Duty, Honor or Death the Corps Sticks

by Ronald Wintrick

  Now really scared, Rebecca held the wrist up for a closer look in the uncertain light trickling in through a shattered portion of the ceiling. The broken bone had not punctured the skin at least, a scenario which would have left her wide open to infection and severe medical complications. Yet it was still a very severe injury. Her life was in jeopardy. Survival on a jungle planet could be seriously difficult in and of itself, much less with a broken wrist hampering her from the beginning.

  Rebecca sat up and with one unhesitant movement forcibly straightened the bent wrist. The scream that rose to her lips nearly escaped her, but she forced it down, having to use all of her great willpower to accomplish the act. Trained to ignore pain, it yet took every ounce of her strength to do so.

  When her head cleared she looked around to take stock.

  Benefactor was utterly destroyed. Rebecca had never seen worse. Not and that she could have survived through. She wasn't sure how she had survived through this.

  She had to get moving. Stiffly she climbed to her feet, levering herself up with her good hand, and then began moving back the way she had come earlier. She wondered if Baldwin had survived. He had been alive when she had left him, though that in itself meant absolutely nothing. Her wrist throbbed agonizingly with every step she took.

  If he was still alive he would survive just a little longer, Rebecca told herself as she made her way circuitously through the damaged ship and straight to the Infirmary.

  The hatchway to the Infirmary was sealed, as was every other hatch in the ship (an automatic response to the breach of atmospheric integrity, before the ship lost power) but as with most areas of the destroyed ship, a portion of the bulkhead was shattered and she was able to squeeze through and enter the Infirmary.

  A short search through the ever present drift of debris that was everywhere to be found throughout the ship, the Infirmary had no more been spared than anywhere else, uncovered an old wrist splint, which she immediately applied to her broken wrist.

  The device reacted to the electrical stimulus contact with her skin provided, transferring electricity directly from her body into itself, and began immediately tightening on her wrist, straightening and aligning the bones as it wrapped itself snugly in place.

  Rebecca screamed uncontrollably, and then sank to the floor as the waves of agony washed over her, pounding like a surf at her consciousness, but the waves slowly faded away, were reduced to dull throbbing, as the splint became immobile. It would stay in place of its own accord until the bone was knitted, then fall off like an old scab.

  The now powerless Auto-Doc in the corner could have had the bone knitted in several hours. She had been lucky someone had decided not to throw out the old wrist splint device, which were now of course obsolete, but they never wore out and someone had thought that it would have been a waste to throw it out.

  Rebecca offered a silent thanks to whomever that had been. It would mean all the difference now.

  She considered searching for painkillers, she would not need antibiotics as she had no open wounds beside her fingernail, and her autoimmune system was highly resilient to viral infection, but they were locked inside a servo-mechanism and would be difficult if not impossible to remove, so as she regained her feet she dismissed the idea.

  Wasting no more time, Rebecca moved to the breach in the Infirmary wall, squeezed through, and was once more in the ship proper, moving as quickly as she could through the rubble strewn corridors, heading to the Bridge and where she had left Baldwin.

  He was not there. Baldwin was not there! "Why in hell would you run off without me!" Her voice seemed loud and strangely intrusive, out of place amid the carnage around her. Like she had uttered a sacrilege, daring to speak aloud amongst the dead.

  There was no answer, of course.

  She did not think for a second that raiders had already visited. The ship was full of salvageable items, most notably weapons. No natives would've left those. Ten minutes later she was outside the ship and searching for signs of his passage. It did not take her long, and that only because she started on the wrong side of the ship.

  Rebecca's childhood on Calafga had been educational. She could literally track a ghost over bare rock. She had tracked men who had left less. She had never failed. Baldwin's trail was clear as a map. The problem was that it would be just as easy for the next tracker. This planet would have its share of experienced trackers. The next tracker to arrive was not likely to be from the Federation.

