Once in the main corridor, it wasn’t hard to navigate. They could query their AIs, but that was considered less than grunt-worthy. Not that they needed them. Signs were everywhere, and they quickly found the A Terminal.
It felt weird to Esther to be walking out among civilians with an assault pack and carrying a weapon, but no one gave the two Marines a second glance.
They eschewed the moving walkway down the terminal’s main corridor, but it had to be close to a klick to hump out the terminal’s length. At A10, they could see the UFS Gallipoli on the screen. Unlike at any commercial terminal that Esther had ever seen, there was no one at the gate counter. Sergeant Orinda approached the door, then looked into yet one more scanner. The light turned green, and the door opened.
“You waiting for an invitation, boot?” she asked.
“No, Sergeant!”
Esther scanned herself, then stepped into the snake, the flexible tunnel that connected the terminal to the ship’s hatch. The two hurried down the length, reaching the end where an armed sailor waited just inside the ship’s quarterdeck.
“Sergeant Tikka Orinda, UFMC, requesting permission to come aboard!”
The sailor pointed to another scanner, into which the sergeant leaned. Once again, as it had the last dozen times she’d been scanned, the light turned green.
Esther requested permission to come aboard, and then got scanned as well.
“New meat,” the sailor said. “Your staff sergeant’s waiting for you in the ready room.”
Since they had no idea where this ship’s ready room was, the sergeant broke down and queried her AI. The ship wasn’t large, but Esther was glad they weren’t wandering blind. As it was, she wasn’t sure she could find her way back to the quarterdeck unaided.
A few minutes later, the two entered an open hatch. Marines filled the ready room, and all eyes rose to look at them. For a moment, Esther felt nervous and more than a little tentative.
“Sergeant Orinda, PFC Lysander, you just made it in time,” a staff sergeant told them. “Grab a seat and strap in. We’re at One-Alpha, just waiting for final clearance. Welcome to the Thundering Third, and get ready for some action!”
Chapter 15
Noah
Noah was almost trembling with excitement. There, standing in front of him, was his PICS. The civilian tech still had to input some last-minute adjustments, but in a few moments, he’d be slipping inside of it. This was every gameboy’s dream. No matter how good the sim, it couldn’t match the real thing.
He’d been in a PICS before, at IUT. But that had been an off-the-shelf, one-size-fits-most model worn by at least a dozen trainees that day. Sure, it had been fun to stomp around and fire the main weapons systems, but like having a wrinkled sock in your boots or a helmet that kept slipping down, it could be a little annoying and didn’t feel like the melding of human and technology he’d expected. This, would be different. This was his PICS, one fitted to him.
It had been a fairly long day, from landing on the station to waiting for that ridiculously short ride to the battalion to getting all his check-in blocks marked off. But he was happy that he hadn’t had to wait another day for the PICS fitting. Or another three days, as it were. The civilian techs worked different hours, and if the four Marines going into PICS units hadn’t been fitted today, they’d have had to wait until Friday, the next time the tech would be available.
All four Marines had gotten into their long johns, the tight undersuit fitted with the various sensors and node-lines that created the interface between combat suit and Marine. The suits automatically adjusted over a standard deviation, so they were “tech-free.” Not so the PICS themselves.
Each Marine stood inside a body scanner while the coil rotated around him or her from a dozen different aspects. With their current body specs, to include skin induction rates and other esoteric measurements, in the system, it was time for fitting.
When his father was a PICS Marine, the combat suits were not as sophisticated, of course, and one difference was that the PICS interiors had limited individual fitting options then. The interiors could be adjusted much in the same way a hover seat could be adjusted, mostly along the three major axes. Straps could tighten and loosen, but that was about the limit of personalizing each unit. Now, with the Model Js, the interiors were fitted with nanogel, which served to make as tight a fit as possible, taking into account all the variations in the human body.
