Lazarus Rising

by David Sherman

  "Those men were obviously from the Army of the Lord, Charles. I've told you about them. The devils were at war with them and winning, the last we knew. But since we escaped from the great slaughter, we've had no word from the outside world. Now we know the Army of the Lord is still intact. Possibly they won the war. Or maybe those off-worlders, the Confederation Marines, turned the tide. Whoever comes here from now on, we must assume they're hostile. We shall seriously consider moving, but our livelihoods are here, and we are just beginning to get back on our feet. It will not be easy convincing the people to move again."

  Charles placed his hand on Zechariah's arm. "I know what you people have been through, my friend, but your trials are not over yet, not by a damned sight. We must survive and we will survive. You and I are going to have to keep these people motivated."

  Chapter 9

  All the Marines disembarked when the Grandar Bay went into orbit around Thorsfinni's World—34th FIST because it was home, 26th FIST to give its Marines shore liberty before continuing to their home base. As the Marines of 26th FIST boarded the Dragons waiting in Essays for the landing, the Marines of 34th FIST impatiently waited their turn.

  "They're going to have all the Reindeer Ale in Bronnys drunk by the time we get there," Corporal Joe Dean groused.

  "There won't be anything left for us to wash down our reindeer steaks," Lance Corporal "Wolfman" MacIlargie complained.

  Corporal Rachman Claypoole snorted. "No problem. There won't be any reindeer steaks left by the time we get to Bronnys."

  "All the girls at Big Barb's will be busy when we get there," Corporal Chan groused. "We'll have to wait a week for a chance at them."

  Lance Corporal "Izzy" Godenov looked horrified at the prospect. "No ale? No steak? No girls? Then why are we bothering to make planetfall at all? They might as well send us right out on another deployment!"

  Corporal Raoul Pasquin reached out and smacked Godenov on the back of his head. "Wash your mouth, you say shit like that, you turd!" he snarled.

  "Hey!" Godenov shouted, rubbing the back of his head and glaring at Pasquin.

  "Wait just a minute there!" Dean shouted at Pasquin. "Don't you hit Izzy. He's mine. If he needs to be hit, I hit him." He rapped Godenov on the crown of his head.

  "Hey, what are you hitting me for?" Godenov leaned away from the two corporals and plopped his helmet on his head to protect it from further blows.

  "Because you deserve it," snarled Sergeant "Rabbit" Ratliff. He shook his head. "Why do I get stuck with the gung-ho one who wants to go right out on another deployment? Hit him one for me Dean."

  "I don't want to—"

  Dean punched Godenov's shoulder hard enough for the smack to echo off the walls of the small hold where third platoon, Company L, waited its turn to board Essays. "If you don't want it, then don't say it."

  "But—"

  Godenov was saved when Staff Sergeant Wang Hyakowa roared, "Attention on deck!" as Lieutenant Rokmonov, the assault platoon commander, entered the hold. Rokmonov had been given temporary command of third platoon on Kingdom after the regular platoon commander, Gunnery Sergeant Charlie Bass, was killed in a Skink ambush. Now he was back with his own platoon and Hyakowa was acting platoon commander as well as platoon sergeant.

  There was a brief clatter and clanking as the Marines came to attention.

  "At ease!" Rokmonov said loudly. The men relaxed and looked at him attentively. "First," Rokmonov said when they were at ease, "I want to give all you Marines of third platoon a hearty ‘well done’ for your performance in the face of the enemy on Kingdom. You were a credit to the company, to the battalion, to the FIST, and to the Corps. I was honored to command you. No matter where I go or what I do in the Corps, I will be proud to serve with any of you again." He paused to allow the buzz that ran through the platoon to run down.

  "You weren't too bad yourself," someone said.

  "Now, I've got some news." Rokmonov was doing his best to ignore the swelling that remark caused in his chest—he knew full well what a challenge he faced following Gunny Bass as platoon commander. "I know there's some, ah, consternation in the ranks because 26th FIST is going planetside first, and there's a suspicion that there won't be anything left to eat or drink in Bronnys by the time we make it down." He raised his voice to ride over the murmurs of complaint. "Don't worry. Twenty-sixth FIST isn't going to Bronnys, they're pulling liberty at the navy HQ, so they'll be drinking up the squids' beer, not yours." He held up his hands to hold down the cheers.

