Supposedly, the cells were private with no monitoring. Rev didn’t believe that for a second, but unless the lieutenant wanted to plan a coup and take over the Council, he didn’t think that whatever AI was monitoring them would flag anything said.
“Sure, come in.”
Rev got off the chair and sat on the edge of his rack. There wasn’t enough clearance for him to sit upright, so he leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
The lieutenant took Rev’s chair and looked around the cell. “Shit, I’m never going to complain about my cell again. This is like a coffin.”
“Can I get you a drink, sir? I’ve got a couple of Teks.”
He perked up. “Really? What’re they like?”
Rev reached over his head and into the shelf there, pulled down a Tek pouch, popped it into the small cooler by the sink, and gave it ten seconds. The cooler chimed, and he pulled it out before tossing it to the lieutenant.
“You tell me.”
Tek flowed through the veins of the Osnovnoy Alyanz. It was based on an old Russian bread-based drink called kvass. There were evidently several copycats, but Tek was the first and most popular. It could be found on New Hope if one looked hard enough, but Rev had never tried it there. Seeing cases of it in the corridor mini-exchange, and now being in the company of Cossack troopers, he thought he’d give it a try.
The lieutenant popped the straw, sniffed the opening, then took a swallow. His face twisted in disgust, and he leaned over to Rev’s sink and spit it out.
“Wow! Give me a Coke any day.”
Rev shrugged. It wasn’t that bad, but it sure wasn’t good. “Yeah, and I bought a twelve pack.”
The lieutenant raised his eyebrows.
“It was the smallest pack they had.”
“That’s because they know if we tried one, we’d never buy another. So, I take it you have ten left?”
Rev nodded.
“Just toss them. And, sorry about your sink. I didn’t mean to poison it.”
“No problem, sir. So . . . what do you want to talk about?”
The frown came back, and the lieutenant took a deep breath to gather himself. “This is . . . I don’t know if this is appropriate.”
Rev waited.
“I’m wondering if I belong here,” he finally said.
“What do you mean, sir?”
“I don’t know shit. I mean, compared to my troopers. My platoon sergeant is a Mad Dog—not one of their karnans, but a regular one. He’s made it very clear that I’m worthless and that he’s gonna be running the platoon.”
“I must be missing something here, sir. He’s a platoon sergeant, and you’re the commander.”
“But he’s right. He’s got campaign ribbons out the wazoo, and me . . . I don’t know what you know about me. I got hit twenty minutes into my first fight. On Echo Junction. CASEVAC’d out. Never even fired my weapon. Then there was the invasion of New Hope and then us going to Earth. That’s it. I really don’t have much in the way of experience, and everyone in my platoon, every single trooper, has more combat time than me.”
Rev pursed his lips, not knowing what to say—and he was feeling extremely uncomfortable.
“Sir, with all due respect, maybe you should be talking to the major, or maybe the gunny? Or even General Platte?”
Major Liege was the only other IBHU officer and the unofficial leader of the rest. Gunnery Sergeant Poole was the senior enlisted IBHU Marine.
“I thought about that. But . . .”
“But?”
“They’re regular Corps,” he got out in a rush. “Not from New Hope.”
The response surprised Rev, but maybe it shouldn’t. Rev had barely spent any time with the major and gunny yet, and they could be great Marines for all he knew. But there was a difference between the regular Corps and the more numerous, but perhaps not as well outfitted, provincial Corps throughout the Union. At least before the war, that is. During the war, Rev thought that if the New Hope Marines were any indication, the provincials more than carried their own weight.
It was supposed to be one Marine Corps, but the fact was that many in the regular Corps thought they were better than the provincials, and most provincials carried a bit of a chip on their shoulders because of that.
But that didn’t mean that Rev knew what to tell the lieutenant. As a SNCO, he knew, in a general sense, that one of his missions was to guide, advise, and teach junior officers. But he’d never been in that situation before. In the first place, the Raiders tended to receive more experienced or prior-enlisted lieutenants. In the second place, Rev had just made staff sergeant, and during his time with the Raiders, there had always been SNCOs to take that responsibility.
