by K. M. Herkes
“I think so, sir.” The anxious prickling started again. The captain’s point was that certain activities, officially frowned on but universally practiced, would not be tolerated in his house. Typical officer bullshit. Report abuse, they insisted, then punished the ones who complained. Nothing ever changed.
He’d known what they would believe when he took responsibility for the rampage, but it still hurt like being torn into pieces, that his captain believed the lie. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”
“That is why I’m freezing my balls off in here, corporal. Please do.”
“I did not sanction a thrashing. The rampage cascade was my fault, but I didn’t—” He could barely make the words. “Semper Fidelis. Faithful to the mission, faithful to each other. We don’t turn on our own. Beatings aren’t discipline. They’re abuse.”
“Exactly that.” The captain rose to his feet, stood near the dim rectangle of the mirror. “I want to know who broke the faith, Corporal. Give me the names of the rabid dogs in your squad, and I swear they will be put down.”
What was that promise worth? Nothing. “It was my responsibility, sir.”
The captain sighed. “You took such drastic injuries last night that you’re still bleeding, yet Forensics tells me your clothes were clean, like you stripped—or were stripped—before the fighting started. I won’t give you an order you’ll refuse, Jackass. I won’t make you lie. I’m only asking for names. Help me keep my oath, Corporal.”
Jack couldn’t get his thick tongue around words without his throat closing up. He shook his head. It’s dark. He can’t see you. “Nothing to say, sir.”
After a moment, the captain said, “You know, you basically look like a super-large man. Keep your mouth shut, put your hands in your pockets, and my granddaddy would’ve said, ‘you could pass.’ Minimal scute development. That’s why you overheat. No brow ridge to protect the eyes, so you’re photosensitive. The real downside of the Y-variant is that it’s in the bottom quartile for muscle power for the T-series, and you’re short, relatively speaking. Puts you at a disadvantage, fighting other Tees.”
I could still rip you in half. “I wasn’t assaulted, sir.”
“Oh, no, of course not. I wasn’t talking about you.” The captain prowled around the room again, shadow against shadows. “I was thinking about this other Marine. The one who came across animals tormenting their prey and intervened without hesitation. The one who himself in harm’s way for a sister in arms, like she would’ve done for him. The Marine who downed at least one armored predator twice his weight before being savaged in turn, before others joined in—”
“No,” Jack heard himself say. The events didn’t sound real, when the captain laid them out in that soft voice. “They came to help. The blood frenzy, it hits so fast—” He’d bitten his way loose, he’d screamed, the others had come running, and his panic tipped them all over the edge into madness. Red blood on white tile, red haze, white-hot rage. Shame washed up, because he had failed so badly. He was a soldier, not an animal.
The captain’s footsteps receded, then returned. He stopped near Jack’s feet. “How does this story end, Corporal? Does it end in justice or in dishonor? If I put my fairy tale on record and ask for your signature, will I get it? If I make a list of names, will you mark the ones I need? Will you help me do my duty?”
It all sounded so reasonable. So distant. So clean. Jack curled up around the helpless defeat that tasted like blood and felt like death. Fury and humiliation screamed at him to stay silent, bide his time, take vengeance in the dark.
Honor. Courage. Commitment. He swallowed down the rage. “I will, sir.”
Brig Observation Room 1
17:45S 11 MAY
Marcia couldn’t fault Captain Jefferson’s dedication. He stayed in the ice-cold room under dimmed lights with Coby and worked through a chow break to help him with his written statement. The corporal threw up the meal before he finished the report, but after cleanup he went straight back to work making corrections and additions. Jefferson stayed with him, offering silent support without judgment.
There were pauses for blank staring and tears, and a second chow break came and went before both men were satisfied with the results. Marcia followed their rumble-and-reply conversation on the transcriber and wondered if dedication had led the captain astray.
