Brothers in Arms

by Ben Weaver

  I ducked inside. Supply Sergeant Owendove sat behind a long counter, reciting a manifest to a cargo drone. Both cocked their heads as I stormed by.

  Footsteps thundered behind me as I reached the main hall, an arid mausoleum lined on both sides by platoon offices where, I mused, first years held wakes for their dead careers. I had only visited Pope’s little box once for a mandatory welcome conference, but I still remembered to count seven doors down on the left.

  The sergeant’s entrance panel glowed green. I glanced at Halitov, activated the door, then took one massive step into the office.

  Pope’s narrow desk faced me, and he looked up as I collided with Beauregard, who had been sitting in a chair opposite the sergeant. The strike to my groin sent me reeling back to find my own seat on the floor.

  Breath ragged, drool spilling from his lips, Halitov slammed into the office but managed to stop a quarter meter from Beauregard.

  “What kind of sophomoric crap is this?” Pope hollered. “What are you first years doing in my sanctuary while I’m trying to have a private conversation?”

  Halitov opened his mouth, but the three sergeants plowed into the room and sent him crashing into Beauregard’s lap.

  Even as I experienced it, the moment seemed too absurd to be real. I sat on the floor, legs pulled into my chest, groin ablaze, as Beauregard tried to pry Halitov off his lap, the three sergeants launched into simultaneous tirades, and Pope found the top of his lungs: “Shut up! Everybody shut your holes!”

  The shouting broke off into five labored breaths. Pope waited a moment more, exploiting the time to glare at each intruder, saving me for last. “Mr. St. Andrew, you were the first to come barging into my sacred den, so I’ll hear from you. On your feet!”

  One of the sergeants, a husky blonde towering over her male counterparts, took a step forward and said, “I’ll tell you what happened, Pope.”

  “No, Barbie, you’ll jam your thumb in your mouth and think of me.”

  The sergeant’s fists came up, and in a blur of motion Halitov and Beauregard sprang into the most basic of fighting stances, knees and elbows slightly bent as they leaned toward their opponents. Our instruction in hand-to-hand combat had thus far involved second, third, and fourth years pummeling us as we apologized for our screw-ups. We figured they would eventually get around to teaching us aikido, karate, judo, tae kwon do, and a few of the quitunutul arts developed on lower G worlds, but even without formal training, I figured Halitov and Beauregard would give their opponents a decent run.

  In the meantime, the shortest of the sergeants, an olive-skinned guy with big, glistening pores and shadowed jowls, closed the office door, then assumed his own battle stance beside Barbie.

  Wincing, I finally made it to my feet and looked to Pope, who had riveted his gaze on the blond sergeant. “I was talking to Mr. St. Andrew. Once he’s finished, then we’ll hear from you. Mr. St. Andrew?”

  My eyes itched as I scanned the others, then I stammered, “Uh, sir, I was on my way here, and I failed to recognize the sergeants. They ordered me to halt. I didn’t. And here we are. I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Why didn’t you obey them?”

  “Sir, I don’t know, sir.” Only then did I realize that I had actually broken the code. I had failed to obey a superior officer’s direct order.

  “You don’t know?”

  “Sir, sorry, sir.”

  “You’re gonna stand there and say you don’t know why you didn’t obey?”

  “Sir, I guess I was scared, sir.”

  He snickered, then regarded the sergeants. “So he fails to salute, and you people chase him all the way here?”

  “Not only did this gennyboy fail to acknowledge us, but he disobeyed a direct order to halt,” Barbie said, all fire and big teeth.

  Pope folded his arms over his chest. “Maybe he saluted, and you didn’t see him.”

  My gaze lowered to Barbie’s hands, which she repeatedly balled into fists. Her two flushed comrades nervously shifted their weight, and I wondered which of Pope’s forthcoming remarks would unleash the trio.

  But Pope pursed his lips, narrowed his gaze in thought, then took in a long, weary breath. “Sergeants, I’ll handle this situation myself. You’re dismissed.”

  Barbie stepped toward Halitov and Beauregard. “We’re not going anywhere.”

  Pope closed his eyes, and I could almost hear the beep of his arming warhead. Three, two, one…“GET OUT OF MY FUCKIN’ OFFICE RIGHT NOW! DO YOU FUCKIN’ TRESPASSERS HEAR ME? OUT! OUT! OUT!”

