26
“I don’t want no Lancers here,” Tanu said with a scowl.
“I think you missed the point. There aren’t any Lancers anymore,” Tomiko said. “They’ve been disbanded, at least for now.”
“But they were Lancers,” Tanu persisted. “And I don’t trust no Anastasians.”
“We have a couple buddies who went to Kamachi for armor training, and they said they were treated pretty well,” Rev said.
“Where’s your loyalty?” Tanu asked.
To the Union and humanity, Rev wanted to say. But he held off. Tanu was just blowing off steam. Things were in disarray at the moment, with the provincial regiments in flux.
The Gryphons had taken huge casualties on Preacher Rolls, but they’d suffered the least within the division. Sixth Marines, the Bucks, had been essentially wiped out. The only survivors were those who had been held back at Camp Falcon for whatever reason or were left aboard the ships. Rumor had it that there were fewer than fifty of them.
Fourth Marines, the Lancers, had suffered grievously as well, but more than four hundred had been extracted back to Camp Kamachi.
The Big Corps, what the provincial Marines called the regular Marine headquarters at the Perseus Union capital on New Mars, had decided to consolidate the surviving Marines into a single regiment. With most of the survivors being Gryphons, the new unit would retain the Safe Harbor Provincial 8th Infantry Regiment colors and organization.
Even with the consolidation, there weren’t enough Marines to fill the Table of Organization, and there were rumblings that the entire Provincial Marine concept was about to be scrapped. After nine years of war with the Centaurs, there wasn’t much difference between the provincial regiments and the regular Marine regiments anymore. Hell, there were plenty of older salts who had served in the regular Corps before the war and had come back home to Safe Harbor, joining the provincials. Gunny Thapa, for one. Colonel Orlo, the regimental commander, was regular Marines.
The previous regimental commander, that was. Along with the other two regimental commanders, he’d been killed on Preacher Rolls. The 48th Support Battalion XO, a major, was the acting regimental commander until a new colonel took over. Rumor was that the Phantom-of-the-Opera-faced Colonel Destafney, their recruit training CO, was going to take over.
And it wasn’t just Colonel Orlo who’d been killed. The entire alpha command had been lost. That included Charlie Company’s CO, Captain Formica. Lieutenant Smith moved up to take over the company, and Lieutenant Omestori, with the Raiders for only a few weeks now, was now dual-hatted as both the team leader and new platoon commander.
“It’s not that you’ve got any choice, Tanu,” Sergeant Nix said. “It is what it is. And we’re going to welcome whoever comes over. We’re short an entire team, in case you’ve forgotten.”
Nix had taken the loss of First Team pretty hard. His cousin had been with First Team.
“Are we at least staying here at Nguyen?” Kel asked. “Is there any firm word on that?”
“Nothing yet. Falcon had better training facilities,” Nix said.
Rev hoped they wouldn’t have to move. Falcon might as well have been on another planet, for all he was concerned. He’d never even been to Kamachi, over in Anastasia, and that was a twenty-minute flight away. Falcon was halfway around the planet.
It was ironic, he’d long realized, that on Safe Harbor, Rev had never been more than fifty kilometers from his home, but he’d traveled light years away to Preacher Rolls.
“I don’t care who the hell joins us,” Hussein said. “If they’ll help us kick Centaur ass, I’m all for it.”
With that, Rev was in full agreement. No one was particularly happy with having to integrate with the Lancers, but Tanu aside, it wasn’t because they didn’t trust their fellow Marines. The transition meant that they’d have to go through intensive training together before they were combat-ready, training that would take time.
And if there was one common desire at the moment, it was that every Marine wanted to get back out there as soon as possible and kill Centaurs.
They had a debt to pay.
* * *
“This is messed up,” Deen LaPete said as they watched the Frisian soldiers stand in formation, each with their war kit on the ground in front of them.
“You’ve got that right,” Rev muttered.
All three teams were gathered across the commons, watching the new arrivals. It had been four months since the reorganization, four months in which the new Fifth Team—the gunny was convinced it was bad luck to designate the former Lancer team as First Team—had integrated itself into the platoon.
