A World of Hurt

by David Sherman

  Claypoole and MacIlargie looked at each other, Claypoole with embarrassment for not realizing that was why they'd had to lug the clean uniform and towel in their packs, MacIlargie with anger because his fire team leader had let him sit around in his wet, muddy uniform. Schultz ignored it; he was asleep.

  The rest of the platoon arrived over the course of the next hour and a half. The command group--Ensign Bass, Staff Sergeant Hyakowa, and Lance Corporal Groth, the comm man--were the sixth of the ten trios to arrive.

  Once they'd dried themselves and changed, Bass and Hyakowa went aside by themselves and reported in to company headquarters. Then Bass chatted briefly with each of the teams already in and each of the others as they arrived. When the last of them were in, he stood up and called the platoon together.

  "Could be better," he told them. "It took five hours and seventeen minutes for the last team to make it in. For comparison, second squad's first fire team made it in three hours and four minutes. That's a wide difference, but the fire team and gun team leaders also have a wide difference in land navigation experience. Corporal Kerr has more experience than any of the other team leaders." He looked at second squad's first fire team leader. "And more than some of the squad leaders." Several of the Marines looked at Corporal Doyle and remembered how the platoon had to stop when Doyle became a heat casualty. They wondered how his fire team had managed to come in first. None of those who wondered, however, had been with the platoon when Doyle, Company L's chief clerk until 34th FIST's most recent deployment, had been on the "Bass patrol" that navigated across the Martac Waste on Elneal while surrounded by hostile locals. Corporal Kerr knew what the looks meant; he hadn't been on that patrol, but had heard about it. He clapped a hand on Doyle's shoulder and gave it a comradely squeeze. The former chief clerk had a hard time keeping up, but he'd done it. Now, Doyle did his best not to flush, and almost succeeded.

  "But that was the purpose of this exercise," Bass continued. "To give all of the fire team and gun team leaders experience at land navigation in difficult terrain." He looked out at the swamp. "And this certainly qualifies as difficult terrain.

  "I know that some of you team leaders think this was more difficult than it needed to be because you had to use inertial guidance systems on your maps instead of using GPS." Some of the fire team leaders--including Corporals Claypoole and Dean--glared at him; they thought exactly that. "But as some of you know from hard experience," he looked pointedly at Dean and Claypoole, "we don't always have a GPS, or even inertial guidance." Claypoole and Dean sheepishly looked away. They'd gone through the Martac Waste with him, an unscheduled, long distance patrol where they hadn't even had a map, much less a GPS unit.

  "But the big thing is, all of you made it here on your own. Nobody had to call for assistance, nobody had to be rescued. For that, I give everyone a 'well done.'

  "Just so none of you latecomers think some of us were taking it easy here while the rest of you were humping your way through the swamp, the command group made it back in four hours and twenty-seven minutes, and the squad leaders took three hours and forty-nine minutes.

  "What I should do now is send those of you who took more than four hours back out to do it again." He raised a hand to cut off the groans. "But it's too late in the day, and there's no time anyway." He glanced at Staff Sergeant Hyakowa, who nodded. "Hoppers are on their way now to pick us up and take us to the company area." He let the cheers at that news run their course.

  "Now secure your gear and get ready to saddle up. We'll be moving out in..." He looked at Hyakowa.

  "The hoppers are less than ten minutes out," the platoon sergeant said. "You heard the boss, secure your gear."

  The Marines of third platoon scrambled to pack their dirty chameleons, which were now drier than they'd been, and get their gear ready to take when they boarded the hoppers.

  Corporal Doyle paused halfway through his preparations and looked into the treetops. "Wait a minute," he said. "How are hoppers going to land here?"

  Schultz gave him a look that turned him away. "They aren't," he rumbled.

  "Oh." Doyle looked confused--not a difficult thing, since he was confused more often than not about being an infantryman--and resumed packing.

