by Bruce Bethke
Dalton pushed the screen away from his face and thought about it a moment. "No, I'm not. I'm a mess."
"Uh-huh." Mahoney paused. "Well, do you think you could clean yourself up in the next half hour or so?"
"Why? You wanna have"—Dalton checked his real-time clock—"brunch?"
"No. But I want to stop by. It's important."
Dalton considered it and again decided, what the hell. "Sure. Whatever. Here, in half an hour?"
"Right. Bye." Mahoney rang off. Dalton got to his feet, shuffled to the bathroom, and looked at his face in the mirror. Then he found his tube of soap gel and a washcloth and got busy.
At ten hundred hours on the dot, Jeff Mahoney showed up, along with Sergeant Britt Godfrey. With some misgivings, Dalton let them in and ordered up coffee. Then he cleared enough space for the three of them to sit.
Britt took the cup Dalton offered him, downed a gulp, and nearly spat. "Ow! That's bloody 'ot!"
"Sorry," Dalton said. "There's a war going on, you know. Some of Central's peripheral systems are getting wonky."
"Right." Britt blew across the top of the cup to cool it some, then tried another sip. This time it seemed to be okay.
"So," Dalton said, breaking the silence, "I take it this isn't a social visit."
Britt looked at Mahoney, then back to Dalton, and nodded. "I'll get right to the point, what? I wouldn't be 'ere, except General Consensus ordered me and Private Mahoney 'ere put in a word for you. I've got a message for you, Starkiller." Britt put extra emphasis on the name, as if he had trouble getting it out. "It turns out we 'ave a friend in common, and this friend told me to tell you that Ken sent me."
Dalton's mind turned over with a clunk, and he actually started to smile. "You know Ken Roberts? I haven't seen him since we hacked this. ... How is he?"
Britt frowned. "Dead, actually. Roberts bought it in the raid on Kepler last night."
Dalton's smile collapsed.
Britt went on. "Died in my arms, actually. One of the best friends I ever 'ad, and those blue bleedin' sods did for him. Took 'im a while to die too, worse luck."
Dalton felt as if he was going to throw up. "Why are you telling me this?"
" 'Cause Corporal Roberts wasn't just me friend, 'e was me compspec—the platoon's computer specialist."
"I—I had no idea. I thought he was just a security—"
"Now, we've got ourselves a big mission lined up tonight. But we can't do it without a compspec, see? Bloody big mission. Might even change the tide of the war."
Dalton started to see where this was heading. "And you want me to volunteer to take Roberts's place?"
Britt shrugged. "It's your choice, boyo. You could stay 'ere, if you like, layin' about like a puddle of festerin', self-pityin' slime. Or—"
Dalton set down his coffee cup with a thump. "I don't need this. No way."
For the first time a flash of anger showed in Britt's blue eyes. "Fine! You want to ignore the last words of a dyin' man, that's your lookout! Roberts knew 'e was a goner, and what did 'e do? Whine? Cry? No, 'e spent 'is last moments tellin' me to find you! Told me you were the only one who could take 'is spot! But I guess 'e was wrong, eh?"
For the first time in two weeks, Dalton felt something. Anger. Building, bubbling, red-hot anger. "You bastard!"
"C'mon, Starkiller! Bleedin' ground'ogs killed your woman! Shot 'er right out of the sky! And all you can do is lay yourself low? A man would rip somebody's bloody throat out!"
Dalton bounced to his feet. "You filthy bastard! I—" Dalton's fists clenched uncontrollably into tight knots of hatred. "Maybe I will, Sergeant Psycho!" Dalton lunged forward; Mahoney intercepted him.
Britt sat back, smiled, lifted his cooling cup of coffee and took a sip. "There now," he said, gently, "that wasn't so 'ard, was it?"
Lunar Surface, Near Grimaldi
14 November 2069
20:13 GMT
Dalton cringed as the UN gunship made another silent pass overhead. It was difficult to see the ship against the endless background of space and even harder to judge distances in vacuum, but he could have sworn the ship was hovering barely a hundred meters over his head.
Suddenly a beam of red-gold light stabbed down toward the canyon in which the LDF commandos were concealed, and Dalton jumped. The lance of light bit into the regolith and carved a new crater, but the dust settled quickly in the vacuum. Another blast followed, and another, and Dalton tried to press himself even closer to the canyon walls.
