David Sherman & Dan Cragg - Starfist 10 - A World of Hurt

PROLOGUE

Samar Volga maneuvered the mule up the forested mountainside almost all the way to the

saddle before the steep slope threatened to overturn the machine. He sidled the vehicle

against a sturdy tree to keep it in place, then climbed the rest of the way on foot. The saddle

wasn't much higher, and he only had to use his hands a few times to help him climb. When

he got to the other side of the saddle and looked into the hidden valley beyond, what he saw

made his breath catch.

The valley was a long oval, no more than ten kilometers at its widest, close to double that

in length. The mountains that ringed it were much steeper on the valley side than on the

outer; only isolated bushes and weeds found purchase on their upper slopes.

But what bushes and weeds! He'd never seen their like; not in field trips, in the university's

museum and labs, nor in textbooks. Samar Volga believed the valley's life-forms had been

isolated from the outside world for so long they had evolved to the point where they were

unique to it. He was equally certain that he was the first human to set eyes on them.

A couple of hundred meters down, the slope gentled and more growth had taken root. The

floor of the valley was blanketed by a forest dotted with small clearings. Using his glasses at

high magnification, he could make out the uppermost leaves in the nearer trees; none

looked familiar.

Almost salivating with the desire to begin his investigation, the young botanist looked for a

way down to the upper growths. But the slope was too steep, and he knew he wasn't a good

enough mountaineer to risk a free climb without someone to back him up if he fell.

Momentarily frustrated but glad that he'd thought to bring climbing gear, he returned to his

mule. He spent the rest of the day ferrying mountaineering kit, specimen packs, and

recording equipment to the saddle.

Finally, exhausted, he made himself eat a light dinner and wrapped himself in his sleeping

bag. But tired as he was, sleep was a long time coming. He was going to be the first human

to enter the pocket valley, the first to examine its plant life. The honor of naming all its

species would be his. Eventually he would go into other hidden valleys.

Maugham's Station was studded with such isolated pockets.

No need to investigate the hidden valleys indeed. He'd show those hidebound Frères

Jacques what was what!

A cacophony of avian calls woke him at dawn. He barely took time for his morning

ablutions and to bolt down a quick breakfast before heading back up to the saddle.

Quickly, he anchored a rope and lowered three loads of gear down the steep slope,

collecting equipment, recorders, food, and water. Then he rappelled down to where the

slope was gentle enough so he didn't need the rope. Maneuvering the gear the rest of the

way by hand was hot, sweaty work, but when he reached the forest below he knew it was

well worth the effort.

His pulse raced as he marveled at the scarlets, pinks, ambers, and blues--blues?--and

the infinity of greens of the foliage before him. And it was all leaves and stems and vines;

there wasn't a flower to be seen.

And it was all his to identify, classify, and name!

With great effort he pulled himself back from his state of awe and looked about for places

to site his recording equipment. It wasn't until he picked three spots and began carrying his

gear toward them that he realized something an entomologist or zoologist would have

noticed immediately--the near utter silence of this forest of unknown species. There was no

buzzing of pollinating insectoids, nor sounds of other animal life. The only sound was the

rustling of vegetation moved by the wind. Except...

Except when he looked up he didn't see any movement in the treetops. He froze and

listened carefully, slowly turning around, peering between trees, leaves, and vines, squinting

into shadows, looking for whatever danger had made the animals and insects go quiet.

Surely they hadn't all gone silent because of him.

Never mind, he told himself. He had specimens to collect. He set to it with great

enthusiasm and filled half of his specimen packs before thirst and hunger forced him to stop

for a meal. He sat in the shade of a tree at the forest's edge, in clear view of two of his

recorders.

Samar Volga never saw the streamer of greenish, viscous fluid that arced out and hit him

in the back. But he felt it. He arched his back away from the burning agony, but it went with

him. His mouth stretched wide to scream, but no sound came out--the pain of the first strike

knocked the air from his lungs and there was none left to scream with. Not that anyone would

have heard anyway.

