by Ben Weaver
“What did I miss, Mr. St. Andrew?” Gorbatova came toward me as though we had been networked to a cerebro and she had read my mind. Thankfully, she moved on to my left, to Jarrett, whose eye now resembled a bulging navel. “Have you been to the infirmary?”
“Ma’am, I’m fine, ma’am.”
She suddenly craned her head toward Haltiwanger. “You…every night I’m out here you’re looking at me like you wanna screw me. Is that right, Mr. Haltiwanger?”
“No, ma’am.”
With an exaggerated frown, she sashayed up to him and caressed his pudgy cheek. “You saying I’m not desirable? You saying I’m ugly?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then why don’t you wanna have sex?”
Haltiwanger’s breath came raggedly, and his eyes brimmed with tears of nervousness. “Ma’am, unauthorized coitus is strictly prohibited, ma’am.”
“Unauthorized coitus…that makes it sound more dangerous, doesn’t it?”
“Ma’am, I don’t know, ma’am.”
Pope exited the mess hall and drew toward us. “How’re we doing here, Corporal?”
Gorbatova snapped to, saluted, then stood at parade rest. “Sir, all present and accounted for, sir. Recommend Mr. Jarrett St. Andrew go to the infirmary, sir.”
The sergeant cocked a brow. “Mr. St. Andrew will be just fine. Squad, fall out!”
Like a pack of starving werewolves, the others charged toward the mess hall’s narrow doorway.
“Think you can handle chow without screwing up?” Jarrett asked, then blew past me.
Salisbury tofu, Cetian beans, backed potatoes, and Torosa salad were on the menu. The beans weren’t that bad and had been imported from the agricultural domes on Tau Ceti XI. The colony of Aire-Wu, in the Ross 154 system, used to be the leading producer of grain, forage, fruit, and nonfood crops, but about sixteen years prior, production got cut in half by a disease that still baffled the experts. Some very sweet corn had come out of Aire-Wu, corn that had become famous throughout the colonized worlds. But even if they had been serving that corn, I wouldn’t have eaten it.
The entire platoon dined together during all four mess formations, and though the second, third, and fourth years had established a supposed healthy rivalry among us that usually kept squads separated during chow, I noted with some interest that several people from the Eightieth, including Pvt. Carstaris, had come over to our side of the hall and had taken seats around Rooslin Halitov.
Ladies’ man Haltiwanger, who had already fetched his tray, drifted back down the line. “That was close,” he said through a sigh.
“Yeah,” I said, barely interested.
“I think me and her are gonna happen,” he said with a wink, then tipped his head toward Halitov and the cadets from the Eightieth. “What’s that about?”
“Me, probably.”
“And…oh, shit, there goes your brother.”
I wanted to stop Jarrett, but he had already loaded his tray and now wove toward Halitov’s table, looking for all the world like a battered veteran out to settle one last score. I set down my empty tray.
“Forget them,” Dina said, suddenly in front of me and placing a hand on my chest. “C’mon. Sit with Paul and me.” She had never come so close, and I couldn’t help but imagine touching her still-wet hair.
Before I could argue, she grabbed my wrist and led me between the long tables to where Beauregard sat with Agi Narendra and Jane Clarion, who averted their gazes. The colonel’s son had just launched into another of his history review sessions that would inevitably digress into a political polemic about why the colonies should secede from the alliances:
“To really understand this thing, you need to go back. I’m talking way back to 2180, to the biowars and the formation of the alliances. So we damned near killed ourselves with chemical agents. But we came back strong, declared Earth a protected planet, sent all our thugs over to Urak Sulcus, on Ganymede, then continued expansion and controlled the population by limiting colonial passports. It had to be done. So about now the alliances aren’t looking too bad. They’ve done some pretty good things, and they’re not that much different from the old Earth countries that comprise them. They’re upholding democratic, capitalistic ideals, which, in my book aren’t that bad. Hey, Mr. St. Andrew. Grab a seat. You eating?”
I shook my head, then glanced to Halitov’s table. No war yet, though he and Jarrett were talking, their expressions strangely neutral.
