Rita hugged me in a fierce grip. “Let me know what you're doing as soon as you can. Please,” she whispered. I could barely hear her.
“I will.” I had no idea when that would be. I knew that as soon as we reported, a military suppressor program would be placed in our phones, requiring a code before communication outside militia channels was possible. We parted and a minute later I drove away, watching in the rear view mirror until I rounded a corner, and they disappeared from my sight.
Captain Rhymes was well organized. Our phones were adjusted and mission orders inserted as we and other students and faculty were funneled through the one geodome entrance left accessible, like sand through an hourglass.
Inside, tables were set up, loaded with mounds of sausage biscuits from McDonald's. It was a nice touch, I thought, but Medford Rhymes was an old retired Marine colonel. He probably knew exactly what he was doing. We each grabbed a handful and wandered over to seat ourselves in the stands among the troops, greeting a few here and there as we recognized classmates and professors. After we were seated, I glanced around the crowd. I saw people I would never have guessed were licensed gun carriers. And there were a few people I could think of who I was sure were licensed but who weren't there.
We were all reserve militia, of course. The regulars, the ones who were trained, were probably already on duty somewhere. I wondered what they would find for us to do. I soon found out.
Captain Rhymes glanced at his old-fashioned wristwatch and decided that it was time to begin. He stared up at us, standing with his feet planted apart and hands on hips, resplendent in a crisply pressed militia uniform like our own except for twin silver lightning streaks painted on each shoulder of his shirt. His weathered face held not even a hint of humor.
“Give me your attention.” He spoke in a deep, firm voice. Most of us shut up, but there were still a few whisperers. Abruptly all our phones screeched, a high sound like a fingernail scraping a blackboard. We shut up. I didn't know how he made the phones make that sound, but it got results.
Rhymes waited a moment for utter silence before speaking. No greetings, no homilies.
“You people have been called in as backup for the regular militia. Those troops are already on duty along the border between Old and North cities. Our primary mission is to guard the campus of North Houston College and vital installations nearby in order to prevent damage. Our secondary mission is to preserve access to the s—the gate located here on campus.” That was the only miscue of his short statement. Almost certainly he had started to call it “the sex gate,” then reconsidered.
He continued, “Our tertiary mission is to preserve order within the confines of our assigned areas.” Here he paused for a moment to transmit a map of the area we would be responsible for to our phones.
“I have selected squad and platoon leaders based on my review of your personnel files.” At the words “squad” and “platoon,” a dozen or so phones among the crowd notified the honorees. To my surprise, my phone beeped, and said, “Jackson Stuart. squad leader, third squad, third platoon.” I glanced at Donna seated at my side. She grinned. I squirmed. I had only a vague notion of military organization, gleaned from the data given to me after I got my carrier's license. I made a note to pull up the file and review it at the first opportunity.
Rhymes voice took on a stern note. “I am your company commander. As commander, it is my duty to remind you that you are all under military discipline. Orders from squad and platoon leaders are to be obeyed without question. Failure to do so may result in a summary court-martial. If you are convicted, you will be shot by a firing squad or such other punishment as I may direct."
That sobered us up in a hurry. Firing squad? What had I gotten myself into? I vowed to pay very particular attention to anything said by him and whoever my superior in the third platoon was. I had no idea what kind of orders a squad leader was expected to give, but decided to save that question for another time. Right now the captain was speaking.
He pointed to entrances below the stands, out of sight from where we were sitting, and sounded off. “First platoon, muster at entrance A, second platoon, entrance B, third platoon entrance C, and fourth platoon entrance D. Now. Dismissed.” A medley of phone voices sounded.
Donna and I were both assigned to the third platoon, though in different squads. We hurried down the steps, looking for entrance C. This was our first order, and I was determined to show prompt obedience.
I knew our platoon leader, though I didn't recognize him immediately; he had been a female the last time I saw him. It wasn't until after he had led us up a ramp and into the alcoves of an abandoned refreshment stand that it finally dawned on me. Then he introduced himself. Randy Grayson, formerly Randi Grayson, had been in several classes with me. I remembered her as a tall blonde girl with a plain face and slender figure. She had been an outstanding student in every class. I hoped that wasn't what they were using as criteria for leadership positions.
While she outlined our platoon's area of responsibility, I wondered what had induced her to change her sex. Illness? Accident? Impromptu bravado such as Don had shown when the gates first appeared? I decided not to ask.
Third platoon was tasked with guarding the gate located on the edge of the campus, McDonald's, a few other nearby businesses, and several blocks of rental homes on that side of the campus.
We headquartered in a row of commandeered homes on the outer perimeter of our area, not as fancy as I was used to, but probably better than most lower-ranking soldiers enjoyed. Randy kept us all together on the front yard of the home he had chosen for our headquarters for three hours, giving us rudimentary lessons in squad and platoon tactics, probably learned a few hours before from Captain Rhymes. After that, he assigned houses to each squad and told the squad leaders to report back to him in a half hour.
I had twenty-three men and women assigned to me, and had about as much notion of what to do with them as a kid with a set of toy soldiers. About the only thing I got accomplished in that half hour was breaking up a couple of arguments about who got to sleep where. Five minutes ahead of time, I hurried back to see what the new Mr. Randy Grayson had in mind.