  "There's more. Right before the Grandar Bay left orbit around Kingdom, Brigadier Sturgeon sent a message via drone to Camp Ellis to let them know we were on our way back and when to expect us. We just got word, the base stocked up on food and drink and they're throwing a big party for us beginning tonight. Enough ale and steak for everybody."

  This time he let the cheering continue for a moment before raising his hands and patting the air. "As you were! As you were!" he shouted, to be heard over the cheers.

  "Belay that!" Hyakowa roared loud enough for everyone to hear. It took another moment, but the Marines quieted down.

  "There's more yet," Rokmonov continued with a broad grin when the hubbub was finished. "Base is ferrying in a lot of girls from Bronnys and other nearby towns to serve and to socialize with us." He had to shout for anyone to hear him over the roar of excitement and pleasure. "Including all of Big Barb's girls!"

  After that there was no point in trying to announce anything else. Lieutenant Rokmonov was beaming as he left the hold.

  Essays finally brought 34th FIST planetside, in the combat assault approach Marines always used when making planetfall, and deposited the Dragons they carried just over the horizon from the great island Niflheim. The Dragons formed up and raced toward the fjord that led to the town of Bronnysund. Just short of the town, they roared ashore and sped overland to Camp Ellis, home of 34th FIST, and disgorged their passengers at the FIST parade ground, where the thousand Marines formed up in FIST formation for a welcoming speech from Brigadier Sturgeon. His remarks were blessedly brief; they knew there'd be a more formal formation later. And the men were all anxious to get to the barracks and prepare for the evening's party.

  Less than two minutes after he began to speak, Sturgeon handed command of the FIST over to his subordinate commanders, who in turn gave command of their individual units to their subordinate commanders. The Marines then marched to their barracks. Built of native stone and clapboard, the H-shaped barracks were grouped by major subordinate unit throughout Camp Ellis. They had already been cleaned and aired out by base personnel in preparation for the return of 34th FIST.

  Behind Company L's barracks, Captain Conorado instructed his Marines to retrieve their gear and personal belongings from the company supply room where they'd been stored during the deployment, and to get themselves unpacked and cleaned up. Preparty formation was to be in two hours. Then he dismissed the men, to roars of approval. He wisely stood aside while his men stampeded.

  The barracks quickly filled with the clatter of running feet, opening doors, and storage drawers yanked open, filled, and slammed shut. Yells and catcalls filled the two-story buildings' corridors.

  "Make a hole, wide load coming through!" yelled a Marine who'd retrieved his locker box from the company storage room and was hauling it to his platoon area.

  "What do you mean, you can't find my locker box? It's got my name and number all over it!" shouted another, whose box didn't appear instantly because it was out of sight behind others.

  "Shoup, in here!" Corporal Pasquin yelled to the Marine who'd joined his fire team on Kingdom and didn't know what room they were in, which was repeated by other corporals guiding their newest men to quarters.

  "Luxury!" Corporal Claypoole exclaimed as he threw himself onto his rack. "Why, if I could just ignore you," he said to Lance Corporal MacIlargie, "I could believe I've got a private room!" Second squad's third fire team was the only one in third platoon that didn't have three men.


  "Nobody can ignore me," MacIlargie replied. "I won't let them."

  "Unfortunately, you're right. You smell bad and you make too much noise. And if that's not enough, you're ugly."

  "I do not!" MacIlargie yelped.

  "Okay. You don't smell any worse than any Marine coming in from a month in the field, and you don't make more noise than a farting kwangduk. But you're still ugly."

  "You keep picking on me, I'm gonna tell Sergeant Linsman on you!"

  Claypoole was momentarily overcome with laughter. When he got it more or less under control, he said, "Sergeant Linsman will hand me a scrubber and tell me to give you a shower. No, no, no. You complain to him, then I get in trouble for letting you get so smelly in the first place. I think I'll just wait until everybody's got their lockers from the supply room, then go check out a scrubber and take care of the problem my ownself." That set him off again.

  "You and what army?" MacIlargie gasped between peals of laughter.