It would still be possible for a Marine to use a PICS not specifically fitted to him as long as the interior structure was within his or her body’s parameters, but test after test proved the efficacy of the newer, more encompassing fitting. Marines just performed better with a personally-fitted PICS.
Lance Corporal Omaru stepped out from behind her PICS, stretching before stepping off the fitting cradle. She’d been in a PICS platoon at her former battalion and had arrived with her existing long johns. The long johns left nothing on a human body to the imagination, and as a slim, fit woman, Noah might have noted her physique as she stretched, but he barely noticed her, he was so amped. The lifting arm picked up her PICS and sent it back into the pool, while a second arm lifted Noah’s PICS, slipping it into the cradle. The tech did his thing for about a minute before directing Noah to get into it.
One thing that hadn’t changed since well before his father’s time was the gymnastics required to slip inside a combat suit. He’d only performed the spine-breaking task twice, and mindful of Lance Corporal Omaru, who hadn’t left the fitting room yet, and the tech, he hoped he wouldn’t look like an uncoordinated dweeb donning the unit. He casually walked to the back of the suit, faced away, then slid his head and torso into the body cavity until with crossed arms, he could reach the donning handles. With that support, he pulled up his legs, knees almost to his chest, before pulling and completing the “flip” while forcing his legs down at the same time.
It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t smooth, but at least he hadn’t had to stop and start over again. He settled into the inner frame, wiggling slightly as if to seat himself. Everything felt right. He could see out the display, the finger controls were at the right spot, and his feet were solid in the bootplates.
“Don’t move, Private,” the tech said over the PICS’ comms. “OK, initiating body-forming.”
Noah didn’t feel much. It was more like a gentle hug from his mother tucking him in when he was a child. The PICS got a little snugger, if anything.
“Move your right hand and arm,” the tech said.
Noah complied, marveling at how easily the PICS translated his arm movements into the combat suit’s movements.
“Wait one,” the tech said.
Noah thought he felt the slightest pressure change, then the tech said, “Right hand and arm again, please.”
Once again, if there was any difference, it was too slight for Noah to notice. The tech evidently was satisfied because he moved onto the left arm, followed by all the major movements. Twice, he had Noah repeat a movement after additional adjustments. Five minutes later, the fitting was complete.
“That’s all, Private. Molt now,” the tech told him.
Molting, or getting out of the PICS was more difficult than getting in. The most difficult part was the legs. Noah didn’t clear the knees on his first attempt, but he managed on the second. He was almost sad when he made it out. He’d have loved to put the PICS—his PICS—through a few paces.
Lance Corporal Omaru was still waiting for him, having gotten out of her long johns and back into her utilities while Noah was being fitted.
“Make some time, Boot,” she told him. “Chow ends in 20.”
He hurried off the platform and down to where his utilities were hanging on a hook. He quickly stripped off his long johns, putting them into his pack, and put on his uniform.
It had been a hectic day, but getting his own PICS was a huge step forward. He couldn’t wait until he’d be able to train in it.
For the first time in a few hours, he th
ought about Esther as he followed Omaru out of the PICS pool.
Whatever she was doing couldn’t top his afternoon!
FS GALLIPOLI
Chapter 16
Esther
After the big rush to join the platoon, Esther had sat in her seat for three hours. No one knew what was happening. Even the lieutenant seemed out of the loop, stretched out on a reclined chair, cover on his/her face and napping.
Esther hadn’t heard Lieutenant Uluiviva say a word—the lieutenant had barely moved since she’d arrived. A big, somewhat shapeless person, Esther wasn’t even sure of the lieutenant’s gender.
Staff Sergeant Ski was more energetic, constantly making the rounds of the Marines and the two Navy corpsmen in the platoon (there should have been three corpsmen, Esther noted, one for each squad). He’d spent ten minutes with the two new joins, telling Sergeant Orinda that she was the new First Squad leader and assigning Esther to the squad as well. He gave them a basic lowdown of the platoon before moving off—but not before making sure the two were given some combat rats. Esther was not fond of the rats, which had all the calories and nutrients a Marine needed to fight even if they were not strong on taste, but she was happy to quiet her growling stomach.
