A World of Hurt

by David Sherman

  Seconds later they saluted again as the FIST's composite squadron marched by. Then they saluted the artillery battery and the transportation company. The FIST headquarters company brought up the rear, and was saluted in its turn.

  "ATTENTION ON DECK!" Staff Sergeant Wang Hyakowa's call boomed loud enough to echo off the walls and reverberate the length of third platoon's squad bay.

  Corporal Rachman Claypoole, on his way back to his fire team's room from the squad leaders' quarters, was facing in the right direction to see for whom the platoon sergeant called attention. His face lit up and he repeated the call, "ATTENTION ON DECK!"

  Sergeant "Rat" Linsman, Claypoole's squad leader, was standing in the doorway of the squad leaders' quarters and saw the reason almost at the same time. "ATTENTION ON DECK!" he bellowed so quickly his voice and Claypoole's sounded almost as one.

  At the opposite end of the long passageway, Lance Corporal Isadore "Izzy" Godenov poked his head out of his fire team's room, snapped to attention, and echoed the cry.

  "AS YOU WERE, PEOPLE!" newly commissioned Ensign Charlie Bass roared. His face turned red. His men had snapped to attention for him before, but always because of respect for him personally--this was the first time Marines had been called to attention for his rank, and he wasn't sure he liked that.

  Then he saw the expressions and heard the voices of the Marines who boiled out of their rooms to crowd around him, and realized they were indeed responding to him, not his rank.

  "Welcome back, Gu--ah, sir!" Sergeant Lupo "Rabbit" Ratliff, the first squad leader, said, pushing his way through the Marines in his way. He thrust out his hand to shake his platoon commander's hand. "And congratulations on your commission!"

  "Outta my way, Rabbit, I saw him first," Linsman said, elbowing his way next to Ratliff. "I'm so damn glad to see you back, ah, sir!"

  "Yeah, but I've known him longer. Welcome back--sir!" Sergeant "Hound" Kelly, the gun squad leader, forced his way between the other two sergeants.

  Then Bass lost track of exactly who was welcoming him back to third platoon, crowding too tight, forcing Hyakowa and the squad leaders out of the way, pumping his hand, slapping his back. After a couple of moments he managed to free his hands and raise them above his shoulders, palms out.

  "All right, people. Back off, will you?" He shot a glance at Hyakowa and the squad leaders, as though accusing them of abandoning him to fend off a serious assault by himself. Then his face split in a broad grin and he looked around at his platoon again. "It's good to be back--right where I belong."

  He looked from face to face, remembering names, remembering actions he'd been through with them, his Marines! Then he saw six Marines who were hanging back, faces he didn't know, but he knew they were the replacements for Marines who had been killed or were too seriously wounded to return to duty during the campaign on Kingdom.

  In his mind's eye he saw the faces of the Marines who weren't there to welcome him home: Lance Corporal Dupont, his longtime communications man, who was killed at the same time Bass had been captured; Corporal Stevenson, from the gun squad, who'd been a PFC when Bass first joined third platoon; Lance Corporals van Impe and Watson, who had also been with the platoon about as long as he had; PFC Gimble, who'd joined the platoon after they first encountered the Skinks on Society 437; Lance Corporal Rodamour and PFC Hayes, for whom Kingdom was their first and only deployment with 34th FIST. Sergeant Bladon and Corporal Goudanis weren't there either--they'd both been so severely wounded on Kingdom they'd been evacuated and nobody knew whether they'd ever be able to return to duty.

  His eyes misted over as he remembered them, those men, Marines all, who'd given the last full measure in defense of people they didn't know. He almost shouted angrily at the excited Marines who surrounded him, still enthusiastically welcoming him back, ordered them to knock off their grab-assing and show respect for their dead. But he didn't. He remembered in time that old Marines don't die, they go to hell and regroup. He knew those dead Marines would live forever in the collective memory of the Corps. They'd already been mourned by the platoon, the company, the battalion, the FIST. He was the only one who hadn't properly mourned yet. And just then wasn't the time for mourning. He could hold that off until later.

