Master Sergeant

by Mel Odom

  That was true. But it had taken six long years to get back anywhere near the front, and Makaum was practically outside the bubble. Sage didn’t say anything because he knew the general wasn’t expecting a reply.

  “Let’s get back to those standards you were talking about,” Whitcomb said.

  “Yes sir,” Sage said, because a response was in order, from the general’s tone.

  “Do those standards include bar brawling?”

  “No sir.” But those skills did translate.

  “Good to hear that, Sergeant, because the next time you’re brought before me for something like this, you’ll be in the brig for a month on bread and water.”

  “Yes sir.” Sage tamped down the anger that filled him. No officer he’d served under before would have been so quick to punish a soldier for defending other soldiers from outsiders.

  Whitcomb was evidently different. He didn’t want his house rocked.

  “My orders here are to interface with the Makaum people, liaise with the corps that have trade rights onplanet, and keep the Sting-Tails at bay—diplomatically, if possible—so they can’t use the natural resources here. In addition to that, I have to continue a nonconfrontational relationship with the (ta)Klar in the area.”

  That was news to Sage. He hadn’t known the (ta)Klar had come sniffing around. Makaum was a good find, though, attractive to any star-traveling species that didn’t mind skating off the main gateway grid, which described the (ta)Klar to a T. With the Phrenorian War expanding, Makaum wasn’t as far from the action as it had been. In their own way, the (ta)Klar were as threatening as the Phrenorians—just not as direct.

  “I was told you were a good soldier, Sergeant.”

  Sage didn’t have anything to say to that. Disagreeing would be weak and agreeing would be arrogant. Arrogance was a fine thing in a soldier, but like every weapon, it had its time and place. This wasn’t the time and the general’s office would never be the place.

  “Looking at your field service report, I can understand why you were mustered back to a training position.”

  Sage hadn’t understood that then, and he didn’t understand it now. He was a soldier. He’d chosen to fight for the Terran Alliance, and he’d die for it if he had to.

  “Soldiers like you are hard to find: men who have survived continued combat with the Sting-Tails.” Whitcomb eased himself out of his chair and walked stiffly to the wall behind the desk. He pressed his hand against the surface and an image opened up.

  Makaum floated like a fat green fruit against the blackness of space. Other space stations orbited the planet in geosynchronous positions, and support flitters traveled between them. Boxy dropships occasionally streaked planetside, their jets flaring orange and red as they burned off acceleration and fought gravity.

  “Most soldiers don’t survive to get the kind of experiences you’ve had, Sergeant.” Whitcomb stood with his back to Sage and peered out at the planet. His reflection in the screen showed hostility and Sage knew that not all of that emotion was directed at him. The general obviously despised his posting. “They should have left you at the training facility. That’s where you’re needed. You’re going to be wasted out here. We both know that.”

  Quietly, Sage released a pent-up breath through his nose. One way or another, he’d been determined to leave the training facilities. He had experience fighting the Sting-Tails. That was dead certain. But the turnover in the training centers had stepped up the pace, increasing the numbers in the units while cutting training time shorter. At the end, Sage knew all he was doing was producing semi-educated targets suited to delaying the war but not taking care of themselves and their units.

  He hadn’t had the stomach to do it anymore. He needed to fight at the sides of those men he trained to die.

  “But somehow you ended up here, Sergeant, and you’ve already become a complication in my job. DawnStar Corp is planning to sue the Terran Army for the damage you caused their employee. Repairing one of their cybered secs is expensive.”

  Sage thought about the soldiers the bashhound had put down, knowing those boys would require operations and weeks of rehab before they were comfortable and fit again. Healing human bodies was a lot cheaper than repairing a cybered bashhound, but they took time. And if soldiers couldn’t be repaired, they were just sent home with a stipend that barely kept them from starving. At least if they died in battle, their families got death benefits.

  “I’m going to have to deal with DawnStar, Sergeant.” Whitcomb turned back to face Sage. “Not only that, but now I should be worried about you as well.”