Sergeant Orinda immediately got together with her three corporal team leaders, trying to get a feel for her squad. None of this made sense to Esther. If they were potentially going into action, why would they put a sergeant in charge of a squad that she’d never even seen before? And why was Esther sitting there marking time without any sort of briefing. She knew the philosophy that any Marine could step into any billet, but this seemed to be taking it too far.
The long day was beginning to tell on her, and her eyes started drooping when one of the ship’s officers stuck his head in the hatch and called for the lieutenant.
All of the Marines turned as one as the lieutenant opened her eyes and slowly pulled herself out of her chair—Esther still wasn’t positive, but she thought the lieutenant was female, which would make her one of the first women to get commissioned since the Corps was opened back up to them. The platoon commander calmly strode out the hatch and disappeared from sight. It took a moment for the Marines to break out into a babble of questions, opinions, and wagers on what was going on.
“You hanging in there, Boot?” Sergeant Orinda asked.
“Uh, sure, Sergeant. Just wondering what’s going on.”
“As we all are. Look, sorry I haven’t really welcomed you to the squad, but I’m just as new, and I was getting myself up-to-date. I’m putting you in Second Fire Team,” she told her before turning and saying, “Corporal Kinder, come sweep up your new PFC. You might want to get her locked on if we’ve got a mission coming.”
The corporal nodded, then came over, hand out to shake.
“PFC, huh? Just starting out or coming back down?’ he asked.
Esther knew he was questioning her rank, if she was a newbie or possibly someone who’d been in grade for a tour or even busted down from lance corporal.
“Just got out of IUT, Corporal.”
“Meritorious?”
“Series honor grad,” she said, not without a degree of pride.
It isn’t boasting if he asks.
“That don’t mean jack out here in the fleet, but it don’t hurt none neither. Welcome.”
For the first time, he looked at her nametag embedded in her utilities breast.
“Lys—,” he started as realization came over him—it wasn’t as if her enlistment had been kept quiet. He switched his comment to, “What do they call you?”
“Just Esther, Corporal.”
“Well, ‘Just Esther,’ that’s a little wordy, dontcha think? Give us a day or two, and I’m sure someone will come up with something a little better.”
Esther didn’t want anything “better.” However, the Corps loved nicknames, and she realized that some, if not most, of the other Marines might not want to keep calling her Lysander.
“I’m going to talk with the staff sergeant,” Sergeant Orinda told the corporal. “You lock her on the best you can.”
Corporal Kinder called over the other two Marines in the fire team. Lance Corporal Eason was obviously a heavy-worlder: short, with broad shoulders and no neck. His voice was surprisingly high-pitched for such a bulky and powerful body. PFC Woutou was his polar opposite: tall, thin, and yes, with a deep, resonating voice.
“The boot here got her stripe meritoriously,” the corporal started.
“Just like Woowoo,” the lance corporal said with a laugh. “Got it straight from the CO along with half pay for three months.
It took Esther a moment to decipher what the heavy-worlder meant, and when it did, she was shocked. The other PFC had been reduced in rank by the battalion CO. Esther knew that Marines could get office hours or even courts martial, but in her father’s rarefied atmosphere, she didn’t think she’d ever met anyone who’d received either.
“You got NJP?” she blurted out before remembering that he might be sensitive about that.
“Twice. I’m going for a triple before I’m done here,” Woowoo said.
Esther didn’t know what to make of that. First, that he’d had two NJPs, second, that he seemed proud of the fact. If, God forbid, she was ever on the receiving end of any kind of punishment, she sure the hell wouldn’t be bragging about it.
“Esther, you any good with the dunker?” Corporal Kinder asked.
The “dunker,” nicknamed for the sound it made when firing a grenade, was a grenade/rocket launcher that could be attached underneath the M99 barrel. Depending on its configuration, it could fire either a 30mm grenade or a short, stubby, anti-armor rocket.
