David Sherman & Dan Cragg - Starfist 09 - Lazarus Rising

PROLOGUE

Arrogant unbeliever! Lesser Imam Shammar thought as he shivered under dripping

fronds, watching Gunnery Sergeant Bass place sensors in the soggy ground. The

Marine had ordered Shammar to place his five soldiers as security so he could fiddle

with the sensors, but the lesser imam had simply dismissed the soldiers farther into

the undergrowth then used the cover provided by the vegetation to spy on the two

Marines. The lesser imam was tired of taking orders from an offworld "gunnery

sergeant." What's more, the man was not a proper sword. The offworlders didn't

even have proper titles of rank; in the lesser imam's world, a "sergeant" was

somebody who groveled before a judge in the courts. Shammar cast a longing

glance at the armored personnel carrier. He wanted to return to it; inside, it would be

warm and dry.

There was a brilliant flash, then a wave of searing heat.

"Gunny," Dupont said, "the UPUD's picking up motion deeper in the trees."

"It's probably the soldiers, they don't have good field discipline."

"I don't think so, Gunny; what I'm picking up is farther into the trees."

Bass grimaced. "I don't trust that damn thing." He was reaching into a cargo

pocket for his personal motion detector when it felt like his entire arm was being torn

off. Simultaneously, something ripped off his helmet and threw him to the ground.

As he lay, dazed, just meters away, he saw two shreds of gore, one lying on the

ground, the other hovering above it. They struck him as very curious, in a distracting

kind of way. When he managed to focus on them, he saw two ankles sticking out of

a pair of chameleon boots. Idly, he wondered if Dupont had blisters on his feet and

had taken his boots off to ease the pain. But if Dupont had taken his boots off, why

had he left his feet inside them?

A sudden, horrible wave of pain washed over Bass, and then he lost

consciousness.

CHAPTER 1

The navigator on the Amphibious Landing Ship, Force, CNSS Grandar Bay, was

very good at his job—he jumped the starship out of Beamspace barely more than

two days' travel from the world called the Kingdom of Yahweh and His Saints and

Their Apostles.

Those Marines who knew anything about the mechanics of the jump reasoned that

the closer they were to Kingdom when they came out of Beamspace, the sooner

they'd get to somewhere they'd rather be. And after the campaign the Marines of the

34th Fleet Initial Strike Team had just fought against the Skinks, the Marines were

anxious to get back to Camp Ellis, their homeport on Thorsfinni's World—despite

the fact that the Marine Corps rated Thorsfinni's World a hardship post.

The stop at Kingdom was too brief for Marines or ship's crew to be granted shore

liberty. Brigadier Sturgeon, commander of 34th FIST, and a few members of his

staff made planetfall to report to Confederation Ambassador Jayben Spears and the

leadership of Kingdom's ruling Ecumenical Council. Before lifting off again,

Sturgeon took the time to share a glass of wine and a cigar with Spears.

"One more thing before I leave, Jay," Brigadier Sturgeon said when the wine and

cigars were almost gone.

"Anything in my power, Ted."

"I need to send a backchannel. Can you handle it for me?"

"Of course."

"Thank you, Jay. I haven't the words to tell you how important this message is to

34th FIST." He handed over a crystal. "It's for Andy again. He'll get my official

report, of course; that was dispatched via Navy drone from the Grandar Bay as

soon as we reentered Space-3." He tapped the crystal. "Go ahead and read it."

Spears rose, went to his desk, and popped the crystal into his reader. He raised

his eyebrows when he began reading. The headers on the message weren't in normal

military format, but that of a personal letter.

Spears looked up at the Marine commander. "I hadn't realized how close you are

to the assistant commandant."

"On my leave to Earth we became friends." Sturgeon nodded for Spears to

The ambassador read:

Andy,

First off, let me thank you for sending 26th FIST so quickly. Jack

Sparen and his Marines really saved the day; we couldn't have done the

job by ourselves.

That's an understatement. If you hadn't expedited reinforcements,

there's an excellent chance the Skinks would have wiped us out. By

now I imagine you've seen my draft report on the Kingdom Campaign.

