Starfist: Hangfire (22 page)

"Yeah?" Claypoole interjected. "Well, maybe someday they'll land a fire team and they'll proceed to clean your clocks for you."

"I believe you could do that, Mr. Claypoole. But unfortunately, for the moment there are only the three of you, and alas, you are, shall we say, naked to your enemies?"

"Well, Mister, uh, Paoli, don't you think if anyone wanted to spy on you they'd send someone who didn't stand out so much?"

"Yes, Mister, er, Dean. Yes indeed. You've hit the mark. We look at them too, the ordinary people, of course. Everything here is subject to surveillance. It has to be. We don't allow cheating or any sort of criminal activity; that'd be bad for business. But with so much money around, the temptations are very great. But you three stood out, so naturally we are suspicious. Now, I want you to talk to someone." He turned to a very large man who'd been standing quietly in a corner of the room. "Bring her in, Hugo."

Juanita walked into the room. She regarded the three balefully for a moment. "Kill them," she told Sticks coolly. "I don't know the stupid-looking one," she nodded at Pasquin, "but these other two, kill them. Kill him too." She nodded back at Pasquin.

"Why, my dear? Oh," Sticks turned to the Marines, "Juanita is a very important member of our business community here on Havanagas—and elsewhere. She recruits young ladies to work in our various enterprises. I believe, Mr. Claypoole, your consort, Miss Wells, was specially recruited by Juanita. Why should we kill them, my dear?"

Claypoole bristled at the reference to Katie, but he bit his tongue.

"I told you what they did on Wanderjahr, Johnny." Her voice dripped hatred. "They ruin everything wherever they go. They destroyed my business on Wanderjahr. I don't believe they're here as tourists.

Kill them now and avoid trouble later."

"Mister Paoli, sir," Claypoole said, "that girl was killed by rebels on Wanderjahr. We had nothing to do with it. Oh, they were after us, I'm sure of that. But they hit her instead. In that sense maybe we were responsible. But we didn't know they were laying for us. Now that's way in the past, we're out of the Corps, and we just want to enjoy ourselves for the rest of our stay here."

Juanita smirked at Claypoole's words. "You are incredibly stupid," she said. "I don't give a shit about that little whore. You Marines ruined my business on Wanderjahr, you destroyed Kurt Arschmann's Stadt, and Kurt was my benefactor in so many ways."

"Thank you, Juanita," Sticks said. Juanita turned to leave.

"Hey, lady," Claypoole called after her, "you can just go fuck yourself! I wish to God it'd been you they killed that day and not Maggie!" he shouted. His face had turned deep red and the veins in his neck stood out.

Juanita turned back to Paoli. "Johnny, kill them. I've warned you." She turned back to Claypoole and pointed her finger at him. "I will see you again, Marine," she said, turned and walked out.

The room was silent for a few moments. Then Johnny Sticks sighed and handed each of the three men a plastic card "I'm sorry for any inconvenience, gentlemen. Here are free passes to the library for as many visits as you wish to make while you're here. Lovat, please return these good gentlemen to the city?"

Just before he let them out in front of the library, Culloden put his lips very close to Pasquin's ear and whispered, "Here. Tomorrow night. Eighteen hours."

"Come on, Raoul," Claypoole shouted from the steps. He was elated They all were. They'd carried off their impersonations. "Let's take these passes and make some passes!"

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

As he strode into Brigadier Sturgeon's anteroom, Colonel Ramadan glanced at the corporal, who snapped to attention and acknowledged him with a slight nod that betrayed none of the surprise or curiosity he felt. He recognized the corporal, though he hadn't seen him in more than half a year Standard.

It was Corporal Doyle, the Company L chief clerk who had been transferred to avoid having to face a court-martial for the same action for which he would have been awarded a medal had he remained with 34th FIST. He stopped in the open doorway to Sturgeon's office.

"Good morning, sir," Ramadan said.

"Morning, Colonel," Sturgeon replied. "Come on in." He signaled for his executive officer to close the door. His reds were slightly rumpled; he'd made planetfall just a half hour earlier, at the break of dawn, and come directly to headquarters. He'd called Ramadan on the way in and told the Chief of Staff to meet him in his office.