  Sage refused to ask the question that had been dangled out in front of him. He figured he knew what was coming.

  “This far out-system, the corps figure they’re a law unto themselves, Sergeant. If one of those men decides he has a grudge against you, all he has to do is wait until you’re out in the brush—and believe me, at some point you will be—then burn a hole through your head. And there won’t be a thing I can do about it.” Whitcomb shook his head. “If that happens, I won’t do anything. One man isn’t worth jeopardizing the relationship we have with the corps.”

  Letting out a long, quiet breath, Sage forced himself not to say anything. Personally, he thought there was a lot that could be done, and a lot he would do if it were left up to him.

  But it wasn’t.

  “I’ve moved you up in the dropship rotation, Sergeant, just to clear you off this station. As long as you’re up here, you’re a target.”

  Don’t do me any favors. Sage thought that, but he didn’t say it. Getting slammed into the brig while the DawnStar bashhounds were gunning for him could have been a death sentence. He was surprised no one had made a run at him last night, but the brig had a lot of soldiers hanging around off-duty.

  “You’ll be planetside by this evening. I’ve already informed Colonel Halladay that you’ll be coming early. He’ll have someone meet you to get you squared away.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Let’s get something straight, Sergeant.” Whitcomb glared at Sage from the other side of the desk. “If you cause any further problems for me or this operation, I’ll drop a rock on you somewhere out in the Green Hell. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Crystal, sir.” Despite his bottled anger, Sage spoke civilly. He’d had years of experience talking to brass who had no idea of what went on in the front lines.

  “Get out of my office, Sergeant, while I’m still in a mood to leave you those stripes.”

  “Yes sir.” Sage saluted smartly, waited as Whitcomb gave a perfunctory response, then turned and walked from the general’s office.

  “BAD?” THE YOUNG corporal looked up at Sage as he emerged from the general’s office.

  Sage just smiled and winked. If he was lucky, he had time to grab a meal before he had to take his berth on the dropship. And he intended to shower the brig stench off him too.

  THREE

  A-Pakeb Node

  BioLab

  Makaum

  3728 Akej (Phrenorian Prime)

  Zhoh GhiCemid, captain in the Brown Spyrl of the Phrenorian military, did not like feeling weak, but he knew that upon occasion he had to suffer through such indignities if he was to evolve. He had recently succumbed to his latest lannig, the moulting process during which a Phrenorian shed the exoskeleton to grow a larger one, and was not at liberty to put off the process. That would have been physically harmful, perhaps potentially lethal, and moreover, foolish. The moult rebuilt him, made him more than what he had been.

  The lannig could not always be planned. The rebirth came upon a Phrenorian whenever the time arrived. Sometimes it was a result of successfully feeding in an environment for a time. At other times the process was instigated by constant stress on an individual, a reaction to physical or mental pressures. Zhoh had been through three lannigs since he had signed on with his spyrl upon attaining adulthood. His brothers and sisters in arms had welcomed him as a soldier, then again as a gifted
leader among them.

  Once he had known the lannig was upon him, when the first true split had shown along his upper shoulders, Zhoh had retreated to his quarters and soaked in the waters of his homeworld to keep his skin soft and pliant, and his body hydrated. Hydration was key, otherwise the body fed on itself to the point of self-termination. The lannig demanded a lot. His people had come from the Issgar Ocean and those ties would never be completely severed.

  Now, as he lay in his private tank, he felt along his back for the split and ripped it larger. The pain was excruciating but he did not want to put off the process. He wanted to expose and revel in his new self. The sooner the old skin was separated from him, the sooner the new skin beneath could harden.

  Zhoh did not like being away from his duties. And he had many enemies among his own people. The fact that he had been taken from the Kustal System was proof enough of that. Taking another breath, suspended in the nutrient-rich liquid, Zhoh tore again at the split, widening it further still. He stifled his cries of pain and hung onto his consciousness with savage fury.