Integrating the Raider teams had been one thing. Deen, for example, had been in Rev and Tomiko’s DC class, and she was good people. So were the rest of the team, for that matter. Rev would have no issue with going into combat with them right now.
But this—this was different. A Host commando team? Or a flight, as they called it, for some unknown reason. The Frisians were the long-time adversaries and sometimes enemies of the Union. Yes, now all humans were on the same side, but Rev didn’t trust the Frisians as far as he could throw them. They were never going to be the Union’s friends. As soon as the war with the Centaurs was over, it would be back to the same rivalries that had existed for the last five centuries. All of the issues that had existed before were still there—they were just temporarily shelved for the moment while humanity faced a bigger threat.
The Raiders watched as the yellow-master, the equivalent of between a Marine sergeant and staff sergeant, inspected the flight. He had to know that a hundred eyes were on him, and he made a show of what he was doing. His soldiers made a show, too, standing at a ramrod-straight position of attention, then displaying their gear in turn with movements that would make the Marine Corps Silent Drill Team jealous.
“How the hell are we going to work with them?” Hussein asked Rev.
“Hell if I know, Hus-man.”
Rev and Tomiko were now PFCs, getting their promotion shortly after their return to Nguyen. But with Rev’s recommendation for the Platinum Nova, which was a poorly kept secret, he’d gained more than a bit of street cred. Hussein, in particular, seemed to gravitate to him on questions about the Marine Corps.
Rev didn’t really have the answers, and he knew he’d been just damned lucky with the Centaur, but a part of him basked in his new rep. He looked forward to going out in Swansea with it around his throat. He no longer had any feelings for Mia, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t looking forward to the prospect of showing off in front of her.
PN awardees were supposed to be humble and all of that, and he wouldn’t do anything to besmirch the award, but . . .
Besides, it was rumored that the PN was a lady magnet, surpassing even his dress blues. He intended to find out if that was true.
But at the moment, with the Host flight invading their turf, the medal was the furthest thing from his mind.
“Think they’re spies?” Hussein asked.
“Of course, they’re spies,” Staff Sergeant Montrez said.
“Then why do we let them come?”
Rev turned to the staff sergeant, waiting to hear what she had to say. The provincial command was rushing recruits through training, and with the new conscription laws in place, there were enough in the pipeline. But the regiment was still undermanned, especially in the infantry ranks. If they needed augmentation, why not from the rest of the Corps? Even just on Safe Harbor, First Division was still at close to T/O, or Table of Organization, strength, so why not send some of them to this side of the planet.
“It’s all part of this Pax Humanity initiative. We’re all in this together, you know. Those soldiers there, they’re a symbol of our close and intimate relationship.”
Rev wasn’t the only one to break out laughing at that. “Close and intimate relationship? With the fucking Frisian Host?”
“I’m not saying I agree with that. But that’s why they’re here. Give the leeches some hope that we’re going to win, especially since, well, you know.”
That sobered Rev up. The base was still on lockdown, but if the brass thought they could hide the disaster of Preacher Rolls, they were sadly mistaken. Families knew when their loved ones were killed or missing, and they talked. The entire planet knew that the mission had been a failure.
“There’s the lieutenant,” Tomiko said. “We’ll see if we’re stuck with them now.”
Lieutenant Smith, Lieutenant Omestori and Master Sergeant Beaulieu (who had been with the regimental Bravo Command group and so survived the Preacher Rolls mission) walked out of the company office with a Host green-master, the equivalent of a Marine warrant officer. The Host soldier escorted Smith to the yellow-master who’d stopped his inspection and had taken a position at the head of his formation.
The yellow-master did their weird, palm-out salute, and Lieutenant Smith moved to the first soldier in the formation, the green-master, Omestori, and the master sergeant in trace. The soldier saluted, then brought his version of the Mantis to and extended port arms. The lieutenant took it.
“Oh, shit. He’s inspecting them,” Nix said.
Which meant the Host flight was going to be part of the platoon after all.
Rev had no idea how that was going to work out.