“No more ‘boot,’ eh Turtle?” Noah said after the officers and SNCO’s shook their hands.
“You’ll always be a boot to me, Boot.” Turtle said. “I’m Old Corps, dontcha know.”
“Yeah, real Old Corps,” Noah said, reaching out with his hand. “Congrats, lance coolie.”
“You, too, PFC. You owe us a pitcher at the E-club tonight.”
“Hey, you do, too. And you’ve got the big E3 paycheck.”
“I guess you’re right. OK, you buy one, and I’ll buy one.”
“No way. You’re my senior non-rate. You need to lead by example. You buy first, then I’ll buy.”
Turtle laughed, then said, “OK, OK. You win. See you tonight after chow. I’ve got to go call the wife now, show off my new bling.”
Turtle was one of the few junior Marines in the company who was married. It wasn’t technically against regs, but the Corps made it difficult. Until a Marine made sergeant, spouses were not allowed to accompany their Marines, nor did the Corps provide housing or a marriage allowance. Not that it mattered much on the station. Orders to 1/16 were always unaccompanied, even for the battalion CO. Some Marines brought their spouses to the Station, but that was on their own dime, and life on the station was not cheap.
Turtle was not only married, but he had a kid, a year-old son. Noah couldn’t imagine being married and living apart from his wife. He’d seen first-hand how much it sucked. His mother was a strong woman, but with his father gone so often, things had been difficult, both for her and the kids.
Not that there was anything like that on Noah’s horizon. He hadn’t even been on a date since enlisting, and while a few fellow Marines had caught his eye, like Omaru, he probably wouldn’t have the nerve to approach any of them even if someone had expressed any interest.
“OK, tell her ‘hi’ from me.”
Noah had never met Turtle’s wife, not even to chat over the comms, but it seemed like the thing to say.
Uh, well, I’m going to the exchange to get my chevrons. You want me to pick up yours?” he asked Turtle.
“Nah, no need. I’ll pick them up later.”
Noah left the front of the classroom, thanked a few other Marines who congratulated him, and headed out of the training wing, making his way down two decks, past the library and chapel, to the small base exchange. It really wasn’t much of one as exchanges went. Noah had spent more than half of his life patronizing the huge main exchange on Tarawa, and while transiting to Earth, had twice visited the huge Navy exchange at Station 1, so large and wonderful that it was simply called “Nirvana” by everyone in the military or FCDC.
The small battalion exchange didn’t even have a name; the sign at the hatch simply said “Exchange.”
Inside, there was a limited selection of personal necessities as well and civilian clothing, electronics, and gift items. The selection was limited, but the prices were the same as back at Nirvana, kept that way by regulations. This meant that shaving cream and skivvies were cheaper than out in the station economy. A third of the exchange was taken up with military gear, though, both issue and non-issue. Noah went to the left side and up against the bulkhead where the medals and insignia were. His eyes barely lingered over the purple and gold BC3 medals—after Esther had been awarded hers, he had picked one up out of the rack, wondering what it would be like to wear one on his uniform. Now, he barely gave the medals a second thought. Instead, he went right to the insignia. He picked up three sets, then two sets of the larger shoulder chevrons. The gold chevron on the red background would go on both his Alphas and his Dress Blues, two uniforms he hadn’t even worn yet. He'd wear the Blues at the Marine Corps Birthday in two months, but he doubted he’d wear the Alphas before he’d hopefully pick up lance corporal. He considered simply not buying the second set and skipping the Alphas, but better safe than sorry.
Noah made his way back to the cashier, a young civilian who was buried in her PA. She didn’t seem to notice Noah until he plopped down his rank insignia.
Most stores at the station didn’t even have cashiers anymore. Purchases were selected and carried out. The scanners would note the item and automatically deduct the payment from the purchaser’s account. The Marine Corps, though, in keeping with Federal policy to increase employment, hired people to do some of these mundane tasks. Noah couldn’t imagine sitting in back of a reader for however many hours a day, but if it paid the bills, he figured it was worth it.