  The tank occupied a corner of his quarters, allowing his bed and his personal armory to share space. The small computer that kept him in contact with his spyrl sat against the wall. The liquid gurgled and bubbled as it slid through the recovery system and heating unit.

  Zhoh’s chelicerae, the segmented arms at the front of his face, twitched involuntarily as he steeled himself against the fresh agony. With a final effort, he succeeded in shoving his broad shoulders from his moult, then wriggled out of it entirely. Angrily, he thrust the limp mass from the tank and onto the floor.

  Immediately, the three krayari beetles he kept in his quarters scurried out from under the bed and tore into the cast-off skin. The krayari were as long as his arm, black as night, quick, savage, and had limited intelligence, but they were trainable. They ate any organic matter that had not been deemed desirable by him and kept the room clean. They also kept watch over him, ensuring the privacy of his quarters. They chittered at each other, trying to get the biggest parts of the moult.

  Satisfied that he had freed himself, Zhoh lay back to enjoy the soak. He reached out to trip a new flood of nutrients into the tank. These were designed to help harden the new skin. He felt calm, weightless, as he waited for his new body to move toward its final shape. Already his lines and dimensions were filling out. His tail contracted and extended restlessly, slipping between limpness and rigidity as it took on the new scales. The tail always hardened first, a biological survival mechanism. The tail was a Phrenorian’s first and most deadly line of personal defense.

  The krayari chirped and fought over the moult, tearing it to pieces as they devoured it. Some of the younger Phrenorian soldiers did not care for the beetles because they were afraid they would one day turn on their masters for sustenance if not properly cared for. It had happened, but not until after their master had died from wounds received in battle, old age, or an unmanageable moult.

  Having the beetles live with him, inside his personal quarters, made Zhoh a subject of discussion among the lower ranks of his spyrl. Any distinction among his bloodline was a welcome thing. He had killed and eaten any krayari that dared attack him, and others in his unit had watched him take his grim repast in disbelief and awe. The beetles had enough intelligence to wish to live, so the others that survived learned, though they sometimes forgot themselves.

  That was forgivable. Predators lived to kill or to conquer and stake out territory. This, too, was ingrained in the Phrenorian DNA, so Zhoh accepted it. Krayari flesh tasted terrible and didn’t provide much true protein, which was why they were bred and kept to dispose of waste instead of used as a food source.

  Zhoh closed his eyes and pushed away the pain, dreaming only of the Terrans he would kill once he was given the opportunity. He thought of his past victories and looked forward to those that would come.

  THREE HOURS LATER, Zhoh clambered from the tank and walked toward the full-length mirror next to the computer desk. Water ran down his body and pooled on the floor, but the krayari lapped it up, following right up to his heels till he kicked one of them away. The creature hissed and righted itself, stood for a moment like it might attack—most things born on Makaum did—but then lowered its mandibles and scurried away. The other two carrion beetles retreated and chittered among themselves.

  Zhoh glared at the image that showed in the mirror. His new skin was pink and pathetic, obviously soft and vulnerable. He willed it to turn quickly, to take on the deep blue and purple color of a fully healthy exoskeleton. His legs and arms felt weak and distant from him, almost as if they belonged to someone else. That would change, though, and quickly enough if he took care to allow himself time to heal.

  He waved one of his lesser hands in front of a light switch, hating the look of the appendage because it had three fingers and a thumb and looked far too human for his liking. No Phrenorian had ever wondered where such hands had come from until they had encountered the humans. Until then they had simply accepted that the lesser hands were part of the tool development necessary to the race. His primary hands were almost as large as his head, and they were powerful enough to shatter the bones of humans. He had crushed the skulls of his opponents many times and always derived enjoyment from the ability.

  Powerful ultraviolet lights came on around him and dried out his skin. As they did so, the pink hue of his new skin gave way grudgingly to the purple and blue.

  “Mirror,” Zhoh spoke.

  “Awaiting orders.”

  “Growth chart comparison.”

  “Confirmed growth at eight percent.”

