— Chapter 20 —
Arun blew out the breath he’d been keeping in, pressed the hatch opening stud and jumped in head–first.
It was as he’d feared and hoped at the same time: other than Sergeant Gupta, the whole of Indigo Squad was here, a sight that both bolstered him with courage to be reunited with his comrades and sent shivers of dismay through his body to see their diminished state.
Beowulf was transporting 88th battalion, 412th Tactical Marine Regiment – an understrength scratch force of green cadets hurriedly reclassified as trained Marines. Deck 11 was the rec-deck, easily able to accommodate the entire three thousand Marine battalion, but only Charlie Company was awake, the rest frozen in deck after deck of cryo-pods.
His Indigo Squad comrades floated in loose clusters around the perching spheres that were the zero-g equivalent of tables. The occasional bursts of small talk quickly fizzled out.
It was a lifeless scene. They should be wondering what fate awaited them at their destination of Wolf-3 and why they’d been rushed out there in such a hurry. Indigo Squad were on their own, which made this the perfect opportunity to plan how to play humiliating tricks on the dongwits of Checker Squad. There was none of that. Worst of all, there was no grumbling. Cramped quarters, the lumpy slop they labeled food, the way the ship-rats talked as if the 412th were boneheads… there were endless reasons to grumble, but none of them occurred to Indigo Squad.
Arun shook his head sadly.
A sudden thought reached through his funk.
Where was Springer?
Then the breath was knocked from him and he was fighting for air, for orientation as something infinitely hard slammed into his ribs and sent him shooting across the compartment, aiming at the bulkhead like a missile.
Desperately he tried to kick down and get away but an invisible viselike grip only tightened on his upper arms.
All he could see was the almost-empty rec-deck screaming past, but there was something with him all right. He knew exactly what it must be: a Marine with battlesuit set to stealth mode.
A face appeared. Just a visor shaped-slice of a face from which Umarov’s accusing eyes glared at him.
“Someone wants a word with you, pal.”
“Slow down!” gasped Arun. Umarov looked pissed. Not enough to kill him deliberately, but without his battlesuit, Arun could die through Umarov’s carelessness just as easily as his intent.
“If you don’t slow down,” Arun squeezed out, “I’m going to hit that bulkhead so hard I won’t be talking to anyone ever again.”
Umarov got the hint. He decelerated so rapidly that Arun felt winded and his vision fuzzed. Arun retched, something he thought impossible since most of his vomit reflexes had been removed.
“I’m not in a battlesuit, you twonk,” shouted Arun when he recovered, but Umarov didn’t appear to register what he meant. “Too many gees will kill me. Yeah?”
“You can die in your own time,” growled Umarov. “Talk to the lady first.” They’d come to a halt within arm’s length of a hatch, which Umarov now gestured toward.
“What’s the matter, Umarov? We’re comrades. More than that, we’re friends.”
“The matter, McEwan, is that I’ve asked you to do something politely, and you haven’t done it yet.”
“Okay,” said Arun putting his hands up in surrender. “I get it.”
Arun used Umarov’s body to push off to the hatch access panel and entered.
“I will be waiting,” Arun heard from behind, just before the hatch irised shut behind them.
“Hi, Springer,” he said, guessing who was waiting for him as he entered the compartment.
It was a bar, he realized. A counter with drinks and drinking vessels was secured onto the aft bulkhead – what would become a floor when the main engine was operating.
About a dozen zero-g tables floated around the bar. Heated spheres rather like heavily pitted miniature planetoids, not flat surfaces like the kind of table you found on a planet.
Arun made for the first one pushing off from one sphere to another until he slotted his feet into the boot straps next to Springer’s perch.
He grimaced. Only Springer’s left foot was strapped in. Her right leg ended above the knee. Trying not to look at her missing limb only pulled his gaze more strongly.
“It itches, Arun.”
“I’m sorry.”
