Star Marine!

by John Bowers

  Henry smiled proudly.

  "I've got to run," Rice said. "Just wanted to mention that to you in case you didn't know. She'll probably drop in at home afterward. Kids like to shock their parents."

  "I'm sure she will. Thanks for the tip, Les."

  Rice waved and ducked out the door. Henry stood alone for another minute, frowning to himself. He finished his drink and punched a number on the vidphone. The security desk responded immediately.

  "This is Senator Wells. Bring my hovercar around, please. I'm leaving now."

  Fairfield, CA, North America, Terra

  Travis Space Force Base was a sprawling facility located in Fairfield, northeast of the San Francisco Bay area. During the height of the enemy bombings it had been a critical base, a prime target for Sirian attacks. Travis had been hit repeatedly, but had never succumbed, and resisted successfully on several occasions.

  In spite of the rain, more than six thousand base personnel were assembled on the parade ground to hear the lecture from Regina Wells. Attendance was obligatory for most of them, of course, or the wet, gusting wind might have kept them away. But when the feisty redhead appeared on the stage, thousands of male throats erupted with cheers, hoots, and lusty invitations. It was clear that, obligatory or not, Regina had been a hit with the men, at least. Only those nearest the stage could get a good look at her, of course, but technology came to the rescue — a forty-foot sky-holo was projected above the center of the mob, making her look like some giant goddess gazing down on her subjects.

  Henry Wells stood behind the crowd, a Star Policeman at his side. He'd arrived only minutes before the lecture began, and his congressional credentials had gotten him right in, although with the SP escort. As his daughter walked onto the stage and smiled at the applause, he felt an unexpected surge of pride. And as the lecture began, he found himself listening intently.

  "You've all seen the video, apparently," Regina said, and was drowned out by another rising cheer. She smiled patiently, then held up one hand to quiet them. "Good. Then I won't bore you with the same stuff again. That wouldn't be fair, since you all volunteered to sit out here in the cold wind and rain." They laughed, for very few had "volunteered".

  "Instead," Regina went on more seriously, "I want to talk to you about something else. I don't work for the recruiting office, but I know that a lot of you are probably reaching the end of your enlistment. Some of you have actually fought the enemy in the skies around us, and you may feel that you've done enough. You may feel that things are okay now, because the enemy isn't bombing us any more. We've driven them back, made them pay. We've taken back the Solar System, and things are quiet for the moment."

  Six thousand people sat quietly now, staring intently at her.

  "The war isn't over, fellows," she said then. "This is the end of the beginning, but until we finish the job, the Sirians could come back. I want you to think about that. If you resign now, or let your enlistments expire, the accumulated experience we've gained so far will be lost. When we face them again, the people who fight will be cherries. Without your experience, it could become a very expensive war. We might even lose it."

  She talked for twenty minutes, exhorting those present to remain in the service and prepare for future battles. Congress had debated the wisdom of extending all enlistments for the duration, she said, but had balked because no one knew how long the war might last. The way things stood now, a four- or six-year enlistment still allowed the recruit to leave the service when his or her time was up, but too many such expirations might still force the Congress to extend all enlistments indefinitely. Instead, she urged everyone to consider at least one re-up, and to carefully evaluate the options at the end of the second term.

  When she finished, there was no cheer to match the first, but the servicemen did applaud for two full minutes before standing up to drift away.

  Henry listened to the entire talk with a rising sense of uncertainty. He had no problem with what she was saying — in fact, he endorsed every word of it — but something about her seemed different. He couldn't put his finger on it exactly, except that she seemed to have changed. Her mannerisms, maybe, or her speech patterns … something.

  He turned to the Star Policeman, Sgt. Jurgens.

  "I'd like to have a word with my daughter, if I might," he said.

  "Certainly, Senator." Jurgens spoke into his communications headset for a moment. "Sir, they're taking her to the base auditorium. Some of the men want autographs, and there's a reception there. If you'll come with me … "

  They got into a Star Police hovercar with a flashing blue strobe and headed across the base toward the auditorium, arriving only moments later. The auditorium was packed, at least a thousand men in uniform milling about noisily. They were used to standing in line, Henry realized, and stood it patiently as the line snaked around toward the table where the young celebrity stood flanked by Star Police and two men in business suits who apparently traveled with her. Henry followed Jurgens as he pushed his way through the crowd toward her, and as he approached Henry saw her smiling cheerily as she signed an autograph book for a fighter pilot. He was saying something that made her blush.

