Indomitable (3 page)

*   *   *

Private Race Atumbi was
admiring Private First Class Jupiter Cervantes's backside when the gunny's order came, and his reaction time was far too slow to avoid a collision with her. When the company slowed, Atumbi plowed through Cervantes and burst through a platoon of Marines, sending every one of them to the deck.

Cervantes ended up on top of Atumbi. “Don't get any ideas,” she said as she backhanded him across the mouth.

“Hey,
chica!
What was that for?”

“For your wandering
ojos.
Keep your eyes on target and off of me.”

Cervantes stood first, and then offered a grudging hand to Atumbi. Her grip was like a vise, and she kept squeezing until he cried out. “What was
that
for?” he said, rubbing his hand, which now hurt worse than his throbbing jawline.

“So you don't forget.” Cervantes looked pleased with herself as she shoved Atumbi forward. He fell in beside the Marines he'd just knocked down, and Cervantes joined him on his right.

“Where did you get a grip like that?” Atumbi asked as they jogged.

“Bion-
ics,
” she said, and held up her right hand. “I don't regen. I lost the original in a training
accidente.
”

Atumbi took a closer look at the skin's color. It was slightly off but pretty good for synthetics.

Colorful metaphors and insults erupted all around Atumbi as he found his place in formation.

“You fool. The gunny's gonna make us frog-jump around the field.”

“Hey, Atumbi, you make me believe in reincarnation. No one gets so stupid in one lifetime.”

His one-word nickname earned in boot camp—a solitary, cold dismissal—rolled off the lips of the woman who'd caught his eye. “Trip.”

He brushed each aside with the dirt on his PT uniform. Jupiter's next words knifed the deepest. Cervantes eviscerated his manhood, shot through two magazines without so much as reloading.
“Tirar de su cabeza fuera de su asteroide
.
”
His Spanish was north of rusty, but he caught the gist. Because they'd come from her they cut him to the core.

Atumbi's stomach sank when he realized the gunny had turned around and was marching backward with his eyes on him. They weren't quite smoldering. Then Ramuel did an about-face and started singing “The Old Lady.”

Here we go again,
Atumbi thought.

 

Three

APRIL 14
TH
, 92 A.E., STANDARD CALENDAR, 0623 HOURS

REPUBLIC OF ALIGNED WORLDS PLANETARY CAPITAL—HOLD

MARINE CORPS CENTRAL MOBILIZATION COMMAND

Gunnery Sergeant Tomas Ramuel
ran astride Victor Company in a sweat-stained shirt and shorts, his pulse lightly elevated. He'd just finished chanting, “Gimme some, gimme some. PT! PT! Good for you and good for me!” It was a legendary cadence in the storied history of the RAW-MC. In fact, the United States Marine Corps from the wet-Navy days, back eight hundred years ago, had sung the cadence too. This reminded Ramuel of the one about Ho Chi Minh and something about crabs and the seven-year itch. He couldn't remember it all or place the time period it was from, but he was pretty sure that this guy—HCM—had been a real SOB.

From the corner of his eye Ramuel saw a Marine fall out of formation and throw up, which made him smile. Looking over his shoulder, he found two stragglers about a quarter klick behind the rest of the pack.
Good,
he thought.
Still there. Still toughing it out. Still loving the suck. Good, girls and boys.
He grunted in satisfaction as he turned around and pounded over the next few meters of caked earth.

Ramuel clicked his tongue as he ticked through his repertoire, until he came to a personal favorite.
“The Old Lady.” Oh yeah.
Ramuel cleared his throat. “Hmm … la, la, la.” His deep baritone voice bellowed out the first verse. A collective groan rose from Victor Company, and then Victor Company echoed the response, a bit less enthusiastically and a bit more off-key. Back and forth it went, first the gunny and then the unit.

I saw an old lady humping down the street.

I saw an old lady humping down the street.

She wore a gravchute pack and mechboots on her feet.

She wore a gravchute pack and mechboots on her feet.

I said, Hey, Old Lady, where you going to?

I said, Hey, Old Lady, where you going to?

She said, I'm going to the RAW-MC Atmo School.

