In Every Clime and Place

by Patrick LeClerc

  “You sure friggin’ know how to show a girl a good time.”

  “What about me?” asked Nolan.

  “You stay put. We need you alive to get us out of this shithole. Help Johnson cover us. Is everybody good to go?”

  I heard a chorus of yeses.

  “OK. Hit it!”

  Johnson sprayed the lip of the front wall of the enemy position, while the rest of the squad blazed away.

  “Let’s do it!”

  Sabatini and I leapt up and made a crouching run to the wall below the enemy position, flattening ourselves against the rubble. I looked at her, got a tense smile in return.

  I pulled a hand grenade, activated the fuse.

  “On three,” I said.

  She nodded in reply.

  I counted down. We rose and heaved our bombs over the parapet, then flopped down against the stone as the squad kept firing, in case the enemy tried to return our grenades.

  After two very long seconds, a double explosion sent gravel raining down on us as the stone rumbled against my chest. I swear it made my molars vibrate.

  “Cease fire!” I ordered.

  We scrambled up the sliding rocky slope. I was almost at the crest when a shape reared up in front of me. I fired and it flopped back. We reached the top and aimed our rifles over the rubble. I saw one man in a corporate uniform on his knees groping for a dropped rifle, but Sabatini pumped three rounds into him and he sank down on the deck. Nobody else was moving.

  “All clear above!” I gasped.

  I was sweating like a pig. I looked at Sabatini. She was smiling her shaky little nervous grin.

  “Well done, Marine.” I thumped her on the shoulder.

  We climbed over the wall and examined the enemy. They were corporate guards. Seven of them, sprawled in their own gore. A German manufactured 5mm machine gun with several belts of ammo lay idle, the gunner staring blindly at the overhead, the top of his skull blown off. “What the fuck?” I wondered.

  Gunny Taylor climbed over the wall. Surveyed the carnage. “Cocksuckers thought our weapons would get captured by the rebels, so they decided to take us out. They probably thought the rebels would get blamed for it, and the rest of the platoon would help ’em out. Maybe more troops would even get sent to stomp this rebellion. So what if we take it up the ass? Marines are cheap.”

  That was pretty unsubstantiated speculation, but we all thought he was right on the money. It would be typical of the way corporations and governments tried to use us poor grunts.

  Not all of the enemy were dead. One was groaning, mostly just knocked down and disoriented from the concussion of the grenades. He must have been shielded from the worst of the blast. On closer examination, two more were breathing, but so badly cut up by fragments that they might not make it.

  “Corpsman,” Taylor called into the mic, “is that Marine stable?”

  “Shit, Gunny,” Sabatini said softly, “he was never stable.”

  The gunny ignored her and continued speaking over his helmet radio. “OK, when you think he’s all set, get your ass up here. Chan! Keep your team down there and secure the area.”

  Johnson was next over the wall. “Damn,” he whispered in awe.

  “You did good, Marine,” I told him. “First firefight?”

  He nodded, staring at the enemy soldier with half a head. The corpse was a bit gruesome. Sabatini’s round had hit him just at the hairline and topped his skull like a soft-boiled egg. A dark pool of blood, cerebrospinal fluid and bits of grey matter spread slowly from beneath his head.

  Doc Roy arrived shortly, and proceeded to stabilize the wounded guards. The rest of us piled the enemy weapons around the machine gun.

  “Why’s she helping them?” asked Johnson. “Why don’t we just cap the sneaky-ass motherfuckers?”

  “Rules of engagement,” I said, flatly. “We don’t do shit like that. At least, not once the battle’s over. If the enemy think they’re dead anyway, they won’t surrender. Ever. It’s a lot tougher if you have to kill everybody. That’s how the Old Corps had to fight the Japanese in WWII.”

  We wouldn’t shoot the wounded, but we couldn’t spare manpower to carry them, either. We patched them up, using their own first-aid kits, and let them take their chances. Before we moved on, Sgt McCray took his machete to their radio and dropped a thermite grenade into the stack of weapons. We didn’t want them calling ahead on us, and nobody else was going to fire that machine gun at us.

  “What if the rebels find ’em?” asked Johnson.

  I shrugged.

  “Fuck ’em,” said the gunny. “Teach ’em not to shoot at Marines.”

  We climbed back down to where Chan’s team was couched around O’Rourke, providing security. Now that we’d been dinged up, it would be their turn to lead the way.

  Sabatini and I assembled our team’s stretcher and carefully lifted O’Rourke onto it. He was moaning softly. Doc Roy had given him a canister of pressurized plasma, and a painkiller. A band around his wrist monitored his pulse and blood pressure. The pressure bandage was treated with a coagulant. For a major arterial bleed like his, that helped slow the blood loss quickly. That and the pressurized canisters of plasma and whole blood saved countless lives in combat.

  The old bagged blood had to be hung on an elevated point to allow gravity to draw it into the vein. That was impractical in combat, where everybody, corpsmen included, wanted to hug the ground. It was totally unworkable in low or zero G. The canisters forced the fluid into the wounded. Now, if somebody could invent a self-carrying stretcher, we’d be all set.

  Chan’s team took point with Nolan. We carried O’Rourke in the middle, while the sergeants and Johnson were rearguard. The rioters gave us a wide berth. I don’t know if anybody was giving them news, but they took it for granted that we meant business.

  By the time we reached the dilapidated housing complex where the social workers were holed up, I was not a happy Marine. My arms felt about six inches longer than when I woke up that morning. Johnson was taking a turn as stretcher bearer, Sabatini was carrying the TAR and had her ACR slung over her back. Stupid pride and the fact that Terry O’Rourke was my best friend kept me from asking anybody to spell me. Not only had we grown up and enlisted together, but he just saved my ass.

  The housing complex was the kind of slum that other slums wouldn’t sit next to on a subway. It looked like the riots had started here. That was no huge surprise. Poverty and desperation are the perfect kindling for the spark of revolution.

  The social workers were a half dozen idealistic young women fresh out of university. I must confess some lustful thoughts when they ran out and embraced us. They were obviously relieved to see a heavily armed friendly face. It was too bad O’Rourke was doped up. The sympathy they piled on the poor brave wounded Marine made me almost envious.

  The sight of the poor bastards they were out helping was damn sobering. Twenty kids, ranging in age from maybe two to around ten or eleven. That’s the age that gets hit the worst. By twelve, the boys were carrying guns and the girls were turning tricks to get food, drugs and protection. These kids were the only ones too young for any kind of involvement except that of victims.

  They looked malnourished, as the corporation cut food rations to stop the riots. That always affects the youngest and poorest first. Rebels with guns can always get food. Some of the kids also showed signs of injury. Firebombs don’t discriminate. The real innocents always bear the brunt of the horror in wartime. I had seen this too often on good old Mother Earth to be shocked about it here. You get cynical pretty damn quick in a Marine Expeditionary Unit.

  Right at that moment, cynic or not, I wanted to shoot every guard and gun-toting rebel on the asteroid, then hand their rations over to the poor. That doesn’t happen in the real world. I guess part of me belongs with the idealistic college graduates.

  “It’s gonna be a crowded ride home,” Sabatini muttered.

  I nodded. “That about says it all.”

  Chapt
er 5

  8 JUNE 2078

  ASTEROID BELT RESCUE SUBSTATION ECHO 7

  I refilled my coffee, offered some to the reporter. He shook his head.

  “That deployment always felt wrong to me,” I said. “Like we were set up to fail.”

  “That’s closer to the truth than you know,” he said. “But it wasn’t just your unit. The whole outpost was supposed to fail. The company wanted an excuse to shut it down. It wasn’t making enough money. They had an offer to sell, but they had to get out of the contracts with labor. Break the back of the union. So they kept making things worse and worse until there was a strike, then kept stonewalling on negotiations until things exploded. If they could have dragged the fleet into putting down a workers’ uprising, that would have suited them fine. Even a catastrophic failure of the life-support system would have worked so long as they could blame the strikers and dodge the liability.”

