Marine Cadet (The Human Legion Book 1) (36 page)

While we wait for that, stick around, sports fans. Let’s not forget that there are sixteen teams still in the competition and all are playing today. We’ve just got time to hear that interview with Pedro before the Endurance-Stoicism game between two teams from the 101st Assault Marines, Nevergation and Bluffmore Stags. Don’t go away.

——

“Don’t anyone say a word.” Madge spoke with slow menace.

There was silence in the clubhouse for about a second before Arun couldn’t help himself.

“That goes for me too,” he announced. “If anyone upsets my little girlfriend, I’ll be really, really cross.”

Madge’s punch came quicker than he’d expected, catching him a glancing blow even though he was already rolling off his lounger constructed from half-filled grain sacks. He fell onto the floor of Alabama Depot, surrounded by billows of laughter echoing from the roof high above.

“We are winning the battle, mistress. We will overcome the fire or… or…” Adrienne had to stop a moment. Otherwise she would burst out laughing and even Tawfiq might grow suspicious “Or we will die in the attempt.”

“Make sure you do one or the other,” commanded Tawfiq over the handheld communicator. “The food stocks are far more valuable than your lives. Are you sure you cannot simply move the food sacks out of danger? I do not understand why you say this is impossible.”

Aware of her human audience, Adrienne made a show of looking around the loading bay of the depot. Most of the food stores were safely stacked on pallets to one side, but smaller sacks had been arranged into crude tables and chairs that held food, water, or lazing Tunnel-Aux gesturing for Adrienne to hurry up so they could turn the radios back on and listen to the game.

In the center of the warehouse was a stepped pyramid with a flat top. One of the two young Agri-Aux who had remained behind to greet the Tunnel-Aux had explained this this pyramid was the dance stage.

”I regret, mistress,” said Adrienne with great solemnity, “the sacks are underneath immovable objects but they are not in immediate danger of burning.”

“Talk with you wastes my time,” said Tawfiq. Arun tried to imagine her jumping up and down in frustration. “Do not report in again until you have defeated the fire.”

“If you insist mistress. I return to my endeavors. Number 87 out.” Adrienne switched off her communicator to the cheers of her audience. Within moments, the commentary from Radio Hortez blared out once more from a dozen crude portable radio receivers.

“Is the monkey still buying it?” asked Springer, leaving wet footprints on the floor as she padded over from the shower.

“Yup. She’s even more stupid than we thought.” Arun glanced up at the roof where the young Agri-Aux had climbed the hanging rope ladders and were leaning out of a hatch to smear Pedro’s fire gel onto the roof. “Reckon we’ve got a few hours of firefighting left.”

The military-grade satellites orbiting Tranquility would spot the deception in an instant, but the Jotuns controlled those. Whatever system had told the Hardits of the fire was much cruder, possibly thousands of years older too.

For once, everything was going to plan. Arun felt invincible, or would have done if every muscle in his body wasn’t still groaning under the abuse heaped on him by the Hardit torture. Even his knee was playing up again, the one he’d damaged firing grenades point blank into a Troggie horde. Setting his pains aside, he opened his arm, inviting Springer in for a cuddle.

“Oh, no,” she teased. “Not with someone who hasn’t washed.”

Arun laughed. “How was the shower?”

Springer laughed too. “Strangely good. Here…” She threw him the sacking material she’d been using to dry her hair. “Your turn.”

“I can take a hint,” he said cheerfully, winking at Springer as he walked off to the fab shop.

In theory there were no showers at the depot. Why would any expense be allocated to the comfort of human slaves? But what the fab shop did have was a small degreasing booth intended to prepare metals and other materials before powder coating them with paint and other protective outer layers.

The Agri-Aux had modified the booth for the occasion.

How bad could it be?

Arun stripped off the baggy white undergarments of his borrowed protective suit, punched the on/off button and jumped onto the conveyor belt. As the belt pushed him toward the heavy plastic strips that marked the entrance to the booth, Arun sat down, the hollow diamond pattern of the belt cutting painfully into his butt. He brought his knees up and head down; the entrance didn’t look designed for comfort.

As the plastic strips parted and lukewarm water began squirting at him, he relaxed and uncurled. It wasn’t as bad as he’d thought. He could almost stand up if he wanted.

