"But that is over now. We must look to the future, make peace with the Confederation, and preserve what we can of our old ways."
She observed Wad Mohammad closely as he spoke. How much he reminded her of Shabeli the Magnificent And yet there was something to Wad Mohammad that Shabeli never had—sincerity. He really meant what he was saying; he didn't radiate the impression he was planning things for his own glorification. Carefully, she lowered the revolver's hammer and placed the weapon in her lap. Wad Mohammad smiled. "What is it you wish of me, my lord?" she asked.
Wad Mohammad's smile widened, then disappeared, and he leaned forward briskly, all business now. He would get to know this magnificent woman better later. "Everything has changed on our world and we will have to change too. I want a video hookup to the Confederation officials at New Obbia, and I want you to translate a message for me. I have a present for the Marine commander, the lives of some very brave men."
Corporal MacLeash suddenly stiffened at his instrument console. Just before the screen went blank, the drone's opticals had focused on a small group of men far below. He hadn't been able to make out any of their faces in the brief look he had—a playback later could focus on them and come up with the ID—but in that instant the corporal clearly saw there were eight Marines staring up at the UAV. "Skipper!" he called to Captain Conorado. "It's just like that bastard told us. We found "em!"
"Charlie, you old kwangduk, it's good to see you again!" Captain Conorado sat beside Staff Sergeant Bass as the battalion surgeon and his assistants tended to his wounds.
"I lost my K-Bar, Skipper," Bass groaned sorrowfully.
"I know, I know," Conorado soothed, and then he realized Bass was putting him on. "Charlie," the captain shook his head, "will you never cease to amaze me?" Both men laughed. Bass started to cough.
"Hey, Marine, easy there!" the surgeon said. "I know you're a tough one, Staff Sergeant, but how about lying still for a while, make our work easier for us, huh?"
Bass nodded and smiled. Then his smile vanished and he said to Conorado, "Baccacio—"
"Ensign Baccacio," Conorado interrupted, pronouncing "Ensign" sarcastically, "ran off and left some of his men behind. He's responsible for what happened to that fine young Marine, McNeal, Charlie, and had it been in my power to do so, I'd have shot Baccacio in front of the entire FIST." Conorado's voice grated and the blood rushed to his face as he spoke. Then, calmer, he went on, "But instead I just relieved him of command and sent his worthless ass back to Admiral Willis's flagship. If he doesn't resign, he'll be court-martialed for cowardice and dereliction of duty and a dozen other things I can think of, besides being a first-class ass. I think the young ensign will resign and save us a lot of work. By the way, that Sergeant Hyakowa, he's definite officer material." Conorado nodded. "Keep your eye on him, Charlie."
Conorado was silent for a moment. "Charlie, you and your men showed 'em, didn't you? We thought you were dead, but goddamn..." He paused. "I couldn't command this company without you..." He paused again, to get control of himself. "It was you, that nasty old K-Bar of yours," he went on, "and seven scraggly-assed Marines, who changed everything for the better on this miserable chunk of rock. You are a piece of work, Staff Sergeant Charles H. Bass," he concluded lamely.
"Skipper," Bass replied, "I think the Corps owes me one this time."
"It sure does, Charlie! I've already started writing up the citation for—"
Bass held up his hand. "No, sir, no medals, please. Not for me. I've got enough of those. Give them to my men. Every one of them rates at least a Bronze Star with comet. Neru should get a Silver Nebula. You should have seen him when he took on that first assault."
Conorado stared speculatively at Bass for a moment. Finally he said, "You'll disappoint your men if you don't accept a decoration. They all think that fight you had with Shabeli certainly rates one."
Bass shook his head. "Maybe some of them think so, but not all of them. Don't try to put me on."
"Everyone," Conorado repeated, "even Schultz."
"Schultz?" Bass said sharply. "The Hammer believes anything that doesn't kill you doesn't rate a medal. He says anytime you can walk away from an action, all you did was your job."
Conorado nodded. "That's right, that's the Schultz who thinks you rate a Silver Nebula. Probably means you deserve at least a Marine Heroism Medal."
Bass shook his head. He couldn't believe that Hammer Schultz thought he deserved a medal for bringing the patrol across the Martac Waste.
"If you want medals for your men, go ahead and write them up. I'll pass them on with my endorsement. I'm sure Admiral Willis will see to it that they get whatever you recommend them for."
"All right, I'll write them up. But none for me. I really don't need any more."
Now Conorado grinned. "You'll have to take that up with Admiral Willis. When your men told him what you did, he told me he expects a citation written and on his desk by tomorrow morning. I may be a bad-ass Marine company commander, but Charlie, damned if I'm tough enough to deny a full Fleet Admiral when he tells me he wants something."
Bass looked levelly at Conorado for a long moment, then sagged and swore under his breath. He straightened. "The citation you put on the Admiral's desk for me is going to be underneath the citations I write for my men. Understand?"
Conorado nodded. "Fine by me. Just have them in my hands before I leave for the flagship." He stood to leave.
"Not yet. Skipper," Bass said, stopping him. "There's still the matter of the thing I do want."
"What's that, Charlie?"
Bass motioned for the captain to sit down and lean close.
