Theirs Not To Reason Why: A Soldier's Duty (44 page)

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Authors: Jean Johnson

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With that letter finished, she printed it out, signed and sealed it, and set it aside to work on the next one. This message was intended to affect two lives who would otherwise never meet, nor affect the future generations waiting to be born.
ATTENTION:
CENTRAL AGENT INSTRUCTIONS 7809-35-A.
DATE:
TERRAN STANDARD 2522.02.03, SANCTUARY, RIVERVIEW WARREN, LOCAL TIME 05:02:17 +/- 2 SECONDS. TIMING IS CRUCIAL. BEGIN WALKING ACROSS THE BRIDGE AT EXACT TIME, AND PACE YOURSELF TO REACH BRIDGE MIDPOINT WITHIN 35 SECONDS. PRACTICE THE WEEK BEFORE.
 
 
LOCATION:
SANCTUARY, RIVERVIEW WARREN; THIRD SOUTH BRIDGE, FIFTH TIER, LEFT-HAND SIDE HEADED OFF-TOWN, 2 METERS FROM THE RAILINGS.
 
TARGET:
WOMAN IN RED DRESS, LIGHT BLONDE HAIR, AGE APPROXIMATELY EARLY THIRTIES.
 
ACTION:
BUMP INTO HER HARD ENOUGH TO MAKE HER DROP HER BAG AND BREAK ITS CONTENTS, AND KEEP WALKING. DO NOT STOP TO HELP. LOOK BACK ONLY AFTER 10 FULL SECONDS HAVE PASSED. MAKE SURE A DARK-HAIRED MAN IN A BLUE SHIRT AND DARK TROUSERS, LATE TWENTIES, HAS STOPPED TO ASSIST HER, THEN EXIT THE AREA. IF HE IS NOT CROUCHED AND CHATTING WITH HER, CONTINUE TO ALTERNATE INSTRUCTIONS 7809-35-B OR, FATE FOREFEND, 7809-35-C . . .
Slowly, the memories of her useless nightmare faded, replaced by the intense needs of the futures she could foresee.
CHAPTER 14
 
So that’s how I got my nickname. Drenched from head to foot, repeatedly, in my enemies’ blood. It wouldn’t be the last time, either. As for how it spread through the Corps, never mind beyond . . . well, you kind of had to be there.
~Ia
 
 
AUGUST 6, 2490 T.S.
 