Looking at the lieutenant, however, he knew he had to do something. As an IBHU Marine, the lieutenant was one of the more powerful military individuals in existence, but if he was suffering from confidence, then that capability was wasted.
His mind raced as he tried to figure out what to do.
“What’s this guy’s rank?” he asked, more to give him some time than because it would help.
“I don’t know what they call it. But he’s got the light-yellow tab like you do. So, a staff sergeant.”
There’s one problem.
“Punch, what do the Mad Dogs call their staff sergeant equivalents again?”
“Lieutenant, I know we use Army ranks in the Guard, but when you address him in private, show him the respect to call him by his real rank, over sergeant.”
The lieutenant let out a huff of air in almost dismay. “So, I need to show him more respect? Isn’t that going to add more fuel to the fire?”
“No. I don’t think so. But calling him by his rank helps set the boundaries within his own understanding of the military hierarchy. When you call him staff sergeant, all you’re doing is reinforcing the fact that you two are not from the same services. And you know the Mad Dogs. They already think they’re the Mother’s gift to humanity.”
Shit. Where the heck did all of that come from?
But as soon as he said it, he thought he was right. It wasn’t the answer to the lieutenant’s situation, but it could help form the foundation.
“OK, sir. Answer me this. Has he blatantly refused an order?”
“No. Not really. But it’s his condescending attitude, his ‘Don’t worry, Lieutenant, I’ll handle this,’ or ‘You just worry about officering and leave the rest to me.’ I mean, really? I’m supposed to turn the platoon over to him? And if I say no to something, or if I want to do something, he always reminds me that I don’t have the experience that he does, so I don’t know how to get things done.”
The experience thing was something that Rev couldn’t fix. It was true that the lieutenant, while not a combat cherry, was not as experienced as most of the troopers in the Guard. All of them were supposed to be the respective creams of the crop from their services, so it made sense that almost all of them had extensive combat experience.
The lieutenant had been selected not for his combat experience, however, but rather because he had an IBHU. Four of the other IBHU Marines, PFC Marie del Mar from New Hope and three from the regular Corps, were in the same situation as well, but none of them had been placed in a leadership position.
He understood the lieutenant’s feelings. Heck, he had a little of the imposter syndrome himself. Sure, he’d killed that paladin on Preacher Rolls before his IBHU, but that had been more luck than anything else. Since then, what he relied on was the hunk of tech he hung on his shoulder. But feeling unqualified or not, the lieutenant was in the billet, and he had to step up to the plate and swing away.
“Sir, and I say this with all due respect, put on your big boy pants and put away the crying towels.”
The lieutenant jerked his head back in surprise.
Well, if all you wanted was a shoulder to cry on, you came to the wrong person.
“Sure, you don’t have the experience that some, maybe most o
f the troopers here have, but it isn’t like you’re a combat cherry. You got your arm blown off in one fight and helped turn back the tin-asses on New Hope. You were there on the Mother for the last engagement, too.”
The lieutenant grimaced at that last statement.
Dumb move, Reverent.
The lieutenant’s team had killed their Centaurs, just like most of the rest of the teams sent to the home planet. If not for Rev and the MDS lieutenant, Earth would probably just be gravel floating in space right now. So, Rev had just reminded him of his poor judgment.
“But experience or not, you’ve got one thing on your side. You’ve got those butter bars on your shoulder, and that means the Union put its trust in you to lead Marines. And now you’re with the Home Guard. Do you have the breadth of experience that other people have? No. Heck, PFC Randigold has more. But she isn’t an officer. Neither am I. You are.
“So, act like an officer. You command your platoon, not some Mad Dog over sergeant. He’s subordinate to you, and the Home Guard backs that.”
