The captain was a tall, handsome but stern-faced black man with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. With him were Lieutenant Blip Levine, a freckle-faced lad, and Corporal Susan Baim.
“I knew I’d find my three favorite malingerers taking a break as soon as we secured the area,” Captain Branch said. “Oh—as you were, for God’s sake!”
Makki and the three sergeants stood at ease.
“Any sign of Lieutenant Hooks, Captain?” O’Hara asked.
Branch shook his head. “His last report said that he was holed up in some storage facility with a handful of Drakonians. He gave us his coordinates so our AEVs wouldn’t target the warehouse. I want you three to check it out.” He sighed and shook his head. “And O’Hara? Kindly sheathe that knife before you hurt someone.”
O’Hara grinned and slid the knife back into his prosthetic arm.
444
Akira and Cortez moved into position on opposite sides of the door to a large, octagonal building. Makki stood back, out of harm’s way. O’Hara peeked through a dirty window.
“Kick it open, lass,” he told Akira.
“Hold this,” Akira said, shoving her cigar into Cortez’s mouth.
Akira kicked open the door, and they stormed into the building. Makki tagged after them, sniffing the air for signs of danger.
The bodies of six Drakonians lay sprawled among crates and stacks of weapons, ammo, and other assorted materiel. Five of the dead lizardmen had holes burned through their heads or chests. Zapguns were still clenched in the claws of three of them.
“Here’s one for Sherlock Holmes,” Akira said.
Cortez handed the cigar to her. “Who?”
“Looks like these Draks committed suicide,” she said, ignoring Cortez.
“Drakonians never kill themselves,” Makki said.
“How would you know, furface?” O’Hara asked.
“Stow it, O’Hara,” said Lieutenant Levine.
“Makki is right,” Cortez said, examining the sixth Drakonian lying sprawled across a crate. Then he noticed the red and green buttons on the lizardman’s silver belt buckle.
Shaking his head, he pressed the red button.
The corpse of the Drakonian suddenly blurred like a bad image on an ancient video screen, and then morphed into a human being.
“Lieutenant Hooks!” Akira said.
“Them Drakonian sons of banshees must’ve found out who he was,” O’Hara said.
“But how, Seamus?” Akira asked. “He was wearing a holo disguise.”
O’Hara shook his head and looked around.
“Why did the lieutenant go undercover?” Corporal Baim asked. “He was an officer.”
O’Hara nodded. “Aye—but first he was a Marine.” He crossed himself. “God rest him.”
Makki bowed his head and then closed the lieutenant’s eyes.
444
Makki emerged from the sick bay of Comanche One, totally exhausted after helping with triage. His surgical scrubs were covered with blood. Captain Deanna Chan, a pretty Asian doctor with short black hair, accompanied him.
“Thanks for your help, Corpsman,” she said. “You have the makings of a fine doctor.”
“This one thanks you, Captain Doctor,” Makki replied.
“Well, Makki. In a few hours I’ll be shoving off.”
“You are leaving us?”
“Yes. I’ve be reassigned to the hospital ship, Angel of Mercy.”
Makki’s eyes misted over. “This mewling will miss you, Doctor Chan, and wishes you all good blessings from the Maker.”
“Thank you, Makki,” said the physician. “I wish you good luck with your studies. I hope one day we’ll work together again when you’re a doctor.”
“This one would hope so,” Makki said. He felt sadness over Doctor Chan’s reassignment, as well as joy at her good fortune. But becoming a doctor was the last thing on his mind at the moment. He was looking forward to another weapons training session with Sergeant Cortez.
Chan smiled. “Farewell, Corpsman Doon!” She gave him a gentle tap on the jaw with one fist and then headed off down an adjoining passageway.
Makki opened a recyclable bottle of water, took a long drink and plopped down on the deck against a bulkhead. His long whiskers and pointy ears drooped with exhaustion. He yawned and rubbed his eyes with lightly-furred, hand-like paws.
“Konnichi wa!” Sergeant Akira greeted him. “Rough day, huh?”
Looking up at the beautiful sergeant, Makki gave her a weary smile. She was dressed in clean fatigues and chewing an unlit cigar.
“Yes,” he said. “Very much tired. Many wounded to be cared for.”
Akira squatted in front of him. “Scuttlebutt has it that we’re headed for Rhajnara.”
“This one’s home planet?”
“That’s the word. You must be happy about that.”
Makki shook his head. He always experienced some anxiety whenever he returned to Rhajnara. What had happened to his family, to his friends, and to him at the claws of the Khandra Regime was something he’d never forget, something he had never discussed with anyone.
“This one has no family. All gone. Friends, too.”
“Oh—I’m sorry. I had a hunch that’s what happened.” Akira smiled gently and squeezed Makki’s shoulder. “You know, I think Cortez lost his family in the war with the Drakonians. And I grew up in an orphanage. Never had a real family of my own.”
“Does O’Hara have family?” Makki asked.
“Funny you should mention that,” Akira said. “I know he has a mother, but that’s all I know about his personal life. He can be a very private man.”
“This one has never talked of such things with you,” Makki said.
“No, you haven’t. Why is that?”
He shrugged. “This mewling is one very private Rhajni,” he told her. “But what of you? Will you plan to marry and have a litter of kittens one day?”
Akira coughed and blushed. “Yes . . . well . . . I do want to get married and raise a family. But when I do, I think I’ll have just one kitten at a time.”
Chapter Six
Aboard the Iwo Jima
Alone in his cabin aboard the Iwo Jima, O’Hara touched a button on the bulkhead opposite his bunk. Two panels slid open without a sound, revealing three shelves. A large funerary urn sat on the top shelf, surrounded by plasticene lilacs and lilies. Holographic photos of twin toddler boys, a cute freckle-faced girl about six years old, and a beautiful red-haired woman in her late twenties filled the second shelf. A vigil candle, a bottle of Irish whiskey and an empty glass were the only objects occupying the third shelf.
Moving a lever at the base of the candle, a red electric light sparked to life. O’Hara reached for the bottle of whiskey and the glass, and poured himself five fingers of the amber-colored nectar. He swallowed half the drink, and then set the glass on the table next to his bunk.
“Well, Colleen,” he said. “It’s Day Watch and scuttlebutt has it that we’re being deployed to Rhajnara. We’re getting briefed in about an hour or so, and then it’s off we go, first to fight, as always.” He paused and took a breath before going on. “I got some bad news for you, honey. We lost Lieutenant Hooks. You remember Sam. He dressed up as Santa for the kids one year.”
He sipped his whiskey and continued talking to the photos.
“We lost quite a few good Marines, too—young men and women you’d have been proud to know.” His sigh was heavy with sadness. “Anyway, I’m glad you and the kids are along for the ride. Patrick, Brian—I hope you boys are minding your mum. Katie, I know you’re helping keep them twins in line.”
As he sipped his drink, O’Hara remembered . . . and the hole in his heart, never to be healed, began to ache.
He had been aboard the Imperial Starship, Inchon Landing, just entering Earth’s solar system, when a tsunami hit the Fiji Islands; his wife and children had gone there on vacation. By the time O’Hara had returned to Earth, their bodies had been recovered
from the wreckage. Colleen and the kids were cremated a few days after his return…
O’Hara rubbed tears from his eyes. It was hard to believe that fifteen years had passed since that terrible day when he said farewell to his beloved family.
“I’m worried about Makki, my love,” he said. “You know . . . that wee Rhajni corpsman who was assigned to our regiment about a year back. What with him getting into all sorts of trouble with Cortez, and Akira teachin’ him how to fight—I don’t know what’s gonna happen to him. I know there are rules and regulations against it—but he wants to be a Marine!
“He’s a good lad, though. Don’t get me wrong. But he has no business wantin’ to be a warrior. Poor kid has seen enough war and death in his young life, I can imagine. Besides, he has what it takes to be a real fine doctor. I ride him hard, that’s the truth. But that’s my way, and I’m hopin’ he’ll come to his senses and decide to go to medical school.”
O’Hara paused as if listening to some voice only he could hear.