Take my word for it, as hairy as that report reads, the reality was worse.

This one was more of a meat grinder than the Diamunde Campaign, if

you can imagine that.

I lost a godawful lot of men. You've seen the details in my report.

Andy, I've never had such losses on one campaign, and I doubt that

you have either. Now, I know that as soon as my report filters through

to Personnel they'll start sending replacements to 34th FIST. But that'll

take a lot of time since 34th FIST has been removed from normal

personnel rotation. That's time that my Marines will be spending in

Barracks with a lot of empty racks.

I need bodies in those racks to distract my Marines from their losses.

Andy, if it's at all possible, please goose Personnel and get me Marines

to put in those racks. My Marines aren't the only ones who need them.

I'm going to really hate it when we hold our first FIST formation back

at Camp Ellis and see how much smaller we are now than we were at

the last.

With many thanks in advance,

Ted

Spears looked up when he finished reading. "I'll get this out today." He popped

the crystal and put it with the materials he was readying to send by diplomatic

pouch. "Do you think they're going to lift the quarantine on you now?"

The very existence of the Skinks Sturgeon's Marines had just fought on two

worlds was a tightly guarded secret. The only earlier contact with them had been

made by the third platoon of Company L of 34th FIST's infantry battalion. Fear of

widespread panic caused the government to tightly seal everything having to do with

that contact—including canceling all transfers and retirements out of 34th FIST and

slapping an involuntary extension of service "for the duration" on all members of the

FIST. Thorsfinni's World itself barely escaped the strictures.

Sturgeon shrugged. "Who knows what politicians will do? They should lift the

quarantine since they won't be able to keep the secret now."

"If they quarantine 26th FIST, the Grandar Bay, and Kingdom, they can keep it

secret for a while longer. They'll think of that, you know."

A hard smile creased Sturgeon's face. "The more people they quarantine, the

sooner someone will notice. And what will they do to you?"

It was Spears's turn to shrug. "They want to put me out to pasture anyway. They

might see Darkside as a good grazing ground for me."

The Grandar Bay left Kingdom's space after less than twenty-four hours in orbit.

The Marines of 34th FIST were somber on the return voyage to Thorsfinni's

World; the Kingdom Campaign had been costly. The first phase was especially

brutal. They'd been surprised to find themselves fighting Skinks instead of the

peasant revolt they'd expected. They wouldn't have suffered so severely had they

just gone up against the Skinks the same way Company L's third platoon had fought

them on Waygone, the exploratory planet Society 437. Horrible as they were, the

Skinks' acid guns were short-range weapons. Under those conditions, if the Marines

found the Skinks at a great enough range, they could destroy them before the aliens

got close enough to use their weapons. But on Kingdom the Skinks also had rail

guns. The Marines' body armor was ample protection against normal projectile

weapons, but it was worthless against the rail guns, which had killed and wounded a

lot of them before anyone found a way of putting the guns out of action.

More than two hundred Marines had been killed or too badly wounded to return to

active duty, mostly from the infantry battalion. Mike Company had suffered the

most—more than an entire platoon had been wiped out when the Skinks sprang their

first ambush in the Swamp of Perdition.

That didn't mean other units hadn't suffered severely. Company L's third platoon

had lost PFCs Hayes and Gimble; Lance Corporals Dupont, Van Impe, Rodamour,

and Watson; Corporal Stevenson; and Gunnery Sergeant Bass.

Gunny Bass. Damn.

Corporal Goudanis and Sergeant Bladon were wounded badly enough that they'd

been evacuated off-planet. They had survived their wounds, but would they ever

return to third platoon, or even to active duty? Nobody knew.

Gunny Bass. There was hardly a man in the entire company who wouldn't have

been happy to be in his platoon. And now he was gone.

PFCs Longfellow and Godenov, Lance Corporal Schultz, Corporals Linsman and

Kerr, were wounded during the first phase of the campaign but returned to duty, and

Linsman and Godenov were promoted to sergeant and lance corporal respectively.

Eight Marines killed and two wounded so badly they were totally gone. Ten men

out of a thirty-man platoon. Third platoon hadn't lost that many men even in the

fierce antiarmor fighting in the war on Diamunde. The loss that hurt the most,

though, was Gunny Bass.

Thirty-fourth FIST was reinforced by 26th FIST for the second phase of the

Kingdom Campaign, and the tide of battle turned, resulting in victory for the

Marines. In some ways, even more welcome than the addition of another FIST, was

the new weapon they brought with them to combat the Skinks. It wasn't an offensive

weapon, it was defensive: chameleon uniforms that were impervious to the acid from

the Skink short-range weapons.

Thanks to the new chameleons, and newly discovered means of defeating the rail

guns, casualties dropped dramatically in the second phase.

PFCs Gray, Shoup, and Little, all replacements who came in with 26th FIST, were

wounded. So were Lance Corporals MacIlargie and Kindrachuck, and Corporals

Pasquin and Doyle. Sergeant Linsman must have thought the Skinks had it in for him

personally when he was wounded a second time. But thanks to the impregnated

uniforms, no one in third platoon was killed in the campaign's second phase.

And at least they couldn't lose Gunny Bass again.

Brigadier Sturgeon knew full well how his Marines felt. He knew because he felt

much the same way. Never in his four decades in the Confederation Marine Corps

had he commanded or been a member of a unit that had sustained such heavy

casualties. He'd seen in the past how the survivors of a brutal campaign could suffer

in the aftermath if they were allowed to be alone with their thoughts, how unit

cohesiveness and discipline could be damaged, even destroyed.

On the second day out from Kingdom, before the Grandar Bay made the jump

into Beam Space for transit to Thorsfinni's World, he went to see Commodore

Borland.

They met in the captain's dining salon. Sturgeon gave the genuine mahogany

wainscoting on the bulkheads an appraising look when he entered. He speculatively

eyed the painted portraits of ships and navy officers that hung on its walls, took in

the polished hardwood sideboard and chairs, and almost smiled at the sterling silver

flatware on a dining table that was covered by a white linen cloth with a damasked

pattern.

"Welcome, Brigadier," Borland said as he strode the few steps from the sideboard

opposite the hatch to greet the Marine commander with outstretched hand. He

noticed the way Sturgeon looked the room over. Since he'd been there before, the

appointments of the captain's dining salon shouldn't have been a surprise to him.

"Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice, Commodore," Sturgeon

said as he gripped the proffered hand.

After shaking, Borland looked at the table, then at the steward who stood at

attention after pouring coffee into fine china cups and placing slices of deep dish

apple pie on plates at the table settings.

"Will there be anything else, sir?" the steward asked.

"That will be all, thank you. You may return to your station. I'll signal if I need you

for anything else."

"Aye aye, sir." The steward marched from the salon and quietly closed the hatch

behind him.

Now that they were alone, Borland dropped all formality. "Have a seat, Ted.

That's real coffee, you know; don't let it get cold on you." He went to the sideboard

and opened it while Sturgeon took a seat and a first sip of the coffee.

"What do you think?" he asked as he bent over to fish something out of the

sideboard.

"The best I've had since the last cup I had with you." Sturgeon took another sip

and sighed contentedly.

Borland straightened up and displayed a clear glass bottle filled with a dark amber

liquid. "Would you like to give it a bit of a sweetener?" he asked.

Sturgeon raised an eyebrow at the bottle. "Is that...?"

"Real Earth cognac from the region called France."

The tip of Sturgeon's tongue involuntarily moistened his lips. He looked from the

bottle to his cup and back. "I don't know, Ralph. When you mix two good things

together, sometimes you detract from both."

Borland grinned. "Easily enough resolved." He reached back into the sideboard,

withdrew two crystal snifters, closed the sideboard doors with a knee, and carried

the bottle and snifters to the table. Borland broke the bottle's seal and opened it with

a theatrical flare, then poured an ounce of cognac into the snifters with all the

dexterity of a career steward. He remained standing as he handed one to Sturgeon,

who took it and rose to his feet.

"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

David Sherman & Dan Cragg - Starfist 09 - Lazarus Rising

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