The lights went out, and Jefferson returned to Observation. He went straight to the blank window. Marcia gave him a minute alone there before joining him there. The air between them shimmered with heat. Stress still had her running hot, and she had to vent somehow. If she wanted, she could leave third-degree burns under a victim’s unmarked clothes. Jefferson didn’t move an inch.
In the minimal illumination, Jefferson’s black skin and hair offered no reflection to the glass. Marcia’s hair made a gray frame around the barely-visible blur of her face. She kept it short even though Mercury Battalion was exempt from most physical appearance standards. Everything she did set an example, and this message was simple: do all you can.
Some rules could be bent. Some were inviolable. Marcia said, “How did you connect with him like that?”
Jefferson let his chin sink to his chest. “A brutalized, desperate young man isn’t all that hard to manipulate, ma’am.”
“That wasn’t what I meant, and you know it. Coby sounds like he’s gargling boulders, and you didn’t use a transcriber or translator bug. How did you understand a word out of his mouth? If you ordered one of your F-series telepaths to rip the facts out his brain and relay them to you, then you are toast.”
Jefferson snorted. “I may be iffy on variants, but I know the law, ma’am. Telepaths can only be used to verify sworn statements. I will swear under oath that none of my fortunetellers invaded Corporal Coby’s mental privacy.”
Marcia could smell evasion. “Drop the other shoe, Captain.”
“I had a hitch-hiker myself. There’s no law against that, although I expect there will be one as soon as someone else thinks of it.”
The explanation didn’t help. “Start at the beginning.”
“This morning it took Coby five minutes repeating bloody spew into a transcriber to get, ‘My fault, sir’ onto the record. He cried, ma’am, not from the pain but from embarrassment. Until that shattered jaw knits fully, he’ll sound like a slobbering animal. Consulting a machine every time he opened his mouth—I couldn’t do that to him. Not after what I suspected he’d gone though already.”
“And a telepathic ride-along was the next idea that sprang to mind?”
“More or less,” Jefferson said after a hesitation. “I read somewhere that verbalized ideas sometimes echo through other minds. I asked for a volunteer strong enough to try it. PFC Sharon took the job, if you need to validate my story.”
Marcia restrained herself to a nod. Dancing a little jig of happiness would be inappropriate. Picking up Jefferson and hugging him would be tragically worse, given how hot she was at the moment. She still wanted to skip and leap with joy.
Jefferson had demonstrated more understanding of his command’s potential with that one act than some of his predecessors had ever shown. Finally, her problem unit might be getting the leadership it deserved. Finally.
Gateway Company had been a thorn in her side since her first day with the Battalion. It was home to the heaviest hitters and brute-strength specialists in the Corps, and it had initially been a plum assignment for career Marine officers. Ambition and skill did not necessarily go hand in hand, however, and the unit’s reputation had been eroding for years. Morale failure was devastating, and the results were worse, as demonstrated by today’s events.
Mercury Battalion’s dispersed homeland deployment made administration a nightmare, and there were no small decisions when minor problems could result in empty riverbeds or artificial earthquakes. Marcia had thrown her best at this unit time and again, only to see them founder on the rocky shores of institutional apathy. Jefferson was already establishing his beachhead.
“Aye, aye, ma’am.” Jefferson paused for thought. “Moving on, then. Coby’s testimony and forensics together are enough for up to five expedited judgments—if we need that many. One of the guilty parties is still comatose in sick bay, along with two of the people Coby can clear. I’d like to gather up the rest of the squad, charge the guilty and shake down the rest for corroboration for or against the guilt of the last two. Does that meet with your approval?”
“Provisionally, yes. You’re keeping Coby here?”
“For his own safety, yes. Until I know whether the duty officer was incompetent or involved. One of the others may have that answer too.”
They hashed out a battle plan, and then Marcia left the captain to file paperwork while she finished her due diligence for Public Safety. Her team had inspected the brig and sick bay to confirm that the rest of the squad was being handled properly. All was well on that front. When she got back from her inspection of the unit, she found Captain Jefferson still mired on the paperwork required to document the prisoner interviews. She settled in with her Battalion correspondence to wait for him to finish.
Lights came up in the neighboring interview room again some time later. Jefferson grimaced when the glare slanted over his desk. “Another wellness check already? Sorry, ma’am. I want these reports to be air-tight.”
“Take your time.” Marcia set aside her work and went to the window. “I’m not bored.”
A corpsman with delicate purple fur closed the hatch to the interview room with her prehensile tail. She smiled at Corporal Coby as she approached his corner with a medical kit and a pitcher on a tray, but her back-slanted ears and flared ruff were signs of displeasure she couldn’t control as easily. Treatment for an injured T-series soldier was menial, not medical. Cleaning and feeding armor-skinned giants who occasionally went berserk was no one’s favorite job.
She looked like a toddler next to the corporal’s seated bulk, and she held out the pitcher at arm’s length. Coby docilely swallowed down whatever was inside. Blood slicked down his chin when he thanked the corpsman afterwards, and his fangs flashed.
The corpsman bounced into full retreat with her tail puffed out.
The missing teeth in Coby’s grin gave it an impish quality. He held out the empty pitcher like a sacrificial offering, and when he laughed, the corpsman came stomping back, scolding him about startling her the whole time.
She shook the pitcher threateningly at Coby before setting it aside, and then melted into giggles when he cowered dramatically back. Then she insisted on giving Coby’s healing mouth a thorough cleaning, which reminded Marcia of nature documentaries about crocodiles and their attendant birds. The oral hygiene session segued into a full check of all injuries listed on the corporal’s chart, and that ended with a pat on Coby’s shoulder.
The corpsman walked out of the room wearing a smile, and Marcia looked back at Jefferson. “He’s a charmer. It isn’t easy to make people comfortable when you look like a fairy-tale monster. Most Tee’s give up trying.”
“He doesn’t know how to give up. He’s also smart, and he’s better educated than his platoon leader thinks he needs to be.” Jefferson paused. “Speaking of Lieutenant Fontaine—I relieved him Monday, pending charges. He didn’t review a single promotion or transfer request in the last year. Thankfully, he was also lazy enough that he never deleted any of them. They were all sitting unread in folders.”
Marcia counted to ten several times. The past could not be changed. Gateway Company was in Jefferson’s good hands now. “Did I miss a question?”
“No. That’s background. Coby should be a sergeant. He tested for it, top scores, and he has a strong recommendation from Gunny Rivera. I filed his papers to Battalion HR as soon as I found them in Fontaine’s workstation, and HR promptly rejected them. Can you do something about that?”
“Not without a good excuse. HR’s decision-making balances a lot of criteria.”
“In this case, the sole criterion appears to be saving the Battalion some money,” Jefferson said. “Major Ito all but accused me of padding death benefits.”
“Excuse me?”
The captain spread his hands as if offering up his explanation. “Corporal Coby is already years past the typical age for early onset burnout. If he makes it to Labor Day, he’ll break the old age record.”
Marcia winced inside and allowed herself to shake her head in sympathy. “They should be rushing the promotion, not rejecting it. There’s a reason Ito’s staff call him Major Veto, but I’ll have a word.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Jefferson nodded at his workstation. “This is done. I’ve sliced the Gordian knot of red tape. All the indictments and transfers to DPS custody are squared away, so we can proceed with filing charges and interviews any time. Ready to light some fires under a few asses?”
He meant it as a joke. It wasn’t funny.
“I am ready to incinerate someone.” Marcia waved the hatch open and gestured for Jefferson to go first. The captain twitched when the door moved by itself, and when he reached the cool air in the hallway, he gave Marcia a worried glance.
The temperature in the corridor rose several degrees when she reached it. “I have DPS general ruling powers, remember?” she said. “You command Gateway, but today I’m its judge, jury and executioner all rolled into one. Let’s go talk to the real monsters.”