Beauregard continued, not missing a beat. “So things are moving along swiftly. By 2224, Mr. St. Andrew’s world, Gatewood-Callista, is set up for mining and becomes the most profitable colony in existence. Of course we colonists recognize that the alliances are becoming rich and that we’re not sharing in the wealth. But thank God for Inte-Micro. In 2233 the company violates the Colonial Prudence Order and tawts out eleven-point-two light-years to Sixty-one Cygni A, Ms. Clarion’s hometown.”
Jane Clarion stuffed a potato into her mouth, then smiled tightly, her once-fair skin turned to tawny leather by the sun and dust. “Okay, Mr. Beauregard, you’ve proven your point. You’ll ace the history exam.”
Beauregard rolled his eyes. “So Inte-Micro claims squatter’s rights for the world and establishes a precedent for independent exploration. The Colonization Ordinance of 2233 is written and approved by the alliances. Inte-Micro owns the colony, but they’ll have to pay heavy taxes for the right to sell goods and services to other Alliance-held worlds. Boys and girls, the alliances began writing their epitaph with that ordinance. Exxo-Tally Corp. jumped on the bandwagon, and we hit the Racinian jackpot on Drummer-Fire.”
“Not exactly,” I muttered, alternating my gaze between him and Halitov. “We just found more of their abandoned tech, not anything new.” I didn’t feel like talking, but his cocky tone set me off. Or maybe he wasn’t being cocky. Maybe it was just me. Maybe I wasn’t really listening. Why weren’t Jarrett and Halitov trading blows?
“Yeah, but look what it did for expansion and how it made the colonies even more valuable and exploitable to the alliances. Take Nau Dane, for instance. That incident occurred more than thirty years ago. We won’t sit by for another standoff like that.”
In 2273 the Exxo-Tally Corporation discovered the world of Nau Dane in the Ross 128 star system, but the right to colonize remained in dispute for nine years. Eastern Alliance explorers arrived one month after Exxo, dubbed the world Zheng He and claimed it for the alliances. The Twelve System Guard Corps had been called in and had squared off with Exxo-Tally colonists. No shots were fired, but the incident marked the beginning of the cold war between the corporations and the alliances. Yes, I knew my history, but I would not ace the exam.
“One of my uncles died on Icillica,” Narendra said. “We won’t sit by for anything like that again, either. You can’t tell me that life support and redundancy systems go off in forty-seven of fifty-one mining facilities by accident. It wasn’t the Seventeen that did it, either. Alliance Marines killed those people.”
“I agree. And the tragedy was declared an act of sabotage,” Beauregard reminded him. “But when Alliance Marines are involved, you can bet you won’t find tracks. And now we’ve got an Alliance military outpost over in Kapteyn Beta, which, don’t forget, they lied to us about for years. Called it a research station. Yeah, they were doing research all right, research into colonial weaknesses.”
“Mr. Beauregard, what are you doing here if you’re in favor of colonial secession?” I tapped the Guard Corps patch on my breast. “We’re training for the Corps, and the alliances own the Corps. Think about article one: ‘I will always remember that I am an Alliance citizen, fighting in the forces that preserve my world and our way of life. I have resigned to give my life in their defense.’ Do you believe that? I do. The code is the most important thing now.” I stole a look at Jarrett, who just sat quietly, eating. “The most important thing.”
“My father mentioned a few details. Wish I could share them. Let’s just say that whe
n all hell breaks loose, and trust me, it will, you’ll learn a few things about this Guard Corps that’ll surprise you—and depress you.”
“What, like there’s a secret weapon on the base we’ve built on Tau Ceti?” Narendra asked, furrowing his thick brows. “So they told us a few secrets, figuring that we’re not going anywhere soon. But I have a feeling the alliances know just as much as we first years.”
“Not that much,” Beauregard said. “Few pogues at the top know our location, but for the most part we’re also a secret. And what they don’t realize is that the Seventeen will be a potent force. Once we’re all conditioned, we’ll be capable of any operation. The alliances can’t say the same of their troops. What Alliance Marine can pound ground, fly an atmoattack plane, serve aboard a TAWT cruiser, and even engage in the more cerebral rear echelon activities—all with the expertise of a combatant who’s spent a decade training for those tasks?”