"He wants what?" the Brigadier exclaimed. "And he wants it how?" The Brigadier thought for a moment, then said, "Well, since it's for Staff Sergeant Bass, I'll give it a try."
"He wants what?" Admiral Willis asked his chief of staff. "And he wants it how?" The Admiral leaned back in his chair. "Well, get it for him and let's not keep the man waiting." Then he added, "Have you finished processing those citations yet? I want the awards made before this operation is finished so I can pin the medals on them myself."
Admiral Willis assigned a commander to escort the six large metal containers to the FIST's infirmary where Bass was recovering. A sailor broke the seal on one and left them alone with Bass and Captain Conorado. The captain reached inside and lifted out an ice-cold, one-liter bottle of Reindeer Ale, which he handed to Bass. Bass motioned for the Skipper to take one for himself. Each container held twenty-four bottles of beer.
Bass snapped the top and drank. "Ahh!" he sighed. "There really is a God and He really does love us, Skipper."
"There's a hell of a lot of beer here, Charlie," Conorado said.
"Yessir. One more request. Would you get the men who were with me in the desert, and ask them to come in here for a while? Even Corporal Doyle—he turned out to be a better Marine than any of us expected. I promised them all a beer when we got out. Give us thirty minutes alone and then send in the rest of the platoon."
The party that night was one that lived on in platoon legend for decades.
The spirit of the Bos Kashi was broken in the battle of New Obbia. After some jockeying for position by rivals, Wad Mohammad became undisputed leader of the Siad and brought an end to Shabeli's disastrous raids on the farmers who fed the world. Moira, the off-world journalist, was first his translator, then his ambassador to the Elneal government in New Obbia. The Gaels and the Sons of Freedom decided that following the lead of men who wore dresses wasn't such a good idea and went back to raiding each other. The Muong Song, in their ocean fastness, nodded sagely about the foolishness of the lowland round-eyes and continued searching for lucrative ways to transport their drugs off-planet. The Euskadi, happy about being left alone, ignored the remainder of the planet
The situation on Elneal returned to normal. After three months overseeing distribution of food and medicines, and with a new crop of grain and vegetables sowed and growing, the Marines lef
t.
And the Siad did sing songs to honor the deeds of the Confederation Marine they called Siraj Bhats, and his bold men.
Epilogue
About midnight Dean stepped outside Big Barb's for air. He carried his beer and a lighted cigar with him. The cigar end glowed brightly in the darkness as he sucked the acrid tobacco smoke deep into his lungs. He held it there for a long time before exhaling. He sighed with pleasure. Since Elneal, small things, like a good smoke, had become very important to him.
The first night of liberty once the 34th FIST was back in garrison on Thorsfinni's World was anticlimactic. The men of the Bass patrol—including Corporal Doyle, whom they now accepted as one of their own—were still too close to the events on Elneal to relax, but once granted liberty, they headed for Bronny anyway, trying very hard to convince themselves they were going to have a monumentally good time that night. But their minds were still in the desert on that tragic world. They drank a lot of beer, sang the same old songs, joked with the waitresses, but nobody felt like going upstairs, and to the civilian patrons at Big Barb's that night, as they huddled together in a far corner of the hall, they seemed to be trying too hard to convince themselves they were having a good time.
Dean drew on the cigar again. The door opened, splashing Dean in light, noise from inside washing over him. Claypoole joined him and stood silently at his side for a while.
"Cold," Claypoole remarked at last.
"Yep." Dean nodded.
"I love the cold," Claypoole continued. "I never want to be hot again." He laughed nervously.
Dean smiled in the darkness. They were both silent for a time, looking up at the brilliant stars in the heavens.
Dean was thinking of Fred McNeal. The loss of his friend had subsided to a dull ache inside his chest that would always be there. He thought of his mother, who had died while he was trekking across the desert on Elneal. Someday he would go home and visit her grave. But when Captain Conorado had first broken the news to him on the way back from Elneal, he had displayed no emotion at all. At that time, the thought of leaving the company for the long voyage back to Earth never occurred to him. Dean sensed, and Captain Conorado knew from experience, that recovery from the ordeal on Elneal could only come among the comrades who had shared it. Besides, his mother would have been dead three months before he could ever have reached home.
The door opened behind them to let out a couple of Marines who were on their way elsewhere, and briefly the pair was illuminated in the light and engulfed in the boisterous clamor from inside. Staff Sergeant Bass's voice was clearly distinguishable in the hubbub, raised loudly in song. The door closed abruptly, plunging them once more into darkness and a silence that descended again as soon as the departing Marines were gone. Dean smiled. The platoon sergeant had told them earlier that evening, "I've lost a lot of friends since I've been in the Corps. You just never get used to that. But remember this: The ones who die are always with you," he tapped his chest, "and the ones who survive," he took in the entire table with outspread arms, "become closer to you than family."
A shooting star streaked silently across the sky. Dean finished his beer in one long gulp and belched loudly. He regarded the star-studded heavens. Way out there, beyond the unimaginable gulf of space, was Earth—home. No, Dean thought, not anymore. The 34th FIST was his home now.
PFC Joseph Finucane Dean took another deep drag on his cigar. "Fuck Earth," he said.
"Roger that," Claypoole said.
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