Brig Special Holding Wing
20:05S 11 MAY
Marcia was happy to let the captain stew in silence all the way to the T-series holding area. The reinforced corridor walls and the riveted metal hatches were reminiscent of a ship’s fittings, except for the sheer size of them. The sound of their footsteps bounced up to 14-foot ceilings.
She relented once they were past the control room and the sergeant-at-arms. “You can relax, Captain. We’ll be questioning your prisoners, not killing them.”
“I was never in doubt, ma’am. If you wanted to char-broil someone, you’d order me to invite the whole company to the barbeque. Rules for Courts Martial 806 guarantees speedy, public trial. Even trials by fire.”
Jefferson hadn’t been worried. He’d been dreaming up more bad pyro jokes. Marcia stopped dead and wrestled with annoyance. Jefferson stopped too, and lifted eyebrows over a smile. Marcia regarded that innocent face, then leaned closer until sweat broke out on Jefferson’s forehead from the radiant heat. “Your sense of humor is treading very close to insubordination, Captain. Do not push me.”
His eyes widened. “Wouldn’t dream of it, ma’am, not without asbestos gloves.”
The assurance was delivered with earnest sincerity, and the audacity of it blew away Marcia’s foul temper like a breeze clearing smoke. She chuckled in spite of herself, and the answering twinkle in Jefferson’s eyes was her reward.
Sometimes joking in the face of horror was the only way to stay sane. They’d both needed that laugh.
“Does anything rattle you?” Marcia asked as she resumed walking.
“Moths give me the willies.” Jefferson fell into step beside her. “And I shrieked like a baby the first time my office assistant here brought me coffee.”
“Why? Does she have moth wings?”
“No, she’s a precision teleporter. W-1. My first day in, still jet-lagged, I start on the admin backlog, and out of nowhere, a mug hits my hand. I hit the ceiling. She hit the floor groveling. It seems that Captain Jordan terrorized everyone he didn’t ignore. We’re shaking down, but it’s been an interesting month.”
In other words, this might not be the last blowup. “You aren’t on a desert island, Captain. Draw on Battalion psych support staff at your discretion, and arrange transfers for those who can’t be rehabilitated without a fresh start.”
“Yesterday, I would’ve said that wasn’t necessary. Today I’ll say, ‘thank you, ma’am.’”
&
nbsp; The sentries dogged the hatch behind them, and Marcia’s two civilian guards stepped aside. Ginny Ha was an R-3, by far the more dangerous of the pair, but at barely five feet tall, wrinkled and smiling, she looked like the doting grandmother she was, when she was off the clock. Greg Finch was the more visible threat. The badge on his gray DPS uniform marked him as P-2, only one power ranking below Marcia in the same series, and the glow in his pale eyes was an unmistakable warning to those with the sight for it.
Marcia hoped Ginny’s limits went untested today. Confinement in solid rock was one of the few effective ways to subdue a T-series, but it was hell on building foundations.
The room normally functioned as a mess hall. Six prisoners in blue brig jumpsuits waited on a row of stools along the cafeteria line. Jefferson halted beside and slightly behind Marcia at the front of the room. “Prisoners! At-ten-SHUN!”
The Marines snapped to their feet. The floor shook underfoot. All of them had the hardened skin, thick muscles, and heavy bones that defined their series designation. Those shared traits erased secondary sexual characteristics, although Marcia knew two were male and four female. The scientists originally responsible for labeling rollover classes hadn’t been compassionate men. T stood for troll.
Marcia matched faces to the records she’d reviewed. Lance Corporal Amy Goodall was a T1A, twelve feet tall from skull to toes. Her armored skin was a dull gold, and so were her dorsal spikes. The broken bones and facial gashes on her medical report from the previous night were fully healed.
The two T3’s beside Goodall lacked her height and spines, but they were just as heavily armored. Their claws put Goodall’s to shame, and one of them also had the huge drooping ears of a B variant. The last three were all mid-weight T5’s, two men with the longer snouts of W variants, and a woman who was re-growing two fingers on her left hand.