  Minutes later they heard the roar of hoppers hovering over the trees above them and four weighted ropes dropped through the canopy. As soon as the ropes touched down, a Marine in a harness slid down each of them. Three of the Marines stood by the ends of their ropes while the fourth detached himself to confer briefly with Bass and Hyakowa. Then Hyakowa ordered, "First squad, over there," and pointed at one rope. "Second squad, that one. Guns, there."

  The squad leaders lined their men up at the designated ropes and helped the four Marines who anchored them attach their men to harnesses that were spooned at the bottom of each rope. As soon as each Marine was securely attached, his harness climbed the rope. Bass sent Lance Corporal Groth up the fourth rope. When the last men of the platoon were ready to be harnessed, Hyakowa followed Groth. Bass waited until the last of his men was rising before he let himself be harnessed. The four Marines who'd ridden the ropes down were the last to ascend.

  The only signs third platoon left of its presence on the islet were indentations in the mud that quickly filled with water.

  A hot shower, the first they'd had in four days, and plenty of soap, were waiting for the men of third platoon when they reached the company area. The Marines gleefully cleaned themselves; for a while they'd felt they'd never get the miasma of the swamp out of their pores. The hot shower was followed by a hot meal, also their first in four days. It wasn't immersion-heated field rations, but reindeer steaks, baked potatoes, and salad flown in from Camp Ellis and grilled over charcoal on the spot by cooks who accompanied the food.

  All that was lacking were a few kegs of Reindeer Ale.

  The sun had set by the time they were all cleaned and fed. Gunnery Sergeant Thatcher assembled the company in formation.

  "AT EASE!" Captain Conorado shouted when he stepped front and center. "Close in on me, then sit down and get comfortable." He waited a moment while his men pulled in more tightly and sat on the ground. He looked them over and mentally shook his head, thinking he must look like a counselor in front of a bunch of happy campers.

  "Listen up," he said when they were settled. "This is good news, bad news time. The good news is, we're almost finished with the training we came to Nidhogge for, and we've done it all successfully so far." He paused while his Marines laughed or cheered or happily poked each other in the ribs. "The bad news is, we have to cut it short and head back to Camp Ellis. We leave at dawn."

  This time there were fewer cheerful expressions. The more experienced Marines knew that cutting a training exercise short usually meant a deployment, and wherever they went was likely to be bad.

  "We aren't going anywhere, not right away," Conorado said to cut off worries. "We're going back early because we have a distinguished visitor coming and you'll need a couple of days to prepare for him. That is all." He turned to Gunny Thatcher.

  "Gunnery Sergeant, dismiss the company."

  "Aye aye, sir." Thatcher saluted and held it even after Conorado returned it. He didn't cut until the Skipper walked away.

  "All right," he addressed the company, "don't anybody ask me who the 'distinguished visitor' is, I can't tell you what I don't know. Reveille will be at oh-dark-thirty, so you'll have time to chow down before we leave. Platoon sergeants, taps is in forty-five minutes. Make sure your troops are bedded down, I don't want any sleeping beauties missing the flight out of here in the morning.

  "COMP-ney, dis-MISSED!"

  A hundred kilometers east of Olympia a blue-backed yort fled for its life. Its spindly legs seemed to ricochet off the ground, sending it in a different, unexpected direction with every bound. The pursuing storkatt didn't always guess right at the yort's direction changes and wasn't able to close on its prey. But the predator was determined, and knew it had strength and speed to outmatc
h the yort's endurance and unpredictability. When the antelopelike animal bounded, its lithe body had to go between branches and bushes, between tree trunks and treelings. The bigger, stronger storkatt could easily crash through the bushes and brush the branches and treelings aside; if necessary, in hot pursuit, it could carom off the tree trunks.

  Fliers flapped their wings to gain perches safely above the ground-bound high-speed chase; long-limbed tree dwellers scampered higher, out of reach of the catlike animal. Other prey animals had already scattered to safer environs, leaving their fleeing brothers and cousins to make the sacrifice that would save them all for another day.

