, and service pistol. As it was, he looked like some desk jockey who’d plunked down big credits to go on an exotic planetary safari. A wealthy wannabe traveling with experienced shooters boasting enough trigger time to keep him alive.
At least, in his Legion armor, Berlin looked the part of those operators, even if ultimately he was just another point, same as Wash. Truth be told, while Wash was feeling more and more like the SLIC’s designated object of scorn, Berlin took on the air of the man in charge.
Wash thought about how often Berlin had skipped leadership and discipline classes during their time together at the Academy. This could all go real bad, real quick. He now hoped their foray into the jungle would be without incident. The exact opposite of everything he’d allowed himself to daydream.
Just let us get back to base without running into the doros.
“Dressed a little light, ain’t ya, Leej?”
Wash pretended he didn’t hear the marine as he looked out the open side door, watching the treetop canopy streak by between helmeted gaps.
“Hey.” The marine’s voice was louder this time.
Wash shouted back, “I’ll be all right.”
“Hear that, guys?” the marine said to his buddies. “He’ll be all right. He don’t need no armor or helmet or kit. Definitely never seen a leej go out on patrol like that.”
The tattooed marine with the black hair sitting next to Wash picked up the conversation. The name on his flak jacket read Haulman. “You ask me? This guy ain’t Legion.”
Wash kept his face impassive, knowing that showing frustration would only cause a pile-on, and that laughing and playing the aw-shucks character would only earn him more scorn.
Haulman tapped Wash on the shoulder. “What you with? My bet is army intel. We takin’ you to see something important close up?”
The marine on Washam’s left, a man with cool, almost transparently blue eyes, and a sniper’s notched long rifle cradled in one arm, chimed in. “He’s a leej. Been around enough legionnaires to know how they hold themselves. This one’s got that legionnaire feel, even if the uniform says otherwise.”
The rest of the marines paused to consider this.
“All right, let’s hear it from the man himself,” growled a sergeant, his eyes angry and full of experience, his helmet resting on the top of head, chin straps dangling unfastened. “You a leej or Repub intel?”
“I’m a first lieutenant in the Legion,” Wash said, giving a fractional nod. “Just like the tab says.”
“That’s that,” said the sergeant, whose name badge read Shotton.
The marine who’d started the conversation wasn’t impressed. “I still ain’t never seen a legionnaire go out into the field dressed as light as you.”
The big marine sitting across from Wash shifted the wad of stim in his cheek before spitting another glob, this time away from Wash’s boots. He wiped the dribble from his chin with a gloved hand. “You ask me, it don’t matter what kind of outfit you wear as long as you smoke the other guy before he smokes you. That’s one thing the leejes have right. That KTF junk they always spoutin’.”
The sniper next to Washam—his name wasn’t visible—leaned in toward the big man. “If that’s true, Denturo, why do they all wear the armor?”
“How do I know why those pansies gotta wear protection?” The big marine swallowed some of his stim juice. “But it don’t matter if you kill ’em all first. Does it, Lieutenant?”
Wash looked up. “It helps. Not a guarantee you’ll get the chance when you’re fighting that close… hence the armor.”
Denturo stared blankly at the Legion lieutenant. “Bottom line. I don’t need armor, and if some leej ain’t quick enough to drop a dog-man before the dog-man drops him, he needs to stay the hell out of my way.”
Wash shrugged, not knowing what to say.
“You can sign me up for some of that leej armor,” chipped in another marine.
“Same here, man,” replied Haulman, the marine to Wash’s right. “But the Repub don’t wanna pay to protect all its troops. Just the Legion golden boys.”
“That’s not true,” Wash said, interjecting facts where none were wanted. “Statistically the Legion has a much higher casualty rate than the rest of the armed services combined. And since we got the armor, we’re the ones sent into the meat grinders of the galaxy.”
“Since they got it, Leej,” corrected Sergeant Shotton. “Way you’re dresse
d, you better watch out for spears and arrows.”
“Either way,” said Haulman, “I’ll take me some of that armor.”
Denturo dug his fingers into a pouch of stim and shoved several strands into his mouth, packing it so tightly in his bottom lip that it stuck out like a tumor. “Anyone who needs armor is a pussy. But you are kitted out way too light, Leej. Doros might not cook you, but they’ll skewer you like a fish with some of them traps they got out there.”