His knees buckled and he fell forward. His hands didn't move fast enough to break his fall

and his face thudded hard onto the ground. Another streamer of fluid lashed at him from a

different direction, and he writhed as though violent movement would make the pain go

away. A third streamer struck.

Steam rose from his bubbling flesh and his movements became jerky, slower, and after a

few minutes ceased altogether.

CHAPTER ONE

Gunnery Sergeant Charlie Bass woke with a groan on the first morning after his return to

Thorsfinni's World. His head hurt and his stomach began lecturing him on the need to mend

his evil ways. He cracked an eyelid to see where he was, and immediately slammed it shut

to block the murderous sunlight that stabbed into his brain. He groaned again, and lay

unmoving while he tried to reconstruct what he'd done the night before, in hope that would

give him a clue to where he was.

Right. It had been evening and he'd gone straight to First Sergeant Myer's quarters, where

he'd found the Top, Gunny Thatcher, Staff Sergeant Hyakowa, Doc Horner, and both the

FIST and battalion sergeant majors eating reindeer steaks, drinking Reindeer Ale, and

playing cards. They'd all been shocked to see him--except for the first sergeant, who acted

like he was expecting him. Bass had joined them for an evening of eating, drinking, and

general revelry. He smiled at the memory, but quickly stopped because the effort hurt too

much. He vaguely remembered being taken very late to the transient barracks, where newly

arrived Marines were quartered when they joined 34th FIST, before being assigned to units.

He listened, but didn't hear any of the normal sounds of Marines performing their duties in

Camp Major Pete Ellis. Then he remembered: last night was Fifth Day on Thorsfinni's

World. Which meant this must be Sixth Day morning, and nearly everybody was off base on

liberty.

He shifted into a more comfortable position--well, a less uncomfortable position--and

assayed another smile; that one didn't hurt as much, so he let it linger. It was such a comfort

to wake up without immediately worrying about fending off an attack from the Skinks, or the

army of Dominic de Tomas.

Comfort. He sighed as he remembered the young daughter of Zachariah Brattle. Well,

not that young--she was a full-grown woman, after all, which she'd demonstrated to him

beyond all doubt. That woman would make a wonderful wife for a warrior. He sighed again.

But Comfort was still on Kingdom, probably holding down some important government post,

and he was back where he belonged, with 34th FIST on Thorsfinni's World, and he'd never

see her again.

Back where he belonged.

He swore, comfort and Comfort forgotten, and rolled up to sit on his rack with his legs

over its side.

Right. Back where I belong. He'd been commander of Company L's third platoon for

three or four years, ever since Ensign vanden Hoyt was killed in action on Diamunde. But he

was a gunnery sergeant, a company level noncommissioned officer; a platoon commander

was supposed to be an officer. And last night he'd been told that during the time he was

thought dead, an ensign had been assigned to take command of his platoon.

Shit.

He liked being commander of Company L's third platoon. Of course, he could get

command of another platoon easily enough--all he had to do was accept a commission.

Charlie Bass liked having his own platoon, but had refused a commission every time one

was offered to him. In his opinion, officers had to do too much crap. They had to have fancy

mess uniforms, act like proper "gentlemen," and not "fraternize" with their subordinates.

Well, senior NCOs weren't supposed to socialize with junior NCOs and enlisted men

either, but he'd never let that stop him from playing cards or getting drunk with any Marine he

felt like.

And to be an officer he'd have to go back to Arsenault, where he'd gone through Boot

Camp so long ago, to that damn finishing school the Confederation Marine Corps called the

Officer Training College, and learn which fork to use and how to hold his pinky out while he

drank tea from a china cup. He already knew everything a Marine platoon commander

needed to know to fight and win a battle and bring his men back alive, with the mission

accomplished. Hell, the only fork a fighting Marine needed to know how to use was the one

in his mess kit. And holding a pinky out in combat was a good way to lose it.

But there was no way he'd get third platoon back even if he accepted a commission. It

was Marine Corps policy that when a Marine completed officer training and got

commissioned, he was assigned to a unit he'd never served with before. Charlie Bass knew

his only alternative was to accept whatever gunnery sergeant billet in 34th FIST he was

assigned to, wait for a platoon commander in the FIST's infantry battalion to get killed, then

hope for a reshuffling of officers that would open his job back up.

