Star Marine!

by John Bowers

  Col. Ireland approached a group of noncoms bent over a computer console. They were so deep in discussion that they didn't notice him until he spoke.

  "Any luck, sergeant?" he boomed.

  The men jerked around, and sprang to attention. The sergeant saluted.

  "At ease, sergeant," Ireland growled. "How does it look?"

  "Hard to say, sir," the sergeant replied. "The system is still functioning, but that's about all we know for the moment. Right now I wouldn't trust it."

  "How long before you can get it online?"

  "It's online now, sir, but we don't know if it's reliable. May take a few days to diagnose everything. These systems are incredibly complex."

  Ireland nodded as if he understood exactly, though his expression suggested otherwise.

  "Before you get too deeply involved," he said, "I'd like you to dump as many logs and histories as you can. We need to know everything we can about what happened here."

  "Yes, sir, Colonel. I was briefed on Luna by General Maxwell. He specifically ordered me to pull the files. We're gonna copy everything before we start our shakedown."

  Ireland nodded again. His orders appeared to be redundant, so he withdrew as gracefully as possible. The major conducting the tour headed out of the comm center.

  As they entered the hallway, they stopped. Rico followed their gaze as they looked toward a pair of new arrivals — and felt his heart stop. The man and woman were in fighter combat gear, helmets under their arms. Their insignia clearly identified them as Fighter Service. The pilot was lean and handsome, about five feet ten, his hair short and kinky, his skin a dark brown. His nametag identified him as COFFEY, which perfectly described his color.

  The woman was as white as her pilot was dark. Her skin was pale, her spiked hair a snow-blonde. She had high cheekbones and wide-set eyes as blue as a Colorado sky. She stood about five four, and one look at that incredible face was all Rico needed. He looked at her nametag anyway, to confirm it. It said simply KVOORIK.

  Jesus! That's her! That's her!

  Col. Ireland apparently recognized her, too, for he stepped up and gazed down at her, his expression softening. She saluted him emotionlessly.

  "Colonel Ireland?" she asked in a clear voice with a musical accent. "I'm Captain Kvoorik. With your permission, sir, I'd like to look around."

  Ireland nodded. "Absolutely, Captain. I understand you were based here."

  "Yes, sir."

  Ireland sighed, as if he'd just finished a long lecture. Rico suspected he needed the oxygen, for she was one magnetic señorita. The sight of her had made every man in the group stand an inch taller. Except for Coffey, whose built-in scowl suggested he'd rather not be there. But, then, he was the only man in the group who was actually sleeping with her, so why should he try to impress her?

  "Well," Ireland was saying, "I guess you know your way around. But I'd prefer you don't stray too far. We still have squads checking the extremities of the base. Until they're finished, we won't know for certain the Sirians didn't leave any surprises behind."

  "I understand, sir. We'll just look around a little. Thank you." She saluted again.

  "My pleasure, Captain."

  She turned to leave, but Ireland had a thought.

  "Just for good measure, Captain," he said, and pointed at Rico. "This Marine will accompany you." Rico felt his heart stop for the second time.

  "That isn't necessary, sir," the Fighter Queen replied, her perfect forehead creasing into a frown. She glanced at Rico with something less than pleasure.

  "I insist, Captain," the colonel replied. "I'm sure you can take care of yourselves, but while you're on board this base I am responsible for your safety. The private will accompany you."

  That sounded like an order, and the blonde woman nodded.

  "Yes, sir. Thank you, Colonel." She and her pilot turned and walked away. Rico glanced at Ireland, who nodded to him, then turned and followed the two fighter people.

  They acted as if he wasn't there. He kept a dozen paces behind them, still unable to believe he was actually in the presence of the fabled Fighter Queen, the most famous combat soldier in the Federation. Not that she seemed very friendly; she and her pilot seemed oblivious to his presence, and neither spoke to him at all.

  He followed them around for an hour. Onja Kvoorik wandered down a maze of corridors, sidestepping Star Marines when she encountered them, and looked through a number of rooms. Coffey asked an occasional question, she responded with short answers. Neither spoke above a hushed tone, so Rico understood little of what they said. But he got to see the guts of the fighter base — ready rooms, simulators, a dormitory called the Beaver Pond, a sauna that no longer functioned, a gymnasium that doubled as a parade ground.

  They ran across bodies, too. A man and a woman lay where they'd been gunned down in a storage room; in a medical exam room, a man in a white smock still lay where he was killed. But the one Rico would forever remember was the body of a woman they found in the back of a kitchen, facedown on the floor, head turned to one side, arms behind her back, with E-cuffs still on her wrists. Bloodstains on her blouse suggested she'd been shot, but what haunted Rico was that her pants were still down around her knees.

  It wasn't clear to Rico what the Fighter Queen was looking for. Perhaps it was nostalgia, but it had to be more than that. She'd begun her career here, had been evacuated before the base was captured, and her manner suggested she was visiting the scene of a crime. Never once did she smile, nor express any of the emotions he might have expected on a nostalgic visit. Instead, she seemed very tense, as if holding her emotions in check with some difficulty.

  They approached a hatch that led into someone's private quarters, and she stared at it a moment before trying to enter. Lt. Coffey stood beside her, looking uncomfortable. Rico stopped close enough to hear what they said.

  "This was Major Landon's quarters," she said quietly. "This is where I lived."

  Coffey reached out and placed his hand on the sensor plate, but the light stayed red. He withdrew his hand. Onja Kvoorik then placed her hand on the sensor, and the light switched to green; the door slid aside.

  "I'm surprised it still works," she said absently. She stepped inside, and Coffey followed. Rico stood in the opening and looked through; the interior was tiny. He could see a small anteroom with two chairs, a low coffee table, and a comm console. Another doorway led into the sleeping room, but it was barely large enough for twin racks, a wardrobe, and a small bathroom. He didn't try to enter. Instead, he turned his back to the wall and stood there like a sentry until they came out a moment later. The woman had tears in her eyes.

  "I don't think we're accomplishing anything," Coffey said gently. "Don't you think we should get back to the ship?"

  But the blond captain shook her head.

  "Not until I find out if he's here," she said quietly.

  "It may take several days for them to get ID's on all the bodies," Coffey said. "I'm sure someone will let you know."

  She stood in the center of the corridor, trembling slightly, blinking away her tears. Rico watched her closely. He had hoped at some point to be able to talk to her, to tell her he was Angela's brother. But today didn't seem to be a good time.

  Washington City, DC, North America, Terra

  Wade Palmer left the War Room nine hours later. Long hours weren't unusual for him, but he felt incredibly fatigued as he walked back to his office with Cdr. Kamada. The initial phase of the operation was ending, and it had been a complete success. Twenty-five asteroid bases had been assaulted and were now back in Federation hands. No Sirians or Sirian allies had been found aboard any of them, and the only casualty had been a Star Marine at AB-106 who'd punctured his pressure suit and died of explosive decompression. The next step would follow automatically — technicians were already at work putting the bases back into operational condition, and fighter squadrons would soon be flying patrols from them again.

  "What a day, huh?" Kamada sighed when th
ey reached his office. He grinned. "Feel like a drink?"

  "Yes, sir. I could use one."

  Kamada reached into a cabinet beside his desk and drew out a bottle and two small glasses. He poured them half full and handed one to Wade.

  "To Operation Restore," he said, and they both drank.

  Kamada settled heavily into his chair and leaned back. Wade remained standing.

  "It was a good plan, Palmer," the commander said. "Well done."

  "Thank you, sir. I'm thrilled it went so well."

  "It's the cleanest operation I've ever seen. Of course, it was a great help that the enemy never showed up." He smiled. "This may be the only time that happens."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Take tomorrow off. You earned it." His eyes twinkled ironically — tomorrow was Sunday.

  Wade nodded. "Thank you, Commander."

  Half an hour later, Wade was back in his apartment at the BOQ. He was more than a little relieved that it was over. There'd been no opposition, so the plan could hardly have failed, but as a junior planner, he'd still been extremely tense about it. The entire day had been nerve-wracking.

  He also felt the stirrings of elation, for he had merely submitted a hypothetical operations plan, and it had been carried out. Hundreds of others outranked him, but they had used his plan. It might never happen again, but at least for the moment, his entire existence seemed justified. Suddenly he felt like celebrating.

  He turned to the vidphone to call Regina. He hadn't seen her for over six weeks; she'd been on some kind of tour related to her information video. She should have been back several days ago. He punched in her number, hoping to catch her at home.

  But she didn't answer.

  Chapter 16

  Wednesday, 25 June, 0228 (PCC) – Luna Base 4, Luna

  "Come on in, Private. I'm Lt. Sante."

  The chaplain smiled as Rico Martinez stepped into her office and closed the door. He glanced around nervously at the severe functionality of the room. A desk, computer, three chairs, and in the corner a small religious shrine. Nothing else. As Spartan as a foxhole.

  "Please, take a seat." The chaplain gestured to a chair in front of the desk, and as he sat carefully on the edge of it, she sat in the other one, facing him. Rico had never met her before, though he'd been to her services a few times. She was in her forties, starting to grey, and had a motherliness that was distracting. Her manner was gentle and disarming.

  "What's on your mind, Private?" she asked after giving him a moment to relax.

  "Well, I … " Rico glanced briefly at her and then lowered his gaze. "I'm not even sure I should be here," he said quietly.

  "Something is bothering you," she said. "If you're not comfortable talking about it with me, I can arrange for a session with someone else."

  "No. It's not you. I just … I'm not sure this is even something I should be talking to you about. Any chaplain."

  "Why don't you tell me what it is, and then we can decide that?"

  He nodded uneasily.

  "I just got back from the asteroid operation," he said. "I was thinking about talking to you before, and now I have to talk to somebody."

  She nodded, waiting.

  "I've been in the Star Marines for over five years. I joined up to fight. I was trained to fight. And I was assigned to Delta Company …"

  "I thought you were in Headquarters Platoon," she interrupted.

  "I am, now. But before that I was in Delta. Before the Titan landing."

  The chaplain's eyes widened slowly.

  "You were in the 33rd before Outer Worlds?" she asked in astonishment. "I didn't realize that. I should have checked your record more closely."

  "Yes, Ma'am. I'm the only survivor who came back here. I heard there were others, but I don't know where they are."

  Her expression turned more serious. She urged him to continue.

  "Well, you see, when I came back, I expected to stay in Delta Company. I was still assigned to Delta. I knew everyone was dead, but I still belong to Delta."

  "Okay."

  Rico frowned and twisted his service cap in his hands.

  "Captain Connor didn't want me," he explained. "He acted like I was a fuc … I mean, like I was a ghost or something. He said he didn't want his people to be reminded that the regiment had been wiped out at Titan. He thought me being here would spook the men."

  "Why didn't he shift you to another company?" Lt. Sante asked.

  "He tried. At least, he said he did. But he said the other CO's don't want me, either. And he couldn't get approval to transfer me out of the 33rd. So he sent me over to HQ and told me to keep out of sight. A few days later, I was put to work in Headquarters Platoon. But I'm still on the roster at Delta, as far as I know."

  Lt. Sante relaxed slightly, gazing at the young man before her with thoughtful eyes.

  "You aren't happy in your present assignment?"

  Rico shifted uncomfortably.

  "Not really. Sgt. Natali is a good guy and all, but I think the rest of the platoon is uneasy around me. I don't have any friends there, and I'm doing stuff I never wanted to do. About the only friend I have is Yeoman Jiminez, but that's not the same thing at all."

  The chaplain nodded slowly. "You want a transfer out of the 33rd?"

  "I don't really want to transfer," Rico explained, "but I don't see any other option. I'm trained to fight, but when we went to the asteroids I didn't go in until Colonel Ireland did, and then I walked around like a bodyguard for him and his staff. That's not the kind of fighting I signed up for."

  "I think I understand," Sante said. "But you did get to fight, didn't you? On Titan?"

  "No, Ma'am. We were hit in the atmosphere. My lander exploded and that was the last thing I knew. I never saw the enemy."

  "Amazing that you survived," she said.

  "Yes, Ma'am. By the grace of God, I guess. And that's another thing — I know you aren't Catholic, but you are Christian. I feel like God saved me for something. I don't know what, exactly, but since I'm a fighting Marine, I feel like it has something to do with combat. I can't fulfill whatever purpose He has for me in my present situation."

  Lt. Sante smiled gently.

  "You can't possibly know that," she said. "God works in mysterious ways. In past wars, even conscientious objectors have won medals for bravery under fire, saving lives. If God does have a purpose for you, it could be anywhere."

  Rico nodded. "I guess you're right. But I still want to fight. I belong in a combat unit." He met her steady gaze with misery in his eyes. "Is there anything you can do?"

  "I'll look into it," she said. "I can't make any promises, of course. The military also works in mysterious ways, but I'll find out what options are available. It may take a few days, but I'll be contacting you."

  Rico rose quickly, grateful the interview was over.

  "Thank you, Ma'am. I really appreciate it."

  The chaplain also stood, and laid a hand on his shoulder.

  "Any time, Private. Be patient, do your job, and I'll call you."

  San Francisco, CA, North America, Terra

  It was raining in San Francisco. Henry Wells stood at the window of his office and gazed out over the city with a drink in his hand. Heavy overcast had turned the day gloomy, and sheets of rain obscured the opposite side of the bay. He couldn't see Oakland, but the buildings nearby gleamed with moisture. The rain washed away the dust and made everything look new.

  Henry was in a good mood, a rare enough occurrence these days. The war was approaching what looked like a lull. After more than seven years of gut-wrenching anxiety, the Sirians had been thrown almost completely out of the Solar System. The bombings had stopped, the Outer Worlds were recaptured, and he'd just received word that all the compromised asteroid bases had been retaken as well. So what came next?

  Though he kept his finger on the military pulse, Henry wasn't a military planner. He knew what had to happen to win the war, but had no idea of the proper sequence of events, nor ve
ry many of the necessary details. Certainly the Federation now had to venture out in search of the enemy, but where? Altair? Alpha Centauri? Vega and Beta Centauri were also enemies, Sirian allies. The most direct method would be an assault on Sirius itself, but trying that would be suicidal at this point. An attack on Sirius would draw enemy forces back from their far-flung stellar empire to defend their own system; the Federation would be crushed if that happened.

  So other worlds had to be liberated first. Henry recognized that any interstellar operation would require massive resources, delicate planning, and a staggering budget. He had no idea just how long something like that would take, but suspected such an operation could not begin for two or three years. In the meantime, engagements with the enemy would likely be limited. So for now, there was little likelihood of more bloodshed. The time would be used to train more troops and manufacture materiél needed for future operations. The last seven years had bought some desperately needed time.

  He sipped his drink and sighed. He could certainly use the rest. He had an election coming up, and it would be nice to have nothing more critical than that to worry about for a few months.

  He turned at a knock on the door. Senator Rice stepped inside and grinned at him.

  "How's it going, Henry?"

  "Good." He walked away from the window. It was getting dark out anyway. "Pour yourself a drink. It's after hours."

  Rice shook his head, still smiling.

  "Thanks anyway. I just wanted to ask if you heard that your daughter is in town."

  Henry's eyebrows lifted.

  "Regina? No, I didn't. I haven't seen her in a couple of months. Where is she?"

  "Well, she's not actually 'in town'," Rice amended. "She's going to lecture at Travis tonight."

  "You're kidding! How'd you find out?"

  "I was talking to the Polygon this afternoon. Someone just casually mentioned it."

  Henry's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

  "I wonder why she didn't call? I knew she was on a world tour, but … " He shrugged it off. "Kids! They get a little independence, they forget the old folks."

  Lester Rice laughed.

  "Isn't that the truth. Well, she deserves to be proud. That information vid was a work of art. I learned a few things about the Sirians that I didn't know, and I can imagine its value in educating the troops."