  The storkatt's determination began to turn the tide, and the blue-backed yort felt the predator's hot breath on its rapidly contracting and expanding haunches, felt the ground tremble with each impact of its pursuer's feet. Desperate before, now the yort panicked and raced uphill, and its legs ricocheted it through a screen of dangling branches--

  --and over the edge of an unseen drop. The yort bleated in terror as it bounced down the steep slope, skidding and flipping. Behind it, the storkatt saw the yort unexpectedly fall from sight and jinked into a slender tree trunk to help it stop before it too might fall. The catlike animal shuddered and whoofed at the sudden pain caused by its aided stop, then bounded to where the yort had disappeared. It saw its dinner struggling to its feet far below, looked about for a way down but didn't see anything that looked safe. The storkatt screamed in frustration, then turned about and stomped angrily away to find another dinner to chase down.

  The blue-backed yort shakily regained its feet. The fur of its sides was scraped down to the abraded hide in places, and it was copiously bruised, but no bones were broken or tendons sprung. Timorously, it looked back up where it had come from, but the storkatt wasn't following--the yort heard the predator's cries recede as it went in search of other prey. Saved, its chest heaved and legs trembled as its body labored to regain its breath, to quell its terror. It took a few tentative steps toward the forest that stood a few bounds in front of it and felt strength and steadiness return. It calmly walked into the safety of the trees, where it found many strange things to see and smell, but familiar ones as well. There, dangling from a low-hanging branch, was food. It took two confident steps and stretched its neck out to nibble at the succulent fruit. The fruit's juice reminded the yort it was thirsty after its energy-expending flight. It listened for the sound of water bubbling in a brook and heard it. Moments later it stood lapping its fill.

  Fully refreshed, the blue-backed yort lifted its head and sniffed the air, twitched its ears from side to side and front to back, listening. It scented no predators. That was good. Neither did it scent its own kind, which was strange, since the forest was where its kind lived. Nor did sound carry a hint of predators, which was equally odd. No fliers flapped their wings, or glided bough-to-bough, nor did tree-clamberers screech from above.

  Then another dangling fruit caught its eye and it went to feed anew.

  The yort was halfway through the second fruit when an unexpected sound caused its ears to perk up. It whuffled at the air but smelled nothing threatening. There was another sound, and it began to turn its head to look for the source, but it looked too late and never saw the streamer of greenish fluid that arced through the air and splashed across its body. The blue-backed yort bleated in agony and bucked to the side, but was splashed by another arc of greenish fluid. It dropped to its knees, bleating...

  No Unexplained Expiration report was ever filed on that incident. After all, it was just a blue-backed yort, not a human being. Nobody had looked for it and nobody knew how it had died.

  Chapter Eight

  "Send her in," Admiral Joseph K.C.B. Porter, Chief of Naval Operations, snarled when his aide opened his office door and announced that the officer he'd sent for had arrived. He didn't bother to look up from his console.

  Captain Wilma Arden marched smartly to a spot two meters in front of the CNO's desk and stood at attention. "Captain Arden reporting as ordered, sir!" she said as smartly as she'd marched. On the outside she was as calm and determined as a navy captain should be. On the inside she was quaking so badly that she wondered if she'd be able to survive the meeting without collapsing. Certainly, she'd reported to any number of admirals in the past--she'd once harbored dreams of becoming an admiral herself. She'd even met the CNO before, as well as his predecessor.

  But this was the first time she'd ever been ushered into an admiral's presence under armed guard.

  Admiral Porter ignored her for a few moments while he read through the Colonial Development, Population Control, and Xenobiological Studies report one more time. He'd caught reference to acid the first time he read the report. Unlike everybody else who'd read the report, he hadn't heard a rumor, but rather, he knew about the hostile aliens and their acid guns. Finally, he looked up at Arden and fixed her with a glare like a mad entomologist holding a pin over a still living butterfly. She barely noticed when he flicked his fingers in dismissal to her armed guards.

  He swiveled his console so she could see what it showed. "Where did you get this?"

  She glanced at the console and recognized the report. "One of my people, sir. Lieutenant Commander Gullkarl." She swallowed.

  Porter looked past her to his aide, who was standing at parade rest in front of the closed door. "Get him."