“The prosthetic is a waste of time in zero-g, but when it’s off, I keep thinking my real leg was still there.”
“Easy, Springer, don’t drag up bad memories.”
She screwed up her face, which made him feel desolate until he recognized her expression was vintage Springer. For a while his old friend was back from being buried under a fug of confusion. “I like to remember,” she said. “Pain keeps me sharp.” But even as she spoke, her words were already faltering into silence.
Arun gave her time. Soon a little clarity returned to her eyes.
“Remembering is important, Arun. Most of us can’t even remember our names.”
“I know.” He took a deep breath. Knowing was a curse as much as a blessing.
She pointed at him. “You do. No one else. I’m rough and I get flashes, but not much. Umarov and I happened to be awake enough to see what you’ve helped yourself to from the stores.”
“Quiet,” he whispered angrily.
“What are you up to, Arun?”
“Keeping us all safe.”
“What the frakk does that mean?”
“Don’t worry. It’s complicated.”
“Don’t worry your pretty head. Is that it? We’re more than just a squad comrades, Arun. You frakking well know that. If you need help, you should come to me first.”
Arun looked into his friend’s face. The left side was puckered and ridged after the plasma burst that had nearly killed her in the Battle of the Swoons. Arun had known her since they were kids. Scattered amid the scarring, he could still see her freckles, still thought they made her look cute. Her eyes narrowed, anger energizing her, driving away the drug-induced confusion. Her mutant eyes lit with their inner violet glow as they always did when she was roused to passion.
He snapped out of it. Springer was still sexy, but more to the point, she was scary when angry.
“I’m sorry,” he said hurriedly. “You’re right. I should have come to you first. Will you help me?”
“With what?”
“Well…” To buy time to think, he gave the kind of cheeky grin she used to love when they were novices. Frakk, that was only eighteen months ago. Could he really bring Springer in on all he’d learned?
“I could use your specialist knowledge,” he said.
“Specialist?”
“Well, you’re a woman, Springer.”
“Oh, for frakk’s sake. Is that what this is all about? Who is she this time?”
Her eyes glowed. Springer was back in the room all right, and, boy, was she pissed! She growled. “You’re not in contact with that dirty skangat bitch on Themistocles are you?”
“No, it’s not Xin. It’s…”
Her eyes captured his hesitation, and held onto his gaze, demanding an explanation.
He groaned. More than anything, he wanted to tell Springer that she was the woman foremost in his thoughts. He supposed it was true that this Indiya was beautiful in her freakish ship-rat way. And after that spat in the storage compartment, nothing could be calculated more to electrify his interest. But the girl he wanted to spin around in a complex zero-g embrace was hooked into a perch right in front of him.
“It’s who?” she prompted.
“A ship-rat.”
Pain flickered across Springer’s face, and he regretted his words immediately. He was treating his best friend like drent, and she deserved far better than that. But she deserved even more to stay alive long enough for Arun to defeat the rebels.
You matter more to me than any ship-rat, he told himself. But it made no difference, and he felt even dirtier when Springe
r stretched across and kissed him on his cheek.
“You never change,” she sighed. “Please don’t ever.” She frowned, thinking. “The surveillance gear… that was all about her?”
He nodded. “So I know where to bump into her accidentally. Maybe learn more about her. Mostly, to hear her voice again.”
Springer’s eyebrows raised. “Do you meant you’ve actually talked with her? In real life, I mean, not some vulley-dream.”
“I’ve done more than that,” he said, feeling angry. “I’ve kissed her.”
“And how did she react?”
“She said if I kissed her again, she’d kill me.”
Springer laughed, bringing her old dimple back, though only on the unscarred side of her face. “That’s something we can work on, I guess. You’re doing better than you managed with Xin.”
He grinned.
“But only by a nanometer. You’re such a dongwit guffoon sometimes, Arun. If you’d had any sense, you’d have asked for my advice about girls years ago. Why didn’t you? Did you think I’d be jealous?”