She said, I'm going to the RAW-MC Atmo School.

I said, Hey, Old Lady, I think you're too old.

I said, Hey, Old Lady, I think you're too old.

You'd better leave drops to the young and the bold.

You'd better leave drops to the young and the bold.

She said, Listen, Private Atumbi, I'm talking to you.

She said, Listen, Private Atumbi, I'm talking to you.

I'm a trainer at the RAW-MC Atmo School.

I'm a trainer at the RAW-MC Atmo School.

As the cadence ended, Ramuel barked out, “Company, forward, march!”

Victor Company eased into a brisk walk about fifty meters from Promise's position, all eyes staring past her. To his credit, the aforementioned Private Atumbi was in sync with the rest of company, mostly, but on the wrong foot.

The right flank overtook Promise, and the gunny called out, “Company, halt!” Ramuel's voice soared upward on “Pythons, right, face!”

*   *   *

Promise looked to her
left, at Gunnery Sergeant Tomas Ramuel, her de facto second-in-command, and saw a plume of steam rising from between his ears. Ramuel was either overheated or pissed off. Promise was almost positive it was the latter of the two. After the gunny's “Order arms!” every Marine was supposed to shift his or her rifle to the right side, with the butt of the rifle resting on the ground. Promise counted three boots with their barrels scraping the deck instead of pointed skyward. Then there was Atumbi, who didn't have a rifle at all.

“Marines need feet to pound ferrocrete.” Promise's voice carried over the field. “The gunny said order arms, not shoot the jane or jack beside you in the boot. Get it fixed. Now!”

Promise schooled her face to unreadable and began to walk the line. She stopped when she was standing in front of Private Atumbi's row. Promise motioned for Atumbi to step out of line. But Atumbi's eyes were locked on the aft compartment of the Marine in front of him, Private First Class Cervantes, and Atumbi had a dumb expression plastered on his face, and empty hands instead of a properly righted pulse rifle.

Promise cleared her throat to get his attention. “Private, I believe you're missing something.”

Atumbi still wasn't paying attention.

This is going to be fun,
Promise thought. She cast the gunny a look.
Shall we?

The gunny nodded back. Yelled, “Atumbi! When the lieutenant speaks, the obligatory response is to listen. When the lieutenant speaks to
you
the obligatory response is ‘Yes, ma'am.' When the lieutenant points out your mistake the obligatory response is ‘I'm sorry, ma'am. I screwed the pooch, by the numbers, ma'am!'”

Now the private was looking unnaturally pale, which was odd for a man with skin as black as cinders.

*   *   *

Private First Class Cervantes
matched eyes with Promise and muttered under her breath. “You need to listen better.” Then she looked over her shoulder and shifted her weight slightly. Atumbi's head suddenly disappeared behind Cervantes's smaller frame. When he came up for air, his face was pained and his shoulders were hunched forward.

*   *   *

Promise scowled at Cervantes
and raised a finger. Mouthed,
That's one.
Then she caught the gunny's eyes. “Hmmm … one of my Marines is not like the other. Gunny, I believe Private Atumbi forgot something important.”

“We left before sunrise, ma'am. I should have double-checked.”

Cervantes opened her big mouth.
“Estúpido imbécil—”

“Enough, Jupiter!” Promise glared at Cervantes and raised another finger.
That's two.

The gunny piped up, growled really. “Cervantes, you don't want to get to
three.
Shut your mouth or Atumbi's fate will be your own.”

“Thank you, Gunny,” Promise said, the full weight of her gaze on Cervantes, who was now looking quite pale too. “All of you. Keep your traps shut.” The words edged out as sharp as a force blade. “I'll worry about Atumbi. You worry about you. Clear?”

Every boot in Victor Company looked dead ahead. Not a single jane or jack dared speak up and earn three klicks for the trying.

Cervantes nodded and broke contact.

Good,
Promise thought, and then back to face Atumbi.
Now to fix this mess of a Marine.
Atumbi was coated in sweat and dirt and trying very hard not to cry. “Private, you've been in the RAW-MC for what, six months now? Let's start with something easy. Please repeat the Third Directive.”