A text message glowed in front of his eyes on his heads-up display: "Hold position. Move when clear."
Dalton fumbled with the keypad on the left forearm of his suit. This was something new that regular LDF had and the militia didn't. Non Verbal laser suit-to-suit communications: 150 word vocabulary line-of-sight transmission only, but it was almost impossible to intercept. Dalton tapped in his response to the message: "Roger. Enemy soon. Roger. Yes, Roger. Roger, stop."
Dalton swore. Despite the mirrored faceplates, he was sure he could see Britt laughing at him. Okay, Sergeant Psycho, let's give you a new comm system and see how well you deal. Almost too late he felt that weird shift in his inner ear that could only mean one thing: grav field. He ducked back into the shadows as the gunship made another pass.
Neck hair prickling, Dalton watched the silent, murderous thing. Where's our intelligence? he wondered. We should have been warned. These were old Russian gunships, he knew, from back in the early colonial days. They'd been stored under UN peace bond at Lacus Mortis for twenty years or more; everyone on Luna knew that. But now the CWP had gotten them working again. Another dangerous, and unexpected, development.
No more time to think about it. The message "Clear move now" appeared on his display. Dalton rose to his feet and followed the other commandos, moving in huge thirty-foot bounds up the side of the canyon and out onto the open lunar landscape. Although he knew better, he couldn't keep himself from looking up, half expecting the gunship to appear just overhead. Lacking the extreme fitness of the regular LDF commandos, he began to fall behind, and doubled his efforts in a desperate attempt to catch up. He could hear the whir of the servomechs as his legs pumped and he sailed ten feet over a broken sandy-gray boulder.
Wham! Dust scattered as he caught his foot on a protruding rock and smashed into the ground, stunned. It took him a moment to collect his wits and run through the reflexive check: no air leaks, no visor cracks, no problems with the suit systems. Then he looked around and realized he had no idea where Britt and the rest of the squad had gone. This was one of the older parts of the settled Moon, and he could see almost sixty years' accumulation of rover and boot tracks everywhere he looked.
But there, off to the right was a small rise that should afford a better view. He headed for it, hoping to run across some evidence the squad had passed that way. Heart pounding, he made it to the top.
He was utterly alone.
For a few seconds he wondered whether he should risk breaking radio silence. Then he remembered his suit radar, and flipped it on. There on his wrist display were eight blips, reading eight hundred meters south. Keeping one eye on the radar readout and the other on the terrain, he set off to rejoin the squad.
"Captain, I just picked up a radar transmit less than five klicks from here. Pretty small. Looks like a battlesuit unit."
The gunship captain grinned. "Great! Let's bag it."
"On our way. Hey, I'm getting a hit on a comm frequency, too."
The scanner operator put the audio on the speaker:
"Goddammit, Starkiller, turn that bleedin' radar off. You wanna get us all killed?"
The captain smiled. "Yes, offhand I'd say that's a rebel combat unit. Bearing?"
"Eighty-four. And I've got a target lock."
The gunner spoke up. "Permission to fire?"
The captain shook his head. "Negative. Let's find his friends first. Any luck?"
The scanner op swore. "He's heading for the base of that cliff! See that ledge s
ticking out of the canyon lip? There must be a cave under there. The scanners can't read through the rock."
The captain smacked an open palm with his fist. "Damn. I don't suppose we have any torps loaded." "Negative, sir. Lasers only."
The captain sighed. "Well, I suppose if we can't dig them out, we'll have to bury them. Gunner, target that ledge and fire on my command."
"Damn! Captain, he made it under there!"
"Fire!"
The ground erupted around Dalton as he sprinted for the cover of the ledge, and then the whole moon seemed to come crashing down on him. The noise was ungodly, even conducted through his suit, and he screamed in horror as rocks and sand enveloped him, burying him alive.
Then he felt strong hands pulling him downward. A gold faceplate pressed against his own, and he stopped struggling as he heard a familiar hated voice.
"Bloody 'ell, Starkiller. Get yourself a grip."
"But we can't dig our way out of that!" He pointed at the collapsed debris above them.