Not much, it turned out. He simply wanted to meet us personally and get the guard posts entered in our phones. Grayson told us to call him Randy (for some obscure reason, there were no militia ranks in the reserves below captain), then told us official guard duty would begin at 0800 (eight in the morning in civilian terms). My squad drew the third rotation, naturally, which would put on from midnight until eight the next morning. One squad rotated as reserve, on call as needed, and was to be inserted into the rotation so that each squad's hours of duty would change every couple of days.
Once our meeting was over with, I hurried back to our house, brimming with responsibility and with no clear idea of how to carry it out. For the next few hours, I tried to get acquainted with my troops and studied the military lore I had downloaded into my phone.
* * * *
That first night I stood with my weapon and started at shadows and barking dogs. I damn near shot Captain Rhymes as he was making rounds before he identified himself. He didn't get angry; pleased was more like it. He spoke to me for a couple of minutes before moving on. The four hours seemed endless.
The next morning Randy called me on the carpet. Squad leaders weren't required to stand guard themselves. Their responsibility was to pick a sergeant of the guard and have him make rounds to see that everyone else was awake. Squad leaders were supposed to remain at their headquarters and stay alert for trouble. No one had told me this in the hurry to get us organized.
As it turned out, Captain Rhymes wasn't nearly the martinet he first appeared to be. He had simply wanted to establish his authority. Once that was settled, he was friendly, but maintained a definite distance and never let an opportunity pass to emphasize in little ways how important strict obedience and quick reaction to orders could be. He was a real commander; he learned all the names of my squad
members before I did and began greeting us by name. He only made a round of the outposts once each night; during the day he gave classes in military tactics to the off squads. Some of the troops grumbled, but I didn't mind; it helped with the boredom. There weren't any screens in the commandeered homes, whether by accident or design I never found out, but it made for long days and nights. What news we got was dispensed at the head of his lectures or demonstrations, or at squad and platoon briefings each day.
I wondered how soldiers could spend years doing this sort of thing between wars. Several days passed with nothing happening to break the monotony, not even a paper book to read. Then all hell broke loose.
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* * *
Chapter Fourteen
Perhaps there was a reason for not letting the green troops listen to any news, but if so, it was a mistake. We might not have been taken so utterly by surprise if we had known what was happening in Old Houston. The rampaging Fourth Worlders made up a majority of the population of Old Houston, and without the army or National Guard troops there to back them up, the police and Gaters were overwhelmed, driven back, chased off, taken prisoner or simply executed after surrendering. Within a couple of days, the rioters controlled all the gates and most of the territory in the city. It might have been possible to negotiate with them had they stopped while they were ahead; it had happened before. They didn't stop, though. Flushed with success, their leaders decided to invade North Houston and capture it as well.
In fact, their invasion was well planned, with picked objectives to capture, like the power plant, police headquarters, and the university grounds. But all I knew about at the time was the battle my squad faced.
We were on guard for the four-to-midnight shift. The first indication of trouble was a popping noise in the far distance, sounding like an erratic drumbeat. It was several moments before I realized I was hearing gunfire. I considered reporting the noise to Randy, but decided against it, assuming he could hear it as well as me. I didn't stop to think that he might be sleeping. The other squad and platoon leaders were as inexperienced as me and made the same mistake.
Soon a shout came in over my phone, and I realized trouble was brewing.
“Movement, post five!"
“Movement, post seven!"
I didn't know what I was supposed to do. All I could think of was to get in touch with the sergeant of the guard. I got his circuit up. “Bill? Bill?"
There was no answer. By then, he was already dead. A rattle of gunfire overrode the distant drumming, and I heard someone shouting, “We're being hit! Danny—ugghh.” His voice faded away.
Fear knifed through me and my mind froze. It took a moment to remember what I was supposed to do. The reserve squad! They were there for backup and on duty with Randy. My hands were shaking so hard that it took me three tries to get the right circuit.
“Randy, squad three! We're under attack!"
“Get on it,” he said. “Stay in contact and report back. I'll have the reserves ready."
He should have already been sending the reserve squad forward, but he was no more a soldier than I was. I thumbed the safety off my rifle, checked to see that my little handgun was in its holster and ran out the door. Posts five and seven were the only ones which had reported in, but loud sharp cracks and muzzle flashes told me that at least some of the other guard posts were in action. Not knowing what else to do, I ran toward five, a house on the corner of one of the blocks of homes.
I was across the street, running upright, when a shadowy figure emerged from around the corner of the house and stumbled in my direction. I skidded to a halt and saw the figure fall to the ground as if pole-axed. Moonlight illuminated four or five more. One stopped, aimed a pistol point-blank at the prone figure and fired twice. All that saved me was the light from the full moon. I could see that they weren't militia.
I raised my rifle and fired in a blind panic, emptying a whole clip. One man fell while the others dropped to the earth seeking cover. I ran back the way I had come, got behind a house across the street and began running through the backyard parallel to the street, looking for any members of my squad. Never had I felt so completely alone.
