11
“How drunk am I?”
<You’ve got a BAC of point-zero-two.>
That’s it?
One thing that bothered Rev was that his augments didn’t increase his alcohol tolerance. He massed a good fifty kilos more than he did pre-augment, but that didn’t affect how much he could drink. He was still somewhat of a lightweight. That wasn’t going to stop him from making a brave attempt to put a dent in Lateeka’s supply.
He wasn’t the only one. With an actual ninety-six—four days of free leave—the regiment’s Marines and sailors were in party mode. No one knew why there had been so few Centaurs on the planet, probably in the low hundreds, not that anyone was complaining. Even with the mini-Centaurs, the mission on Tenerife had been accomplished with only moderate casualties, at least when compared to other missions, and that deserved a celebration. Lateeka’s wasn’t the most popular Marine hangout in the city, but it was packed to the gills.
Best of all, at least from Rev’s perspective, was that all of their crew had made it back. No one was even wounded. That was three major battles, and they were all still among the living. And since the dead can’t drink, they were going to take it upon themselves to honor those who’d fallen.
“Hey, Bundy. I think that pitcher’s looking mighty dry,” Rev said.
“That’s Sergeant Bundy to you, asswipe.”
“OK, Sergeant Bundy, I think that pitcher’s looking a might dry.”
“Damned corporals, always whining about something. Back in my day—”
“When ships were made of wood and Marines were made of steel,” Tomiko and Cricket shouted in unison, raising their steins as they cut him off.
Cricket sloshed half of the beer out in the mock toast, and Udu punched him in the arm—which made him slosh more—and shouted, “Alcohol abuse!”
Bundy half-heartedly grumbled, but he left to get another pitcher.
Rev just sat back and smiled. Bundy had only picked up Sergeant three weeks ago, and the rest of them were enjoying giving him shit. This wasn’t his official wetting down, but they were going to ride their friend awfully hard tonight.
“How was dinner?” he asked Tomiko, having to raise his voice to be heard over the din.
“You know, same-old, same-old,” she said, draining the last of her beer. “Mom wanted to know when I was going to get out of the Marines and find a husband.”
“Sucks to be you.”
Their ninety-six had started that morning after formation, and those who could had first gone to visit family, Rev included. But whereas Rev had been happy to see his mother, stepdad, Neesy, and Grover, Tomiko’s home life was a little more problematic. Rev had asked out of concern, but seeing the cloud form over her eyes, he wanted to change the subject.
“So, what’s going to happen with the Angel shits?” he asked her.
Fyr, hearing the question, leaned in to listen to what Tomiko was going to say. During the trip back, that had been the main topic of discussion, but it hadn’t been talked out. Everyone still wanted to know.
It was one thing to protest outside of the bases or the Government House on New Mars, but these Angel shits had turned on their race and had been actively helping the enemy enslave fellow humans. And if the little bits and crumbs that trickled down to the enlisted Marines were any indication, there had been a lot more of them than they’d previously believed. Most of the kapos and other quislings had not survived. Some had been killed fighting the Marines, but more had been killed by the other citizens, often beaten and torn apart by bare hands.
But that had been the tip of the iceberg. Far more had been uncovered during the normal interrogations of the freed people. Rev didn’t know how many, but planet-wide, it was rumored to be at least a million. The quislings in Sergeant Krill’s contact team were nowhere near the only ones like that in other cities.
It boggled Rev’s mind that anyone could follow—no, worship—the enemy. Doc Paul, a Second Class Petty Officer, the equivalent of a Marine sergeant and the team’s corpsman, thought they’d been brainwashed, but Rev didn’t care too much as to the why. He cared more about what was going to be done about it.
Even more disconcerting was how many local militia and ex-Navy and Marines were among them. Rev had seen several of them during the round-up, men and women who called out when they saw him, either to convert him or ask for leniency. There was a saying that there’s no such thing as an “ex-Marine,” but as far as Rev was concerned, that didn’t pertain to tin-ass worshippers.
Bundy came back carrying four pitchers and put them on the table. “I know you’re going to keep on me—”
“That’s because you’ve got that big sergeant paycheck,” Cricket said.
“None for him,” Bundy snapped back. “But, as I was saying, I know you’re going to keep hitting me up, so I’m doing it all now. Then my spigot’s turned off.”
Rev grabbed a pitcher and filled Tomiko, Fyr, and his steins. “Now that you’re recharged, what’s going to happen with the Angel shits,” he asked Tomiko again.
“Well, it sure ain’t gonna be shoved under the rug,” she said. “I mean, look at us now?”
“What do you mean?” Fyr asked.
“We just fought not only tin-asses, but humans. And what did they tell us when we embarked to come back home? That this was all top-secret and shit, right?”
“Well, yeah. But they told us today that it isn’t classified,” Rev said, not quite getting her point.
“They not only told us that what happened wasn’t classified, but they encouraged us to tell our families all about it.”
“Yeah, for morale,” Fyr said. “I mean, we’ve gotten our asses kicked before, and finally, we’ve got an easier win on our record.”
But that wasn’t her point, Rev knew.
“What are the newsies reporting on the battle?” he subvocalized.
Punch was now connected to the net again, and it would take nanoseconds for him to scan the public newscasts galaxy-wide.
<As of two hours ago, a fairly comprehensive report on the battle is being disseminated. Among the clips are your own recordings of the PASCO emitter station.>
That took him by surprise. Never in a million years would he have thought that anything he did would be seen by the masses of humanity.
“Do they say I recorded it?”
<No. The tag is “Official Perseus Union Recording.”>
Rev’s fifteen minutes of fame vanished just like that, but with what Punch told him, what Tomiko was getting at clicked into place.
“They want us to talk about it, to make sure the public knows what the Angel shits are doing.”
“Bingo, Rev,” Tomiko said. “And . . .” she prompted.
“And they want the public to turn against them, so they can justify taking action. I mean, it’s one thing to fight the tin-asses, but a war against other humans? We haven’t had a real war, like against another nation, in thirty years. And there are . . .”
Punch didn’t wait for Rev to ask and said, <Current estimates are that there are at least four-hundred million Children of Angels.>
“. . . four-hundred million of the bastards. Not much, maybe, but enough to cause problems.”
“So, we’re going to act,” Fyr said as he took that in.
“We have to,” Tomiko said.
“Hey, you three, you’re too serious!” Orpheus shouted from across the table, tossing a wadded-up napkin that bounced off of Fyr’s chest. “Tonight’s for having fun, not talking shop!”
“You’re right, you’re right,” Rev said. “No more shop talk. Let’s drink!”
But as he took a long draught, his mind was wandering. They had to take action, he knew. But just what action?
* * *
They didn’t have long to wait to find out. The day after the ninety-six, the colonel put the base on complete lockdown. The regiment had done its duty in relating what had happened on Tenerife, and that had spread like wildfire across human space. Obvious Children of Angels were assaulted, arrested, and even lynched. And in one gruesome episode, one was nailed to the fence of a military cemetery where the suspect died, screaming, as people recorded the moment while hurling epithets and stones. But as a whole, no one thought anywhere close to all of them had been rounded up.
The colonel conducted an all-hands brief, telling the Marines and sailors that they had somewhere between a month and six weeks to prepare for a “major, galaxy-wide operation.”
A full twenty-five percent of humanity’s armed forces would be involved, and the Gryphons would be part of the Perseus Union’s contribution.
The colonel didn’t have to tell them who the target was. The regiment was going to war, but this time, against fellow humans.