Then choking clouds of de-greasing agent filled the booth, rubbed in by flailing fabric fingers. His eyes stung. So did every inch of his skin. He yelped when his brutalized muscles screamed in protest.

He was the last one through. All the Tunnel-Aux had experienced this and come out with gleaming smiles to match their grease-free hair. He’d never seen such a transformation in morale.

He squealed in protest when scalding hot water suddenly jetted up from below.

“Are you okay?” came a voice from outside the booth.

Springer’s face poked through the strips on the far side of the booth. “Oh, it’s you Arun. I could have sworn I heard a little girl screaming in there.”

“Very funny.”

“Yes, I thought so.” She threw him a cheeky grin. “Don’t forget to clean behind your ears, Arun. I’ll be waiting for you on the outside.” Her head disappeared.

Before Arun could reply, he was drenched in a sudden outpouring of cold water. The groan of a motor started up as hot air began to blast him.

He shouted into the wind: “You’d better make it worth my while, Phaedra Tremayne.”

Arun smiled.

She already had.

——

Springer reached over and caressed Arun’s furrowed brow. “Loosen up,” she said. “Enjoy. You’ve earned it.”

She snuggled beside him as they relaxed with a few other members of Team Beta in a nest of hay in the loading bay. “Stop worrying,” she whispered.

After the stunt they’d played today, there probably wasn’t going to be any future. But Arun had spent a lifetime worrying about tomorrow and the habit was too strong to break now.

“I’ve done something for the first time today,” he said. “I’ve gambled with other people’s lives. And…” He took a deep breath. “I think I like it.”

“I know. I’m surprised at you, McEwan. You told me once that you would hate to be a leader, because you would be paralyzed by thoughts of what would happen if your plans went wrong.”

“Exactly. Look around at all these happy faces. I feel so proud to see them, but then I wonder whether it was worth the risks I took on their behalf just to plant those smiles there? Even if that transmitter I planted on Cliffie puts the blame on him, we could all be executed before nightfall. At least we’ve a chance. Hortez hasn’t. He volunteered for a suicide mission. And all that for such a gamble. It was only a guess that the Hardits would send us here because they would be scared that more official help would reveal their gun running.”

“Stop it. You’re beginning to sound sorry for yourself. There’s nothing more pathetic than sad-mouthing, especially when you start to bend the facts to match your sob story. Coming here to the clubhouse wasn’t really essential. Aux have been hiding themselves all over Detroit today, listening in on secret radios. This–” she waved around the room, at the smiling Tunnel-Aux staining their borrowed white clothes in their rush to cram food into hungry mouths – “has been brilliant, but we could still have listened in on Radio Hortez if we’d had to stay in Detroit.”

Arun wasn’t listening. Springer waited for him as he floundered in his thoughts, trying to turn them into words that would make sense.

“You know me better than I know myself,” he told her. “The way I’ve used other people… have I become so cynical, or was I driven by desperation? Hortez will die, maybe others. I ought to feel guilty but I only feel stoked because I put one over on Cliffie and on the Hardits. What’s happening to me, Springer?”

“Dear Arun. It’s your true nature emerging. I don’t think you’ll like what you’re becoming.”

“I don’t follow.”

Springer kissed him. Arun noticed nearby Aux point and smile. Madge looked over from the bowl of stew she was eating and gave Arun a dirty look.

“You’re fighting a losing battle against overwhelming odds,” Springer told him. “Generations of selective breeding and indoctrination have brought you to this point. You can’t fight such powerful forces, Arun. You’re growing into a Marine.”

——

Soon after, the main body of Agri-Aux returned, their skin hot and raw from the merciless sun.

As they made their way to the water canisters, to slake their first and pour cool water over hot bodies, the Tunnel-Aux smiles became guarded. The volume was turned down on Radio Hortez.

Water beaker in her hand, Esther emerged from the milling crowd of Agri-Aux. Arun rose to meet her, his own beaker raised high in salute.

“Here’s to being human,” he announced in a voice loud enough to carry through the crowd.

“To being human,” echoed Springer, Madge and many of the Beta Aux.

Some of the Agri-Aux joined in with the toast too, but Esther waved them into silence.