  Henry stopped twenty feet short of the girl and watched for a moment, pulling Jurgens back.

  "I think I'll wait," he said quietly. "Until she's finished."

  "That could take a while, sir."

  Henry forced himself to smile.

  "No problem. This is her moment. I'll wait."

  The line moved surprisingly fast, but even so it took well over an hour for the men to file past her. Henry retreated to the very end of the line. Most of the military people were several inches taller than he was, and Regina couldn't see him. Not until she had finished the very last autograph did she look up and meet his eyes.

  Her face flushed crimson, her mouth dropped open, and for just a brief second her green eyes mirrored her shock. Then she sprang to her feet, smiling, and threw her arms around his neck.

  "Daddy!"

  Henry hugged the young woman and smiled happily for the benefit of those around her, then allowed her to kiss him on the cheek.

  "What are you doing here?" she asked, her arms still around his neck. "I didn't expect to see you here!"

  "I just found out you were coming at the last minute," he said. "Wanted to stop by and see you dazzle the masses." He grinned disarmingly.

  "I'm so glad you did! I was going to stop in at home later and surprise you. Where's Mom?"

  "I came straight from the office. Didn't have time to call her."

  They stood smiling at each other for a moment, at a loss for words. The men in business suits glanced uneasily at each other. Henry glanced toward them.

  "Would you excuse us for a minute?" he asked. "I'd like to have a word with my daughter."

  One of them, a pinched man with shiny dark hair, opened his mouth to speak, but the other was quicker.

  "We're on a pretty tight schedule, Senator —"

  "Won't take a minute." Henry took her arm and guided her away from the table, leaving them standing alone. He propelled the girl out of earshot, and stopped, taking her by the shoulders as if to kiss her. Instead, he peered intently into her clear green eyes. He kept smiling for the benefit of those watching.

  "I really enjoyed the lecture," he said quietly.

  "Thank you —"

  "And I loved the holovid. I think it's a wonderful production. It should go a long way to educate the troops."

  Her smile flickered uncertainly.

  "You're very good," he said. "Best I've ever seen."

  "You're very kind, Daddy."

  "Yes, I am. That's why I'm pretending to enjoy this. But I'm not a goddamned fool, either."

  Her smile disappeared entirely, and he felt her begin to tremble.

  "Wh-what do you mean?"

  "As I said, you're very good. Right down to the green eyes. But I want to know who the hell you are, and where the goddamned hell is my daughter!"

&
nbsp; Chapter 17

  Sunday, 29 June, 0228 (PCC) – Luna Base 4, Luna

  Rico Martinez stepped through the doorway into Capt. Connor's office and snapped to attention, saluting smartly. Connor sat behind his desk, his face flushed with annoyance. Lt. Hackman stood to one side, glaring at Rico.

  "Private Martinez, reporting as ordered, Captain!"

  Connor lifted his hand in what passed for a return salute and Rico snapped his arm down, remaining at attention, staring at the wall.

  Connor glared at him in silence for a minute, letting him sweat. Finally he glanced up at Hackman, then pinned Rico with his angry gaze.

  "You went over my head, Martinez. Didn't you? You went to the fucking chaplain, didn't you? The fucking chaplain!"

  Rico resisted a gulp as his stomach churned.

  "Yes, sir!"

  "That's right, you did. And do you know what happened then, Martinez? Do you?"

  "N-no, sir!"

  "That goddamned chaplain went to Colonel Ireland, that's what. And can you guess what came next, Martinez? That's right. Colonel Ireland came to see me! And I don't mind telling you, Martinez, I did not particularly enjoy hearing the things Colonel Ireland had to say! I got my goddamned ass chewed out, Martinez! My goddamned ass! Like I was a fucking boot!"

  Connor hadn't moved from his chair, but he was bellowing in the small office. Rico tried not to tremble, but found it difficult to breathe. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his temple, and it tickled insanely; he dared not attempt to brush it away.