He grimaced. Marines died, more often in 34th FIST than in almost any other unit, but he

couldn't wish death on another Marine, not for his own benefit.

Groaning and huffing with the effort of moving, he set aside his sour mood and struggled

out of the rack to go to the head for his morning shitshowershave.

A lance corporal wearing the armband of the duty NCO stopped him on his way back to

his room.

"Gunny Bass? Some people want to see you. They're in the office," the Duty NCO said.

Awe was audible in his voice and visible on his face. He'd heard about Charlie Bass. He

didn't have much trouble accepting that Gunny Bass had somehow survived being captured

by the Skinks and managed to escape from them. But to single-handedly overthrow a

planetary government! Well, that went a bit beyond what he thought a Marine capable

of--even if the Marine in question was the Gunnery Sergeant Charlie Bass he'd heard so

many stories about, and he had the assistance of a rebel army and a rebellious army

general.

"Thanks, Lance Corporal," Bass said. "Any idea what's up?"

"Nossir--I mean, no, Gunny."

Bass shot him a look. Enlisted men "sirred" sergeants major, but all other enlisted

addressed each other by rank or the title "Marine." He saw how nervous the unknown lance

corporal was and took pity on him. "Thanks," he said, and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Keep up the good work, Marine."

"Aye aye, Gunny. Thanks, Gunny."

Bass was wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist. He decided that wasn't

appropriate dress for reporting to the transient barracks office, so he stepped into his room

and, so as not to jar his aching head and queasy stomach, cautiously pulled on a set of

drab-green garrison utilities.

The office was a few steps away. Bass opened the door and entered. Top Myer and

Gunny Thatcher were sitting on two unoccupied desks. It was indecent how chipper they

looked. Then he saw Captain Conorado, Company L's commanding officer, and Lieutenant

Humphrey, the company executive officer. He pulled himself to attention.

"Gunnery Sergeant Bass reporting as ordered, sir," he said to Conorado.

"Relax, Charlie," Conorado said, stepping forward to shake his hand. "Welcome back."

"Thank you, sir. It's good to be back." He repeated the greeting with Humphrey. Only then

did he notice that all four men were in undress reds, a much more formal uniform than they

normally wore, certainly more formal than they wore on the weekend--much less the one he

was wearing. "Undress reds" was a bit of a misnomer, as only the uniform's tunic was

scarlet; enlisted men's dress uniform trousers were navy blue and officers wore gold.

"About time you decided to show up!" Thatcher snarled. But he smiled, so Bass knew he

was just putting on an act.

"Actually, we aren't the ones who want to see your dumb ass," Top Myer growled. He

picked up a garment bag and handed it to Bass. "This is your undress reds. Go back to your

room and change into the appropriate uniform."

Bass looked at him, wondering what was going on.

"Here," Thatcher said. "Doc Horner said to give this to you, though I'm damned if I know

why he'd want to cure your hangover after your behavior last night."

Bass took the thing Thatcher held out, a tiny box with a hangover pill. He wondered what

Thatcher meant. He didn't remember doing anything more outrageous than anyone else the

night before.

"Aye aye, Top. Thanks, Gunny." He turned to Conorado. "By your leave, sir?"

Conorado, blank-faced, pointed a finger at the office door.

What the hell? Bass wondered as he headed back to his room to change. The only

reason he could imagine for them to wear their undress reds was an award ceremony. But

decorations were always handed out at full-FIST assemblies--and those ceremonies called

for full dress reds. Besides, he hadn't done anything to rate another medal. His part in

overthrowing Dominic de Tomas didn't count, since he hadn't done that in his capacity as a

Marine. He dry-swallowed the hangover pill on his way back to his room and was already

beginning to feel better by the time he started changing into his undress reds.

They were waiting outside the office when he returned.