Narendra sighed. “We’re cross-trained because we’re a special force, but you pit us against Alliance troops and we don’t stand a chance. Simple mathematics. Anyway, that’s never going to happen. We’re part of the Alliance military.”
He shook his head. “I bet that one conditioned guardsman can take on an entire platoon.”
“We haven’t even seen a conditioned guardsman,” said Narendra. “They go off to some other part of this rock, get conditioned, and transfer out. They won’t even tell us what the conditioning is, and you can’t believe all of the rumors. And they’ve only been conditioning people for what? A few months now?”
“Like I said, this Corps is full of surprises.”
Clarion feigned a stunned look. “Whoa.”
I lost track of the argument as raised voices came from Halitov’s table. Carstaris had probably told Jarrett about Halitov’s paying someone to cut my rope, and now the fight would begin.
But Carstaris had left, and Jarrett and Halitov were seated next to each other and arguing with Obote and Yat-sen over an astrophysics problem involving radiation generation that had baffled all of us for the past two days. I even heard Jarrett say, “Mr. Halitov is right,” which left me dumbfounded and feeling betrayed.
“What?” Dina asked, reading my expression.
I turned away. “Nothing.”
“Officer on deck!” someone cried.
We shot to our feet as Platoon Leader Amber Sysvillian double-timed into the hall. Though she had just turned twenty-one, the brawny black woman bore herself with the measured steps and practiced looks of South Point’s commandant, a woman twice her age. I admired how she had risen through the ranks and how she ran our platoon with equal measures of praise and criticism. She had not forgotten her days as a private.
But something with her seemed a bit off. I couldn’t put my finger on it until she spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen, twenty-one days ago, Inte-Micro execs on Mars refused to allow Alliance inspectors inside the Olympus Mons Mine. Data tawted in to us just last night indicates that the standoff continues. Alliance troops are massing near Olympus Mons and in Valles Marineris. Inte-Micro has announced that it has banned inspectors from all facilities within the Sol system. The dispute doesn’t stop there.”
Sysvillian touched a button on her tac, and a hologram bloomed in the center of the mess. Thousands of agricultural domes, some with diameters of over two kilometers, stretched across a reddish brown plain and reared up against a gray horizon. To the west stood rows of hundreds of Armored Troop Carriers—or “crab carriers,” as we called them—silver disks resembling carapaces that curved forty-five degrees on two sides and sloped down into four segmented landing skids. Long lines of Eastern Alliance Marines shielded by combat skins set to standard khaki jogged down the carriers’ gangways and joined an awesome formation that paralleled the domes. The image panned right to reveal a second detachment forming up to the east. My heart froze as two diamond formations of atmoattack jets streaked overhead, their pilots a thought, word, or thumb tap away from unloosing barrages of conventional or even nuclear weapons.
“Eighteen hours ago, a strike force numbering nearly fifty thousand Eastern Alliance infantry and air support personnel arrived at Outba, Cammil, Tau Ze, and Shefas on Tau Ceti Eleven. They’re demanding access to the agridomes. Obviously someone or some group leaked information to the alliances. Now their forces are mobilizing throughout the seventeen systems. Negotiations are continuing. We doubt these incidents will lead to bloodshed. The commandant has established a direct line with the generals on Rexi-Calhoon. We will keep you informed as we deem necessary.”
“My father’s on Tau Ceti Eleven,” Beauregard whispered, then raised his voice. “Ma’am? Will these events affect our program? Specifically, will our schedule be stepped up?”
“Negative. Unless you hear otherwise, it’s business as usual. And if I were you, Mr. Beauregard, I would focus on improving my squad’s scores. You people are in last place, aren’t you?”
I searched for a hole to disappear into and found none as Beauregard answered, “Yes, ma’am. But now that we’re warmed up, we’ll show you what we’re about.”
Snickers ricocheted through the ranks, and someone behind me muttered, “Warmed up? More like burned out.”