“Well, I…”
“On second thoughts, don’t answer that. A ship-rat! You’re a weird one, Arun. That’s why you and I make such a good team.” She rubbed at her chin. “No guarantees, mind, but if you want to win her heart, here’s what you do…”
— Chapter 21 —
Indiya could have strangled Furn for cutting the recording just when Springer was about to give her advice.
She stopped herself from shouting at him just in time. The others expected her to keep in control.
“Those two have a very deep and complex serial misunderstanding,” said Finfth.
“Lovers?” Loobie asked. Probably on Indiya’s behalf, the dear.
“Much more complex than that.”
“Did you see those eyes?” Fant interjected. “That girl’s mutant eyes glowed violet like…” He shot a glance at Indiya.
“Like my hair,” she completed for him. “Finfth, you’re the empath. Can we trust McEwan? We would be putting all our lives in his hands if we do.”
Finfth rubbed at his temples. He was the opposite of Fant in many ways, so quiet because he thought deeply and took his time to bring out the words. His ability to read emotions was uncanny, even when he couldn’t smell hormones.
“When Springer challenged him,” said Finfth, “I’d stake my life that McEwan really wanted to say that Springer was the one he loved.”
Indiya sighed in relief to hear that. So why did she feel so resentful of Springer?
“Can we replay his face at that point?” asked Finfth.
Furn zoomed Heidi’s footage and set it looping.
“McEwan is conflicted,” said Finfth. “He feels he’s being disloyal and hates it. He is extremely anxious. Concern for his friends is his primary motivating force, but that spawns self-loathing because he feels powerless to protect those he loves from the coming storm.”
“So what you’re saying is that he isn’t a traitor,” said Loobie. “That we should trust him?”
Finfth’s eyes went wide in horror. “No! Absolutely not! Sure, he’s not a traitor, but that doesn’t mean he won’t hurt us. He’s as dangerous as any cornered animal defending its pack. Never forget that beneath a thin veneer of civility, Arun McEwan is a Marine. He is the product of a centuries-long breeding program to enhance one human trait above all else: the ability to apply extreme violence without remorse.”
“Your caution is noted,” said Loobie. “Marine allies are vital, though.”
“We can all kill,” said Indiya. “But only because the Marines and other crew see us as harmless kids. We will only get one chance to prove them wrong.”
“If it comes to a fight,” said Fant, “having loyalists strike unexpectedly from two places at once could make all the difference.”
“So you’re saying I should play along with this brute?” said Indiya.
“Do more than that,” said Finfth. “He thinks he needs to seduce you to secure your alliance. Persuade him that you’re attracted to him. Do more. Seduce him.”
Indiya shook her head. “That won’t work. He’s too worried about his friends to be distracted by romance. So am I.”
“He’s not a crewmember,” said Loobie. “You can take your gloves off, if you’ll excuse the pun.”
Indiya joined in with the group’s mischievous laughter. She knew she wasn’t fooling anyone. Inside she flailed herself for missing the obvious, leaving it to Loobie to point out what she should do. The others looked to her as their leader but she lacked the ruthlessness to be a good one.
Loobie was right. Indiya didn’t need to trust the Marine. Nor did she need to do more than say a few words to bind him to her.
She could enslave him with a single touch.
— Chapter 22 —
From the crushing depths of his slumber, Marine Stok Laskosk, Stopcock to his comrades, began to stir, rising swiftly into those confusing shallows where dreams churn with reality.
Dreams? Nightmares more like.
You dumb maggot, Gupta. Tell your heavy section to swap their missiles for carbines! Your stupid vecks would blow us all to atoms before they’d even left the hangar.
That shunter of a sergeant had said that to his squad leader. The memory was from far away. Perhaps it was a nightmare, not real.
The proper handling of his missile launcher took a lot of skill and training. Stopcock was proud to be the best. He’d hated the sergeant ever since. His hatred sure felt real.