Tunnel-Aux edged closer together for mutual protection.

Arun had missed something. What?

“My people will join your toast,” announced Esther, “but not until we have something proper to toast with.”

“Like what?” asked Arun.

Esther snapped her fingers. On the other side of the bay from the food, a cover was pulled away from a table to reveal a row of 5 gallon canisters with taps fixed at their bases.

“Like that!” said Esther.

“What is it?” asked Madge. “More water?”

“We work with the grain. We know how to extract its fruit.” Esther’s explanation was lost on Arun and the others.

“It’s beer, man,” called out one of the Aux in a peal of laughter.

“What is
beer
?” asked Arun, but that only provoked more gales of laughter. He looked to Madge and Springer for help, but they looked as puzzled as him.

Esther put an arm over Arun’s shoulder. “My friend, this is a party you’ll never forget.”

“More likely it’s a party he won’t be able to remember,” someone called out.

Esther ignored the heckle and steered her ally toward the beer.

——

“Remind me again,” Arun asked Springer when the light coming through the doors to the hardened area outside was beginning to fade and redden. “What’re we supposed to be doing here?”

“Partying!”

“No, I mean, like, what did we tell the Hardits we were doing?”

“Oh. Something about a fire, I think.”

Arun took a moment to understand Springer’s slurred speech. He remembered now. He looked up at the fake fire in the roof and frowned. He didn’t remember anyone applying the smoking gel for a long while.

“Getting dark,” said Springer. “D’ya think they’re getting worried ’bout us?”

She and Arun looked into each other’s eyes, trying to keep a straight face. They erupted into giggles.

Arun retrieved the communicator from where Adrienne had last left it. With a flourish, he activated the device.

There was the briefest of pauses before Tawfiq’s voice screamed through the speaker. “Report. Report. Report!”

“Tawfiq. How’re you, my fine, furry friend?”

“Who is this?”

“197. 222?” Arun scratched his head. “I don’t recall. I never forget a name but with numbers… I’m hopeless.”

“What occurs? Report!”

“Keep yer fur on. What’re we doing, eh?” He looked around at the buzzing party. The dance floor was heaving to the percussive rhythms struck from upturned metal drums. “Umm, we’re busy, I guess.”

“What is that noise I hear?”

“People. People doing stuff.”

“Stunted imbecile. Where is 87?”

“87? Oh, you mean Adrienne? Let me see…” Arun scanned the warehouse and spied Adrienne on the dance floor, grinding out some raunchy moves in front of an eager young buck with his shirt off.

“87 is engaged in an encounter with an Agri-worker.”

Springer stifled a laugh.

“I think,” said Arun. “Think she’s trying to go undercover to discover his secrets.”

Springer exploded into laughter, bringing Arun with her in fits of giggles.

“Give it here. Silly veck-ek-eks.” Arun looked up to see Madge standing over him with an open palm thrust in his face. She was bathed in sweat having just returned from an expedition to the dance floor herself, bringing back a gaggle of male admirers with her.

Arun handed over the comm.

“Corporal Majajazazaa here, ma’am.” Madge’s words were slurred worse than Springer’s. “Firefighting party will return to home to you–”

“Do so, immediately.”

“–as soon as conditions permit. Mazazeeta out.”

Madge cut off the sound of Hardit protest, took aim, and threw the device 10 meters into a pan of warm stew.

Madge was so drunk she could barely stand or talk. But she could dance and – it seemed – she could throw. The communicator landed dead center in the pan and disappeared to contribute its favors to the stew.

Springer whistled in admiration. “Your targeting skills are impressive, corporal.”

Arun was impressed too, but was relieved to see Madge return to the dance floor. Her hostility to him had reduced, but only by a hair’s breadth.

He pulled Springer closer to him. She fitted so perfectly, snuggled under his shoulder, as if they had been engineered to complement each other.

Basking in the warmth of her embrace, he took a gulp of beer and recorded onto his implants the sights and sounds of the party, from the clumps of strangers in conversation to the pounding beat from the ever-changing lineup of drummers. He tried to memorize the scents too, though he had no means of digitally recording them: the smell of fresh perspiration, freshly-baked bread, and sticky beer spills. He nuzzled Springer’s neck, drawing in her scent, the most precious of them all.