  He fixed the new men with a gimlet eye and said firmly, "I'm Gunnery Ser--" Well, he tried to say it firmly. He started again, speaking above the raucous laughter of his men. "I'm Ensign Charlie Bass and this is my platoon. Who the hell are you?"

  Those nearest the new men stepped aside and pushed them forward so they could meet their new platoon commander.

  First a big lance corporal came to attention in front of him. "Sir, I'm Tischler. Gunner, first gun team."

  Another lance corporal said, "Zumwald, first fire team, sir."

  A barrel-chested PFC of slightly less than average height was next. "PFC Gray, sir. Blasterman, first fire team, first squad."

  Next was: "PFC Little, sir. Second fire team, second squad."

  Another: "PFC Shoup, sir. Second fire team, first squad."

  Finally: "PFC Fisher, sir. Second fire team, second squad."

  "Lance Corporal Tischler, PFC Gray, PFC Shoup, PFC Little," Bass said, fixing the names he already knew to the faces he was now seeing for the first time. "I'd say welcome to third platoon, but it seems you've already seen action with us. Gray, Shoup, Little, Fischer, how are your wounds?"

  The four looked at him, surprised that he knew they'd been wounded on Kingdom when they hadn't joined the platoon until after he'd disappeared and was presumed dead.

  "Fine, sir," each replied. "All healed."

  "Glad to hear that. We never know when we'll have to go out again, and it doesn't do to have Marines on light duty heading into harm's way.

  "Staff Sergeant Hyakowa tells me you're all settled in your fire or gun teams and there's no reason to move anybody, so I'll accept that." He paused and looked at them. Twenty-nine Marines who depended on him to lead them to successful completion of whatever mission was assigned to them--and bring them back alive and whole. He knew from his experience he could rely on twenty-three of them to do their jobs well enough that he'd be able to fulfill their expectations. Everybody in the company chain of command from the Skipper on down to Hyakowa told him the six replacements the platoon had received on Kingdom were just as good--and that they all had combat experience even before they joined the platoon. Just then, he'd take their word for it--anyway, he had no reason to suspect they were misleading him.

  "Well," he said before his thoughts kept him silent long enough to cause discomfort or concern among his men, "I just wanted to come in to say hello and that I'm glad to be back. Now, if nobody else has done it yet, I'm sounding liberty call. Get out of here. I don't expect to see any of you again until morning formation tomorrow." He turned and headed back down the stairs with Hyakowa right behind him.

  "COMP-ney, a-ten-HUT!" Gunnery Sergeant Thatcher bellowed the following morning.

  "'TOON, ten-HUT!" the platoon sergeants cried out in turn.

  The 110 or so Marines standing in formation behind the barracks snapped to.

  "'TOON sergeants, re-PORT!" Thatcher called.

  The platoon sergeants about-faced and called, "Squad leaders, re-PORT!"

  "First squad, all present and accounted for!" the first squad leader roared back.

  "Second squad, all present and accounted for!"

  "Gun squad, all present and accounted for!"

  When their squad leaders had reported, the platoon sergeants again faced front.

  "First platoon, all present or accounted for!"

  "Second platoon, all present or accounted for!"

  "Third platoon, all present or accounted for!"

  "Assault platoon, all present or accounted for!"

  Thatcher ticked them off on his clipboard as the platoon sergeants reported all their men present or accounted for. Finished, he about-faced himself.

  The rear door of the barracks opened and Captain Conorado,
the company commander, marched out, followed by the company's other five officers. First Sergeant Myer and the company clerks, as usual, didn't attend the morning formation, nor did Supply Sergeant Souavi.

  Conorado stopped in front of Thatcher, who brought his right hand up in a crisp salute. Conorado returned the gesture just as sharply and held it. The officers formed a rank to his rear.

  "Sir, Company L all present and accounted for!" Thatcher announced loud enough for every man in the formation to hear, even though the man he addressed stood only a pace in front of him.

  "Thank you, Gunnery Sergeant," Conorado replied in a voice that carried just as far. "The company is mine. You may take your place." He cut his salute.