"Don't need to. This is the tunnel we were 'eading for. We can make our way to Grimaldi underground from 'ere."
Britt let go of him, and Dalton fumbled blindly for the viewing mode controls. His visor flashed red as he hit the wrong button, then green as he found the right one, and after blinking a few times he was able to make out the details of the cavern they were standing in. It was a small rocky chamber with flimsy metal ladder bolted to the south wall next to a four-button control panel. The panel was blinking green, and he saw that the ladder descended past an open hatch cover.
The rest of the commandos had already clambered down the ladder, and Britt indicated Dalton should go next. He placed a tentative foot on the ladder and, relieved to find it was much sturdier than it looked, descended without daring to look into the eerie green depths of the mine below.
The young soldier rubbed at his eyes and fought the urge to yawn. Although the blue armor he wore bore the UN symbol, he didn't feel like a Peacekeeper, and he was less than happy about being stationed at Grimaldi.
More like a caretaker at a morgue, he thought. The white walls surrounding the massive computer panels behind him reminded him of the wind-worn tombstones in the cemetery behind his grandfather's house in Denmark. He had played there as a child, pretending there were ghosts lurking behind the headstones, vampires waiting to leap out and attack him as soon as he looked away.
He chuckled at the memory and, for old times' sake, opened his eyes wide and kept them open as long as he could. Just as they had done when he was a child, they soon became dry and uncomfortable, and he blinked several times to remove the sensation.
Motion caught his eye to the right, and he whirled, drawing and aiming his laser in one smooth motion. But it was just another laser probe, floating silently past the computer room on its programmed path. He sighed and returned the H&K to its holster, relieved and disappointed at the same time.
"Chee-eer-ree!" His jaw dropped as the probe screeched an alarm and darted forward, past a white column and out of view. Frowning, he slammed his helmet down over his head and drew his pistol again as he heard the probe firing its lasers down the staircase ahead of him.
He thumbed his radio on. "CenCom, I have probable hostiles in Sector Two-B! CenCom, code yellow!" There was no reply. He slapped the transmitter on the right rear side of his helmet and tried again.
"CenCom, come in! CenCom, I've got a code yellow here!"
Still nothing. But the room flashed bright as three green beams shot upward from the stairs and blew the laser probe to pieces. Unnerved, the young Dane choked off a cry, then dropped to the floor and took cover behind a column. He edged toward the left side of the column and peered out, trying to see down the giant staircase. What he saw made his stomach drop, and for a weird instant he flashed back to the first time he'd seen an Omniscreen movie.
"CenCom, code red! Damn you, CenCom, this is a code red!"
Dalton and Britt hung back. Corporal Akkerman raced up the giant open staircase and made a twelve-meter leap to the top. "One thirty-six! I got dirts at one thirty-six!"
Britt's bellow made Dalton jump. "Where and how many? Count one, two, Akkerman. How many?"
"I see ... one! That's one only, at Tango one kilo thirteen."
"Tango one kilo ... thirteen. Okay, I got him, too. Stahl?"
The grenadier edged forward and popped off a shot.
For a brief moment Dalton thought the round grenade looked kind of pretty as it seemed to hang motionless and silver in the low-G environment. Then it detonated, and shards of plasteel and circuitry rained down.
"Scratch one Bluesuit!" Akkerman called out.
"A bing and a bang, ain't no big thang," Corporal Stahl said as he waggled the grenade launcher. "Another one bites the dust."
Akkerman finished his sweep, Jeff Mahoney took flank, and Colonel von Hayek gave the squad the silent hand signal to move out. For a moment Dalton hung back.
Psychos, he thought as he dashed to keep up. I am surrounded by a band of raving psychotics.
Chapter 12
Copernicus Colony, Luna
Number 4 Temporary Barracks
14 November 2069
20:45 GMT
"Turn out! Mount up! This ain't no drill!"
The braying voice fell silent a moment; then Bunny felt a metal-shod boot nudging her side. "You too, honey bunny!"
Bunny rolled over and shielded her eyes from the sudden glare. Between the raids at all hours, the time-zone shifts, and the way the two-week-long lunar day had screwed up her biorhythms, sleep had become a precious commodity, to be grabbed whenever possible and easily worth a man's life. Especially the life of a man who called her honey bunny. How the hell did Chuck Houston always manage to appear at the worst possible moments?