  Connor sat shaking with rage for a moment, his breathing audible as he glared at the young man before him. Finally he swallowed down his wrath, continuing in a somewhat less hysterical voice.

  "You're back in Delta Company, Martinez. First Platoon. Your platoon leader is Lieutenant Bauer. When you leave here, report directly to him."

  "Yes, sir!"

  Connor leaned forward.

  "One thing, Martinez. No, two things: first, I'm not going to forget this. Not ever. And second, my original concern still stands. I don't want this company spooked by knowing they've got a goddamned ghost living with them. You understand me? You are not to tell a single soul in that platoon that you were ever a member of the 33rd before Titan. I don't care what cockamamie bullshit story you make up about where you came from, but you do not tell anyone you were ever in this outfit before! Understood?"

  "Understood, sir!" Then Rico frowned. "Does that include Lieutenant Bauer, Captain?"

  "Bauer already knows. He's almost as happy about getting you as I am."

  Rico swallowed and nodded.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Dismissed."

  Gratefully, Rico saluted again, spun on his heel, and left the captain's office. As he crossed the outer office, he could smell his own armpits.

  * * *

  The barrack sat on a company street amid other barracks, each one identical to the next. Sgt. Ragsdale led Rico inside. Rico carried his space bag containing his miscellaneous gear. Lt. Bauer had been uninspiring to say the least, barely speaking to him when he reported for duty. It could've been worse; after meeting with Capt. Connor Rico had expected Bauer to be similarly abusive. Instead, he'd introduced him to Sgt. Ragsdale and dismissed him. Simple enough.

  Ragsdale was hard to read, but sergeants could be like that. Until they got to know you, they all seemed to treat you like you were trying to fuck their daughter.

  "This is Second Squad," Ragsdale told him. He pushed open a door into the main dormitory. "All right, you assholes! We got a new man here, so gather around!"

  Nine men looked up and ambled forward, their eyes blatantly curious. Rico looked at them one by one, feeling an anxiety he hadn't experienced since he changed schools in the middle of a semester in the fourth grade. Every face was new, every expression guarded. None of them knew him, they all probably thought he was a boot, and until he proved himself they were prepared to treat him like one.

  "This is Private Rico Martinez," Ragsdale said, managing to sound bored. "As of today he's one of ours. Break him in, teach him the routine, and don't fuck him over." He turned to Rico and nodded. "You have any questions, speak to Corporal Roberson. If he can't answer you, he'll come to me. We do things through channels around here."

  That said, Ragsdale walked out.

  Leaving Rico to be inspected by his new squad.

  They still stared at him, some grinning, others frowning uncertainly. None looked terribly intelligent, he realized with a sinking feeling.

  "I'm Corporal Roberson," one of them said. He offered his hand, and Rico had to set down some gear to shake it. "Your rack is on the end." He pointed. "Since you don't know anyone here, this is Jeff White, Sean Kelly, Norman Quince, and Larry Healy." He indicated each man in turn, and their faces went by Rico in a blur. Roberson turned and introduced the men on the other side.

  "That's Texas, Maniac, Tiny, and Gearloose. You wanna watch out for them; they're a bunch of godless heathens. They'll do their best to get you a star-court."

  He glared at them as he led Rico toward the end of the room, and it occurred to Rico that the corporal wasn't very fond of the last four men. He hauled his gear down to his rack and set everything down. Roberson spent five minutes covering squad rules, the usual daily schedule, then smiled dutifully and welcomed him to the squad. Rico nodded.

  "Thanks."

  He set about stowing his gear and tidying up his rack. Inspections were probably a fairly routine event, and he didn't want a down-check on his first one. He was peripherally aware of conversation among the other men, and since it was somewhat muted, had no doubt he was the likely topic of conversation. He also knew he could expect some kind of hazing before too long. He'd almost finished remaking his rack when he sensed movement and looked up to see the four men with weird nicknames lounging a few feet away. They didn't seem exactly unfriendly, but Rico tensed just the same.

  The one called Texas spoke first. He had a definite Southwestern drawl, and looked as though he might be accustomed to plenty of time under a desert sun.