  “So the whole thing was an inside job?” I asked.

  He sorted through his memory sticks, selected one and inserted it into a reader.

  “Here.” He offered it to me. “This is a bit of a dramatization, since it’ll sell better as a thriller than a documentary, but the facts are all verified.”

  I took the reader, swallowed some more coffee and looked at the words scrolling across the screen.

  SNN News File 1, courtesy Brian Jensen

  14 Nov 2075

  Field Security Office, United Belt Mining Industries Outpost

  Security Director Walt Fredericks tugged at his goatee as he replayed the transmission. The guards had sprung the trap as he ordered, but it seemed to have gone badly. His officers’ description painted a picture of a premature ambush which caught only part of the Marine squad, then became frantic and finally ended in a hail of explosions. He swore under his breath.

  Fredericks had no combat experience, just a hitch in Air Force as an MP. That was enough to know that the plan was a bust. Stage the loss of a squad of infantry to the rebels. Pull the Fleet in to crush the riots. That’s what was supposed to have happened.

  He had not gained his position at the mining corporation because of his accomplishments or expertise, but through his unique ability to sense the winds of fortune and adapt to the atmosphere of a bureaucracy. That instinct had saved him before, and brought him promotion when other, perhaps more skilled men were destroyed.

  The wind was changing. It was time to move on.

  He had done what he could for his current employers, carefully escalated the tension while looking like he was working to tamp it down. Dragging the Fleet in would have been a masterstroke worthy of Pinkerton himself.

  “Can’t win ’em all,” he sighed.

  It was time to change jobs. If somebody in the fleet or a government inspector started counting the chickens and found out about the planned riots, and the money from that Washington guy, O’Hooley, the company might try to hand over a security man gone rogue. Or silence him before he could implicate anybody higher up the chain.

  Fredericks wasn’t indignant about that. It’s what he would do if he were them. That didn’t mean he was going to gladly fall on his sword for the good of UBM and its board of directors.

  He left the office, initiating Plan B. That was one of his mottoes: Always have a Plan B. His security clearance would allow him access to the ordnance and transport he needed.

  He heaved a last sigh of regret as he left his plush office for the last time.

  There’ll be others, he told himself.

  Chapter 6

  14 NOV 2075

  USS TRIPOLI

  We passed our nutrition bars around to the children. Concentrated, foil-wrapped dietary supplements made of dehydrated extract of grains, with protein and vitamins added. They tasted like corn syrup and sawdust, but they would keep you alive. These kids needed some energy if they were going to make it to the shuttle.

  After that, we tried to form up in some kind of order, with the civilians and poor Terry in the center and us grunts fore and aft. It was tough, as there were only ten unhurt Marines, and twenty-six refugees. I could tell that the gunny was unhappy with the situation, but he wasn’t paid to be happy, just to do a job.

  Nolan led us out the way we had come in. We figured anyone who had seen us deal with the ambush would probably think twice before messing with us. The one guard post along the route was no longer a threat, and the rebels would know beyond a doubt that we weren’t here on the corporation’s behalf.

  All the same, nerves were on edge. We knew we were a big, slow-moving target.

  I finally switched off with Doc, letting her carry the stretcher with Johnson. I took a long look at my newest teammate’s face. I knew he had gone through the combat rollercoaster of fear, excitement, anger and relief. The ambush angered him. He took it as a personal affront. He would have to get used to that. The children affected him more deeply. He could not comprehend that people would allow their offspring to be treated so badly. I felt the same way, but I had developed an emotional callous. Africa had given me that much.

  I saw my TAR man in a new light. He’d been a nineteen-year-old kid when he filed onto the shuttle for this landing. He wasn’t a kid anymore. He had passed the test of fire and was now a member of an exclusive club. Until this deployment, there was a barrier between the boot and the veteran. I no longer suspected he’d make a good Marine. I knew.

  Sabatini was unusually reserved. The sight of the children sobered her. I can only hazard a guess that they touched some maternal chord.

  Or maybe she just didn’t have O’Rourke to snipe at.

  I wanted to talk to Sgt McCray about Terry. He had shoved me out of the path of that machinegun burst. He was badly wounded saving my life. Maybe I could get him written up for a promotion. He shouldn’t be so low-ranked with his experience. It was criminal.

  All this went through my head, but just as background noise in a brain hyperactive with adrenaline. I was focused on shepherding our vast flock of new dependents out of this mess alive. Every window, corner or hole in the wall was still a potential threat. I held my ACR in my shoulder, sweeping the muzzle across any possible bit of cover. Screw pointing it at the deck. Blood was spilled, we were effectively at war. I would shoot first and worry about the rules of engagement later. I was confident that Lt Mitchell and the gunny would back me up.

  We passed the spot where the guards had sprung their ambush. Chan’s team scouted ahead while the rest of us awaited the signal to proceed. I took out my canteen and knocked back a drink, then passed it to the civilians. I was drenched with the sweat of nerves and exertion.

  “Hey, boss?” Sabatini asked.

  “Yeah?”

  “Should there be a breeze in here?”

  I concentrated for a second. I felt a cool rush of wind against the perspiration on my cheek. That was not a good sign. This should be a totally sealed environment. The filters that purified the air and converted the CO2 to oxygen made small currents, barely noticeable more than a few feet from them. Any large movement of air was a bad thing.

  “Oh, shit. Gunny!” I hissed into my mic.

  “What is it, Collins?” the speaker crackled.

  “We got air movement. Probably a pressure drop coming.”

  He switched channels without bothering to reply.

  As Gunny Taylor conversed furiously with the Lieutenant, I motioned to my people to get ready to move. I didn’t know what the crisis was, but I would rather go out and meet it than have it come and get me. The breeze grew stronger as we got to our feet. The civilians looked to us for enlightenment which we had no power to give. I masked my confusion with activity.

  “Come on, people, let’s get it together. On your feet.”

  Sabatini started to ask me what the plan was, then saw the look in my eyes and closed her mouth. The civilians assumed I knew what the hell I was talking about.

  “Collins,” Taylor whispered over the mic.

  I turned away from the crowd. “Go ahead, Gunny
.”

  “Some dumb fuck blew open an airlock. Must’ve got hold of a crew-served weapon or some serious explosives. We need to haul ass back to the assault shuttle. This place is gonna be real unhealthy real soon.”

  I choked down a stream of curses.

  “OK, we need to pick up the pace,” I ordered. “On the double, everybody.”

  I selected the four strongest looking social workers and had them grab the stretcher. If we were going to rush, I wanted more Marines bearing arms. We set a pace as fast as the kids could walk. The wind was increasing. At least it was in our faces. That had to mean that the damaged airlock was far from our destination. We could presumably leave the way we had come.

  As I walked along behind the kids, mentally willing them to speed it up, I wondered what kind of idiot would blow an airlock. That was suicide unless somebody got it sealed. Maybe it was a corporate exec with a ship waiting. Maybe he had just bought his depressurization insurance.

  Maybe that was a bit too cynical, but I was in a pretty cynical mood right then. I suppose some fanatic rebel with a martyr complex might’ve done it. It was stupid, but so was using Molotov cocktails in a sealed environment, or trashing their own neighborhoods.

  A few rebels and miners came into view, but they showed no desire to screw with us and veered away from our formation when we turned our rifles toward them.

  Amazing, that.

  We were three-quarters of the way to the airlock, and the wind was much stronger. One of the youngest refugees, a little girl of five or so, gave up. She sat down in the roadway and cried.

  I scooped her up in my left arm, carrying her on my hip. “It’s alright, sweetie,” I whispered, kissing her on top of the head. “We aren’t gonna let anything happen to you. Just hang on to Uncle Mick.”

  She clung to my neck with surprising strength. Her sobbing continued, but more quietly. Seeing her desperation made me really want to kill somebody. For Christ’s sake, water buffaloes guard their young. Why the fuck couldn’t human beings measure up?