  Rebecca followed immediately. She left little indication of her own passage in the moist, rotted soil, however. It was almost as if she walked above the ground for all the trail she left. She would deceive no skilled tracker she knew, but her trail might confuse a casual scrutiny, if those who would follow were careless or untrained. The chance, so that her presence may go unnoticed, was worth the slower pace she would have to adopt to achieve this end.

  That they would be followed went without saying. However, they might not suspect that the two of them were together. They might not even suspect she was not a native. She had to do anything she could to confuse. She did not know what they would make of it.

  She had to consider capture. Baldwin was a liability. He would lead them right to himself. That fact could not be helped. Rebecca was pragmatic however. A survivor. If they were captured she would play her part. There would be gang rape, physical abuse, maybe even torture. She would play her part until an opportunity presented itself. The trauma would leave no mark on her psyche. On Calafga there had been no room for such weaknesses. The weak had been culled and only the strong had been left to reproduce. There were no weak links in her genetic pool. Only the strong had survived on Calafga.

  She would not be captured if she were alone, she thought with the first mile to pass her lips since she had awoken on this godforsaken planet. She would do all she could to prevent Baldwin's capture, but if/when he was, she would also allow herself to be captured with him. With her to play with they might be too busy to hurt him, or with her cooperation as a factor, not that they would require cooperation, they might be induced to give him a better treatment.

  It was at least obvious that Baldwin was thinking. That helped. She had noted the missing weapons as she had passed the weapons locker. There were two blasters and a blast rifle missing. She knew the weapons locker would have been fully stocked. This was the Space Corps, after all. So he was armed. That was good.

  The blaster she wore was all the armament she required. It's atomic pellet fuel source would last for many years. The atomic pellet expired at the same rate whether it was used constantly or not at all. Taking more weapons would not lengthen the period of time she would have an operational weapon, and she preferred the hand blaster above all other weapons.

  Leaving the weapons behind also left the chance that a foolish looter would blow himself up and hopefully a few comrades into the bargain. In any case, the ship was full of them and she neither had the time to hunt for them all nor were they easy to destroy. Let them choke on them, she thought.

  Rebecca had no illusions about what would be in store for her if she allowed herself to be captured. She had been a beautiful child. Her looks had brought her unwanted attention. Unwanted sexual attention. The first man who raped her, and who also took her for his own, as a slave, in her tenth year, found his own knife buried to the hilt in his own guts, and a thirteen-year-old Rebecca, when she decided calmly not to take it anymore, twisting it savagely and laughing gleefully at his agony, as his blood poured out of the gaping wound she had created.

  Nor was that the last time she had killed for such. She had not been able to escape her looks. They had not always been a blessing. It would be no different here now, she knew. Nor would be her reaction. She would do whatever she would have to do to survive the here and now, but there was forever the after.

  She followed Baldwin's trail.

  Chapter 8

  The new Squad was formed into two ranks, twenty per file. They were aligned behind the o
pen hatch of the Troop Transport they were about to board. Only two days had elapsed since their recovery from devastated Barcene, but a new campaign, against a new alien foe, was about to commence. Thirty-eight members of the Squad were fresh new-jacks

  The massive dock and staging area of the Carrier Nemesis were full of the relatively diminutive Troop Transport ships and the Squads waiting to board them. There were four dozen such ceremonies going on in the four dozen of Nemesis' Infantry staging areas. A patriotic voice rang out over the present assembly, amplified by strategically placed loudspeakers, giving the last minute pep talk designed to rouse the fires of outraged indignation in the hearts of the Troopers, to carry that fiery anger to the new enemy below, to take it out on those who dared threaten mans' benign civilization.

  " . . . that these threats must be stamped out mercilessly and without remorse. The Universe must be made safe for our children and their . . . " Lan wasn't listening. He had heard this speech or others too similar too many times to care, or believe. The Barcene reptiles had been no threat to man, nor would this new enemy be likely to be. Man was the threat. Breeding like rats and pouring out over the Universe like a scourge of death, eradicating or subjugating every race in its path, and growing exponentially in every direction.