“What’s that, love?” he asked. “Oh, I’ll be behavin’ myself, I promise. Now I’d best be shovin’ off. Kids—I love you, and try to behave yourselves, okay? Colleen, love of my life, I miss you more than I can say. Keep a light burnin’ in the window for me.”
O’Hara finished his whiskey and set the empty glass on the table.
444
Standing on the hangar deck, Akira was amazed by the condition of the Iwo Jima. It was an old rocket ship designed only for interplanetary travel; she had no FTL drive, and had to be hauled from one galaxy to another by the massive starships of the Imperial Fleet. Patched and battle-worn, the ship was a relic from the early days of space exploration, around the last decade of the 21st century. Docked at one end of her landing bay were twenty-four Comanche AEVs—two squadrons—like the ones used on the missions to Cindar and Grant’s Planet.
444
The Marines of Company E were standing at ease with their sergeants and officers.
“What a heap of nuts and bolts!” Pretty Boy complained.
“I’ll be a happy camper if this bucket can maintain an orbit,” said Horseface Jenkins.
Fatty Russo cursed with disgust. “We’ll be lucky if this garbage scow gets us halfway across the next solar system!”
“Jeez! The Fleet tours the universe in brand new starships and all we get is this rickety relic left over from some ancient science fiction movie,” Tattoo Annie complained.
“Even Flash Gordon wouldn’t be caught dead flying in this crate,” Akira said.
Cortez shook his head. “Who is this Flash Gordon?”
“Quit your whining, ya miserable beggars!” O’Hara growled.
Horseface nudged Blondie Hampton and then pointed. Her eyes popped wide open.
“Officers on deck!” she yelled.
“Company—‘ten-shun!” Captain Branch shouted.
The Devil Dogs snapped to attention.
Colonel Stella Dakota marched toward them, as regal as a fierce goddess of war. The click of her heels on the cold metal deck echoed like rifle shots. She was a stunning Native-American in her 40s, with white-streaked hair, a patch over one eye and a ramrod up her spine.
Accompanying Colonel Dakota was Major Steve Helm, a tight-lipped African with a sparkle in his eyes and a slight accent in his soft voice. Tagging behind them was Corporal Flix, a Grimalkin catman from Rhajnara, with one ear and the face of a lynx. He was a member of the Rhajni Armed Forces, attached to the Corps as an aide to the colonel; he wore a brown and tan military uniform, mottled with various shades of green and gold.
O’Hara grinned at Colonel Dakota. “Good day to ya, Colonel, darlin’.”
“Space that grin, Sergeant O’Hara!” Captain Branch ordered.
Dakota adjusted her eye patch to hide her smile. O’Hara covered his mouth. Akira shook her head. Major Helm cleared his throat to address the Marines.
“Each of you did a fine job on Island 881,” he said. “But the Imperial Fleet will now take over and try to find out what the Drakonians are up to.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, Major, but is it true that we’re going to Rhajnara?” O’Hara asked.
“Hold your water, Sergeant. I’m coming to that,” Helm told him. “At 0900 tomorrow, this ship will rendezvous with the Courageous. They will drop us outside the Ambala System, where we will proceed to Rhajnara and join the Third Regiment stationed at Camp Corregidor.”
“We thank the Major,” O’Hara said.
“They’re all yours, Colonel,” Helm said.
“Thank you, Major,” Dakota said to him.
The colonel stared at the Devil Dogs and looked each Marine directly in the eyes. Akira had the feeling that they were being examined like some newly-discovered alien species.
“At ease, Marines,” Dakota finally said.
The Marines returned to parade rest and were as silent as Centauri mice.
Dakota looked her Marines over. “Now, since you space-happy grunts have never been to Rhajnara, there are certain rules of conduct that must—I repeat—must be obeyed.”
Monster Kowalski and Tommy Barnes groaned with disappointment. Dakota silenced them with one look, and then turned to her sergeants.
“One, alcohol is not tolerated on Rhajnara. So once we land you will drink nothing stronger than tea and coffee. Is that clear, Sergeant O’Hara?” she asked.
O’Hara looked as if he were ready to weep. “Clear as holy water, Colonel.”
“Two, there will be no brawling in the streets or in any public establishment,” Dakota said. “Do you hear me, Sergeant O’Hara?”
