36
“So, I guess we can really plan your end-of-service party,” Bundy said. “It’s hard to believe.”
“Really hard,” Rev said, but not for the same reasons. He was amazed that all of them were still alive. He didn’t know the chances of that, and he didn’t want to ask Punch to figure it out. He wasn’t superstitious, per se, but with about four months left now, he didn’t want to jinx things. The Centaurs were gone to who knows where, but the galaxy was a volatile place.
He looked around the table. Nine of them, eight sergeants with Bundy, no surprise, a deep-selected staff sergeant. Too many losses in tanks, and those who’d survived had to move up.
He thought back to the day he’d forced everyone to promise to meet at the end of their enlistment, hoping that if they swore to it, then they would survive. In actuality, he thought they’d be lucky if two of them would have made it. Some were a little worse for wear—Yancey, Ten, and him, specifically—but they were all still kicking.
And now, with the just-released announcement, it looked like for some of them, their journey was over.
“Would you stay if you could?” Bundy asked him.
“Maybe. Who knows? But with this . . .” He tilted his head to his left arm. Bundy knew he didn’t mean his social arm but rather Pashu, “I still don’t know what they’re going to do.”
With the war over, the population was pushing hard for an immediate release of all conscripted Marines and sailors. A draft was against the New Hope Charter, and conscription for crimes was just too close to that for most people. And the planetary government, with the cost of rebuilding ahead of them, probably liked the idea of getting all those conscripts off the government rolls.
Some of the same people who pushed for the government to release the conscripts were also equally vocal about the IBHU program, citing the Torinth Accords. That left Rev, Pierson, and the other five IBHU Marines on the planet in limbo. Throughout the Corps, there were twenty-three active IBHUs and over a hundred in the pipeline.
Now PFC Pierson and a Sergeant Tsao from the Tenth Marine Division were being paraded around with their Platinum Novas on a publicity tour of the Union, but Rev wasn’t sure that was going to placate the critics. And if the program was stopped, Rev didn’t know what that would mean for him.
“I saw my dad yesterday. He said that I’ve still got my place in the BOCT if I want it.”
“Do you want it?”
“I really don’t know. It’s a good, secure job, and I’d be able to settle down and start a family.”
Bundy raised his eyebrows and glanced at Tomiko, who was deep in conversation with Ten.
“No, don’t even ask. I mean someday.”
“OK, then. Someday.”
Rev wanted to change the subject. “But what about you. That rocker on your collar looks pretty damn good. And a Gold Nova? You’ve got it set.”
“Well, the word I get is that we’re not getting tanks back.”
“No shit? The Corps is doing away with tanks?” Rev asked, astounded. Tanks had borne the brunt of the fight with the Centaurs . . . and suffered the highest casualty rate in doing so.
“Not the Corps. Just New Hope. We lost too many, and the cost of replacing them is causing some concern.”
“That’s just plain stupid.”
But once Bundy said it, it kind of made sense. A perverted sense, but he could see why politicians jumped on that line of thinking. As a provincial corps, the New Hope Marines were ninety percent funded by the planet. They fell under the command of the Union Marine Corps, but in many ways, they were more independent. Tanks were expensive to obtain and operate, and for politicians trying to uncover funds to rebuild, they were an obvious option for the chopping block.
Ironically, it could be the success of the IBHU program in killing Centaurs that might help kill the tanks. IBHU Marines were funded by the Union, not New Hope, and that would give the politicians cover. Killing tanks, however, ignored that IBHU Marines were a close-in weapon while tanks could kill at long distances. It also ignored that IBHU Marines themselves might be on the way out.
“So, what are you going to do if that happens?”
Bundy looked around at the others, then leaned close. “Keep this under your belt, but I’ve been offered a commission. I can take it and transfer designators to another combat branch.”
Rev’s mouth dropped open before forming into a huge smile. “No way! Congrats, man.”
“Ssshh. Keep it down.”
Rev lowered his voice even more. “Really, congrats. You’ll be a great officer.”
“I haven’t accepted it.”
“But you will, won’t you? I mean, you can’t be that foolish to turn it down.”
“Nah, I won’t turn it down,” he said with a smile.
“Lieutenant Bundy. It’s got a nice ring to it.”
“That it does, my friend. That it does.”
Bundy had always been the posse’s unofficial leader. Older by far, he’d been their anchor through rough times. If anyone was going to get a commission, it had to be him.
“You said no one else knows? Not even Ten?” With Ten in tanks, too, Rev figured she’d have been the first he’d tell.
“No. With her situation, I don’t want to, uh . . .”
Rev understood. Ten’s tank had been destroyed during the very first battle, and while she’d somehow survived, it had been real touch-and-go for a while. Her legs and higher up through her pelvis than Rev would have thought possible were gone. And with the Naval Hospital in Anastasia destroyed, she was here with them in Nguyen, waiting until she could be transferred somewhere, either on New Hope or off-planet, to start the long journey to rehabilitation.
Tall, willowy Ten, so quiet and unassuming, now stuck in a mobility chair. Rev watched her for a moment, still talking to Tomiko, their heads together. Her arms were fine, so she wouldn’t be a candidate for IBHU augmentation, and Rev didn’t know if he should be happy or sad about that. He was still on the fence about himself, for that matter.
She’d evidently been a good tanker, but he had a hard time picturing her running down a Centaur. But for all her subdued personality, she’d been the only one of them conscripted for a Class 2 crime, which was the worst a person could commit without being brainwiped. No one knew what she’d actually done, but it had been a topic of discussion on more than a few occasions, even this long after boot camp.
And suddenly, Rev had to know. “Ten,” he blurted out before he could engage his better sense. “Now, with us convicts getting released, and with full pardons at that, can you finally tell us what you did to get conscripted?”
The rest stopped their conversations. A couple looked shocked that he was so bluntly asking, but they all turned to see what Ten would say, their own curiosity needing to be satisfied.
Ten looked up in surprise, and Rev realized he’d probably overstepped his bounds. But her face broke out into a wry smile, and with a twinkle in her eyes, she said, “Probably not a good idea, Rev. I don’t think you could handle it.”
The table broke out laughing, and Tomiko high-fived her, but there were more than a few disappointed faces at the fact that the secret hadn’t been finally revealed.
Rev laughed, too, but he was both relieved that Ten didn’t seem to have taken the question poorly and disappointed that she hadn’t answered. She was still a mystery.
“Hey, do you know what she did?” he asked Punch.
<Yes.>
“‘Yes?’ That’s all you have to say? Tell.”
<I’m afraid I can’t reveal confidential personal information.>
“Not even to me?”
<Not even to you.>
“Well, heck. Then what good are you?”
Punch didn’t answer. By now, he understood what a rhetorical question was.
Rev hadn’t really expected Punch to answer the question, but it was interesting that his battle buddy had Ten’s crime in his database. That made Rev wonder about his own records and how widely distributed they might be.
He pushed that out of his mind and leaned back in his chair. It really was amazing that they were all still alive. And despite them all being in different units, in different military designators, he was as close, if not closer to them than to anyone else.
Cricket and Udu, the unlikely pair who, with the war over, had now settled on a wedding date. Quiet Ten. Bundy, their leader. Wise-ass, never serious Yancey, who had mostly recovered from his own wounds. Quick-witted Fyr, who came up with amazing and surprising observations on so many varied subjects. Steady Orpheus, who always had their backs.
And, of course, Tomiko. She was an amazing woman, closer to Rev than probably anyone else alive. Comrade in arms and friend, he knew their bond would never be broken.
This had been an amazing, astounding six years. And as he looked around the table, he knew he could not have gone through it with a better group of people.