“But—”
“No buts, sir. I’m not saying ignore your platoon sergeant. That experience he has is worth a lot. But the decisions are yours, not his to make. If he makes a suggestion—and put it in your mind that no matter how he expresses it, no matter his wording or tone, whatever he says is just that, a suggestion—then you tell him you’ll consider it. If you don’t like the suggestion, then don’t take it. Tell him you’re doing it another way. And if you think it’s a good suggestion, then make it your decision, not his. You give the orders.”
Rev stopped and tried to see how the lieutenant was taking it. He was right, he was sure about it, but the “crying towel” comment might have been too much.
“Well. I’m not sure I expected that,” he said.
Rev lowered the intensity. “Look, you’re a good platoon commander. Yeah, a little rough around the edges, and you worry too much about how your Marines perceive you. But you did fine during the invasion.”
The lieutenant looked surprised at his comments.
“Oh, you don’t think we enlisted have our own mafia, and we don’t check out our officers?” Rev asked with a laugh. “You’re an IBHU Marine, and we’ve got more than the Brotherhood of Steel going on. Of course, I’m going to find out.
“My point is that you’re no greener than any other butter bar. Not even that green. You’ve tasted combat. Yeah, you’ve got a lot to learn, but so do all of us. I sure do. The tactics will come. But what has to be there now is the authority of command. I don’t mean your commissioning certificate. I mean that steel inside of you that deserves command authority.”
He paused for a moment. “My second Raider platoon commander, Captain Omestori, he reported in as a butter bar. He was so green it hurt. The rest of us, we didn’t know if he was going to work out. But he had two things going for him. First, he did everything in his power to support us. He even offered to throw away his career to fight for me over some awards bullshit. But second, while he asked for Top Thapa’s opinions, and he asked us sometimes for input, too, every time, when it came down to it, he made the decision.
“I can’t speak for anyone else, but for me, I’d rather have a commander who might make some mistakes along the way than some wishy-washy spineless toad who can’t make a decision.”
“And I’m a wishy-washy spineless toad, Staff Sergeant?”
“Oh, no, sir. I didn’t mean it like that.”
The lieutenant waved off the protest. “Maybe I am.” He let out a huge sigh.
Rev watched the lieutenant closely. He hadn’t meant to be insulting, but what he said fit the bill. The question was how the lieutenant was going to take it. But as he watched, he could see the resolve take over the officer’s eyes, he could see the man sit up straighter.
“Damn it, you’re right. I am the fucking platoon commander, not him. If he doesn’t want to follow my orders, well, I can court-martial his ass.”
Oh, shit! What have I created?
“Um, sir, you might want to think twice about—”
“Don’t worry, Staff Sergeant Pelletier, I’m just blowing off a little steam. I’m not going to go refer him to a court. I don’t even know how that would work in the Guard. I’m just saying, he’s got to understand that I’m in command.
“I . . . I knew that, of course. I don’t know why I was letting him run over me. So, thank you for reminding me.”
“They tell me that’s what a SNCO is supposed to do, sir,” Rev said with a smile.
“So, you passed that test, then. And I guess I needed it.” He looked around the cell and said, “I didn’t mean to take up your free time. I’ll leave you to whatever it was you were doing.”
He stood up, and Rev followed. The two took up most of the space.
“Sir, it might take a bit of time. Just be firm, but fair. And if you need to talk to someone, unofficial like, you know, out of your chain of command, I’m here. And not just about this matter. Anything.”
The lieutenant smiled and said, “I’ll try not to depend on you. I’ve got to lead on my own, right? But thanks for the offer. I may take you up on that sometime.”
He raised his social arm. “Brothers in steel?”
“Brothers in steel,” Rev said, clanking arms together.
Rev watched the lieutenant as he strode back down the corridor. It could have been Rev’s imagination, but he could have sworn that the officer was walking straighter, his shoulders back. The lieutenant was green, but Rev thought he had potential. How he grew into his role, how his steel was forged, would be the difference between making general someday or washing out early. To listen to the other SNCOs, a lot of that depended on the staff sergeants, gunnies, and first sergeants who made the first few hammers on their steel, forming the basic blade.
Rev had no idea if he’d handled that correctly. He wished Top Thapa was there, or even Master Guns Tuala. But like he’d told the lieutenant, sometimes, you just had to step up to the plate and swing away.
14
“Two more,” Rev said as Ting-a-ling struggled. “You can do it.”
The Frisian got one more rep, but his arms failed him on the next one, and Rev had to help him get it racked.
“Nice job,” Rev told him as the Frisian sat up and stretched his arms across his chest, one after the other.
“Thought I was going to pop something there.”
The weight room was packed. Every trooper had to spend six hours per week lifting weights unless they were out in the field training. The room was set to Earth-normal, and it could be adjusted up to Earth 1.4 if needed. Anything beyond that had to be in one of the rotating High G Training arms that could go up to 3 G. That would be on the high side, however. The highest gravity world the Home Guard had ever deployed to was Permission, a dense mining world that came in at 2.2 Earth normal. It was only after that the Home Guard authorized six of the High G Training arms.
“I guess you’re up. Another eighty kilos?” Ting-a-ling asked with a wistful hint in his voice.
Rev had been about to say six more plates, or 120 kilos, but he quickly changed that to eighty. No use making Ting-a-ling feel bad. Not that he should feel bad, but Rev could see he was bothered.
The Frisian Mantle had been at the forefront of banning the augmentations that led to the Genesians, the Deimers, and the Corolla Wars. Because of that, Frisian Host soldiers had minimal modifications such as getting eyesight corrected and having medinanos monitoring their health. Ting-a-ling was a veritable stud when compared to most people, but he couldn’t compete strength-wise with someone like Rev.
It wasn’t just in brute strength. Rev couldn’t miss seeing that Ting-a-ling had been out of breath at Machu Picchu.
He respected his friend’s abilities as a warrior—Ting-a-ling had embarrassed him more than once during force-on-force training. But it had to grate on him when he saw the immediate advantage that medical science gave Union Direct Combat Marines, MDS soldiers, and at least p
ortions of half of humanity’s military forces.
Of course, he’ll be at my funeral when I croak from the rot.
Rev pushed that thought—which had started to creep up on him more and more often—out of his mind and lay down on the bench. He gripped the barbell with his social arm first, then once that was firmly in place, reached up with his organic arm. He adjusted his back so that his shoulder blades were flat against the bench and started his set of ten reps.
Two hundred and sixty kilos were nothing for him, but he let slip a few soft grunts. He hoped Ting-a-ling wouldn’t realize they were thrown in for his sake. He set the barbell back and sat up. Rotating his left arm around the shoulder wasn’t for show, though. With the oversized sleeve necessary to support Pashu, the connection to his social arm wasn’t seamless, and Daryll had told him to perform the movement any time he put stress on the junction to make sure the seating was lined up.
“I thought you combat oners were supposed to be strong.”
Rev turned to his right. Kvat was standing by Over-Gunner/Corporal Wymont, an MDS karnan assigned to Second Platoon, who looked like he’d just finished a set.
Kvat was smiling, but there was a glint in his eye that told Rev there was more than a bit of a challenge to the comment. The MDS staff sergeant motioned for Wymont to get up. He put four more plates on the barbell—a quick glance told him there were twenty plates on the bar. At twenty kilos per plate and another thirty for the bar itself—this was an extended barbell, not a normal Olympic barbell—there were 430 kilos on the bar. Heavy, but doable for a Direct Combat Marine.
Kvat gave one last glance at Rev before he lay back, situated his hands, and pushed the barbell off of the stops. The weight of the plates bowed the bar. He brought the weights down and smoothly raised them.
Not bad. Not great, though.
Still holding them up, he turned his head to look at Rev, then keeping his eyes locked on him, he lowered the bar again to begin eight more reps. He dropped the barbell in the stops and sat up, a shit-eating grin on his face.
He couldn’t have been more clear. The gauntlet had been thrown.
An Uneasy Alliance: Book 4 of the Sentenced to War Series Page 12