  At first I thought the sergeants had been unnerved by Pope’s shouting, since all three scrambled for the door, but then, as the door opened, I realized why they wanted out.

  Pope’s vociferation had alerted Kilo Company’s executive officer, First Lieutenant Jerry “Zombie” Humpfire, who now blocked the doorway like a quickcrete pylon. Rumor had it that the neckless bruiser had been pushed through physical training because he was the best hand-to-hand man in the company. Pope repeatedly referred to the redhead as a slow, fat piece of shit, but one who could turn off his skin and take ten, fifteen point-blank rounds to the extremities and still come at you like the zombie he was.

  The XO’s expression soured as he scrutinized the seven statues before him and pretended not to notice my birthmark. “I’m sitting over there in my office, and I’m trying to study for two exams. If I don’t pass them, my average will slip, and four long years will mean nothing. So my entire career depends upon me passing those exams. And I’m in there, trying to concentrate, really trying, and I’m nervous because I’m thinking that if I don’t pass these exams, well, like I said, I’ll have wasted four long years. I’ll be disgraced, an embarrassment.” He glared at Pope. “I’ll be the slow, fat piece of shit who dusted out, right?”

  “Sir, no, sir,” Pope snapped.

  Humpfire lifted an index finger nearly twice as thick as my own. “So I want to know, what is it that’s more important than my military career? WHAT IS IT?”

  I knew the others wouldn’t dare explain how one private’s failure to salute now jeopardized the company XO’s future, so I swallowed, cleared my throat, and felt a surge of reckless abandon. “Sir, it’s my fault, sir. This private failed to salute these sergeants. This private failed to obey all orders and regulations of South Point and of proper authority. This private understands that honorable failure builds character, but what this private did was anything but honorable. This private apologizes for disturbing the XO’s study period and accepts any and all punishments the XO wishes to dole out. This private wishes to be worthy of the sacrifices of his parents and colony, the generosity of the alliances, and the efforts of all those who teach and administer to him, sir.”

  “Clever, St. Andrew. You dress it in code and dance it around the room, but I still ain’t buying it a drink. All of this shouting is about you failing to salute these bastards?”

  I wondered, If I agree with him, am I also agreeing that the three sergeants are bastards? “Sir, the shouting was about my failure to salute, sir.”

  He checked his tac. “I’ve already wasted valuable minutes of my life on this shit. Everybody out. Return to your offices or squads. NOW!”

  The three sergeants shambled by the XO, as did Beauregard. I didn’t move. Neither did Halitov.

  “Gentlemen?”

  I tensed as the XO’s frown deepened. “Sir, with your permission, sir, this private wishes to speak with his squad sergeant.”

  “And sir, this private requests the same,” Halitov added.

  Humpfire raised his brow. “Sergeant?”

  “Sir, the privates and I will confer quietly, sir,” Pope answered.

  “Very well. Don’t disturb me again. Carry on.”

  We saluted, waited for the door to close, then Pope rubbed his eyes and shrank into his seat. “You damned first years, man…what am I gonna do with you?”

  Halitov sighed. “Sir, we’re sorry, sir.”

  “So what do you want?” Pope fl
icked a glance at his tac. “You got one minute. Then I want you geared up and ready for Whore Face. Skins on.”

  I shuddered. “Sir, I’ve come to request my VDO, sir.”

  There. I had done it. And it hadn’t seemed too difficult because I knew Pope would argue with me. He would tell me that if I just kept my head low and applied myself, I would make it. He would tell me that I would regret withdrawing for the rest of my life.

  “So you wanna quit, St. Andrew? No problem. Lot of people will thank you for it. You can go over to admin right now. I’ll have the endorsement tapped in before you get there.”

  Tears welled, and I barely felt my throat. I was supposed to respond, but a thank-you didn’t seem right.

  “Anything else?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then you’re dismissed.”

  After a crisp salute and an about-face, I started shakily for the door.

  “Mr. Halitov? I’ll be tapping in your VDO as well,” Pope said.

  “Sir?”

  “Your success or failure depends upon Mr. St. Andrew’s. Your memory that short?”

  I whirled back to face Pope. “Sir, we both assumed that only my involuntary dust out would—”

  “I don’t give a shit what kind of dust out it is—including death. You drop, he drops. Oldest trick in the book, gentlemen. You take your weakest grunt, you pair him with your strongest, then you give ’em mutual goals to motivate ’em.”