"Let's go," Conorado said. He led the way out the front door of the barracks to where a

landcar waited for them. "Go," he said to the driver as soon as they were in, and the landcar

smoothly moved out.

"Where are we going?" Bass asked. Everybody looked away, but he wasn't left in

suspense for long; the landcar took them to the headquarters building of 34th Fleet Initial

Strike Team, only a few minutes' drive from the transient barracks.

Conorado again took the lead, and in moments they were in the outer office of Brigadier

Sturgeon, 34th FIST's commander. Colonel Ramadan, the FIST executive officer waited for

them. Ramadan was also in undress reds. He rapped on the door frame to the inner office

and announced, "They're here, sir."

"Bring them in," Brigadier Sturgeon said. He was on his feet at the side of his desk as

they came in. FIST Sergeant Major Shiro stood to the side of a row of visitor's chairs in front

of Sturgeon's desk. The infantry battalion CO, Commander van Winkle, and the infantry

battalion's senior enlisted man, Sergeant Major Parant, were also there.

Conorado came to attention in front of the brigadier and said, "Sir, Company L

detachment reporting as ordered!"

"At ease, gentlemen," Sturgeon said. His lips quirked in a cut-off smile and he added, "I'm

tempted to say, 'and you too, Charlie,' but that wouldn't be very decorous."

Every reply Bass could think of was even less decorous, so he didn't say anything.

Still looking at Bass, Sturgeon went on, "Everybody but you knows why we're here,

Charlie. And you're smart enough, I'm sure you figured it out even before you got here."

Actually, he hadn't until just now, but he wasn't about to admit to the slightest bit of

vincibility. So he said, "Ground I believe we've covered in the past, sir."

"Indeed we have, Charlie," Sturgeon said, "and you made me bend Marine Corps

regulations every step of the way in order to keep you as a platoon commander." He went

behind his desk to sit. "Seats, gentlemen, please." He cocked an eyebrow and added, "You

too, Charlie."

Conorado, Lieutenant Rokmonov, and Myer sat on the sofa against the office's side wall,

Thatcher sat on the sofa's arm. When Bass began to move to the sofa's other arm, Parant

grabbed his arm and pointed at the chair between him and Shiro. Bass's lips pursed, since

that chair put him dead center on Sturgeon's desk, directly across from the brigadier.

Gunnery Sergeant Charlie Bass felt more seriously outnumbered than he had when he

faced Dominic de Tomas's Special Group.

"Gunnery Sergeant Bass, when you disappeared on Kingdom, we all thought you were

dead," Sturgeon said. "Since our return to Camp Ellis, 34th FIST has received enough

replacements to fill every vacant billet. One of those vacant billets is--was--commander of

third platoon, Company L of the infantry battalion. One of the replacements is an ensign who

I can plug into that slot.

"Then you had to come back and complicate matters. Captain Conorado," he nodded

toward Company L's commander, "wants you to resume command of third platoon. So does

Commander van Winkle," he nodded at the infantry battalion commander. "I concur. That

platoon has been outstanding under your command.

"But the billet is supposed to be filled by an officer, and I have an officer to fill it." Bass

opened his mouth to say something, but Sturgeon raised his hand to cut him off. "I know, it's

within my prerogative as commander of a remote FIST to assign a senior

noncommissioned officer to permanently fill a platoon commander's billet. In the past I've

done that through the simple expedient of never having an extra officer who would go to

waste. But this time, believing that you were dead, I requisitioned an ensign to fill that slot.

"Well, we all want you in command of that platoon, but you've created a problem for me.

So this time I'm making you an officer and that's that." He nodded to Bass, giving him

permission to speak.

"You can't do that, sir."

"I don't care what you say, Charlie. I'm doing it."

"Sir, with all due respect, you can't. As you said, sir, Marine Corps regulations allow for

the commander of a forward FIST to permanently assign a senior NCO as a platoon

commander, but they don't allow for a Marine to be assigned to the Officer Training College

against his will. Besides, the last I heard, 34th FIST was quarantined and nobody is allowed

to be transferred, so I couldn't go to Arsenault even if I wanted to."