The door closed and Ramadan dropped all pretense of formality. He grinned broadly and stepped to the desk with his hand outstretched. "Damn good to have you back, sir." He noticed without comment an addition to the small display of photos of the chain of command—a portrait of Lieutenant General Aguinaldo, the Assistant Commandant. Aguinaldo's portrait, like the one of the Commandant, was a holo; the others were 2-D.

"It's good to be back," Sturgeon said, rising to take Ramadan's hand. He grinned wryly. "But I'm surprised you're glad. With me back, you're no longer acting FIST commander. I've never known a Marine officer to willingly give that up."

Ramadan laughed. "It's a tougher job than I realized," he said. "Good thing we don't have ‘up-or-out’

anymore. I love the job I've got, but now that I've done it, I don't really think I'm cut out to be a FIST

commander."

Sturgeon chuckled. "Sometimes I don't think I am either."

"You're a fine one, sir. One of the best."

"I'm not sure you'll be so glad to have me back when you hear what I found out."

"That's all right; I've got a thing or two that might make you wish you'd stayed away." Ramadan moved a visitor's chair to the side of Sturgeon's desk and sat down. He couldn't restrain himself any longer and asked, "What's he doing back?" with a nod toward the door and Corporal Doyle beyond it.

"What he's doing back here is part of what I learned on Earth." Sturgeon looked down at his desk and thought for a moment. When he looked up, there was no smile on his face; he looked as serious as Ramadan had ever seen him. "What I'm about to tell you," he said briskly, "is so far beyond ultra-secret that not even the Commandant is authorized to know it. It's something that no one in 34th FIST, including you and me, is authorized to know. Yet we need to know it, and so does everybody else in the FIST."

He paused a beat, then continued, "We have to find a way to make sure all of our people know this, and that nobody else finds out about it."

Ramadan's mouth thinned to a line, but he didn't say anything.

"As you know, I went to Earth to straighten out whatever needed fixing because my Marines weren't getting their normal rotation orders. Colonel, they aren't going to get orders. All transfers out of 34th FIST have been canceled, So have retirements. Moreover, everyone in the FIST has been involuntarily extended for ‘the duration.’"

"What!" Ramadan said, loudly enough to be heard in the anteroom. He caught himself and lowered his voice. "What war is going on that requires involuntary extensions for the duration?" he asked.

Sturgeon slowly shook his head. "There is no declared war. The Confederation is doing nothing out of the ordinary of a military nature. He"—he nodded toward the door and Corporal Doyle—"is back with us because he knows something nobody is supposed to know."

Ramadan looked at him blankly.

"You know about the Avionians that Company L encountered late last year. And about the skinks Company L's third platoon encountered on Society 437 nearly a year earlier."

Understanding washed across Ramadan's face. "It's because the Confederation is keeping the existence of the alien sentiences secret, isn't it?" He shook his head. "That's not a good enough reason to mess up everybody's life."

Sturgeon nodded agreement. "You're right, it's not. But there's more."

Ramadan's eyebrows went up.

"For reasons known only to the politicians and bureaucrats who make the decisions, knowledge of alien sentients is to be kept a state secret for the foreseeable future. There are at least six known sapient species." He held up a hand to hold off the question Ramadan obviously was about to ask. "I know what you're wondering. Why haven't astronomers heard their radio broadcasts? Because five of those species are relatively primitive. They haven't developed use of any part of the electro-magnetic spectrum for communications beyond signal fires and ground-to-ground mirror flashing. The skinks are the only species we've met who are even close to being our technological equals. And some skink technology seems to be advanced beyond ours."

"What does that have to do with our rotations and involuntary extensions?"

"Since elements of 34th FIST are the only military units that have made contact with the aliens, we have been designated the official alien-contact military force. In order to keep the secret, we are, in effect, quarantined. There is even high-level talk of quarantining Thorsfinni's World altogether in case civilians learn about the aliens."

"They can't do that!" Ramadan snapped. Then, more calmly, he said, "I guess they can. And there are bastards in the government who would gladly stoop that low."

"And that's why Corporal Doyle is back. He was intercepted on his way to his next duty station and taken to Earth, where he was held in solitary confinement while they figured out what to do with him.