  "I'm a Marine corporal. Ain't nothing an army can do I can't do by my lonesome." He doubled up with laughter and kicked his legs in the air.

  "Yep, like I said," a voice cut through the laughter. Claypoole and MacIlargie looked to the doorway and saw Sergeant Linsman, arms folded over his chest, leaning on the jamb. "All my problem children in one place, where I can keep an eye on them." Linsman watched them for a moment with not quite concealed amusement, then said, "What say you two clowns get unpacked and get your gear stowed. Uniform of the day for the party is civvies."

  "Right, Sergeant Linsman. We'll get right on it," Claypoole said. But neither he nor MacIlargie made a move to begin unpacking.

  Linsman turned to leave, paused to say over his shoulder, "By the way, scuttlebutt has it Gunny Thatcher wants to leave one man from each platoon behind for security—make sure the base pogues don't come in and steal anything while we're partying. When company formation is called, he's going to assign the last man in formation from each platoon to that security."

  "Say what?" The two burst into activity. No way were either of them going to get tapped for security duty!

  Linsman chuckled as he walked to the squad leaders' room at the end of the corridor.

  In fact, when the company formation was called, Gunny Thatcher didn't assign anybody to security. The base military police platoon had canceled all liberty and leave for the night and assigned MPs to security at the parties and the barracks areas.

  Corporals Claypoole, Dean, Kerr, Chan, Pasquin, Dornhofer, Barber, and Taylor sat together in a broken circle of lawn chairs, leaving enough of a gap for people to move in and out of the group to get more food and drink, or to respond to nature's call. All of them had eaten enough to swell their stomachs, and they were happily imbibing vast quantities of Reindeer Ale to fill any and all gaps in their digestive tracts. Claypoole and Pasquin puffed away on Fidels, and Dean contented himself with a Clinton.

  "Home," Dean murmured.

  Carlala, a skinny, large-bosomed young woman from Big Barb's, was the only one who heard. She snuggled closer, thinking he meant the feel of her on his lap, and sighed. She had one arm looped around his shoulders, and her other hand held his stein so he could quaff whenever he wished. His free hand rested possessively on her hip.

  Erika, Dean's former main squeeze at Big Barb's, saw the movement. She briefly glared at Carlala, quickly changed her look to an alluring smile, and wiggled her bottom more deeply into Pasquin's lap.

  "My brave Marine," she said in a deep, low voice just loud enough for Dean to hear, and ran a hand over Pasquin's visible wound scars. His shirt was open and hanging outside his shorts.

  Pasquin belched and grinned at her. He gave her ear a nip and whispered, "Let's give my chow a chance to settle, then go find some privacy."

  Erika giggled, and gave her bottom a more meaningful wiggle. She shot another glare at Carlala.

  Dean was nuzzling Carlala's breasts and didn't notice.

  Claypoole kept his Fidel clamped between his teeth because both hands were busy. One held his stein, the other toyed with Jente's locks, where her head rested on his lap. She's facing the wrong way, he thought, but couldn't ask her to face into him.

  Jente wasn't one of Big Barb's girls, and wasn't from Bronnysund, the local liberty town; she was one of the contingent from Brystholde, a village forty kilometers down the coast. Gunny Thatcher had firmly told the Marines of Company L that the young women from Brystholde and the other remote villages were nice girls, and woe to the manjack who didn't treat them the way they'd want their sisters to be treated.

  Jente was happy. This Corporal Claypoole wasn't only a very brave Marine, he was more of a gentleman than the rough-hewn fishermen and herders she was accustomed to at home. She rolled her head and lightly kissed his thigh where it emerged from the bottom of his shorts. She smiled when she felt his involuntary reaction against the back of her head. She was twenty-four, time she started looking for a husband—or at least a steady man.

  Corporal Dornhofer, the second oldest and second most experienced of third platoon's eight corporals, had more work to do than the others back at the barracks because both of his men were new to Thorsfinni's World. He'd had to see to it that they got all their gear from the Grandar Bay and then got their issue from Sergeant Souavi, Company L's supply sergeant. He was tired and all the food and ale put him to sleep. His girl, Klauda, chattered at him anyway and held his hand so it wouldn't slip off its comfortable perch on the swell of her lower belly.