The young lady picked up the insignia and passed them over the scanner, not looking up at Noah.
“I just got promoted,” he said, just to break the silence.”
“That’s good,” she replied, obviously not meaning it.
It was hard to tell as she was sitting down, but Noah didn’t think she topped 150 cm. Her short strawberry blonde hair framed her round, freckled face, making it difficult for Noah to place her age. She looked up while Noah was staring at her, and he immediately dropped his gaze.
That was when he noticed her nametag, which read, M. Seek Grace.
“Are you a Torritite?” his asked, his surprise overcoming his normal shyness.
She looked up at him, her eyes guarded, as she said, “You’re not allowed to ask about religion, sir. My performance is the only thing that matters here.”
Shit! She thinks I’m prejudiced!
“No, I’m not meaning anything. It’s just, I didn’t think I’d find any Torritites way out here, and well, I know your name, it’s, I mean, it might not be Torritite, but it could, you know. . .I mean if it was, that’s. . .” he stumbled out as his face turned red.
“So why do you want to know?” she asked, her voice hard and cold as ice.
“It’s nothing bad, I mean. . .I. . .I’m Torritite!”
She looked at his nametag, then frowned.
“That not be a Torritite name,” she said, her voice slipping into an accent he knew well.
She is a Torritite!
“No, that’s my dad’s name. Lysander. Like in Ryck Lysander?”
She didn’t bat an eye.
She doesn’t know dad? Or mom? he wondered, surprised how anyone in human space couldn’t put it together.
“Uh, my mother was Hannah Hope-of-Life. From Prophesy.”
The dark suspicion faded from her eyes, and she said, “Oh, from Prophesy. I’m from Nova Esperança.”
Nova Esperança? There aren’t Torritites there.
She must have seen the confusion on his face, because she offered, “Not many of the followers in the favelas, not like on Prophesy or Uncle’s End, but there’s some.”
“So you are a Torritite!”
A gunny put a selection of geedunk on the counter, and Noah stepped back. Miss Seek Grace scanned the gunny’s items and placed them in a bag.
“So, how did you get here, all the way out on Wayfarer Station?” Noah asked when the gunny left.
Her eyes clouded over again, and she only said, “The Lord works in mysterious ways,” in a flat perfunctory voice.
Noah wasn’t completely attuned to social graces, but he knew he’d asked something raw.
“Uh, my name’s Noah. That’s what the ‘N’ is for,” he said, pointing at his nametag. “Noah Lysander.”
He held out his hand, and she took it with her right, and pointing to her own nametag with her left, said, “And I’m Miriam. That’s what the ‘M’ stands for.”
Her hand felt cool and soft in his, the lightest of butterfly touches, but at the same time, he could almost sense and underlying power, as if she could crush his hand if she wanted to. He held her hand a little longer than he should have, then released it suddenly as he realized that.
“I. . .I’ve got to go. But it was nice meeting you. I. . .I hope I’ll see you again.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Six days a week, four hours a day, right here.”
“Well, like I said, I’ve got to get going,” he said, wheeling about and hurrying out the hatch.
“Nice to meet you, too, N
oah Lysander,” she said to his retreating back, just loud enough for him to hear.
Chapter 24
Esther
“Hell, Leroy, are you blind?” Esther asked as she pulled open the door to the RCET.
A confused-looking Private Leroy Maltese turned to look back, saying, “I’m sorry, Lance Corporal. I didn’t see you.”
“So are you not going to ‘see me’ in a real battle? Are you going to shoot me in the back? Get your ass out of there, now!” she ordered, reaching in to grab the private by the collar and hauling him out.
Esther had been promoted to team leader two weeks ago, and she while she’d lose the team if a new corporal came aboard, she was bound and determined to make the team the best in the battalion in the meantime. That goal was becoming increasingly difficult given one Leroy Maltese. He might look the part of a Marine, but he had a brain the size of a sea slug.