When I showed up on Earth, someone pulled strings and he was handed over to me to bring back."

"What are we going to do with him? I'm sure First Sergeant Myer will want to court-martial him as soon as he finds out he's back."

"There will be no court-martial." Sturgeon drummed his fingers on his desktop, then decided to put the Doyle Question—he was beginning to think of it in capitals—aside for the moment. "The first thing we have to do is brief my senior staff and major subordinate commanders. Would you arrange that, please?"

"Certainly, sir? Ramadan rose. "How soon do you want it?"

"Right now." Sturgeon chuckled, knowing it wasn't possible. "Pull them from whatever they're doing and get them here as soon as they can. Then come back and tell me what's happened that should make me wish I hadn't returned."

"Incidentally..." He stopped Ramadan before the colonel opened the door. "I saw you look at the chain." He indicated the portrait display. "General Aguinaldo is up there now because he called in favors to find all the information I have. He's working on our behalf."

Ramadan nodded. He knew Aguinaldo and knew he was just about the best Marine to ever attain that high a position in the Corps. With Assistant Commandant Aguinaldo looking into their situation, Sturgeon was certain the problem would be resolved as well as possible.

The meeting with the senior staff and major subordinate commanders took only half an hour. They agreed with Assistant Commandant Aguinaldo that the men should be told that a problem in the Hexagon was preventing change of station rotations and that the ACMC was working on fixing it. That would be the official word for the time being; if the situation seemed likely to continue indefinitely, or if 34th FIST

made another alien contact, the men would have to be told the truth. None of the subordinate commanders was comfortable with the idea of telling his men they were involuntarily extended—that could possibly create even worse morale problems than they were already experiencing—but it was the only fair thing to do. Both the infantry battalion and air squadron commanders wanted to brief their top people. Sturgeon agreed. He was relieved when Commander Van Winkle, the infantry commander, offered to handle the Doyle Question.

"If there are no questions, gentlemen?" Van Winkle said at the end of his briefing. His senior staff, company commanders, and first sergeants looked somber and reflective, but none had anything to ask.

"Captain Conorado, First Sergeant Myer, please stay for a moment. The rest of you are dismissed."

The assembled officers and first sergeants stood and filed out of the battalion briefing room, leaving the commander and first sergeant of Company L in their seats. Battalion Sergeant Major Parant also remained; he knew what Van Winkle wanted to see Conorado and Myer about and understood that he might be needed.

When the others were gone and the briefing room door was closed again, Van Winkle walked to where the Company L leaders were sitting and turned a chair around so he sat almost knee to knee with them. Parant took up station to his immediate left rear.

"There's something else I have to deal with, and I wanted to talk it over with the two of you before I decide what to do," Van Winkle said without preamble.

"Yessir," Conorado said.

Myer looked attentive.

"Corporal Doyle's back."

Neither reacted for a few seconds, then cords bulged on Myer's neck and his face turned red. "I want his ass court-martialed!" he almost shouted. "Nobody blackmails me and gets away with it."

"Brigadier Sturgeon was very clear that there will be no court-martial," Van Winkle said calmly.

To his left rear Parant patted the air in signal for Myer to calm down.

"Obviously," Van Winkle went on, as though Myer's outburst hadn't happened, "he can't return to Company L as chief clerk. If nothing else, you've already got a new chief clerk, and don't need a third clerk."

Conorado nodded. He promoted PFC Palmer to lance corporal and gave the job to him when Doyle left. Palmer was one of the men far overdue for rotation. There was a new PFC in the clerk's billet.

"Unless," Van Winkle went on, "the whole matter of Doyle's insubordination gets cleared up, I can't really assign him to one of the other companies either—and Headquarters has a full complement of clerks. So, gentlemen, what do you suggest we do?"

Parant fixed Myer with his eyes, leaned back on his chair and crossed his arms. Myer glared back and tightened his lips over his clenched teeth so he wouldn't say anything.

"He's a clerk, sir," Conorado said slowly, his mind racing to come up with a solution.

Van Winkle waited. He knew, as the best superiors do, that usually the best solutions come from the people who have to deal with the problems, not from those who hand solutions down from on high.