by J. L. Doty
York didn’t get to spend much time with his gunner mates, though he would have liked to because they were a little closer to his own age. Bristow continued to march him up and down the deck, drilling him in parade-ground techniques York thought were probably useless. York also spent as much time as possible training in the turret and flight simulators. He made another trip down to the surface of a planet as a turret gunner, but nothing happened going down or coming back up. While down there, he did get in a couple more hours practicing gunboat piloting with Rodma, actually took the gunboat up to an altitude of a thousand meters and brought it back down nicely. Rodma told him the marines had an attitude about skill sets: If you were old enough to wear the uniform, you were old enough to do whatever you proved you were capable of.
One afternoon, York was at the firing range practicing with a grav rifle. It had a heck of a kick and fired a round at Mach 2, which made a small sonic boom with a rather hollow sound. He heard a loud, thunderous roar boom through the firing lanes, a sound very unlike that made by the grav rifle, and a light cloud of bluish-gray smoke drifted in front of him. It smelled rather unpleasant. The thunderous roar boomed again, so out of curiosity York cleared the breech on his rifle, cut the power to it, laid the rifle down, and stepped back from it. He pressed a switch on the wall of his lane, signaling to the range marshal that his firing lane was now clear.
About three lanes over, he spotted Cath holding some sort of bluish, metallic pistol. She aimed down the lane, and when she pulled the trigger, the pistol emitted the loud boom and the bluish-gray smoke. She fired a few more times, then noticed him standing there watching her. She stepped back, hit the switch clearing her lane, did something to the pistol she held, dropping several small shells into the palm of her hand.
“Curious?” she asked him.
She handed him the bluish metal gun, which was quite heavy. “It’s an old-fashioned, chemically powered slug thrower.” She handed him one of the shells. “It contains a chemical explosive. When you pull the trigger, it ignites the explosive, which accelerates the bullet down the barrel. No energy signature.”
“Why would you want one of these when you could have a grav gun?”
She shrugged. “They’re actually pretty reliable, a good backup piece if your grav gun fails. And”—she said it again—“no energy signature. If someone does a sweep looking for energy weapons, they won’t find this. You should get one for yourself, kid.”
“Where would I get one?”
“Just about any place that advertises marine equipment. But be sure to register it with the master-at-arms when you board ship.”
She gave him a short lesson in how to handle the gun, allowed him to fire a few rounds. It kicked even more than the grav gun.
A month later, they down-transited just outside Toellan nearspace, and a couple of hours after that they docked at Toellan Prime, a massive space station orbiting the planet. There was a sense of excitement in the air that York didn’t understand until Bristow said, “Come on, kid. We got shore leave.”
York asked, “We’re going down to Toellan?”
Bristow shook his head. “No, but there’s some great bars on Toellan Prime.”
They joined Cath, who was carrying a small cloth bundle, and the three of them set out with a group of a dozen marines that included Sissy, Jack, and Chunks. York followed them as they made their way up several decks to a large open hatch in the side of the ship. Next to the hatch stood a young female officer. One by one, the marines approached her, touched the identity cards clipped to their chests, and saluted, saying, “Request permission to leave the ship, ma’am.”
She raised a palm-size instrument and scanned each ID card, then saluted and said, “Permission granted.”
The marine then turned to the flag of the Lunan Empire, which was draped on a bulkhead next to the hatch. He saluted it, then stepped through the hatch.
Like so many other things, no one had bothered to tell York about this little ceremony; they had probably assumed he already knew. When it was his turn, he tried to imitate the marines before him, touching his ID card, standing at rigid attention, and snapping a crisp salute. “Request permission to leave the ship, ma’am.”
She scanned his ID card, returned his salute, and let him go.
York saluted the flag, then stepped through the hatch into a passageway about three meters long. He noticed it had expansion joints, and guessed it was some sort of flexible coupling to the station. At the far end, he stepped out into an avenue large enough for a couple of trucks to drive down side by side. It reminded him of a wide street filled with people in a hurry, walking toward some destination, though there were no vehicles, just pedestrians. He spotted Cath, Bristow, and the marines clustered on the far side of the street beneath a flashing sign that read JANDO’S BAR AND GRILL. York wove his way through the foot traffic to join them.
He asked Cath, “Are we going in there?”
She looked up at the sign for Jando’s and said, “No, that’s not for us marines.”
She looked at York and frowned. “And that reminds me.”
She tossed him the bundle she’d been carrying. “Put that on. Where we’re going, you don’t want to look navy.”
York shook it out, discovered it was a marine tunic. He pulled it on over his coveralls.
York followed the marines as they wandered down the avenue. They passed a lot of bars and restaurants, some quiet and dark, with dim lights and a subdued atmosphere, some so loud that even through closed doors the noise spilled out into the street. They made their way to one of the noisier places, a bar with a bright flashing sign that read THE DROP ZONE. Beneath the bar’s name, a colorful display depicted a cartoonish simulation of armored marines amidst a barrage of exploding shell bursts. And beneath that, double doors swung both ways on spring-loaded hinges. Every time a marine pushed through one of the doors, the roar from within erupted into the street like the shriek of an angry animal.