From the outside, Battle Platform
Johannes
looked like a giant prickle-burr. All around the outer edges of the massive structure, docking gantries competed with gunnery pods and force field projectors on long, silvery ceristeel struts, which could be extended when parked or retracted when moving. Battle Platforms were not space stations; they were not set in a planetary orbit.
If they orbited anything, it was the local sun, parked in an L5 orbit either preceding or trailing a particular planet. Designed to move occasionally from sector to sector, they were the interstellar equivalent of a portable, defendable, military-run city. Size and shape didn’t matter all that much in space; only the energy requirements to move something of that much mass mattered. The
Johannes
could move, but it took a while to get up to speed, and another while to slow down, and a vast amount of hydrofuel to do either. As a result, Battle Platforms often took up orbit near ice worlds or comet fields on the edges of systems, and this one was no exception.
On the egg-shaped inside, in the sections not dedicated to purely military matters, Ia thought the place looked like an indoor shopping mall. Or perhaps more like the visions she held for her own homeworld—the sane half, at least. There were clothing stores, shops selling fresh, frozen, and packaged groceries for those who had the free time and facilities to cook for themselves, purveyors of personal items and other sundries, even hobby shops for those off-duty who were bored. Given it was “home” not only to a plethora of Navy personnel, but also to a rotating Legion of the TUPSF Army, eight Companies that rotated in and off of Navy ships much like Ferrar’s Fighters and the other Marine Companies,
Johannes
had numerous such services.
Naturally, it had a post office, which she had visited on her shopping trip to drop off her lockboxes of temporal instructions and to mail a physical copy of her application to a Net-based college. Ia needed to earn a degree in Military History to prepare for the future, and taking correspondence classes via the Nets would suit her constantly traveling life in the Marines. The mobile battle station also had a branch office for the Alliance Sentient Aid Service, which could get military personnel in touch with civilian loved ones and vice versa, the best medical facilities found outside of a well-established world, restaurants . . . and bars. Taverns. Pubs. Establishments filled with games, sports-vidshows, food of dubious but snackable quality, and alcoholic beverages. No uniforms allowed, of course.
Though her pay as a Marine was supposedly generous, in reality, the military deducted all manner of costs from each cheque transferred to her bank account. Including an ongoing fee for the cost and maintenance of her mechsuit. It didn’t leave much for personal purchases, but she’d earned enough, fresh out of Basic, to afford a couple of civilian outfits.
She was on her way back to her quarters from the gym when Double-E and Soyuez met her in Corridor 4, just as she reached cross-corridor Foxtrot. The tall, dark-skinned Marine flashed a grin at her. “There you are!”
“Meioas,” Ia acknowledged, since they were officially on twenty-four hours of Leave. She edged around them to reach her cabin door. Soyuez caught her by her unburdened, brown-clad elbow.
“Hey—you got any civvies?” he asked.
“A couple,” Ia replied.
“Good. Get into ’em and meet us in the 2nd’s common room in five minutes,” he told her.
“Don’t be late,” Double-E added, lifting his chin at her. “You don’t want the party to start without you.”
Feigning a mix of curiosity and ignorance, Ia gave both men a questioning look, but they just waved and moved on down the hall. Unlocking her quarters, she moved into the back and stripped out of her exercise clothes, taking barely enough time to wipe off the worst of her sweat. Just as she was squirming into the dress she had bought, Estes came into the bedroom. She, too, was wearing civilian clothes, though she had opted for a pair of knee-length shorts and a crop top, both decorated in shades of purple and blue.
“There you are. And you’re in civvies. Good. Everyone’s gathered in the common room—Ferrar has a tradition. All newly blooded Marines in his Company get taken down to Frostie’s Bar, when we’re here on
Johannes
, or to The Scottish Cactus when we’re on the
Hum-Vee
. They’re the favorite watering holes among the jarhead set.” Estes looked her up and down, then gave Ia a lopsided smile. “You do realize you’ll be in for a lot of teasing in
that
outfit.”
“I know,” Ia said wryly, glancing down at the crimson fabric clinging to her arms and breasts, and draping down to her knees. “But all things considered, it’s not a bad nickname.”
Adjusting the thumb-wide straps stretching across her shoulders and down her arms, Ia opened one of her lockers and checked her reflection in the mirror affixed to the inside. Her hair needed a bit of finger-combing, now that it was beginning to grow longer than a buzz cut, and her lips needed a bit of crimson moisturizing gloss to match the dress, but that was all. Once her mouth was slicked and ready, she tossed the tube and her military clothes inside, closed the door, and lifted her chin at her teammate.
“Lead on.”
It didn’t take them long to reach the common room, though they weren’t the only ones lining up to enter. The moment Ia came into the room, whistles and cheers greeted her entrance. Lieutenant Ferrar, standing near the middle of the room, raised his hands for silence. “Enough! . . . Enough. Looks like everyone is here. Form up, meioas, let’s go. The first round of drinks are on our new corporal!”
The others started to cheer, until Ia’s voice cut through her platoon mates’ celebration, cracking like projectile fire, ringing off the bulkheads of the large room. “Like
hell
they are!”
Everyone stopped cheering and Ferrar stopped in his tracks, checked in midstride for the doors. He arched a brow at her. “Oh, they’re
not
, are they? Are you countermanding one of my orders, soldier?”
“Are you on duty?” Ia shot back, hands going to her scarletclad hips. A small handful of men and women choked on their laughter, some even hastily turning away and mock-coughing to clear their throats.
Lt. Ferrar grinned at her, and swept her a mock-bow. “A hit, meioa, and square on-target. You’re quite right. We’re
all
on Leave at the moment, and I can’t order you to do a thing.” He leveled a finger at her. “But you still owe me a drink at the very least, for being rude to a superior. On-duty
or
off.”
Ia lifted her index finger. “
One
drink.” Stepping to the side, she gestured at the double doorway. “After you, meioa . . .”
Still smiling, Ferrar led the way off the ship.
It was a bit of a hike; the gantry attached to the side of the
Liu Ji
itself was a quarter of a kilometer long. The group, which seemed to comprise most of the 2nd Platoon and several more from the 1st and the 3rd, laughed and chatted among themselves as they made the trip. Following directly behind the Lieutenant meant Ia wasn’t entirely a part of the camaraderie behind her. She idly studied the dozens of flatpics mounted on the walls of the gantry, each bearing hundreds of rotating images taken from the various homeworlds and hometowns of the beings serving on board the
Johannes
.
Not all were Human, though the vast majority were. There were aliens living on Terran-controlled worlds, of course, and some did offer to serve in the Space Force. Because of the sheer differences in biology—carbon-based, oxygen-breathing, and blood-bleeding similarities aside—they were usually shunted off to specific Cordons in the SF-Army and the Navy, replete with their own ships for biological and psychological comfort. The Chinsoiy . . . were too different to serve, requiring daily doses of radiation which would kill a Human in the long run. The Dlmvla were methane-breathers. Only the V’Dan-born were lumped in among the Terrans.
Her own homeworld wasn’t represented. Yet. A lot of the images were of domeworlds, and many were from Earth. But one shot showed a lightning storm, four writhing bolts caught lancing between ground and sky. A lump of homesickness formed.
The recycled air of the station, while clean and fresh thanks to the Terran plants imported for the residents to enjoy, and better-smelling than the smaller confines of the
Liu Ji
, didn’t smell right. The steady faint whoosh of the lifesupport fans weren’t the same as actual gusting breezes, and the lightning in that one image didn’t move. It was static. Far away.
“Rumor has it you don’t drink, Corporal.”
“What? Sorry, sir. No, I don’t,” Ia confirmed, looking up at Ferrar. He had slowed just enough to pace beside her. “A history of genetic alcoholism in the family.”
“Pity. But that’s alright,” he allowed. “Someone needs to be the designated pilot; I guess that’s you, tonight. The real question is, are you going to force
me
to drink something nonalcoholic when you buy me that drink?”
She smiled wryly. “Hardly, sir.” Risking a glance over her shoulder at the Marines following them, their casual and camouflage Browns traded for a plethora of civilian hues, she added half under her breath, “I have a sneaking suspicion they’re going to be ordering me Bloody Marys. I’ll need to pass word to the bar staff to make sure they’re Virgin Marys. If they slip up and serve me something fermented,
you
can have it.”
He wrinkled his nose. “I’m not fond of tomato juice. I’m more of a bourbon man.”
“Duly noted.” Behind her, someone called out a question for the Lieutenant, which sparked a running conversation that carried them all the way to the white-walled, plant-filled, multileveled atrium that served as park and commerce sector for the Platform.
The wave of off-duty Marines spilled down the stairs and across two balconies, past a lawyer’s office advertising specializations in both military and civilian laws, an ice cream shop— where they promptly lost nine or ten members of the group who clustered with all the fascination of young children around the chilled display cases inside—and into a faux-brick fronted, shadow-steeped pub. Tables and chairs filled over half the bar, which was deeper and larger than it seemed. What looked like a good sixty or seventy off-duty Marines lurked, drank, and played, some throwing darts, others taking potshots at holographic enemies with toy laser pistols in the back corner, and a couple playing pool at the billiards tables across from the bar.
“Hey, Frostie!” Ferrar called out, striding between the tables with the confidence of familiarity. He clapped his hand on Ia’s shoulder, pushing her forward. “We got a new one!”
The bald, spectacle-clad man behind the bar, with a chestlength, blue-dyed beard and muscles almost as big as Ia’s brother’s, looked up at the tide of men and women flowing into his establishment. He grimaced and lifted his chin at a woman with bright cerulean hair who was serving drinks a few meters away. “Hey, Rostie, we’re being invaded. Quick, call the Marines.”
“We
are
the Marines!” Ferrar catcalled back.
“Eyah?”
he added over his shoulder.
“HOO-RAH!”
The call-back came not only from his own Company members but from most of the other Marines in the pub as well.

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