  "So, Martinez," he opened, pronouncing it "Martin-EZ", "you got a nickname?"

  Rico turned dark eyes on him appraisingly, determined not to show any weakness.

  "No."

  Texas grinned mischievously, raised his eyebrows, and glanced at his friends. Looked back at Rico.

  "Then maybe we should call you Beaner."

  Rico hadn't heard that one in years. He showed no sign of anger as he replied.

  "Maybe you should eat shit instead."

  The Texan's eyes widened in amazement. If he were a troublesome sort, the attack should come now. It didn't. Instead, his grin widened, as if he enjoyed the challenge.

  "Whoa! We got a spicy one, boys! Extra spicy!"

  Rico stood perfectly still, prepared to do whatever he must. Texas sidled unconsciously closer.

  "Where you from, Martin-ez? Mejico? Tijuana?"

  "Where you from, white boy? Baja Oklahoma?"

  For a brief moment Rico thought he'd done it. The other man's eyes glazed at the insult, and his mouth popped open with shock. But he seemed to shake it off.

  "Be careful, Martin-ez! We still ain't forgot about the Alamo."

  "Neither have we."

  Texas stared at him for fifteen seconds, saying nothing. Studying him. Sizing up a threat. He was no longer smiling. "You seen any action?" he asked finally.

  "Have you?"

  Texas scowled at his companions.

  "Any of you hear a goddamned echo in here? Jesus!"

  "Maybe Martin-ez is a war hero," the biggest of the four suggested, his glare malevolent. Rico tried to remember his name from Roberson's whirlwind introduction. What was it? Maniac. He was forty Terra pounds heavier and three inches taller than the rest of them.

  "Maybe I am," Rico replied. "One thing I know for sure — none of you guys ever been in battle."

  "And you have?"

  "Maybe."

  "How come all you beaners ha
ve a chip on your shoulder?" Texas complained. "I never seen one yet wouldn't rather fight than fuck."

  "Maybe it's all the same to them," Maniac said. "Fightin' and fuckin'."

  "Well, how about it, Martin-ez? You been in action or not?"

  "I'm not at liberty to say."

  "Oh, Jesus Christ!" Texas rolled his eyes in exasperation. "'I'm not at liberty to say'! Fuck me!"

  Rico merely gazed at him.

  "You better watch yourself, Martin-ez," Maniac told him. "We're the Fearless Fourless."

  Rico scowled. "'Fearless Fourless'? That doesn't make any sense!"

  "No, but it alliterates."

  Rico blinked.

  "Why would white women want wild weenie?" he said.

  Maniac frowned. "Huh?"

  "Nothing. But it alliterates."

  The four men glared at him a moment, then Texas made a show of walking away in disgust. Maniac continued to glare for a few more seconds, then followed Texas. The remaining two — Rico remembered the short one was called Tiny — eyed him uncertainly before trailing off after the other two. Rico watched them long enough to be sure they weren't coming back, then sank down onto his rack and released his breath quietly in a sigh of relief. He had no doubt they weren't finished with him, but the immediate crisis seemed to be over.

  The other men in the barrack had kept out of the way during the confrontation, but now one ambled unhurriedly toward him. He was a big black man, six feet four and meaty, with arms bigger than Rico's legs. He had a rugged face, a creased forehead, sleepy eyes, and full African lips. He stopped at the end of Rico's rack and peered down, his chest straining his fatigue T-shirt. Rico eyed him with a guarded expression, but the big man grinned slowly.

  "Man, you put them fuckers in their place," he said admiringly, his voice a deep baritone. "I'm Jeff White. Easy to remember, 'cause I'm black." He extended his hand, and Rico sat up to shake it.

  "Rico Martinez."

  "Martinez, huh? Not 'Martin-ez'?" White laughed, slow and relaxed. He sat carefully on the edge of the rack, still grinning. "Look, man, don't let them peckerwoods under your skin, okay? They pulled the same shit on me. Wanted me to call myself Midnight. They're hip on nicknames and shit. It's their entertainment. They're basically harmless. You let 'em, they'll ride you until you're ready to kill 'em, but if you're cool, they'll leave you alone."