  "The company is yours. Aye aye, sir!" Thatcher cut his salute, stepped a pace to the rear, pivoted to his right and marched to his place in the formation, just in front of the lead rank of first platoon.

  Conorado stood silently for a moment, looking over his company. His Marines, who he was so proud of. Again, they had faced that implacable enemy known only as "Skinks," and again they'd defeated them, even though the Skinks had come up with new and horrendous weapons. He'd almost lost this company once, thanks to the machinations of a bureaucrat-scientist he'd offended, but now it was his again, and it seemed it would be his for the rest of his life. If he might never rise above the rank of captain, well, at least he'd be the commander of the best company he'd ever served with.

  "At ease!" Conorado finally said. He didn't roar or bellow; still, his voice carried clearly to every man in the formation.

  "I have two announcements this morning.

  "First, Headquarters, Marine Corps, has notified us that a medal is being struck for the Kingdom campaign. Which is too bad for those of you who are already top heavy and were hoping for just another campaign star on your Marine Expeditionary Medal. You'll just have to find room for another medal." A smile threatened to break out on his face as he looked at several of the senior Marines as he spoke, though he didn't turn around to include Ensign Bass, who had been on more campaigns than most other Marines.

  "Second, in light of our most recent experience, next week we will deploy south for training in swamp and jungle warfare. And don't even think of liberty in New Oslo while we're away; we're going farther south, leaving Niflheim and headed for an uninhabited equatorial island called Nidhogge." He allowed the muffled groans to run their course. Swamps and jungles, right. Train for the last war.

  That wasn't completely fair--Marines more often than not fought in heavily wooded or watery terrain, and the Skinks seemed to prefer swamps and bogs, so there was a high degree of validity in keeping those wetland skills sharp.

  "That is all. COMP-ney, A-ten-HUT!"

  The Marines snapped to attention.

  "Comp-NEY...dis-MISSED!"

  The Marines broke from their positions of attention and began moving in controlled chaos, commenting to each other on the announcements, the previous night's liberty, and any of the myriad other things Marines talk about when released from formation. Above the hubbub, the platoon sergeants' voices rang out with last minute orders, followed by the squad leaders' orders and fire team leaders' commands. They filed back into the barracks in semiorderly manner and headed to their platoons' assembly areas.

  There was something Ensign Charlie Bass had to do before the FIST headed for Nidhogge. He didn't say anything to anyone before he left the company area, but First Sergeant Myer saw him go and guessed from his direction where he was headed. Myer gave him a few minutes, then headed out himself.

  He found Bass right where he expected to--at the Stones.

  Five large, igneous boulders, each standing three meters high and two wide, stood in line along a flagstone walkway. Hillsides covered by a dense grove of firlike trees wrapped behind the Stones from side to side, protecting them from the elements. The front face of each Stone was cut flat, slightly off vertical, and polished until it gleamed like a gem. The faces of the first three, and the top three quarters of the fourth, were engraved with the names of Marines who had died in combat while serving with 34th FIST. Bass squatted in front of the fourth stone, gently brushing his fingertips over the bottom rows of names; the Marines who had given their last on the Kingdom campaign. His fingers paused over one name and a chill ran up his spine.

  The name was his.

  "But I'm not dead," he whispered.

  Padding softly, Myer came up behind him unheard and heard what Bass whispered.

  "Damn straight you're not," the Top said gruffly. "I told them not to put your name up there, I told them you were too ornery and ugly to get killed by any damn Skink rail gun. But would they listen to me? Nooo! Now they have to take it off and mess up the whole Stone."

  Bass turned his head and looked up at Myer; his eyes seemed to gleam like the face of the Stones. The Top looked away from him, back at the Stone. There must be something in the air at the Stones, he thought, something that got into his eyes to make them water like that. The same thing had happened to him when he last visited there, and watched as the stonemasons carved the names.

  "Can they do that?" Bass asked. "Remove a name, I mean."

  Myer pointed at a spot just over head high. There was a gap between names, wide enough for another name. It rippled slightly in the smoothness of the Stone's face, and was sunk a bit below the surrounding surface. Bass stood to look at the gap and nodded.

  "They'll do the same thing on your name, Charlie."