Bristow said, “There’s gotta be a bar with that name in every port in the empire.”
Cath said, “Bet the feddies call ’em that, too.”
York followed them through the doors and into the noise. Cath threw an arm around his shoulders and said, “Food’s good, booze ain’t watered down, the whores are clean, and they’re all legal, at least sixteen standard years old. What’s your preference, kid, boy or girl?”
“Uh …” York said, realizing he sounded like an idiot. “I … uh …”
Cath leaned away from him to look at him carefully, her eyes narrowing. She studied him for a moment, then leaned close and whispered in his ear, “You’re a virgin, aren’t you?”
Bristow said, “Stop busting the kid’s chops.”
“Don’t worry,” Cath whispered. “Your secret’s good with me.”
They ordered a round of drinks. Back on Dumark, Cracky and Ten-Ten had introduced York to the hard stuff once, and he’d spent the night puking his guts out, had decided he didn’t like alcohol. But he wanted to fit in, especially since his gunner mates ordered drinks, so he ordered a beer.
They found an empty table and commandeered it. Some of the marines broke out a deck of cards, while Cath and Bristow kept up their constant banter.
Cath suddenly pointed to a display above the bar and said, “Shit! We got a new SDO.”
York asked, “SDO?”
“Ya,” Bristow said, “Senior Drop Officer. Shernov’s our drop officer, but the SDO’s the most senior drop officer in all of Fleet, the one with the most time in uniform at any rank.”
Cath said, “The feddies have a standing reward of one million imperials for whoever takes down the SDO. Makes an SDO’s life interesting.”
“And short,” Bristow added.
The marines slammed down drinks at a rate York couldn’t keep up with, so he didn’t even pretend to try. Bristow wandered off with one of
the female prostitutes, and Cath went upstairs with another marine. Sissy approached a male prostitute and they went upstairs, while Jack and Chunks stayed with the card game. York wandered over to the bar to get another beer, and while he waited for it, Cap’m Shernov leaned on the bar next to him.
York stiffened and straightened, but Shernov held up a hand and said, “At ease, Ballin. No saluting here. We’re all on leave.”
When the bartender brought York his beer, Shernov ordered one for himself. York was trying to think of a polite way of escaping the situation without just turning around and walking away, when Shernov said, “My people are saying good things about you.”
York wasn’t sure what to say about that.
“They say you work hard, mind your own business, do your job, and keep your mouth shut. And that doesn’t add up.”
“I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
Shernov turned toward York, leaned on the bar with one elbow, and looked directly at him. “You’re supposed to be a troublemaker.”
Shernov stared at him hard, waiting for him to say something. But all he could come up with was, “I took some bad advice from the wrong people.”
Shernov continued to stare at him, his head nodding up and down slowly. “The lash is a hard lesson to learn. Did you learn it?”
“Yes, sir. I think so.”
“Ya,” he said, still nodding. “I think you did. They tell me you’re a crackerjack gunner, and Rodma says you’re a good pilot. Need a few hundred hours in the cockpit and a little more rank to qualify, but that can be arranged. You ever think of making a formal transfer into the marines?”
The idea of being a marine was so foreign to any of York’s thinking that Shernov’s question took him completely off guard. “I … I don’t know, sir. I never thought about it. I guess I just want to be a pod gunner.”
Shernov grimaced. “About that, Ballin. I gotta be honest with you. You’re a throwaway. The navy doesn’t want you so they threw you to us marines. And if you’d continued to be a problem, we’d have fixed the problem, but you wouldn’t have survived to see the result. Sorry, kid, you’re not going to get another chance with the navy. Best throw in with us marines.”
Shernov took his beer and wandered away. York stood there carefully dissecting the cap’m’s words, trying to find some hidden meaning, some hint that the words didn’t mean what they meant. A throwaway! He’d been a throwaway all his life. And then he’d had a chance with the navy, but he’d screwed that up.
He decided to try some of the really strong alcohol the marines called ’trate. That was another mistake. He spent the night on his hands and knees with his head in the toilet.
York had no memory of returning to the ship, but the next morning he woke up in his bunk. When he stood up, his stomach churned and his knees trembled. Cath and Bristow took him to the mess hall and made him eat a full breakfast. As he choked it down, he was thankful Cath didn’t broadcast the secret of his virginity to the entire squad. That evening, York stayed on the ship when the rest of the marines went on leave.
He sat down at a reader and pulled up a copy of the pod manual, then realized he was wasting his time. He spent the rest of the evening in the gunboat flight simulator, and somewhere while practicing lift-offs and landings over and over again, he decided it was time to lose his virginity.
The next day, he felt a lot better, at least physically. Mentally, he kept replaying Shernov’s words: He was a throwaway. But he didn’t want to be a marine; he wanted to be a pod gunner.
That evening, he accompanied Cath and Bristow to The Drop Zone. He bought a beer just to blend in, but he nursed it carefully, making it last as long as he could so he didn’t have to buy another. He watched the whores working the crowd of marines. The male whores varied from almost effeminate beauty to ruggedly handsome. He wished he could be ruggedly handsome. Among the female whores, he spotted several who seemed to be only a few years older than him. He noticed a dark-haired beauty looking his way and smiling at him. He smiled back.