Atumbi groaned out a response. “Ma'am, ah, yes, ma'am. The Third Directive says … that … uh…”

Promise cocked her head; spoke just loud enough for her entire command to hear. “‘I don't know, ma'am' is a very good place to start … Private.”

“Yes, ma'am.” A tear rolled down Atumbi's face. “I don't … I don't know, ma'am.”

“Lance Corporal Van Peek, the Third Directive if you please.”

Nathaniel Van Peek's cobalt eyes and runway nose met her gaze, and he nodded. Van Peek was one of the few surviving members of her original command, and one of her heavy-weapons experts. One of her Montanan Marines. Promise approved of the sideburns and trimmed mustache, both new additions to his otherwise baby-faced appearance. They'd aged the young NCO by several years, clearly distinguishing him from the average green-as-get-you-killed privates.

“Yes, ma'am. The Third states, and I quote, ‘A Marine must keep his rifle with him at all times. Failure to do so will result in immediate disciplinary action at the commanding officer's discretion.' Ma'am.”

Promise nodded and looked from Van Peek to Atumbi. “So, Private, what happened to your rifle?”

Private Atumbi's eyes imploded. “I … I left my gun back in the barracks, Lieutenant.”

Really.
Promise smiled. “You left your
gun
in the barracks.” She cocked her brow, planted her free hand on her hip, and raised a fist to her mouth like she needed to cough. Did so twice. She took the time to compose her thoughts, until she was sure every trace of amusement was wiped from her face.

“You left your
gun
back in the barracks? Did all you Pythons hear that? Private Atumbi left his
gun
behind, back in the barracks.”

“That's because this
chica bonita
took it from him.”

Promise snorted and raised two fingers, and cocked a third for good measure. “Shut your askhole, Jupiter, or this
chica
will have you running laps around the field for the rest of the morning.”

Promise heard muffled chuckles and hushed swearing, but decided to let the small break in discipline go.

“Lance Corporal Van Peek, where's your gun?”

“Hanging on my lifeline, right where the
Maker
put it, ma'am. I get that right?”

Promise dipped her head toward the lance corporal. It was always the Maker, and never God, so said her father anyway, and a lot of Montanans too. As for getting the location right, well, if a jack didn't know where his gun was located he had bigger problems to deal with than the ire of his commanding officer.

Promise shot a sideways glance at Private Atumbi. The young boot would soon enough recognize the slight twinkle in her eye, assuming he didn't get himself shot first, either by the enemy or by a firing squad … for jar-headed stupidity.

“Private Screech Ashburn, where's your gun?”

Ashburn flexed his square jaw and his eyes dropped like stars. “Where it was this morning, ma'am, mounted to my front bulkhead.”

Time to wrap this up, P, or the entire conversation is going to get away from you,
Promise thought to herself. Before she could say more, Cervantes cleared her throat hard, making her intentions plain as the business end of a pulse rifle.

Promise sighed and closed her eyes. “All right, Jupiter, where's
your
gun?”

“What? Jupiter's got a gun?” came from one of the rank and file near the back of the formation. Promise rolled her eyes, immediately regretting that she'd asked in the first place. She wondered if she was encouraging lax discipline. Well, she'd lay that to rest in a mike or two.

Cervantes shook her pear-shaped hips before returning to attention. “Plumbing's a bit different,
Teniente.
I keep mine
alta y estrecha
—high and tight, ma'am.”

“Just like a lady.” Promise glanced down at Cervantes's rifle. “Hand your wep to Atumbi. He's going to borrow it and then return it to you later today in pristine condition.”

Cervantes froze. Promise could see the stubborn mule in her posture and fire in her eyes. She didn't so much as raise her voice when she said, “Thank you, Jupiter.”

Cervantes ground her jaw and did as she was told.

“Company dismissed.” Promise took a deep breath and walked over to her Mule. She took the mug and breakfast roll from Stevie's clawed hands with anticipation. The first sip nearly burned her tongue. “Mm, cream and sugar are just right, Stevie. Thank you. Better pour a cup for the gunny too. After that run he's going to need it.”