  Halitov grinned. “Sir, I’m flattered, but—”

  “Flattered? Mr. Halitov, you’re only half a man. You got the lowest GPA in the squad. Maybe St. Andrew can’t hump worth a shit over a confidence course, but he’s got the second highest average in the entire platoon.”

  That stunned me. The code prevented us from sharing grades with each other, but I had assumed that most people scored as high as me. The news woke up that stubborn dreamer, the idiot who thought he could be an officer, the idiot who had no idea that friends would clutch his hands and bleed all over his lap.

  “Way I figure it, gentlemen, I keep you two together, I get one smart, strong cadet.” Pope fired up a nasty grin. “You can file for divorce after your conditioning.”

  “But, sir, St. Andrew wants to dust out. What am I supposed to do?”

  The sergeant chuckled. “I don’t know, Mr. Halitov. Like I said, you’re not the sharpest blade in our cache. But I’m you, I’m heading over to admin and getting used to my new career as a third-class miner. Or I’m dragging Mr. St. Andrew’s ass back to the billet and convincing him to stay on. Of course, if you beat him, he won’t do well on Whore Face, and there you are again, both dusting out.” Pope rose and stepped in front of his desk. “You think we’re idiots, Mr. Halitov? We got fingers on everyone. We know you paid someone to cut Mr. St. Andrew’s rope. Of course, we can’t prove anything since you’ve threatened the witnesses. But I swear to God, if you fail to get Mr. St. Andrew through this academy, your ass is IDO. You and him? You’re bestest buddies for four years.”

  I couldn’t see Halitov’s face; no doubt his color had faded. “Sir,” he quavered. “I understand, sir.” He pivoted, and I took the cue to salute and leave.

  Once in the hall, Halitov tore after me and asked, “You’re from Ro, aren’t you?”

  Without breaking step, I replied, “Yeah. So?”

  “I’m from Vosk. You ever been there?”

  Why the oaf wanted to talk about subterranean cities on Gatewood-Callista I didn’t know. “I haven’t been to Vosk. Have you ever been to South Point’s admin building?”

  He seized my neck in both hands and drove me against the wall. “We’re going back to the billet. See, if I dust out, then I got nothing to lose, which means you’re dead. So tonight you’ll be the second-best cadet out there. You’ll climb and rappel so fast you didn’t know you could.”

  Though I told myself that he wouldn’t kill me, that he needed me to graduate, I had never seen a face more rigid, more possessed. I nodded, gasped, and the echo of distant footsteps triggered my release.

  As we moved on, and I massaged my sore throat, Halitov smirked and said, “You wouldn’t have made it in Vosk. They would’ve got you. I hate that place. It killed my real father, and it’s been working real hard on my mother and stepdad.”

  The door slid aside, and we stepped into the cool night air. Shraxi issued baritone hoots, and a strange night odor, a kind of postcoital stench, wafted in from the distant mesas. Insects, some accidentally imported, some indigenous and none too large, hid in the outlying scrub. One bug we called a “triplet” sang out ta-ta-ta…ta-ta-ta…in the silence between hoots.

  We hurried onto the trail, and Halitov slapped a paw on my shoulder. “I can’t go back. No way.”

  “Will this be a guilt trip, a beating, or both?”

  “I can’t go back. Way it is.”

  “Know what? Neither can I.”

  “Then why’d you ask Pope for your withdrawal?”

  I swore under my breath. “I told you. For my brother. For the rest of you.”

  “See, that’s the kind of shit I need to learn. How do you think of that shit? You make decisions that’ll benefit the team rather than yourself. This whole thing is a competition to me. But it really isn’t, right?”

  “We’re only competing with ourselves—which is why I keep losing.”

  “Not tonight. I’ll never be your bestest buddy like little Pope says, but you and I, we’ll make it. And we’re going to live on worlds with skies, and people will respect us because we earned what we have. No fuckin’ Alliance trader will ever give me a dirty look again. I’m not just some colo. I’m with the Seventeen. You fuckin’ look at me like that again, and I’ll fuckin’ break your fuckin’ face. Do you hear me? DO YOU HEAR ME?”

  It took me a moment to realize he wasn’t yelling at me. “I hear you,” I said, hoping to wrench him from the memory. “We need to haul ass.”