The platoon leader appeared skeptical. “I look forward to that, mister. Now, Squad Sergeant Pope will be in his office for the remainder of chow to address further questions and concerns. As you were.”
Sysvillian headed for the door and most of us settled back into our seats. Beauregard broke away and jogged after the platoon leader. Dina called to him, but to my initial surprise lover boy ignored her and disappeared outside.
Beauregard had good reason to be concerned. Of the two thousand people in his father’s command, only fourteen would survive.
The announcement unnerved me and brought on an appetite that had me filling a tray. As the mess hall crowd thinned out, I gorged myself with bland-tasting Salisbury tofu. Jarrett came by and warned me not to eat too much because by twenty-three hundred we’d be in our skins and back out on Whore Face. He left, I continued to eat, then, as I went to fork a piece of Torosa salad, the tray swept away.
“You’re done here,” Halitov said as he carried my food to the disposal chute and tossed it in.
I stood and crossed toward him. “You’re right. I’m going to Pope’s office and requesting my Voluntary Dust Out.”
Halitov’s eyes bulged even more, and I barely recognized him through his mounting rage. “You dust out, so do I.”
“Not in this case. I’m withdrawing.”
“What’s the matter? You scared? Sometimes I can’t believe you’re related to Jarrett. He sees things the way they are. He’s not a dreamer like you.”
“And I can’t believe you and I are from the same world.”
“Don’t you get it? Without this we’re nothing.”
“I don’t want to quit. This is what I’ve always wanted to do. The code? It means something to me. Some people are here for the wrong reasons, but I really want to be a soldier. Sure, it’ll get me off Gatewood, get me an education. But I really like the idea of being a soldier. I want to know what it feels like to be courageous, to be honorable. I don’t know what those things are.”
“I say again, why do you want to quit?”
“I don’t want to. I have to. Not for me. For you.” I hurried outside.
3
The first day I arrived at South Point I had a premonition that I would not last four years. I had looked across the academy grounds, taking in the admin building’s great spires, the rows and rows of barracks, and the library’s domed roof, and something—I still don’t know what it was—chilled me to the marrow.
As I made my way along the well-beaten path leading toward second year barracks and Pope’s office, I reflected on that first day, on that premonition, and I wanted to believe that I had known all along that I would dust out. Believing that made it seem inevitable and relieved me of responsibility. Sure, I knew I could do well with my studies, bu
t the rigors of physical training were too great, and nine people suffered because I wanted to become an officer. I couldn’t bear the thought of Jarrett’s taking another vicious beating on my account. Part of me said buckle down and deal with it. But a good officer realizes that doing your duty sometimes means abandoning your personal goals. I knew what I had to do. I would go back to Gatewood-Callista, marry that poor slob woman, bang out those kids, and live the best life I could until the Numox got me. I would die knowing that at least I had tried to improve my life. Maybe that would be enough.
I set a brutal pace, and for once even Halitov strained to keep up. He suddenly ran in front of me and seized my collar. “You can’t do this. What if Pope decides to dust me out anyway?”
“Let go.” I tried pulling away. “Okay. You’re right. Let’s head back.” As I turned, I wrenched myself free. He lunged to regain his grip. I jerked back. He missed. I turned. No choice. Run!
“You won’t make it,” he shouted, charging after me.
We raced by a trio of second years whose patches IDed them as squad sergeants from the Sixty-ninth. I was so flustered that I failed to acknowledge them, though we were required to salute anyone who outranked us, including squad sergeants like this bunch.
“First years, halt!”
Halitov shouted something like “Help me stop him,” but his words got lost in my panting.
The first barracks came up hard. I ducked around the corner and off the path, running between buildings and leaping over the occasional conduit that came jutting out of walls to plunge into the rocky soil. I checked the small placards posted in corners, turned right, jogged the length of another building, then broke hard to the left and dashed straight for the bleached quickcrete of billet BY27-80 as Halitov turned my name into a war cry. I reached the billet’s door, sighed with relief that the entrance panel flashed green, then punched the big button. The pocket door slid away, even as Halitov charged toward me with the three sergeants plowing through his dust.