"You're absolutely right, Charlie. I can't make you go to Arsenault against your will, and I

wouldn't if I could--if I did, I wouldn't get you back after you received your commission. And

we are still under quarantine, so Arsenault is a moot point."

"Sir?" Bass said, confused. "How can you make me an officer if I don't go to the finishing

school?" The pill Doc Horner had provided may have eradicated most of Bass's pain, but

his neural pathways weren't quite up to snuff yet, otherwise he wouldn't have called OTC

"finishing school" in front of the brigadier.

Shiro and Parant both sharply elbowed him in the ribs, and he bit off a grunt.

Sturgeon bowed his head to hide a smile. Stone-faced again, he looked up. "Gunnery

Sergeant, yes, there is some etiquette instruction at OTC, but more than ninety-five percent

of it is in matters such as leadership, tactics, weapons, combined arms--courses you're well

qualified to teach. Frankly, sending you to OTC would be a waste.

"Do you know what an Executive Order is, Charlie?"

Bass was startled by the abrupt change of subject. "Yessir. It's a law the President of the

Confederation makes by fiat, without going through Congress."

"That's right. I have here," he lifted a sheet of foolscap and turned it so Bass could see its

ornate calligraphy and ornamentation, "an Executive Order empowering me to grant

commissions as I find necessary."

The blood drained from Bass's face.

"You see, Charlie, President Chang-Sturdevant couldn't go to Congress for this

legislation. Hardly anybody in Congress knows that 34th FIST is quarantined, much less the

reason for it. She also understands that 34th FIST is better off if some replacement officers

come from within than if they come from outside and get the shock of their lives when they

find out what they're in for only when they get here."

He grinned. "Charlie, this document means I can make you an officer. You don't have to

go to OTC for the small amount of training it offers that you're ever likely to need--there isn't

that much in the way of 'polite society' on Thorsfinni's World." He shook his head. "Which is

a very good thing. I've seen your scandalous behavior in 'polite company.'

"So, Charlie, all you can do at this point is smile and say, 'Thank you, sir!'"

Bass's face went from pale to flushed in a flash. He started to rise, but dropped back onto

the chair when he saw Shiro and Parant start to reach for him. "Damnit, sir, I'm a gunnery

sergeant, I outrank almost any damn ensign. You're busting me!"

"AS YOU WERE, GUNNERY SERGEANT!" Shiro bellowed.

Parant jumped to his feet and leaned over Bass, his fists clenched at his sides. "You've

already been busted a couple of times, Bass. You're bucking for another!"

"But--"

They all turned to Sturgeon, who was almost doubled over with laughter.

"Oh-my-Charlie," he gasped as he struggled to get himself under control. He weakly

waved at the two sergeants major to resume their seats. After a moment he gained enough

control to assume a stern expression, but wasn't able to hold it and broke up laughing again.

It took a few more moments before he calmed down to occasional laughing barks.

"Charlie, Charlie, Charlie," he said, and took a deep breath. "Yes, yes, your final enlisted

rank does outrank the final enlisted ranks of most ensigns, but really, an ensign outranks a

sergeant major." He held up a placating hand to Shiro and Parant. "Technically outranks."

Shiro and Parant looked only partly mollified.

"As I was saying. Your pay remains the same, but you get additional allowances. Seniority

for ensigns is a bit more complex than it is for other officers; as final enlisted rank enters into

the calculation, it's not based simply on date of commission.

"Charlie, you've been doing the job, and in a most exemplary manner." He had enough

control now to turn serious. "Any ensign doing as good a job as you've done would be

strongly recommended for promotion to lieutenant--I think you know that. You don't lose

anything by accepting a commission. Instead you gain. I've got enough officers now, so I

have to fill your billet with an officer. I'd rather keep you in it, but there are things even the

commander of a forward outpost FIST--even one under quarantine and with an Executive

Order in hand--can't do."

"Sir, with all respect," Bass said, speaking more soberly as well. "You were an NCO

yourself once. You remember how senior NCOs feel about ensigns. They're mostly kids,

even if they were sergeants or staff sergeants before they got commissioned. They need to

be nurse-maided and trained. I don't want to be nurse-maided."

