Starfist: Lazarus Rising (2 page)

"A toast," Borland said, lifting his snifter.

Sturgeon held his own up and out.

"To fallen comrades."

"To fallen comrades," Sturgeon echoed solemnly.

They touched their snifters together, then inhaled the aroma and sipped.

"Please, Ted." Borland waved a hand, and the two sat—his voice was suddenly thicker than it had been. The Marines weren't alone in suffering severe losses in the Kingdom Campaign. The Fast Frigate
Admiral J. P. Jones
, the
Grandar Bay
's sole escort, had been destroyed by the Skinks during their fighting evacuation of Kingdom—all but seventeen of her two hundred officers and crew were killed when the ship exploded.

The two commanders sat for a long moment, each reflecting on the lives of their people who had died in the fighting. Almost as though on a secret signal, they shook themselves out of it and each reached for his coffee—lost lives were a part of combat that Marines and sailors had to accept, or else get out of uniform altogether; dwelling on losses could lead to insanity.

"That's the problem with fine china," Borland said after he took a drink. "It doesn't keep coffee hot."

Sturgeon chuckled. "After some of the kaff substitutes I've drunk in the field, real coffee is delicious even cold."

Borland had an idea why the Marine had wanted to see him. "You've had to drink kaff substitutes in the field, and we were silent for a while there, thinking things no man should have to think," he said. "I think if I put those two things together, they'll bring us to the reason for your visit."

Sturgeon nodded. "My Marines just went through some of the fiercest, most costly fighting I've ever seen in my career. Honestly, Ralph, I've never been on an operation that caused such heavy casualties. It's been playing on my mind, and I know it's bothering my people even more."

Borland nodded. Sailors didn't lose men the same way the Marines did—except for an occasional individual, mostly medical corpsmen, who served with Marines on combat missions. Most navy deaths and injuries were caused by shipyard or shipboard accidents. On the rare occasions when a ship was killed, there were few if any survivors left to suffer the loss of their shipmates. But he was the commander, and he deeply felt the loss of lives when the
Admiral J. P. Jones
was killed. He had personal knowledge of what Sturgeon meant.

"I've got one officer and sixteen sailors off the
Jones
who're undergoing intense therapy to help them through the death of their ship and shipmates. So how do you think I can help you with your Marines? My medical staff is stretched to its limits tending my people."

"On my way here," Sturgeon said, "I saw members of your crew cleaning the passageways and doing a lot of polishing."

"Keeping the
Grandar Bay
shipshape is a never-ending chore. There's always work for the crew to do."

"I dare say it takes a goodly number of man hours to keep this compartment sparkling." Sturgeon waved a hand, indicating the highly polished wood and other appointments.

Borland bit back a smile but couldn't keep a twinkle out of his eyes. "And what might this have to do with your Marines?"

"The
Grandar Bay
took significant battle damage, didn't she?"

Borland simply nodded.

"Far be it for this old Marine to butt into the business of running a starship"—Sturgeon held back his own smile—"but it seems to me that the
Grandar
Bay
would be better served if her crew devoted more of its time and effort to repairing and policing battle damage and less to spit and polish." Now a smile did crack his face, and he held up his hand to forestall Borland's next comment.

"Commodore, we Marines spend too much time on deployment these days to apply ourselves as much to ‘spit and polish’ as earlier generations of Marines did, but from the earliest days of the Royal Marines, Marines have been noted for ‘spit and polish.’ I'd like your permission for my Marines to take that chore off your sailors'

hands."

Borland beamed at him. "Ted, you just proposed a time-honored method for curing what ails battle-weary troops. I agree, my sailors could be put to much better use working on repairs to our battle damage."

He reached across the table, and the two commanders shook hands.

CHAPTER 2

First Acolyte Ben Loman stood in the observation cupola of his command car and scanned the foothills before him. He had halted his reconnaissance platoon just behind a low ridge and positioned his lead vehicle so he could see over the military crest. An unmanned reconnaissance aircraft had spotted something out there, and he had been sent to investigate. His heart thumped heavily inside his chest out of fear and excitement: fear that they had at last found some surviving demons, and excitement that this time they would have the killing edge. The demon host had been defeated, and First Acolyte Ben Loman's platoon, one of many recon units searching for demon survivors, might today be the first element of the Army of the Lord to make contact with the vile creatures.

Ben Loman was no fool. He knew that the demons at the height of their power were more than a match for anything the Kingdomite army could throw at them. But the off-world Marines had broken the siege of Haven and crushed the demons, who had fled with the Marines in hot pursuit. If any demons were still on Kingdom, they would be demoralized and underequipped for battle. Ben Loman was hot for revenge and eager to prove himself in battle as an officer of the Army of the Lord.

His headset crackled. "Sir, we await your orders," Senior Sword Raipur announced.

Ben Loman winced at the insistent tone in the senior sword's voice, as if the enlisted man were
reminding
him to get on with his mission. Raipur was a capable but overcautious noncom, always reminding his platoon commander that his mission was to find the enemy, not engage him. Senior Sword Raipur seemed actually
afraid
they might make contact with the demons.

They'd been on patrol for three weeks and were some 1,200 kilometers from the capital city of Haven. The main body of the Burning Bush Regiment was positioned sixty kilometers to their rear, eyes, ears, and weapons at the ready. Everyone's nerves were on edge, expecting any moment to run into the enemy. But so far, maybe until this moment, none had appeared. Other regiments in other sectors were also coming up negative, although they were finding isolated groups of refugees everywhere, people who'd fled into the wilderness when their settlements had been destroyed by the demons. Many had been killed by troops with itchy trigger fingers, shooting first and checking later. Those unfortunate incidents were proof, if any were needed, that the soldiers of the Army of the Lord were still scared witless by thought of the demons, the alien creatures the off-world Marines called Skinks.

And the men were nearly exhausted.

"Hold your position. I'm coming back there." Ben Loman threw off his headset with a loud bang that made his driver and gunner look up suddenly. "Take over the surveillance," he curtly told the driver. He grabbed his map unit and climbed out of the cupola. "If you see anything, get on the horn. I'll be back with the senior sword."

He stepped lightly out of the vehicle and walked quickly back to Senior Sword Raipur's position. The senior sword saw him coming and dismounted.

"Have you seen them, sir?"

"Come over here and I'll show you." Ben Loman guided the noncom into the scrub about twenty-five meters from the vehicles. They crouched in the shade of a small tree and Loman activated his terrain unit. "It's just like the colonel deacon told us back at the CP." A three-dimensional overlay of the foothills three kilometers to their front appeared on the screen. "The bird spotted infrared signatures in this box canyon here." He zoomed in on the suspected area. The canyon walls were steep and massive, the passage through it narrow and littered with rock falls.

"Yessir. The only way in there is on foot," Senior Sword Raipur said. His voice betrayed his anxiety at the thought of so small a force negotiating that narrow space between the canyon walls.

"Well, swordie, we're going to have to go in there; that's what we're here for," Ben Loman responded. He looked into his senior sword's eyes, and after a moment the noncom dropped his gaze to the display on the terrain unit. He's afraid, Ben Loman thought.

"Why don't we just call in air or artillery?"

"We are here and we're going in there."

The senior sword had a worried expression on his face. "Sir, I recommend we call for reinforcements from regiment," he said at last, forcing the words out. That was standing operational procedure for a reconnaissance unit—find the enemy and call in the heavy stuff, not engage if a fight could be avoided.

"We will, when I give the word. But I'm not causing the entire regiment to deploy until I know for sure what's up there. If they are demons, they'll be demoralized, and if we have to fight them, we can." Ben Loman glanced at the sun, hanging just above the horizon. "It'll be dark in another hour. We'll go in under the cover of darkness."

Senior Sword Raipur said nothing. They had excellent night optics, thanks to the Marines, but still...

"Look, it's probably nothing, probably wild animals nested up there. Or refugees.

But if it is the demons, we're alert, heavily armed, and ready for combat. Go back to your vehicle, get some rest, and when it's full dark we'll go in." Ben Loman spoke gently. He could not afford to have his senior enlisted man get cold feet now. "We're just going to go up there, see what's at the end of that canyon, and get out. Okay?"

"Yessir." Raipur did not trust his commander; the young officer was too eager for a fight. And he did not like night operations.

Back in the command vehicle, Ben Loman continued scanning the foothills, plotting an access route into the canyon. They could drive about halfway up before they'd have to dismount. He would take half his men with him and leave the rest behind as a reserve. Senior Sword Raipur would go with him; Sword Abshire would remain behind with the vehicles. Abshire was a steady, unimaginative noncom who'd follow orders and remain steady under fire, if it came to a fight. Ben Loman made a mental note to ask the colonel deacon to transfer Raipur once they got back to the regimental base camp. Even though Abshire belonged to the Disciples of Hogarth, an offshoot of the Protestant Baptist denomination, he would make a good senior sword.

The shadows were lengthening quickly by then. Ben Loman thumbed his throat mike. "Listen up! Saddle up! Drivers, put your engines on silent running. Follow me and keep your intervals." First Acolyte Ben Loman bowed his head in the proper nondenominational prayer. "Heavenly Presence, watch over us tonight." He paused.

"
Please
let there be demons!" His heart raced. "Great One, Holy One,
give us
victory
!"

Great Shaman Hadu, the last shaman, as far as he knew, of the Pilipili Magna, raised his arms above his head. "Great Lord, Kuma Mayo, you have blessed your people beyond measure!" he intoned. The few dozen wretches squatting about the fire, all that remained of the Pilipili Magna, listened intently, their wet eyes reflecting the bright firelight. An infant wailed and its mother put her nipple to its mouth. The Great Shaman smiled. Life was going on. The people lived!

The Great Shaman looked upon his people. They were emaciated, their starvation barely covered by rags that had once been festive garments. But they had survived!

The great evil that had descended upon their fields and villages from the sky had passed over these fortunate few. The canyon where they'd found refuge had fresh water, caves for shelter, and a few hectares of arable soil where crops were already beginning to grow. By next harvest they could emerge from hiding and reclaim their fields.

"Kuma mayo embovu!"
the Great Shaman intoned, raising his face to heaven. In his solemn rituals, the Great Shaman reverted to the ancient language of his East African ancestors. Few of the people spoke the old tongue anymore, but they all knew the ritual language by heart.

"Tini maji!"
the people shouted in response.

"Juu povu!"
the Great Shaman shouted. Behind him the flickering firelight cast his shadow hugely upon the canyon wall. Far above, the stars glittered in astonishing profusion. The warmth from the fire embraced the people. Sparks from the burning wood rose into the air in a festive display.

"Illi yokuzaa, emziavoo!"
the people shouted with joy, in the comforting age-old ceremony of obeisance to their God.

The people lived!

The farther they climbed up into the canyon, the more difficult it became, as the reconnaissance element negotiated the detritus that littered the floor. Along the north wall a mountain stream gurgled and splashed its way to the valley below, helping somewhat to cover the inevitable noise of their ascent.

"Easy does it!" Ben Loman whispered into his command net as one of his men slipped on some loose shale and his equipment clattered. "Halt!" he said. "I told you all to fasten down your gear before we started the climb. The next man who makes a noise is going up on a charge!"

"Acolyte!" the point man just around a bend in the canyon wall whispered into Ben Loman's headset. "I see them! I see them!"

"Senior Sword, take charge, I'm going on point," Ben Loman said.

The point man crouched amid a jumble of boulders that had fallen into the canyon ages ago. A hundred yards in front of where the point waited, Ben Loman saw a bright fire flickering in the blackness. "God save us!" he whispered. A figure, its grotesque shadow cast menacingly upon the rock wall behind it, stood before the fire, gesturing wildly.
"It's them!"
Ben Loman breathed. The hand he placed on the point man's shoulder shook slightly. "Raipur!" he almost shouted, momentarily forgetting proper radio procedure, "bring the men up here. Abshire, contact the regimental CP. Tell them we have the demons in our sights and must, repeat,
must
engage!" His voice shook as he spoke into his mouthpiece.