  "If I live to have any children." Becla said in a whisper from his side, but not quite quietly enough. The new Lieutenant whipped around to glare at them, staring with all the righteous indignation and fury of the wronged. Talking was not allowed while in rank-and-file, or during duty hours at all, and most especially not while in formation during General Blake's pre-battle pep speech. It was nearly treason!

  Lan glared at the Lieutenant, who turned red in fury, and that despite his dark skin. Eye contact was also not allowed. Becla kept her eyes straight ahead. A learned disregard for authority might take years to acquire, if she lived that long. The Lieutenant saw something in Lan's eyes that really frightened him, however, or really maybe it was the lack of anything at all in Lan's eyes that frightened him, and he looked hastily away. He may have looked away but his anger seemed to pulse from him in palpable waves. Lan knew his type. The man was now more furious with himself, that he had been unable to hold Lan's look, than he was with their actions.

  There would be repercussions. The Lieutenant would have to get something out of them. When they returned. If the Lieutenant did return. There was always that. He would get their stripes for sure, maybe more. He had been humiliated, but he was a plain fool. The book trained Officers never lasted long, and this guy was all book. So maybe there would be no repercussions after all, Lan thought to himself.

  The Brass had said this would be a simple operation. The Brass always said that. It was usually a lie. Or should it be said, that it was always a lie, but that occasionally the Brass were wrong. Sometimes it was easier than they expected. This was more accurate.

  "This one's an idiot." Lan said, the words spoken to coincide with the General's oratory as it rolled patriotically out over the assembly. The Lieutenant did not hear. Becla did not answer, but it was clear she was struggling to hold back her laughter.

  It would be bad if the Lieutenant noticed her. He might report them immediately.

  The new-jack beside her was exuding horror at Becla's obvious insubordination. Without moving, he seemed to be putting as much distance between them as possible, movement was also not allowed at POA (Position Of Attention). It was kind of like a pulling back into himself. Then did Lan almost laugh out loud.

  Fresh green new-jacks seldom understood the necessity for unity against authority. They thought the Corps actually cared about them. Not in this man's Space Corps. Not the Infantry, anyway. They were cannon fodder, and the cannons were hungry.

  The speech ended. There was a short pause while all saluted the colors, the white stars on the black background that was the Space Corps' Service flag, and beside it, the solid red of the Federation of Human Worlds, broken only by the Old Earth insignia in the upper left corner. They held the salutes for one minute, then were ordered into their Transports. The Lieutenant stepped in front of Lan and Becla as they approached the Transport.

  "Is this an example of the behavior I can expect from the two of you?" He demanded, shoving his face so close to Becla's that the brim of his helmet knocked her own askew. Spittle flew into her face.

  "No Sir." They both said in unison. Scorn dripped from Lan's words. Adhering to the letter of the rules still left leeway. The Lieutenant pretended not to notice.

  "You two fucking heroes aren't going to last long with attitudes like those."

  "No Sir." They both said. The Brass had not been able to say this time that the Squad was all new, not with both of them being heroes of the last engagement.

  "How did a couple of fuck ups become heroes in the first place, and why did they have to put you in my Squad?"

  "I don't know." They both said. It was the standard answer when a CO was chewing your ass. They weren't expected to answer, just to stand there and take it.

  "Get your fucking worthless asses on the Transport. You'll both be on Report when we return!"

  Lan did not mention that this was a good way to get dead. Such Officers often died of friendly fire.

  Becla jumped to follow his order. Lan moved more slowly. He would save his jumping for when the hatch popped. Then they would see someone moving.

  When his harness snapped into place, and the rear hatch sealed, with the pressurization felt in his ear drums telling him they were now sealed away from the atmosphere of Nemesis, Lan unclipped his blast rifle from its wall bracket, toggled its safety switch, heard it whine as it charged, and felt as ready as he was possibly ever going to be.

  "Just happy to be here." Lan said. Everyone looked, but no one spoke. The Lieutenant was too angry to get anything out. He had turned bright red again. Speaking was not allowed.

  "Where do they get these people?" Lan asked Becla. She was horrified and kept looking straight ahead. "Moral indignation is no survival trait." He now commented, but he was talking to the Officer, whom he was now also staring straight at.

  Lan did not highly rate the man's survival ratio. Well, they came and they went. The Transport lifted from the deck underneath them. They were on their way.

  The Transport settled back to the deck with a bump. Everyone was looking confused. Lan no less so. The rear hatch hissed open and settled slowly to the deck of the dock. They could open slowly, if you wanted them to. Standing beyond the now open hatchway was a Major General and his Colonel Orderly. They were both breathing heavily, as if they had just finished running here. Lan couldn't imagine what they could want. Not with any of these new-jacks.

  "Sorry Lieutenant." The Major General said as he strolled to the base of the hatch-ramp, the Orderly like a well-trained dog at his side. "I hate to short change you, but I have a change of orders here. I'll be taking Lan Carter with me. This one here." The Major General pointed Lan out, a relatively simple matter, since Lan was at the very rear of the Transport, where he had insisted he be placed. "He comes with us."

  "You're more than welcome to him." The Lieutenant said haughtily, obviously glad to be rid of a man he considered a liability.

  The Major General turned slightly to look at his Orderly, a speculative look on his face. The Lieutenant missed the Major General's connotation however, but the Colonel did not.

  "What did he do?" Sneered the Lieutenant.

  "None of your business!" The Colonel snapped instantly, a man cut of the same cloth as the Major General, Lan now realized; lean, competent, and distinctly unimpressed by the Lieutenant. "Did you request permission to speak!"

  "No Sir." The abashed Lieutenant muttered.

  "I can't hear you." The Colonel said.

  "No Sir!" The Lieutenant shouted out.

  "Then why were you speaking?"

  "I don't know, Sir."

  "Of course you don't." The Major General now said. "Because you are an idiot. You'll get this whole Squad killed, I recko
n. I should shoot you now."

  "Yes Sir." The Lieutenant said. He looked crushed.

  "Forget the Book, Lieutenant." The General now said. "It's not worth the carbon it's written on. Try not to get everyone killed, would you. Carry on."

  "Yes Sir." The Lieutenant agreed. Surprisingly, to Lan, he appeared to be thinking about what he had been told.

  The Major General looked at Lan; "Special Orders, son. You're coming with us. Let's move."

  "No Sir." Lan said. "Not without my partner, Sir."

  There was a stunned surprise inside the Transport, though to Carter's eye neither the Major General nor his Orderly seemed overly so.

  "Which is your partner, Carter, we haven't all day." The Orderly said. Lan half expected the Major General to take offense at his Orderly's presumptiveness, but he was wrong, it was also exactly what the Major General wanted.

  Lan indicated her. "Corporal Becla Hudnit, Sir. Won't leave without her, Sir."

  Becla was looking stunned. By the expression on her face, she might have thought the sky was about to fall, as difficult as that would be, in space.

  "All right." The Major General said, to a gasp of shock and outrage from the Lieutenant.

  "This is an outrage, Sir!" The Lieutenant said.

  "Yes it really is." The Major General said to his Orderly, but the topic of conversation was not as the Lieutenant had meant for it to be. This time the Lieutenant did not miss the gist of the conversation, and petulantly looked away.

  "Move out soldiers." The Colonel said, and Lan was out of his harness and standing in the dock. Becla moved almost as quickly.

  "Secure those weapons." The Colonel said. As one, they clicked the safety switches, then the Colonel spoke into the communicator on his lapel; "Cleared for departure."

  The Transport sealed herself and lifted silently from the deck of the dock. Smoothly yet rapidly it moved away, sliding sideways until it had rotated its bow forward, its linear delineation in no way a factor of its ability to move in any direction, at any time.