“Passably good,” she admitted.
“OK, normally, as the boot, you’d be the team’s rifleman, but since you haven’t been with us, I’m keeping Woowoo there. You’ve got the dunker. If anything goes down, you just get ready to engage what I tell you. Capisce?”
“Roger that,” she said, keeping what she wanted to say in check.
His lack of confidence in her abilities was more than annoying. She made meritorious PFC, and she felt that was proof enough of what she could do. The fact that the grenadier was usually the second highest-ranking Marine in the team was irrelevant. She got the position because he didn’t trust her yet.
“Where do I get the M333?” she asked. “I don’t have to go back to the armory, do I?”
“Sergeant Quiero has them—he’s Third Squad’s leader, and he’s acting as the police sergeant. If we’re getting into the shit here, he’ll hook you up.”
“Don’t worry about it, Boot. Nine times out of ten, these heightened alerts never come to anything” Lance Corporal Eason said.
“Give me three to one odds on that,” Woowoo said. “I’m feeling a fight in my bones.”
“Five credits,” the lance corporal said.
“Done!”
“Not too smart, Woowoo,” Corporal Kinder said. “We haven’t had a mission in three months.”
“All the more reason. We’re due, and I feel it in my bones.”
“Yeah, in your bone,” Lance Corporal Eason said, aiming a hard shot at Woowoo’s crotch which the PFC deftly avoided.
Almost as if on cue, the hatch opened, and the lieutenant barged into the space.
“Squad leaders up!” she shouted. “Now!
“We’ve got a mission, boys and girls,” she told them, but with the space being so small, every Marine was listening in. “It’s a pirate hunt. The Rio Tinto Excavator King has been jacked. The crew were all put into lifeboats and scattered, with evidently no loss of life, so this is not a kill mission. The good folks at Rio Tinto just want their barge back in one piece and with her cargo intact.
“We’ve got four hours to get a plan together, so let’s get cracking.”
A few moments ago, Esther was complaining to herself that her team leader was keeping her back, not trusting her to handle the rifleman position. Now, that she was actually
facing potential combat, she wondered if he was right. She’d just reported aboard three hours ago, and now she was being shoved into the breach.
She’d wanted action, and now she had it, ready or not.
WAYFARER STATION
Chapter 17
Noah
“First pitcher’s on you, Boot, so better go get it. And not any of that Presidential piss, either,” Lance Corporal Thaddeus Morton said.
“Tad” was in Noah’s fire team, and as soon as chow was over, he’d grabbed Noah, and like a huge wet-water tanker sweeping up a small sailboat, he’d pretty much dragged Noah out in the ville. Noah would rather have crashed early, but he knew first impressions were hard to break, and he didn’t want to come across as stand-offish. He had enough problems socializing that he didn’t need to shoot himself in the foot starting off.
Noah wasn’t completely oblivious to the fact that Tad was more than happy to both have a willing—well, captive—ear and for someone else to buy the beer. Still, he didn’t mind, even if he couldn’t simply buy the economical (that was the politest way to put it) Presidential Ale.
“Turtle, you bastard, they let you out of the brig?” Tad asked a stocky, ebony-skinned Marine in civilian clothes—in uniform or in civvies, anyone could always identify the Marines.
Noah’s eyes rose as Tad flowed into one of the ratty, faux-leather chairs that surrounded an equally decrepit table.
Brig?
“I broke out of max tonight, Tad-my-boy, so I can show you how a real man drinks!”
“Real man? Who’re you talking about? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m 100% female, and I’ll out-drink you all,” a stocky, shaved-headed Marine said.
“She’s got you there, Turtle. Remember last Saturday?”
“Hey, that’s because you guys were late, and I already finished off a pitcher on my own.”
The United Federation Marine Corps' Lysander Twins: The Complete Series: Books 1-5 Page 10