Sturgeon shook his head. "That attitude was supposed to change when the Marine Corps

decided only to commission officers from the ranks. Sadly, it hasn't, and that leads some

senior NCOs who would make outstanding officers to decline commissions, thus depriving

both themselves and the Marine Corps." He tapped the Executive Order. "There's

something else this does. It authorizes me to promote officers under my command as

needed."

"Sir?"

"There's nothing in Marine Corps regulations that says a lieutenant has to be a weapons

platoon commander or a company executive officer."

"Sir?"

"There's nothing that says a lieutenant can't be a blaster platoon commander."

"Sir?"

"If I feel like it, I can make you, by rank, the senior blaster platoon commander in the

infantry battalion." He nodded to van Winkle. "With Commander van Winkle's concurrence,

of course."

"I have no problem with that, sir," van Winkle said.

"It's settled then." He looked at the assembled officers and senior NCOs. "After

operations on Kingdom, 34th FIST has quite a few men who merit decorations and deserve

promotions. There will be a combined award and promotion ceremony in a FIST formation

four days from today." He looked back at Bass. "I'm glad the staff sergeant and the sergeant

I'm going to commission then haven't given me the same grief over it that you have, Charlie.

"Now. The new officers will need new dress reds. Thirty-fourth FIST is going to revive a

discarded tradition; their first set of officers' reds will be a gift from the FIST's other officers."

He looked at van Winkle. "Two of the new ensigns are yours, Commander. Will you take

care of that?"

"Yessir, gladly, sir," van Winkle said with a grin.

Sturgeon looked around the room again. "Gentlemen, this is Sixth Day. Why aren't you off

base enjoying some liberty? Not you, Charlie. You're going to New Oslo with the other two

who are about to be commissioned to get your new uniforms."

On the flight to New Oslo, Bass ignored the staff sergeant from Mike Company and the

sergeant from the transportation company who were going with him to Thorsfinni's World's

finest men's clothier for the final fitting of their dress reds. Instead he mused over the

sequence of events that culminated in his getting a commission.

The scientific team on Society 437, more commonly called "Waygone" because of how

far it was from inhabited worlds--an Earthlike planet that was being examined by the Bureau

of Human Habitability Exploration and Investigation for possible colonization--had missed

two consecutive routine reports. His platoon was detached from 34th FIST and dispatched

to investigate. They discovered that Society 437 had been invaded by an alien sentience

armed with acid-shooting weapons who wiped out the entire thousand-person team. In a

harrowing operation, the platoon met and wiped out the small invading force. On their way

back to Throrsfinni's World, their ship was intercepted by a major general from

Headquarters, Marine Corps, who ordered them never to speak of what they'd encountered

on Society 437. Any slip would result in automatic sentence without appeal to the penal

world of Darkside--a prison from which no one was ever paroled.

Not long afterward, third platoon along with the rest of Company L was sent on a secret

mission under the command of an army general. This time they went to Avionia, a world that

was quarantined, the public was told, because of virulent pathogens that killed all who

landed on it. The truth was far, far different. Avionia was home to yet another alien sentience,

one that had only reached the cultural level of fifteenth-century Earth. Avionia was

quarantined for the protection of its native population. But the world also held a unique

commodity--a type of gemstone that became highly prized when some were leaked into the

marketplaces of Human Space. Not only were outlaws secretly landing on Avionia and

smuggling the gemstones out, they were providing some of its inhabitants with weapons four

or five centuries beyond anything the local technology was capable of producing, thereby

threatening to disrupt the natural development of the Avionians in ways that could

conceivably lead to their extinction. Company L's mission was to put the smugglers out of

business and retrieve the weapons from the locals who had them--to kill that technology.