  "Aye aye, sir." The aide snapped to attention, then opened the door only far enough to slip through. He closed it firmly behind him.

  Porter returned his glare to Arden. "Tell me everything you know about this, and why you thought it was worth taking to Admiral Sung."

  She had to swallow before she could speak. "Sir, it says something about acid damage to the remains. I heard a rumor..." Her face flushed. Now that she was facing the CNO, it all seemed so ridiculous.

  "Speak up, Captain. I don't have all day. What was the rumor?"

  "Aye aye, sir." She cleared her throat. "Sir, I heard a rumor that aliens have invaded several outlying worlds. They were armed with weapons that shot acid. I know," she continued hastily, "that's not possible, there aren't any aliens, but there must be some truth in there somewhere. Maybe one of the worlds has developed a new weaponry and has embarked on a campaign of conquest. If that's so..." Her voice trailed off again.

  "Yes?"

  "Sir, if one of the Confederation worlds has begun attacking its neighbors, the navy needs to know when they strike again, because we'll most likely be called on to do something, whether it's fight the attackers or otherwise protect Confederation interests. That's why I took it to Admiral Sung, sir."

  Porter leaned back in his chair and drummed the fingers of one hand on his desk while his eyes continued to bore through Arden. After a moment he stopped drumming and asked softly, "So you think the idea of hostile aliens armed with acid guns and rail guns is ridiculous, do you?"

  "Yessir." She hoped her voice didn't sound as girlish to the CNO as it did to her. And what was that about rail guns?

  He sat up straight and planted both hands on his desktop. "Well, Captain, you managed to stumble across the first uncontrolled piece of evidence I've seen on these hostile aliens. You now know about something that's so secret I'm barely cleared to know about it."

  "Sir?" This time she was positive her voice squeaked.

  "What do you think would happen if knowledge of a hostile alien sentience became public knowledge?"

  "Sir?"

  "Yes, Virginia, there really is a Santa Claus."

  She blinked, not understanding the arcane reference.

  "Captain, on two different occasions in the past few years, Confederation Marines have engaged in combat against an implacable alien sentience that seems bent on, if not conquest, at least annihilation of H. sapiens."

  "Ohmygod."

  "Oh my God is right. Can you imagine the public's reaction if that became public knowledge?"

  "There would be panic, sir."

  Porter nodded slowly. "That's why their e
xistence is one of the most tightly held military secrets in the Confederation."

  "Yessir. I understand, sir."

  "Good. Then you understand the decision you have to make."

  "Decision, sir?"

  "Yes. We can't risk having this get out. I will give you your choice, Captain. Darkside or permanent assignment to the CNSS Grandar Bay."

  Arden staggered, but managed to regain her balance and stiffen herself. Darkside, the penal colony from which no one ever returned, or--

  "Sir, the Grandar Bay was lost."

  "Have you heard any rumors to the contrary?"

  "Nossir."

  "Good." He smiled. At least something was working right. "We want everyone to believe the Grandar Bay was lost." He almost smiled at her shocked expression. "The Grandar Bay was involved in a major campaign against the aliens on a world that is now quarantined. It has been marked in the records as lost in Beamspace, and its crew is frozen. None of them will leave that ship for the duration." The Grandar Bay was the Crowe-class amphibious battle cruiser that carried the Marines of 34th Fleet Initial Strike Team to the outlying world called Kingdom.

  "Sir?"

  "We can't afford to have anybody who has had contact with these aliens to ever have contact with the Confederation's general population. You know about them now, so the same goes for you. What's your choice, Captain? Darkside or the Grandar Bay?"

  "The Grandar Bay, sir," she said without hesitation.

  "Good! That's the response I expect from a navy officer. You're not married, are you? No children? No 'significant other'? No one with powerful political or news connections who can cause major problems if you vanish without explanation? Good." He didn't wait for answers because he knew them before he asked the questions. "Don't worry, you won't be alone on your new assignment. Gullkarl will be going with you. Unless he chooses Darkside."

  He touched a button on his desk. "Send them back in."