Wash smiled, which seemed to annoy the big marine, who spat again, this time closer to Wash’s feet.
The marine sniper leaned over. “You’ll be all right. SLIC’s got extra flak jackets.” He looked up at Wash’s exposed head. “And that scalp of yours is gonna burn. We’ll find something to cover it with.”
Wash had a Legion-issued cap. Which he’d forgotten. He kicked himself inwardly. “Thanks.”
As the sniper rose and moved forward to get Wash some kit, Berlin seemed to be in another world. If he heard the conversation, he hadn’t felt the need to join in. He’d put his bucket on at some point while Wash talked with the marines, but the way he was standing made Wash think he was somewhere far away, mentally rehearsing stump speeches for his future political triumphs.
The crew chief looked up at Berlin and shouted something that Wash couldn’t hear over the wind whipping inside the SLIC. Berlin nodded, then Wash heard his friend’s voice come to life via the open comm relay in his ear.
“Two minutes.”
“Two minutes?” shouted Sergeant Shotton, his dark eyebrows furrowed. “What happened to five minutes?”
Berlin didn’t answer, and Wash at once knew that his friend had forgotten to relay the message, so lost was he in his thoughts.
“Two minutes!” the sergeant barked.
Marines strapped on helmets, checked charge packs, sealed up flak jackets, tightened down equipment, and otherwise readied themselves for the SLIC’s landing.
Wash could feel those early morning cups of kaff dancing around bitterly in his stomach. He was thankful for having eaten a light breakfast. The last thing he wanted to do was run from the SLIC to puke.
“Thirty seconds!” Berlin relayed over the comm.
The SLIC was clearly decelerating. The blur of trees began to come into focus, and Wash could make out individual leaves and branches. The Psydon temperature, no longer blown cool by the wind speed, crept inside the vehicle, making Wash feel over-warmed and nauseated. The bird circled a landing zone, a wide stretch of prairie with tall grass, about a kilometer in radius and surrounded by jungle and a green, murky river.
Berlin was practically hanging out of the door as the door gunner looked for targets. Wash realized just how much he wanted to be in Berlin’s place. It wasn’t resentment, but a desire to make use of the training he had received. Already Wash was taking in the mistakes his friend was making. For example, Berlin hadn’t clipped himself to the SLIC with a quick-release harness, meaning that if the craft had to make a sudden evasive maneuver, the recon team’s commanding officer would most likely be flung out of the open door and into the hostile overrun jungle below.
Wash also realized that during the long flight, Berlin had not taken the time to review what their objective was upon landing. Maybe he’d gone over it with the marines before Wash showed up, but that seemed doubtful.
The SLIC continued its vertical descent until it was hovering mere feet above the ground. Long stocks of green grass bent over from the force of the repulsors, waving in radials as the gunner swept the horizon for doros. So far, so good.
As they hovered in place, it became obvious that everyone on board was waiting for Berlin to give the order to disembark. Berlin finally noticed this too, but a hair too late to save face. “Okay!” he shouted. “Let’s go!”
He sounded confident, but it was clear from the way he stood blocking the marines that he had no idea how to properly execute a SLIC dismount.
Thankfully, the marines had done this before. As soon as they received the word, they hopped out of the craft, disappearing from the waist down as they waded into the waving grass to set up a defensive perimeter. It seemed the farther out they moved from the SLIC, the taller the grass was, until it reached chest height on the lead elements. Wash hoped there wasn’t something nasty waiting for them below the surface.
He waited for his turn as the marines hustled out of the craft—the SLIC was a sitting duck should doro fire come their way—and spread out, weapons hot and looking for trouble.
The sniper slapped Wash on his shoulder and then left his seat, prompting Wash to follow. The two men jumped out of the craft, the noise and blast of repulsors hitting Wash like a physical slap against his whole body as he crossed the threshold. They moved into the reeds, Wash straining his eyes and keeping his head low.
An increased whine told Wash that the SLIC behind him was spooling up and taking on altitude, leaving the recon team at what appeared to be a secure LZ.