Thirty-fourth FIST was normally a two-year duty station, but transfers had stopped without

explanation or notice. Brigadier Sturgeon had made a trip to Earth to find out why. Assistant

Commandant of the Confederation Marine Corps, Anders Aguinaldo, found out 34th FIST

was quarantined to prevent knowledge of the alien sentiences from spreading. Not only

were transfers to other units canceled, so were releases from active service due to end of

enlistment or retirement--assignment to 34th FIST had, in effect, very quietly become a life

sentence.

Thirty-fourth FIST had recently returned from Kingdom, a human world that had been

invaded by a major force of Skinks--the name the Marines had given the aliens who invaded

Society 437. They had been joined on that campaign by 26th FIST. Bass wondered if 26th

FIST was also quarantined now. And what about Kingdom? Or the sailors of the CNSS

Grandar Bay, the ship on which the Marines had gone to Kingdom and that supported them

in the operation?

For that matter, was the civilian population of Thorsfinni's World also closed off from

two-way contact with the rest of humanity?

Ah, thinking about it did no good. All that accomplished was to raise questions and make

him think the situation wasn't fair. Great Buddha's balls! One lesson lengthy service in the

Marine Corps had taught him was that nothing was ever fair. Anyway, through the window he

could see they were on the final approach to New Oslo, the capital city of Thorsfinni's World.

Capital city? With its million-plus population, New Oslo was the only real city on Thorsfinni's

World, and it looked like a village compared to cities he'd visited on other worlds. New Oslo

was on the southern part of Niflheim, a fjord-rent island roughly the same shape and size as

the Scandinavian peninsula on Earth, and at about the same latitude. That, and the fact that

it was the largest island on the continentless planet, was why Ulf Thorsfinni had selected it

for his settlement when he'd led the first colonists there.

New Oslo. Bass wondered if Katie still lived there, and if she was still single and

available--and still willing to talk to him after he'd been out of touch for so long. He flinched

when he realized he hadn't seen her since before the Diamunde Campaign. She was

probably a fat, contented hausfrau with three fat, happy babies by now. Still, they'd had a lot

of fun together. It wouldn't hurt to look her up. Anyway, she was more pleasant to think about

than aliens and quarantines. And certainly more pleasant than thinking about how he was

going to walk out of that clothier with an officer's dress reds.

The bloodred tunic with its stock collar was fine; the only difference between it and the

dress reds tunic he'd worn through his entire career was it was made of better material and

was tailored. Not even that--he'd had his tunics tailored for the past fifteen years! But those

gold trousers--the agony! He liked the blue trousers with blood-stripe outer seam that

showed he was a noncommissioned officer. Like most enlisted Marines, he'd always

thought officers' dress reds were entirely too gaudy.

And he had to turn in his hard-earned--and more-than-once-earned--chevrons, rockers,

and crossed blasters for the lousy single silver orb of an ensign's rank insignia. They'd let

him keep the wound stripes on his sleeve. As if he wanted entire worlds to see them and

know how many times he'd done something dumb in the line of fire and gotten injured. If the

tailor had put the wound stripes on his sleeve, he decided, he'd have him take them off. That

was one benefit of being an officer--officers didn't have to show off that badge of error.

The aircraft landed. Bass and the other two soon-to-be officers piled into a waiting

courtesy car and were whisked off to the clothier.

The other two were greatly impressed when they saw the mass of decorations and

medals already mounted on Bass's waiting tunic; he had more than both of them combined.

In less than an hour they left, each carrying a bundle. On the way to the hotel where they

would stay until returning to Camp Ellis in two days, Bass gave his companions directions to

a not-too disreputable establishment where they could find decent food, inebriating drink,

and willing women.

As for him, once he stowed his new uniform, he got out his personal comm and punched

up Katie's number.

She wasn't there anymore, which didn't much surprise him. Comm Central reported that

while he was away on Kingdom she'd moved to--

Bronnysund?

Bronnysund--"Bronnys," as the Marines of 34th FIST called it--was a fishing town in the

northern reaches of Niflheim. More to the point, it was the local liberty town for Camp Ellis.

Why had Katie moved to Bronnys? Had she met and married a fisherman? That didn't seem

David Sherman & Dan Cragg - Starfist 10 - A World of Hurt

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: