31
“When do you think we’re getting the call?” Yancey asked Rev as he sipped his beer.
Rev just looked to Bundy, passing off the question.
Bundy shrugged his shoulders, then said, “Soon. Unless this is all a drill.”
“You think it’s a drill?” Tomiko asked.
“Not saying it is. But Big Corps has been all over us, you know. We didn’t do so well last time, and they want to make sure we’re ready.”
Which was true. Every training session, every field exercise for the last four or five months, was observed by silent Marine officers and senior SNCOs who simply watched and took notes. It was a little creepy.
“If it is a drill, then they need to can it quick. I mean, I don’t mind the base lockdown. We’ve been on that ever since getting back. I don’t mind the training tempo. It’s better than sitting around with our thumbs up our asses, and to be honest, those new boots don’t know shit and need all the training they can get.”
Yancey looked over to another table where a dozen privates were whooping it up. Most of the new fills went to the infantry battalions. They’d been the ones who’d suffered the most losses. Charlie Company had only received a few boot new joins, and only one, Strap Gantz, had come to Raider Platoon.
“But this, my friends, this is bullshit,” Yancey continued, holding up his glass of beer. “And if this is for some lame-ass drill, I’m going to be mega pissed.”
The CG had implemented a division-wide limit on drinking. Two drinks per day. There were no more pitcher sales, no more buying for anyone else. Each Marine and sailor had to buy a glass themselves and get scanned for each one.
“Just be lucky we’re here, nice and toasty, and having our two glasses,” Rev said.
The last six cold and rainy days had been out in the field on a regimental-wide field exercise, and Rev was just happy to be inside and out of the weather. The beer was a bonus.
“I thought my ass was going to freeze out there,” Udu said.
“What? You’re mech,” Cricket said. “Try getting down in the mud with us real Marines.”
“A lady like me doesn’t play in the mud.”
“You ain’t no lady, lady. You’re a damned Marine.”
Rev just smiled as the two gave each other shit. If he didn’t know better, he’d say they had a thing for each other. Both were pegging the BS meter as they trash talked. Most of the infantry was kitted out in the PAL-3 Infantry Combat Suit, which had heating and cooling elements like the Raiders’ PAL-5s. And as far as Udu, her MMCS was even more weatherproof, completely sealed off from the outside air. But Marines were always going to bitch, no matter what.
He caught Tomiko’s eyes and smiled at her. She knew what he was thinking: their PAL-5 trumped both of them on the misery index. But they didn’t need to get into a pissing contest, even a good-natured one. He raised his glass and clinked hers, the sound bright even among the raucous noise around them.
Rev looked around the E-Club. It was packed. Other than the gym, maybe, this was now the social center of the junior enlisted. Without being able to leave the base, it was the only place where they could unwind and socialize. As he looked around, just taking in the scene, he realized that this place felt . . . right.
After being conscripted like a real criminal, all he’d wanted to do was serve his time, counting down the days until he could leave. He still looked forward to getting out, but he wasn’t even sure how many days he had left. Over a year, sure, but he wasn’t crossing off any days on his mental calendar. He could ask his AI, but why bother? It was what it was—a fact he couldn’t run from. Like the enemy.
Cricket, though, was different. From initially being ambivalent to having to serve, he hated it now. But then again, he’d seen some terrible shit on Preacher Rolls, where Rev had escaped seeing the carnage. Maybe losing two-thirds of his fellow Raiders would have given him a different outlook on things.
Rev swirled his glass and tilted it, looking inside. He’d been nursing the last swallow or two for a half hour. With a sigh, he started to lift it when the thunderous call of Condition One-Alpha blared through the club.
Rev froze for a moment, glass half-raised, looking around while he tried to process what was going on. He’d heard the alarm, of course, when they were testing it each month. But the test was promulgated beforehand, and the test itself was followed by a this is only a test message.
There was no such message this time.
<Condition One-Alpha,> his AI said, coming to life. <Shelter in place.>
Rev hadn’t woken it. He hadn’t even known it was possible for it to wake without his orders.
“What the hell is happening?” he asked. All around him, others had that talking-to-their-AI look on their faces as well.
<I don’t have that information.>
“What’s going on?” Yancey asked, standing up.
The cavernous club filled with talking as Marines stood. A few started to the main entry when others held them back.
They had orders to remain in place, but nothing said he couldn’t look out the windows. Rev put his beer down and strode over to the corner window by their table. It was nighttime, but with the lights out there and his augmented vision, it might as well be day. Other than a lone Marine sprinting for a building, he couldn’t see anything as the others crowded alongside him.
He twisted around, looking toward the sky. The corner window gave him almost 180 degrees of visibility, but he couldn’t see anything—no Centaurs descending on their landing pods.
“Are we under attack?” Tomiko asked.
“I can’t see anything.”
Condition One-Alpha was reserved for a base being under attack. In its entire history, no base on Safe Harbor had ever been attacked, and there being only one enemy at the moment . . .
“We should get to our gear,” Yancey said.
“You got the orders, Yance,” Bundy said. “Shelter in place.”
“I’ve got family out there,” Yancey said. “I’m not going to sit here and do nothing.”
He turned to leave, but Bundy grabbed him. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Says who?” Yancey asked, jerking his arm free.
“I am, Private First Class,” Bundy said.
Bundy’s meaning was clear. He’d been meritoriously promoted to PFC, so he’d been the first in their group to pick up lance corporal. The rest were due next month, but at the moment, he outranked them all. And while there wasn’t a firm practice of the chain of command between non-rates, technically, Bundy was the senior Marine in the group.
Rev stepped up and put a hand on Yancey’s shoulder. He didn’t push the other Marine down, but he was firm enough to let him know he would if he had to.
“We all have family out in town, but until we know what is going on, until we have some sort of orders, we need to stay here, Yance.”
For a moment Yancey looked like he was going to argue, but then he nodded his head, slow and resentful.
The thought on everyone’s mind was a Centaur invasion. There had been none this far into the Perseus Arm, and there were probably a hundred closer and better targets to their advance, but that didn’t mean much. They were aliens, and their logic and strategy were often at odds with human thinking.
The club loudspeaker kept repeating the condition and calling for all hands to remain in place, but the two-hundred or so non-rates in the club were getting antsy, Rev among them. He had his family out in the ville, too.
“Who’s that?” Orpheus asked, pointing out the window and down Kingston Street.
Rev shifted to the west-facing window. A block and a half away, a mob of possibly thirty people were running down the street toward them, carrying an assortment of weapons.
“Are they wearing white headbands?” Tomiko asked.
“Children of the Angels,” Bundy said.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Rev said. “Those limp-dick Angel Shits broke into the base? How the hell did they do that?”
“Not too hard,” Tomiko said. “Looks like they came in through the fence down at the playing fields. It’s not like this place is really that secure.”
Which was true. More than a few Marines cut their way out through the fence to make a quick trip home or to smuggle a spouse or partner in for a quick matrimonial assignation, as the gunny termed it.
“But what the hell are they trying to do?” Yancey asked. “We’ve got, what, four-thousand Marines here.”
More Marines crowded around the windows on the west side of the club. The mood was relief that the Centaurs had not invaded, curiosity about what the Angel Shits were trying to accomplish, and anger that they had invaded their space.
The mob reached the intersection of Kingston and Tellez. A dozen turned north on Tellez toward regimental headquarters, with the rest continuing on.
“Let’s jump the fuckers,” somebody yelled out to a chorus of ooh-rahs as the Angel Shits jogged down the street.
“Hold on! We’ve got our orders. Let the MPs deal with them.”
Arguments broke out, and Marines surged toward the entrance. But when you can’t go to the mountain, sometimes the mountain comes to you. To everyone’s amazement, four of the Angel Shits broke off and ran up the steps to the club.
A moment later, four armed Angel Shits, full of righteous fury, broke into the club, brandishing their hunting rifles. One young man shouted, “All of you, you are under arrest for crimes against humanity!”
Not the smartest move ever.
Within seconds, a wave of Marines engulfed the four. Rev and the rest of the crew tried to get in on the fun, but there were too many Marines and not enough Angel Shits.
By the time the MPs came by and the all-clear had sounded, the four invaders were rather worse for wear. Laid out on the bar, they’d been stripped stark naked, and each had a bottle strategically and not-so-gently placed where the sun doesn’t shine.
An MP tried to glare at them—tried and failed. “Who gave ’em the enema, you sick assholes?”
No one spoke. At first.
In the back of the crowd, someone snickered, and it sounded a lot like Tomiko. When she spoke, her voice was rippling with laughter. “No one. We’re Marines, not doctors.”