They’d only been practicing a simply movement to contact, each Marine in the team in their own RCET cubical. As soon as a civilian child had appeared, Maltese had opened fire, missing the child, but hitting Esther in the back, rendering her KIA. Shit happens in war, and she should have let the other three Marines carry on, but she’d been so pissed off that she’d stopped the exercise. The civilian tech waited, a small look of disdain on her face, but Esther didn’t care. She had to deal with Maltese, and she’d worry about getting the tech to reset the exercise afterward.
If she had her druthers, she’d shitcan the hulking Marine, making him someone else’s problem. How he’d made it through boot and IUT was beyond her comprehension, and she had very little patience with incompetence.
I should have taken up the CO on his offer, she thought for the gazillionth time. All of this crap would be behind me now.
Turning the CO down had seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but it wasn’t making things any easier for herself. She counted to five, taking deep breaths on each number, calming herself. Maltese was her cross to bear, and if she were even half as competent as she thought she was, she’d be able to handle him.
“So tell me, why the hell did you even fire? That was a civilian child!”
“I thought it was the enemy. You told me to be alert.”
“You’ve got AI. You’ve got your eyes, for God’s sake! You can see she was a child.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“And if you thought she was the enemy, why did you shoot me?”
“My gun went off.”
“It just went off. And after Camp Charles, after IUT, you still call it a ‘gun,’ Maltese? Really?” How about using proper terminology?
“Look, we’re going to get back in and try this again. Yes, stay alert, but for God’s sake, make sure you identify your target. Got it?”
“Yes, Lance Corporal. Got it.”
She opened up the comms to tell Yadry and Wells, “We’re starting again. Stand by.”
Esther looked up at the tech, who was watching her with heavy-lidded eyes. She told Maltese to get back in his cubicle, then walked over to the tech to tell her they were starting over, and God help her if the civilian gave Esther any guff.
Soros Reach
Chapter 25
Nathan
“Look at that shit come down. Do they even have this much water on this fucking world?” Tad asked as he looked out the window.
“Evidently, yes,” Turtle said. “We can see it right there.”
“Fuck you, Turtle. You know what I mean.”
Noah understood Tad’s point. He’d never seen such torrential downpours in his life. The skies had to empty out of water at some point.
Pad-Man added, “Someone’s really going to have to pay for all of this.”
“Yeah, we know. That someone is FFW. It’s their fuck-up,” Princess said from where she was lying on the deck, feet propped on an old cushion, a skivvy shirt over her eyes.
“And not for the first time,” Noah said. “How does that company keep getting contracts?”
“Low bidder,” Princess said.
“Low bidder, but look at this! Look at us! Grubbing hell!” Noah groused.
“What do you care, Noah? Build yourself an ark,” Tad said.
“Har, har, har, like I haven’t heard that before,” Noah groused.
The company had been on Soros Reach for five days now, trying to assist in the humanitarian operations, and if Noah never heard another “Noah’s Ark” crack again, it would be none too soon.
He took another bite of gnocchi. He shouldn’t even call it gnocchi. He could make better in his sleep with both hands tied behind his back. But the food pack was labeled gnocchi, and the soft potatoey globs might be a distant relative to the real thing. It was better than the Ghost Shit, but just barely. He still didn’t understand why they couldn’t just use the local fabricators. The food would be edible, and they were here to help out, after all. But the Corps has strict regulations on what could and could not be sourced out of the local economy.
When the mission had first come up, Noah had been excited. It wasn’t combat, which was theoretically a good thing, but it still got him them off the station and out serving the citizens of the Federation. The reality of the situation hadn’t been nearly as positive. For five days, they’d built retaining walls, set up sandbags and foam barriers. As a PICS platoon, much of the heavy lifting had fallen to them. A PICS wasn’t designed with construction in mind, but it was still pretty effective at it.
As much as he liked being a PICS Marine, though, four days was a little long to be mounted. Ghost Shit, the high-energy gruel they ate while mounted, was excruciatingly bland, and the inability to get clean made Noah’s skin itch. It had been a welcomed relief when Sergeant Natakarn had led them into a supply shed for eight hours of stand-down. After switching out cold packs and recharging the suits, the Marines had washed naked in the rain, eaten from food packs, and stretched out on the floor for real sleep.
Those eight hours had stretched out to twelve, and Sergeant Orinda and a few of the rest were still sleeping while eight of them, including Noah, were awake and doing what Marines have done best since Ramses III’s Marines fought the Sea Peoples in the Battle of the Delta during 1175 BC—bitching.
The two line and Weapons Platoon had conducted actual evacuation operations, helping the civilians make it to the evac sites. First Platoon had been slave labor, trying to stem back the tide.
Not that they could. It was a commonly held maxim that planets had to be seduced into terraforming. They could not be forced. FFW had a reputation of under-bidding, and to reduce costs, they had a habit of forcing the process. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t. This was the fourth FFW world that had serious problems to the point of evacuation. The FFW spokesman assured them that this was temporary, that the planet would recover. Maybe so, but over 150,000 people had to be evacuated, more than 90% being pioneers who’d invested their life and savings to make a start on a new world.
Outside, the rain continued to pour down, beating out a tattoo on the roof. It was wearing on Noah, and he’d be glad when the operation concluded. He’d get his first ribbon, the Humanitarian Action Ribbon, out of the mission, but that was little consolation. Noah wasn’t very motivated by ribbons. He’d probably leave the battalion with two: the HAR and the Good Conduct. If he ever saw real combat, he would add the Combat Mission Medal. And that might even be all he had when his enlistment expired.
The Lieutenant’s voice came over Sergeant Natakarn’s PICS’ externals, from where it stood against the wall, an empty cicada husk.
“Tallyho-Three, this is Tallyho-Six. Stand by for a mission.”
All eyes swiveled as one to the squad leader’s PICS.
A few moments later, the lieutenant passed, “Sergeant Natakarn, we’ve got a report of a stranded stakeholder and family at GU4487-7342. They were on the D-freq at 4700, but there is no connection now. You’re the closest unit, so I want you to go see what you can do—if there is anything you can do. Sat photos
show the area is pretty much being swept away, and there is no sign of the family.
“I don’t want any of you to risk yourselves, but let’s see if they’re still alive.”
“Roger, that, Tallyho-Six. We’re on it.”
Noah felt a rush of excitement. He’d been bitching only a moment before, but given and actual mission, one where they might be able to help someone, had the effect of recharging his batteries. He wasn’t the only one. There was a palpable feeling of energy as Marines got up and started gathering their gear.
“You heard him!” Sergeant Natakarn shouted out. “Mount up!”
Most of the Marines had taken off their long johns and were either naked or in loose microfiber skivvies. Noah hated making sure all his parts were inserted into the various pockets that enabled Marines to piss and shit while in a PICS, so he had his long johns still on up to the waist with his torso bare. Still, it took him almost a minute to wriggle into the upper half of them. Sometimes he thought the long johns are more difficult that the PICS. He grabbed his gear, shoved them into the butt pack of his PICS, then did his Cirque de Soleil contortions to mount. The ingress hatch shut, and the familiar embrace of his lining closed in on him, connections seeking each other out until he was fully integrated. He performed his up-check, and all was green.
Sergeant Natakarn wasn’t ready yet. He had detached the PA readout from his PICS and was furiously entering data. Finally, he slammed it home, and darted behind his PICS to mount. Immediately, Noah’s display lit up with a map marked out to their objective.
Forty-three klicks? And we’re the closest unit?
Third squad was the farthest east from the main population center, almost 30 klicks out. If this stakeholder and his family were another 43 klicks farther, they were in the veritable boonies. Soros Reach was only in Stage 4 terraforming, open to initial and limited settlers for not quite two years now. Most of the current settlers were within 25 klicks of the three population centers, and given the lack of infrastructure, seventy-three klicks might as well be a thousand for all intents and purposes.
Legacy Marines (The United Federation Marine Corps' Lysander Twins Book 1) Page 15