Houston nudged her again. "Come on, Mahoney!"
She got her eyes open. Houston was suited up in blue battle armor, so this was serious. "Damn, Colonel, what the hell do you want?"
"I want you and your squad suited up and ready to move out in ten minutes. Full suits, full power. Got that?"
"Yes, sir." Bunny managed a salute and sat up. Her voice was scratchy, and her head throbbed from sleep deprivation. "Are we under attack, sir?"
"Not us. Grimaldi. A bunch of Loonie commandos made it in, and they're kicking butt on the garrison. We're going in by hopshuttle to fumigate the place."
"Gotcha. I'm on it, sir." Colonel Houston strode off, and Bunny started struggling into her armor.
Masrur was already on his feet and sliding into his battlesuit by the time Captain Mahoney made it down to the enlisted men's quarters. The locks slid into place with an audible click as his suit sealed, and he offered her a wry smile. "Grimaldi, is it? What's going on, sir?"
"Hold on. We don't have time to do this twice." She clapped her hands twice and let out a yell. It echoed in the small, unadorned room that had once been warehouse space. There were groans and muffled curses from the men, but she was pleased at how quickly they got out of their sleepsacks and into their battlesuits and fell in.
Incredible, thought Bunny. Three weeks ago these guys were all Sufi mystics. But give them American cadre officers for a couple weeks, and they turn into GIs with scruffy beards.
All except Walid, of course, who was still lying on his back with his eyes closed. She gave his bunk a kick. "Get your butt moving, Walid, or so help me I'll power up and kick your ass into orbit!"
He opened one eye and gazed at her dreamily. "Please tell me that I am dead and that you are one of the houris Allah provides for the faithful."
"Does this look like paradise to you? I don't think so. Now get up or I'll send you there myself."
"More likely the alternate destination," Masrur commented as he approached. "Walid, if you are not a lazy child of Iblis, then I do not know what you are."
Walid snorted. "Iblis? As far as I'm concerned, all of ATFOR can go to Iblis. I want to go home."
"Patience," Ali Ustad counseled Bunny
as he joined the group. Ali was a new replacement, and to Bunny's satisfaction he was already helmeted and powered up. A good omen, she decided.
"Uh, Captain Mahoney?" Ali added, in an aside to her. "Asrad was talking to Captain Knowlan. The Captain was worried about something—like, you know, Volodya."
Walid sat up straight in bed. "Volodya? You mean they could be dropping us in the middle of a goddam nuke? What kind of madness is this?" For a moment Bunny was pleased to see how fluently the Palestinians had learned to swear in English.
Masrur pushed forward. "Walid, shut up! No one said anything about the rebels trying to blow anything up."
"Yes, but who says they aren't—"
Enough, Bunny decided. "Quiet!" To her surprise, the men stopped arguing. "Look, we don't know anything yet. So let's get suited up and find out. Ali, come with me. Masrur, get your men out in the main hallway ASAFP. I don't know which airlock the hopshuttle will be at."
Masrur saluted and carried out his orders. Bunny, feeling nervous and exhausted, turned away from Walid and headed for the door. She caught up with Colonel Houston and a bunch of other American officers in the hallway.
"Colonel?" she heard Captain Knowlan ask. "Squad Four's ready. Shall I take them to the airlock, sir? And which one?"
"Yeah, do it now. Airlock Two. But don't let them nitro unless they really need it. We don't know what we're getting into yet, but indications are that it won't be a hot landing, so I want everybody calm and cool."
"Yes, sir." Knowlan turned on his heel and walked quickly toward his waiting men.
Bunny looked at the Colonel Houston's gold-visored faceplate as she brought her own helmet down over her head. "Colonel, I thought Grimaldi had a full garrison."
"No, skeleton only. And their CenCom went off-line twenty minutes ago. There haven't been any communications since."
"Damn." She slapped the power button and shivered as her suit's initial shield pulse zapped her with a static charge. "So we really don't know anything at all."
"Right. But a shipment of heavy weaponry was scheduled to land at Grimaldi yesterday, and that could be what the Loonies are after."