“Loud as a church bell, Ma’am.”
Cortez shot O’Hara a devilish grin.
“Three,” Dakota continued. “Gambling is not allowed on Rhajnara. So keep your dice, card tricks and shell games in your ditty bags. Do you read me, Sergeant Cortez?”
The sound of her voice ambushed Cortez; the cold look in her eye finished him off. Nevertheless, he bowed and smiled. “Chapter and verse, mi Coronel,” he said.
Akira winked at Cortez and poked him in the ribs.
“Sergeant Akira, you’re the only sensible one,” Dakota told her. “See to it that your fellow musketeers stay out of trouble. Do you follow me?”
Akira thought she would escape being singled out. “Like a beacon, Colonel.”
“Services for Lieutenant Hooks and the other Marines killed in action on Grant’s Planet will be held at 0600, tomorrow,” Dakota announced. “Clergy from all religions will be in attendance.” She turned to Captain Branch. “Captain—you may dismiss the troops.”
“Company—dismissed!” Branch shouted.
Dakota, Helm, Branch, and Flix turned and marched away. The Devil Dogs of Company E slowly dispersed, griping and grumbling as Marines had been doing for hundreds of years.
Cortez nudged Akira and looked questioningly at O’Hara. “What is a musketeer?”
Akira and O’Hara ignored Cortez as they strolled down one of the ship’s passageways. They passed doctors, nurses, Fleet pilots, orderlies, and other Marines.
“I knew it! I just knew it!” O’Hara whined. “Posted to bloody Rhajnara where there’s naught to be drinking but tea and coffee!”
“You always know it all, Seamus,” Akira said. “But think of it this way—Rhajnara is the cultural nexus of this galaxy. You’ll see things you never saw before.”
“By God and Saint Patrick, woman—you sound like a ruddy travel agent!”
“Come on, amigo,” Cortez said to O’Hara. “Where is your spirit of adventure?”
“The only spirits I’m interested in are the ones that come in a bottle.”
444
Akira’s cabin was small but homey; only starships were built to accommodate their non-coms with more spacious quarters. Melancholy Italian music played over a bulkhead speaker. Colorful Japanese prints and a samurai sword graced the other bulkheads. Perched atop a shelf crammed with 19th century English novels was a holopic of
Cooper Preston.
Makki sat on the floor at a small table laid out with an Oriental tea set, an origami bird, and a sheet of gold paper. He had no trouble folding his lithe, cat-like body into the lotus position while Akira prepared instant espresso in a tiny, solarwave oven. He pointed to the holopic.
“Who is that picture?” he asked.
Akira poured the espresso into a pair of tea cups with all the grace of a geisha. She glanced nervously at the holopic and set the tea pot on the table.
“Oh, just an old friend,” she said. She picked up the sheet of gold paper and began to fold it. “Do you like the espresso?”
“Very much so,” Makki told her. “This ceremony of tea is part of your warrior code?”
“Yes. The code is called Bushido—the Way of the Warrior. Remember when I told you that a samurai holds duty, honor and loyalty above all things?”
“Very much like the Marine Corps, this one thinks.”
Akira nodded. “A samurai balances the martial arts with painting, poetry, music,” she explained. “I do origami. It helps me attain wa, which is perfect harmony with the universe.”
“Many Rhajni meditate in warm sun or visit grooming houses,” Makki said. “But if this is ceremony of tea, why do we drink this Joe you call espresso?”
Akira laughed. “Because I’m half Sicilian and half Japanese.” She finished folding the paper and held up an origami cat. “Would you like me to teach you?”
“One day, perhaps, when this one has become a Marine samurai,” Makki told her.
“But you are a part of the Corps, Makki. You do a fine job patching us up.”
“Assignment with Marines is only temporary. Soon this one must attend medical school.”
“Well, maybe you should become a doctor.”
“That is what everyone tells this mewling.”
“Your command of the English language may leave a lot to be desired, Makki, but you sure know how to take care of a wounded Marine.” Akira set the paper cat on the table and gave him a long look. “You don’t want to be a doctor, do you?”
Three Against the Stars Page 6