  Eight percent? In the reflection, Zhoh watched as his chelicerae flexed and flicked at his enjoyment. Eight percent was the largest growth he had ever had. He surveyed his larger frame with eagerness. His weight still wasn’t up much, but he knew he could easily put on more now that he had the frame to support it. He would be stronger and faster than he had ever been.

  He itched to be in battle, to prove himself and to explore his new capabilities.

  Soon, he told himself. He hadn’t come all the way to this backwater planet to remain idle.

  He continued to bathe in the ultraviolet rays, getting harder and more certain of himself. Phrenorians had always been predators. A host of worlds knew that. The people of Makaum would soon know that as well. Then they would cower in fear as the krayari beetles in his quarters did. Zhoh would make certain of that.

  The Phrenonian Empire desired the planet, and Zhoh was there to get the world under control.

  FOUR

  Dropship VDS Chalker

  Docking Hub

  Space Station DSC-24L19

  Loki 19 (Makaum)

  LEO 332.7 kilometers

  1341 Hours Zulu Time

  Prepare for flight. T-minus three minutes.”

  The familiar engine vibration thrummed through Sage’s body as he leaned back against the dropship bulkhead and buckled himself into the restraints. He was freshly showered and pleasantly sated from a Thai diner he’d found on the space station, and he was thankful to be putting the place behind him. Not powered up at the moment, his AKTIVsuit felt loose and cool. That would change in a heartbeat when it went into battle readiness.

  The prospect of spending four more days inside the station’s steel hulls hadn’t appealed to him. He liked wide, open places, no matter how civilized or how dangerous. After a month of being Gatestreamed through the systems, he was ready to get his boots muddy.

  “Flight?” One of the privates down the line snorted a curse and shook his head. “Dropships don’t fly. They fall. If you’re lucky, they don’t fall really hard.”

  Another private picked up the dialogue like it was an old routine. “It’s not the fall that kills you. It’s the sudden stop at the end.”

  Sage leaned his head back against the bulkhead, absorbed the vibrations that ran through the dropship, and closed his eyes. There was nothing to look at. Only blank bulkheads and cargo c
rates, barrels of liquids, and sacks of dry goods occupied the storage section. Some of the soldiers around him were nervous. He felt that emotion mixed in with the adrenaline surges.

  Being in the dropship with the men felt like coming home, and Sage was surprised to note how much he had missed that feeling. Training exercises with men in relative safety just weren’t the same. He’d missed the adrenaline, missed that sharp edge of fear that spun through every moment. This was where he belonged. Why couldn’t the top brass understand that?

  After a final countdown, harsh clanks sounded overhead as the umbilical supports providing water, air, and power blew free and recessed. Cargo ships ferried those things to the station from Makaum. The pilot continued his countdown. When he reached zero, the side thrusters powered the ship out of the station’s docking bay and into space.

  The momentum pushed Sage out of his comfort zone and rocked him in his seat, but he took a deep breath and relaxed again. Free of the space station’s rotation, artificial gravity faded and the feeling of falling filled Sage’s gut. He’d never gotten used to that feeling. The AKTIVsuit’s altimeter and gyroscope functions pulsed across his vision, tracking through the biosystems wired into his eyes since he wasn’t wearing his helmet.

  One of the privates gazed around at the blank walls. “Wish we had a scanner to see what’s going on. I hate being blind like this.”

  Sage silently agreed, but he’d gotten used to the helpless feeling that came from being inside a dropship. He knew enough to operate one, get it up and running in case of emergency or attack, but he spent nearly all of his time aboard one in the cargo area. Army pilots handled the equipment.

  A short time later, the pilot warned of the impending descent planetside. Shortly after that, gravity returned and Sage felt every nasty bump of the angled arrival through Makaum’s thick atmosphere. The straps pulled on him and held him stable.

  After long minutes, the “fall” leveled out into weightlessness again, then hammered him back into the restraints once more as the descent jets kicked to full burn. A few of the soldiers grumbled and cursed, but Sage just concentrated on breathing till it was over.