  "Until it goes back for real."

  "Maybe. But they'll be carving on the fifth Stone before that happens."

  Bass dropped back to a squat and brushed his fingertips over the newest names once more.

  "Marines don't die, we go to hell and regroup. I'll see you again, then," he promised the Marines whose names he touched. He stood and in a thick voice said to Myer, "Let's head back to the company and do what we can to make it a long, long time before any names go onto that fifth Stone."

  Anatoly Sibir called his boss and told him he was too sick to come into work. In fact he wasn't sick, except perhaps from love. Or maybe it was just infatuation, one could never quite tell with people so young. He was in love with Sonja Koryak. Or maybe it was simple lust. Sonja was a year and a half younger than Anatoly and still a university student, though she was going to graduate in the spring. It was not at all happenstance that she skipped classes on the same day Anatoly called out sick. The two lived in the city of Neu-Kiev, near the southern border of Ammon, and planned to meet and spend the day together in the wilderness without any of their elders--those stuffy original Frères Jacques--lecturing them on how dangerous it was outside the borders of Ammon.

  When you're young and in love, there is no risk too great to take to be alone with your love.

  Their rendezvous was at the southern edge of town. Anatoly added Sonja's basket to the blanket and wine bottle he'd already stored in his scoot's trunk, then she mounted behind him; the scoot was just the right size for two, if they were friendly enough. The road ended abruptly five kilometers south, where the foresting operation had recently been terminated until the tree farm within its boundaries became mature enough to harvest. But the land was level and recently cleared, so they continued another ten kilometers, to the edge of the forest, then turned along it toward the cliffs of the Salainen Mountains, a short distance farther to the west, where Anatoly had recently found a secluded glade. It was just a brief walk up the slope of the mountainside, and he thought it was exactly right as a trysting spot for two young lovers such as Sonja and himself.

  When they got there they discovered he wasn't the only one who'd found the glade and thought it was ideal--it was already occupied by another young couple, who were so engrossed with each other they didn't notice they had company.

  Anatoly and Sonja discreetly withdrew and decided to climb higher. Surely that would place them far enough from the possibility of interruption.

  Right at the foot of a slope the trees bent away to form a cozy
cul-de-sac, and they set out their picnic. After they ate, they excused themselves to go politely behind bushes for relief. Anatoly came back excited, and insisted Sonja come see what he'd found.

  He'd gone uphill a short way and found a saddle from which he could see into the valley beyond. She was reluctant, but he was insistent. He took the blanket when they went to explore.

  On the saddle's other side was virgin territory. It truly looked as though the foot of man had never trod there. The foliage of the trees and other growth was scarlet, pink, amber, blue, and all of the ten billion greens. The trees were spaced as if in an orchard, and the undergrowth was almost polite in the open spaces between them. The ground cover was spongy underfoot.

  Sonja's eyes glowed as she took in the natural beauty that surrounded them. Anatoly's eyes gleamed as he took in the natural beauty of his love.

  It wasn't long before they had the blanket laid on the ground, themselves laid on it, and their clothing disheveled and then some.

  They broke from a blissful clench and Sonja opened her eyes to drink in more of the beauty of their surroundings. Instead, her eyes opened wider in horror and her mouth opened in a soundless scream. Anatoly's eyes were too busy drinking in the beauty of her breasts to notice, so he was unaware of their danger until a stream of greenish fluid splashed across both of them and he arched his back in agony. It may have been a kindness that he was in too much pain to see the acid that splashed across Sonja's face and breasts and ate them away.

  Chapter Five

  Three months after the discovery of the remains of Samar Volga in the Haltia region of Maugham's Station, Tarah Shiskanova, an analyst third class in the Development Control Division of the Department of Colonial Development, Population Control, and Xenobiological Studies, was surfing through routine reports from recently colonized planets--those that could reasonably be called "frontier worlds" even though many of them were well within the outer boundaries of Human Space--to determine where to file them when she stopped to read an Unexplained Expiration report all the way through. The report detailed the curious and somewhat gruesome death of two young colonists on the colony world called Maugham's Station.