McEwan: that was the skangat NCO’s name. Sergeant Fraser McEwan. He wasn’t even part of the 412th Marines; he led the ship’s tiny detachment.
McEwan.
Something about that name was very odd.
He was dreaming about Fraser McEwan now. The sergeant had just said something.
Something bad enough to rouse Stok from his stupor.
What was it?
Stok couldn’t fix the memory because it hadn’t been a direct order. Orders were something he could remember, shining as brightly as a fusion bomb, bright enough that anything else was so dark by comparison that he couldn’t remember.
He looked around, expanding the focus of this dream. Stok was on Beowulf’s engineering deck, part of an Indigo Squad detail providing escort to Sergeant McEwan and a Navy officer, a sharp-faced scrap of a woman who looked uncomfortable around McEwan.
Escort? Why would anyone need an escort?
Stok had no answer for that.
He did know that McEwan’s words had been plans spoken aloud. Plans that would become orders soon. Orders were good. Orders gave Stok meaning and purpose. He relaxed slightly.
But there was a comforting hierarchy that gave orders their strength.
Stok couldn’t remember what Sergeant McEwan was planning but he definitely wasn’t senior enough to give the sort of orders that he’d discussed with the Navy officer.
Frakk it! McEwan wasn’t even part of the regiment.
And yet, here he was, a mere sergeant talking like a Jotun colonel.
And that was plain wrong. Unnatural.
Wrong enough to wake Stopcock.
What about this Navy officer? Who was she?
Stopcock furrowed his brow, trying to squeeze sense and recall into his head.
He couldn’t.
Thoughts were an impossibly heavy burden. The effort of struggling to hold onto them forced Stok back down into the depths of his confusion. To connect thoughts together was unimaginably difficult.
But he would never give up. He – Stok Laskosk – was a Marine!
The officer had noticed Stok’s scrutiny and was staring back, a mirror image to the missile specialist’s own face.
Except there was something else Stok remembered in the Navy officer’s expression: fear.
“You should keep your mouth shut,” said the Navy woman. Her gaze never left Stok, but she seemed to be talking to Sergeant McEwan.
“Relax, Ensign Purge. This lot are so dru
gged I could order them to walk out an airlock without a suit and they wouldn’t even blink.”
“All I hear in your words is complacency and arrogance, McEwan. You Marines are all the same. They bred you to fight, not to win. In fact… Yes, I see now. I think you love the fighting so much that you hate winning, don’t you? Rather than claim an easy victory, you would rather goad the universe into giving you stronger enemies to fight. Your idea of heaven is unceasing war for all eternity. Isn’t it?”
McEwan gave a contemptuous laugh. “I think it’s not me but my little brother who’s really bothering you. That’s why we need a Marine in charge. Someone who won’t wobble under pressure. For the last time, he might have defeated your security systems. But I can track my brother’s every movement, he’ll lead us–”
Purge silenced the sergeant with a furious glare, her hand moving pointedly toward the sidearm at her hip.
I can track my brother’s every movement… That’s what the sergeant had said.
“Okay, Ensign.” Sergeant McEwan raised his hands in good-natured surrender. “Point taken.”
McEwan. Arun McEwan. That was the brother the sergeant was talking about. Yes, the idiot from Delta Section who’d gotten prong-tied with that babe from the year ahead. What was her name? Xin Lee.
When hot girls weren’t overheating his brain, Arun meant well, even though he was a magnet for trouble. Even though Stok had never liked him.
Thinking of Arun sparked another memory to surface… The battle… the fight on the other ship. Had they really fought humans or was that another dream? That memory was substantial as smoke, but Stok could picture himself walking behind a breaching charge. Arun had saved him from the backblast. That memory didn’t waver. It had actually happened.
Stok allowed his eyes to glaze over, but behind them, his mind fought to break through to the surface, to breathe the sweet air of clarity.
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