  Squad Corporal Gorbatova stood outside our billet, speaking quietly into her tac. She bit back a curse as we hustled past her and keyed open the door. Everyone else had already headed up to Whore Face.

  “Ten seconds,” Halitov cried as we reached our gelracks.

  I fetched my backup rope, then lifted my pack and double-checked my tac to make sure skin status stood in the green.

  Halitov shouldered his own rope and pack, read his tac, then huffed. “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  He led the way out, and we spotted Gorbatova jogging about twenty meters ahead on the south trail that snaked along the gorge and emptied into the talus and scree at Whore Face’s foot. The corporal’s skin had been set to night green and cast a bioluminescent glow over the rocky countryside. In a few minutes, she would tap a command into her tac and dissolve from view as protein microprocessors shifted skin energy to mirror the terrain.

  “Let’s skin,” I suggested.

  “Let’s wait till we get up there.”

  “Why?”

  He didn’t answer. I shrugged and matched his sprint, though I couldn’t help but wonder about his reservations. Pope had warned us about the claustrophobia associated with first-time skinning, but he had also reassured us that in time we would get used to it. Coming from a world of closed spaces had allowed me to accept my skin without complications. Jarrett had equal success.

  Within ten minutes, my rope and pack seemed to double in weight. Thankfully, we had reached the forty-five-degree slope of Whore Face’s back. We began our ascent, and once more I asked Halitov if he’d like to skin. No, he wouldn’t. Without protection or proper visibility, we might step into a hole or trip over a sharp piece of debris. I stopped and pulled a light stick from my pack. Halitov ignored my shout to wait up, so I hurled the light stick ahead of him. He scooped it up and forged on as I veered into his path.

  The rest of the squad waited up top, eight or nine young first years shimmering like emeralds and milling about the gloomy mound. As I reached the summit, I wanted to fall to my knees and catch my br
eath, but as Pope had told us, cadets never get tired and are never out of breath—meaning you’d better not ever gasp or drool in front him. I allowed myself no more than a straight-shouldered pause, a wise decision since Pope was already up top, having caught a lift to the summit. His face blurred in and out of focus from behind his skin, which rose nine centimeters from his utilities. His voice came with the usual whir, as though he were speaking into a rotating fan. “Mr. St. Andrew?” He approached with a bounce in his step indicative of his skin’s lower gravity setting. “Fall in!”

  “Sir, aye-aye, sir!” Three taps on my tac, and the energy skin spread from my wrist to envelope me. “Vitals and AO,” I ordered the tac’s Artificial Intelligence. Heads Up Viewers materialized about a quarter meter ahead, the left reflecting my pulse, respiration, and blood pressure, the right feeding me a real-time, overhead shot of the Area of Operations and the personnel operating therein.

  For centuries, conventional wisdom behind combat suit technology had held that you should shield the combatant in a bulky, heavyweight material while providing armaments, life support, and a power source. Maybe you increased physical strength through hydraulics or some other method, maybe you didn’t. Either way, all of that bulk and firepower usually posed more dangers to the user than to the enemy. I had read stories about old United States Marines who had been operating on Mars. One guy wearing what they used to call a “thunder suit” got disoriented and accidentally took out his whole company before someone greased him. Another soldier simply tripped and decapitated herself as she reached up to block her fall.

  So the geniuses in Alliance Research finally abandoned the conventional. Instead of bringing the shield to the user, they posed the question: What if the user produced the shield? We’re supposed to be nothing but energy, and energy never dies. How much of that energy is required to sustain a life? Is there any left over that we can harness?

  Inspired by Racinian technology, our tacs tap directly into the heat and electrical output of our bodies, then they enhance it. I’ve read the physics behind them over twenty times, and it still hasn’t clicked, but the end result is a very convenient and potent power source. You figure out a way to have it controlled by the user and discover ways in which to utilize that power by, say, harnessing the quantum bond between particles to create a seemingly impenetrable skin around life-forms, a skin capable of producing its own enzymes and phosphorus-containing molecules, a skin that can mimic or ward off nearly every environment. Then you develop recycling capabilities that include air, waste products, and a rudimentary, self-contained medical system. What you get is a stunningly easy to use and effective combat suit with few drawbacks. Still, early pundits found the idea laughable, called it rubber science bounding into mysticism. They warned supporters that they could ruin their careers by endorsing such technology. Those same pundits predicted the collapse of the Inte-Micro and Exxo-Tally corporations.