  Chan, Barber, and Taylor were much more animated in chatting up the young women who'd paired off with them. What would happen with them before the night was out was anybody's guess, as only one of the women was from Bronnys, and that one wasn't a tavern girl.

  Only Kerr was without a comely lass on his lap or seated on the ground next to him. He didn't mind; it was from lack of trying. He'd lost too many friends, on Kingdom, men he'd served with for a long time, to feel like doing any serious partying. Sure, he'd eaten and drunk more than his fill right along with everybody else, but trying to get a girl for the night seemed to him too much of an affirmation of life, and he didn't feel very much alive.

  The time Kerr had almost been killed never stopped playing on his psyche. Now and then he wasn't aware of it, but it was never far away, and often it was only severely imposed self-discipline that kept it from overwhelming him. The wound he'd suffered during the first phase of the Kingdom campaign, when his friends were being killed or crippled, had brought it back full force, though he hid it well enough that only he knew it was bothering him at all.

  Heavy hands clamped on Kerr's shoulders from behind and a huge voice boomed out, "Corporal Kerr, wad's wrong wid you? You sidding here all alone brooding like a chicken just lost all her eggs to a fox, when there's all these beautiful girls all aroun' jus' vaiting for a strong man like you to take them to heaven?"

  The voice startled Dornhofer and he dove for cover, tumbling his girl into an awkward sprawl on the ground. He'd been half asleep, and now he scrabbled about, groping for a weapon. The sound of the other corporals' laughing reminded him of where he was. He flushed and pushed himself up, glaring at Big Barb.

  "Allah's pointed teeth, Big Barb! You should know better than to startle a man this soon after he's been in combat!" he roared.

  "Dorny, you sid back down and go back to sleep," Big Barb said, ignoring his words. "But first you help dat poor girl Klauda back to her feet. You apologize to her for trowin' her down like dat, den you check her for bruises. If you vind any, you kiss dem and make dem bedder!" She gripped Kerr's shoulders more firmly and pulled him to his feet, turning him around to face her. Dornhofer was already dismissed from her awareness.

  "Timmy, it's no gut you sidding dere like dat. Here, I got wad you needs." She let go of his shoulders and reached around to pull two beautiful young women, one blond and fair, the other brunette and swarthy, from where they'd been hidden behind her massive bulk. "Dis iss Frieda and Gotta. Take yer pick, eider one of
dem'll take goot care of you, make you wanna live again."

  "Thanks, Big Barb, but—"

  "What, you tink one's not goot enough? All right den, take bot'!" She let go of the young women's arms and planted a hand on each one's back. They both moved forward before she pushed. She squinted at him threateningly. "And don' you sen' dem avay, neider!"

  Big Barb waved at the group and ponderously wandered off in search of other Marines who might need encouragement.

  Kerr didn't send the two beautiful young women away. Instead, after his dinner had time to settle, they led him to someplace private.

  In time, all of the junior enlisted and junior NCOs who hadn't drunk too much to be functional wandered off with someone. They weren't allowed to take women back to the barracks, but that barely slowed anyone down. Some were fortunate enough to head into Bronnysund to a private room. The rest found other private places. The officers and more senior NCOs mostly had wives or other things to do and left the party earlier.

  Top Myer belched contentedly around the Fidel chomped between his teeth as he finished setting the places around the table and stood back to admire his work. He glanced at the time. The others should show up momentarily, all fed just as well as he was. That had been a good party. Probably still was—when he'd left, most of the enlisted and junior NCOs were still eating, drinking, and chasing. With any luck, the crew coming to play cards would have had more to drink than he had, or started drinking before they had enough food in their guts to absorb the alcohol. In either event, they'd leave their money with him when the game ended.

  "Lessee, here," he said to himself. "One, two, three—right, seven places set." A butt tray with a freshly clipped Fidel at each place, munchies bowls alongside the butt trays, and a cooler with half a dozen Reindeer Ales at the side of each chair, with lots more in the refrigerator. Two side tables laden with finger food that wasn't greasy enough to mark the cards too fast, steaks and bakers in the food servo in case anybody got hungry. An unopened deck of cards in the middle of the table, a dozen more unopened decks, and trays of varicolored chips on the shelf.