Cath dropped into a seat beside him and gave him an appraising look. She had light-brown eyes, wore her blond hair cut chin length, and was attractive even in marine fatigues. She grinned and said, “Don’t look at me like that, kid. I’m no cradle robber. Though maybe when you’re a bit older.”
York’s face felt uncomfortably warm and he looked away.
“It’s pretty obvious what you’re up to tonight.”
He looked into her eyes, then glanced at the other marines around them. None of them was paying the least bit of attention to the two of them. He could probably handle it if the rest of the marines learned, but not his gunner mates.
She leaned toward him and whispered, “Don’t worry, I kept your secret. You got your mind set on doing this? You absolutely sure?”
If York wanted to be completely truthful, he would have answered Yes to the first question, and I don’t know to the second. He kept it simple. “Yes.”
She leaned back and looked at him, her eyes narrowing. “Then if you’re gonna do this, Momma Cath is going to make sure you do it right.”
She stood and said, “Come with me.”
York wasn’t sure what she had planned, but he knew he could trust her. He stood and followed her as she wound her way between tables and figures in marine uniforms to the far end of the room. She stopped at a table where an older woman sat reading a book with pages that York thought might be made of real synth. The woman looked up from her book, and she and Cath spoke briefly, then she looked at York and said, “What’s his preference, boy or girl?”
Cath glanced his way and said, “What do you think?”
The woman nodded. “Girl.”
She subvocalized something, and York guessed she was equipped with implants. Then she said to Cath, “Take him up to room 203.”
When they got upstairs, the most beautiful young girl York had ever seen stood leaning in the doorway of room 203. She was clearly only a few years older than him, and had blue eyes and auburn hair cut shoulder length. She wore an exotic, low-cut, floor-length gown that clung to her curves and fired York’s imagination. She smiled at him and said, “You must be York. I’m Jessica.”
She took his hand and led him into the room. Cath didn’t say anything, but he heard the door close behind them, and he and Jessica were alone.
Much later, York learned that the girl was actually in her thirties. It didn’t matter; York decided he was in love.
Chapter 9:
Comrades
Dauntless spent two more nights docked on Toellan Prime. York returned to Jessica each night. He didn’t have the funds to spend the entire night with her, could only afford an hour of her time each night, but it was a wonderful hour. He was in his bunk back on ship when he felt it up-transit, and he knew he’d probably never see her again.
York scrubbed decks, trained in the turret and flight simulators, practiced his reading, marched about to Bristow’s parade-ground commands, spent time on the firing range, all the while trying to put Jessica out of his mind. Fifteen days after leaving Toellan, she was still there, haunting his every waking moment, when they down-transited outside the Norgaard system.
The marines all seemed nervous and on edge as they gathered on Hangar Deck to listen to Shernov’s briefing. “Listen up, people,” he said. “Gather round and pay attention.”
Shernov held a small instrument that fit easily in the palm of his hand. He thumbed a switch on it and a projection of a greenish-brown planet appeared in front of him. Norgaard was mostly water with a few small landmasses.
“Fleet just took Norgaard from the Federals. It was a nasty fight, and now we’ve got to secure the system. We landed ten thousand troops twelve days ago. They’ve been sweeping the countryside around Dusand, Norgaard’s capital, cleaning up pockets of resistance, the usual stuff. They report they’re mostly running into ama
teurs with just a few feddie advisers among them.”
Shernov touched a switch on the projector and Dauntless’s image appeared above the planet next to two other ships. York understood that the scale of the ships’ images had been expanded, otherwise they’d just be small specks above the planet.
“We rendezvoused with Markov, the sleeper transport that brought in the troops, and Avenger, a medium cruiser. Sometime in the next three or four days, the politicos are going to arrive, and our job is to secure a large compound that’s been designated as the new imperial embassy. It’s on the edge of the city in a residential area, so reasonably defensible.”
He paused to scan the assembled marines carefully. “All squads, full combat armor and heavy weapons, mortars, emplacements, the works. Our boats will have to make a couple of trips to get all two hundred of us and our equipment down there.”
He looked at Rodma. “After the first drop, Three stays airborne above the compound while One and Two shuttle the rest of us down. Then I want all three boats in the air patrolling the streets around the compound. If something’s going to happen, I want to know about it before it happens.”
Rodma and the other pilots acknowledged the orders with a chorus of Yes, sirs.
Shernov added, “And go in fast and loud. I want the locals to remember who they’re dealing with. Hopefully, we’ll have less trouble with them that way.”
While Dauntless maneuvered in-system, York donned his vac suit then climbed into his turret early to run it through a pre-combat check. The computer reported that all systems were functioning. He noticed the other turret gunners had done the same, and Rodma and Meg were likewise running Three through a full check. He listened carefully to the chatter in his headphones.
“My reactor pack’s only at eighty percent.”
“Tear it down and do an overhaul. We got time.”
The usual banter had completely disappeared.