I collided with someone as I broke through a hedge into the next yard. I was grappling him to the ground when I recognized his face. It was one of my guards. I pulled him down beside me behind the hedge.
“Gil, where is everyone?” More gunfire erupted, all up and down the street.
“Don't know. Francis is dead. What do we do now?"
Randy's voice came over my phone just then. “Third squad, report!"
I took a deep breath. “I have at least two dead. I think five, six, and seven have had it. I'm at, uh, nine, I think. One survivor here."
“They're trying to roll you up from the end. Pull your men back toward the higher-numbered posts and try to make a stand. Reserve squad is on the way."
Higher numbered? With two guards per post we only had twelve. Were they all gone already?
“Acknowledged!” I touched Gil on the shoulder. “Come on. Back this way."
We ran hunched over. I heard whipping noises passing scant inches above my head as we angled for the alley. I peeked from behind a garage, saw no one in sight and began running, trying to remember to count houses so that we could stop at each post. Ten was deserted. I picked up the guards at eleven, and we joined the other two at twelve. All the time, the crackle of gunfire rose and fell, coming in erratic waves of sound. I arranged us in a semblance of a firing line behind a rock garden and gazebo, and reported back to Randy.
“We're at twelve. I have five effectives."
“Okay, hold tight there. You'll have company in a moment. Remember the password."
The password! My mind groped for the answer. Boots stamped the pavement behind us, and I shouted it out into the dark. I raised my rifle, ready to fire if the proper response didn't come back. When it did, I remembered to breath again.
The reserve squad spread out on either side of us in time to respond to a burst of gunfire. When I tried to fire back, all I got was a click of the firing pin. I had never replaced the empty clip.
I've tried my best to forget what happened during the next day or two. I found out that I'm not a brave person, nor a good leader, either. As soon as Captain Rhymes took command of the situation, we began to rout the rioters, but that didn't keep my gut from twisting with fear every time he ordered an advance, nor did it stop me from shivering as I relayed his or Randy's orders to my squad members, knowing that death lurked in every sentence.
I vomited twice as we pushed back up the street and found the bodies of men and women I had been talking to only hours before lying where they had fallen when their posts were captured. We found only two more of my squad alive; a man and woman who had holed up in the top floor of a two-story home and fought from there.
Seeing the bodies sprawled like bloody broken dolls enraged my fellow militia members, turning them into merciless killers. I was torn with worry about Donna. If she had been killed, I wasn't sure I would want to live.
Captain Rhymes ran by once. He halted for a moment to point out a center of resistance he wanted attacked, then went on. I shouted at his back, thinking he must know if Donna was still alive. He went on without answering, ducking and weaving.
Our company contained the invaders and then slowly enveloped them with flanking attacks orchestrated by Rhymes. By midmorning we had them in a pocket where they couldn't retreat. Most of them surrendered, leaving only a few holdouts. Rhymes called in a police helicopter with sound bombs. It only took one to finish them off. My ears hurt for days afterward.
It was late afternoon, nearing dusk, before I was able to find out anything about Donna, even though she was part of the militia company.
Half the company was relieved, third and fourth squad, while the rest remained on alert in case of another incursion. We could still hear fighting not too far away. I ordered the four men I had left to repleni
sh their ammunition and to get something to eat, then scooped up some more clips for my rifle (I had never fired the pistol) and went looking, dreading what I might find.
She wasn't with the relieved squads. I ran back toward the front, my heart trying to jump out of my throat. A few inquiries told me she wasn't on duty, either.
“Try the treatment area. If she's not there, check the morgue,” Dr. Rawlings, one of my old professors, suggested, his voice ragged with exhaustion. His beard was matted with blood, whether his own or his patients’ I couldn't say.
Oh, Lord, no.
I stood there, stunned, rifle drooping from my hand. “What, I mean, where...” I couldn't say it.
“The geodome.” Rawlings pointed, seeing my confusion. I left at a fast walk, without even a thank you. Soon I began to trot, then run. I was gasping for breath by the time the white, section-walled dome came into sight.
I grabbed the first medic I spotted standing among a row of cots. After calming me down, he led me to where Donna lay. Her face was as white as paste.
Fear gripped my heart and tears sprang to my eyes, blurring my vision. I leaned over Donna. She was motionless with her eyes closed. I reached out to touch her face. She blinked, and focused her gaze on me.
“Lee? Is that really you?” She reached up to touch me.
“Yes, yes,” I sobbed, openly and unashamed. Donna sighed, withdrew her hand and closed her eyes again. I looked at the medic, lifting my eyebrows in an unspoken question. He drew me a short distance away.
“She'll be okay. She's in shock. I gave her a shot a few minutes ago."
“What happened?"
“There was some close-in fighting in her squad. She was forced to shoot someone she knew, an old girlfriend who decided to help the Fourth Worlders."
“God damn it!” I had never stopped to think after the militia call-up that some of the people of North Houston would actually take the side of the Fourth Worlders. But it happened.
I stayed at Donna's side until she slipped into a deep sleep from the shot. I kept shifting my eyes away from draped figures lying on the turf in another section of the geodome. They didn't look big enough to be human, but I knew they were.
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