His ears ringing from the now-departed SLIC, Wash felt a breeze blow in from the river, carrying with it a foul, rotting-fish stench. The grass swayed with a gentle rhythm, reminding Wash of the waves outside his family’s beachfront home. A place where he and Berlin had spent so much of their youth together.
That all felt so long ago. And now… now Wash felt alone, stranded and in danger. They all were. He kept his eyes on his sector, keeping vigilance with the other marines. Waiting for orders.
04
“What’s the word, Major?” asked Marine Sergeant Shotton, a thick-necked man with a dark complexion that made his eyes and teeth look brilliantly white. Those eyes darted around looking for problems, but the landing zone appeared safe.
Although with the doros, you could never be sure. They were certainly giving the Legion a hard enough time out there. An impressive feat considering what many of these legionnaires, especially the older men, had gone through in the Savage Wars. But then, the doros, and most other sentient species in the galaxy, had gone through quite a lot too.
“Let’s see…” Berlin began, sounding distracted.
Wash imagined that his friend was trying to navigate the intel maps and other features of his bucket. Good luck. The tech was great in theory, but in Wash’s experience, the reality hadn’t quite caught up. Berlin would be better off using the display hard-mounted to his forearm.
“We’re… Let’s head off into the jungle, men.”
Wash winced, just for a moment. There was nothing confident about the way Berlin had issued that order. The Legion Academy had instructed Wash that spoken orders needed to carry with them command, authority, confidence, and knowledge. His friend sounded more like he was talking to a group of buddies as they figured out which trail would best take them on a hike to their campsite.
“Okay…” said Sergeant Shotton, obviously expecting something a little more substantial from Major Berlin. “Lotta jungle out this way, sir. You got a particular direction you want us to move?”
“Yeah… hang on.” Berlin stood ramrod straight. He was obviously occupied with the small display in the corner of his bucket, and the rest of his body was freezing up as he focused his attention there. That was part of the problem with the design—it took too much effort to take in what the helmets were communicating. Maybe future models would be more effective.
The marines looked at Berlin with expressions of disdain and mistrust. Wash could see how quickly his friend was losing influence and control over the situation. And he knew the stories of incompetent officers getting fragged out on patrol, the doros always taking the blame. Something needed to be done.
So Wash acted.
“Sorry about that, sir,” Wash said, pushing through the tall blades of grass to reach his friend’s side. “I know I was supposed to upload the updated battle maps to your bucket’s HUD, but I had some problems getting the interfaces to communicate.”
Wash motioned for a gawking marine to turn around and fix his attention on what was happening outside this little
circle of confusion, then Wash dropped to a knee, disappearing beneath the tall grass. With Berlin looking down at him, Wash motioned for his friend to join him beneath the grass sea. He didn’t want the marines out there with them to witness their supposed hard-core Legion commanding officer having to be shown how to use his own navigational equipment.
Wash whispered among the singing grass so low that he could barely hear himself, trusting Berlin’s audio receptors in that marvelous bucket of his to clearly hear every word. “Don’t waste time trying to read the map in your bucket. Unless you’ve got at least a hundred hours with the thing, it’ll get you killed. Use this.” Wash took hold of his friend’s arm, and with a few taps and access codes, he had the no-glare, low-illumination screen activated. “Once this boots up, we can see where we are. Where did you plan to lead us?”
“South,” Berlin replied, not remembering to lower his helmet’s local output.
“You say ‘south’?” asked Sergeant Shotton. “We headin’ south?”
Wash looked imploringly at Berlin to either confirm or salvage the situation.
The appointed major gestured with an open palm as if asking Wash to handle it.
“Ultimately, yes, Sergeant,” Wash said, still hidden amid the grass. He didn’t want to know what sorts of faces the marines were pulling right now. “But not straightaway. I’m trying to bring up the map that plots our best course. We don’t want to move in a straight line out here with as many doros as are suspected in this region. Too easy for one of them to sight us.”
“Well, we ain’t exactly well-hidden out here either,” said Denturo, spitting more stim juice onto a strand of reeds. “So either hurry it the hell up or the dobies will smell us on this wind.”
“That’s a lieutenant you’re speaking to,” said Sergeant Shotton.
Order of the Centurion Page 3