David Sherman - 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 34thFleet 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 34thFIST, 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 34thFIST.” 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 continue reading.

The ambassador read:

Andy,

First off, let me thank you for sending 26thFIST 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 34thFIST. But that’ll take a lot of time since 34thFIST

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

34thFIST’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 34thFIST 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 26thFIST, 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 34thFIST 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 26thFIST 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 26thFIST, 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 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.

“Sir!” It was Senior Sword Raipur. He crouched beside Ben Loman and whispered in his ear so his

voice would not be picked up by the men who were quietly taking up positions to either side of them

along the rockfall. “We don’t know how many of them there are down there,” he hissed.

Ben Loman switched off his throat mike and turned to his noncom sharply. “Count them!” he snapped,

gesturing toward the fire with his head.

Raipur’s night optics clearly revealed several dozen, possibly as many as sixty figures squatting about the

fire. “They outnumber us, sir.”

“We have the element of surprise,” Ben Loman insisted, his voice edged with the exasperation he felt at

his senior sword’s despicable display of overcaution.

David Sherman - Starfist 09 - Lazarus Rising

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: