David Sherman & Dan Cragg - Starfist 04 - Blood Contact

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PROLOGUE
Assilois apVain lounged in his workstation in the dimly lit control room, keeping an eye on the bank of
screens that nearly surrounded him. His screens, and those at four other workstations, glowing with
real-time images that ranged the spectrum from gamma to radio, provided the room's only illumination. A
few of the screens showed pictures easily intelligible to any human eye. Most of them showed shifting
schematics, writhing eddies, images in unreal colors, or moving graphs. A few showed rippling,
parti-colored curtains.
Only two of the sites in the normally crowded control center were occupied Everyone else, other than
the few people needed to maintain the systems, was at the holiday gala hosted by Dr. Nikholas Morgan.
As administrative chief of the exploratory mission to Society 437, Morgan was the de facto head of state.
His word was law on Society 437—or so he believed. The 846 scientists and technicians at Central, the
main scientific station on Waygone—which is what everybody but Morgan called the planet—had other
ideas about who was in charge. The hundred-odd scientists and technicians of the off site exploratory
mission counted themselves lucky that they were posted to Aquarius or Frosty stations and didn't have to
put up with Chief Morgan.
But two months had passed since Confederation Day, and there hadn't been any holidays or other
excuses to break the tedium of work, so Morgan arbitrarily declared a "holiday," complete with
mandatory attendance at the "gala." Division chiefs with field studies and experiments in progress
grumbled or howled in agony at Morgan's fiat, but they brought all of their staffs back to Central. Dr.
Morgan controlled mission resources; scientists who displeased him found their resources reallocated to
someone else.
Suddenly apVain sat upright and stared intently at a corner of one of the screens he was monitoring.
"Do we have a supply run coming in?" he asked. When he didn't get an answer, he shot a glance at
Suzrain Hirsute, the climatologist at the other workstation. He saw the shimmer of a privacy barrier
around Hirsute and so activated the intercom inside Hirsute's workstation and repeated his question.
"Not that I know of," Hirsute replied absently. "Why?" He didn't look up from the atmospheric data he
was monitoring.
"Someone just dropped into orbit, that's why." apVain sounded annoyed. He peered quizzically at the
blip on his radar scope. "When we set up here, I told Chief Morgan one of the satellites needed to be
oriented outward. If we had an all-spectrum satellite looking outward, we would have seen this ship days
ago." A surveillance technician, apVain was responsible for geological data via satellite gathering sensors.
Nearly all of the satellites in orbit around Society 437 were focused on a section of the planet's
surface. Only one of the satellite-borne radars scanned from horizon to horizon, and just then it showed
an unexpected blip in orbit.
"Hmm? What'd you say?" Hirsute asked as he continued to monitor the atmospheric data.
"Someone just dropped into orbit."
Hirsute looked at apVain and blinked rapidly. "No one's due for two months. Are you sure?"
"Of course I'm sure," apVain snapped. "Look." He pointed an accusing finger at the scope.
The climatologist levered himself out of his chair and joined apVain to look over his shoulder at the
radar scope. Clearly visible just above the horizon was a blip against the black of space.
"Are you sure that's not one of the other satellites?" Hirsute asked.
apVain tapped the screen. "It's at a higher altitude than our satellites. And it's too big. It's a starship,
not a satellite."
"Who is it?"
apVain shook his head and reached for his comm unit. He was going to give Morgan a piece of his
mind for not alerting him to the arrival of an unscheduled ship.
"What was that?" Hirsute asked.
"What was what?" apVain looked back at the scope.
"There was a blip, right here." Hirsute touched the screen. Numbers were vanishing from the screen
where he pointed. "It suddenly appeared, moved a short distance, then vanished."
"Impossible," apVain said. Hirsute was pointing well below the altitude of the satellites. But as apVain
looked, a blip appeared and vanished in a different spot, much closer to Central Station. "What the—"
apVain leaned forward, as though getting closer to the screen would give him more data. He made quick
mental calculations from the numbers that had flashed next to the blip. "If that continues on the same
course, it'll land near here in half an hour." He shook his head. "But it can't be. There's nothing that
appears and vanishes on radar like that."
"Could it be the thing I saw?"
apVain shook his head. "Too far away—nothing moves that fast in atmosphere." His fingers started
tapping out Chief Morgan's code on his comm unit, then apVain stopped and stared at the scope again.
A smaller blip dropped out of and curved away from the orbiting starship. He put the comm unit down
and tapped keys on the radar control board. New numbers scrolled across the screen.
"That starship just dropped a shuttle on course to land at Aquarius Station. Why would a starship drop
someone on Aquarius instead of coming to Central first?"
Hirsute thought about it for a moment. He swallowed and croaked, "Pirates. Only pirates would go to
an outstation instead of landing at the main settlement."
"Oh hell." apVain snatched up his comm unit and frantically tapped out Chief Morgan's code.
Before he finished, another blip appeared, far too close to be the same object headed for Aquarius
Station.
"It's landing here!"
"But they haven't signaled us."
apVain scrabbled at his console controls. He brought up the visual from the surveillance camera
outside the control center just as something struck it and the picture dissolved into static. Frantic, he
fumbled with his comm unit and tapped in the numbers again. "Chief," he said when his call was
answered, "I think we've got trouble. Looks like there's a starship in orbit; a shuttle is headed toward
Aquarius and someone just landed here." His jaw clenched as he listened to Morgan's reply. "I'm not
playing some kind of practical joke," he snapped. "They just came in out of nowhere. No signals, no
nothing. Someone is here. They might be pirates."
Suddenly the starship in orbit just disappeared from the screen and the satellites registered a huge
explosion.
As apVain was explaining that the starship appeared to have been destroyed, the door to the control
center slammed open and the two men jerked their attention to it. Hirsute's scream was cut short,
becoming a gurgle as he collapsed.
CHAPTER 1
"Owen, old pal, what are we going to do with ourselves tonight?" Lance Corporal Joseph "Shadow"
Dean asked his woo, back in the first fire team cubicle after Retreat formation the day of the big fight.
Owen glowed a happy pink at the sound of Dean's voice and wobbled precariously on the back of the
chair where it had hopped when the Marine came into the room. Its big, staring eyes regarded Dean
affectionately; at least Dean sometimes thought they did. "Wooo, Wooo," Dean said softly as he
shrugged out of his utilities.
The creature glowed a brighter pink and responded, "Woooo, Wooo." Shortly before he went on
home leave, Lance Corporal Dave "Hammer" Schultz, Dean's teammate, had said, "I do believe Owen
thinks you're his daddy!"
"Impossible!" Corporal Leach, the first fire team leader had interjected, "goddamn Dean-o is just too
damn ugly to be anybody's daddy."
Dean had grown very fond of the woo since he'd brought it back from Diamunde. In fact, Owen had
become Company L's mascot. Even Top Myer was deferring to Owen when he met him on his daily
barracks walk-throughs.
"I know how Marines like to start menageries of pets and call them mascots," the old first sergeant had
remarked to Captain Conorado one day shortly after the company had returned from Diamunde, "but
I've always been against it. Jesu, Skipper," he added, "first thing you know, the company area begins to
look like a goddamn zoo! Marines get ahold of all these damn things and then they're underfoot and
shitting all over everything. Why, First Sergeant Tacitus, over in Kilo Company, he caught one of his
corporals, brought back a clutch of raptor eggs from Wanderjahr and was hatching them in a homemade
incubator behind his wall locker! You know, those things they call wolves on Wanderjahr. Corps oughta
issue a general order forbidding pets in the damn barracks, instead of leaving the decision up to unit
commanders, beggin' your pardon, sir," he added quickly.
"I know, I know, Top," the company commander replied, "but in this case we're going to make an
exception." And so Owen stayed with the company. Almost as if the woo understood Top Myer's
opposition to his presence in the company area, whenever it saw the first sergeant it jumped up where it
was plainly visible and began to glow a bright pink, something woos were said to do when content. To
the Marines of Company L it meant Owen was offering the first sergeant a friendly greeting.
"He likes you, Top, he really does," Gunnery Sergeant Bass whispered into the first sergeant's ear. "He
doesn't do that for anyone else but Dean. Damnedest thing I ever saw."
Gradually Top Myer was won over, and before long he casually acknowledged Owen's presence
whenever the two met. Since woos disposed of their body waste through respiration, like plants, Owen
never left a mess behind, and that counted heavily in his favor with the first sergeant.
Owen was thriving on Thorsfinni's World. The rocks there, from which the woos digestive system
extracted necessary trace elements, suited him superbly. All the Marines had to do to keep Owen
glowing a satisfied pink was to provide him every morning with chunks of rock they gathered off the
parade ground.
Woos were said to be intelligent, but to what degree was open to debate. They were the highest
life-form yet found on the planet Diamunde, and people who'd had long contact with them swore they
were more intelligent than the terrestrial canine, but that evidence was purely anecdotal and had not been
verified in the laboratory.
After his experience with the woos on Diamunde, however, Dean knew there was much more to the
creatures than the little bit science had been able to deduce. He had accepted Owen as a companion, not
a pet, and named him in honor of a writer, A. Block Owen, whose adventure stories he'd read as a boy.
Dean's first actual combat operation cured him forever of reading war fiction, but he'd enjoyed Mr.
Owen's stories, and besides, the woo somewhat resembled the writer, with his bulbous head and
saucerlike eyes. Since most Marines had read Mr. Owen's swashbuckling adolescent novels as boys
themselves, the woo's new name was instantly recognized by the men of Company L.
But despite Owen's company, something was definitely missing from Lance Corporal Joseph Dean's
life. With so many of the other Marines of third platoon on leave, winding down after the hell of
Diamunde was proving much more difficult than it had been after 34th Fleet Initial Strike Team's
operations on Elneal and Wanderjahr. Schultz and Leach had gone on leave, but as much as Dean
dreamed of having a room to himself, as do all men who live in barracks, he was lonely in the cubicle
without the other two Marines. His two closest buddies, MacIlargie in the first squad's third fire team and
Claypoole over in second squad, were also on leave. Dean had become very close to "Wolfman"
MacIlargie on the deployment to Diamunde—where Dean earned the nickname "Shadow," because he'd
stuck close enough to the Confederation's ambassador to save her life. He itched to go to town with
Wolfman and reminisce, or sit around the barracks with the other men of the third platoon, reliving the
details of that experience with the other Marines.
Gunnery Sergeant Charlie Bass, third platoon's commander since the kidnapping and murder of the
previous commander, had taken a month's leave in New Oslo, where he was staying with his squeeze.
He'd invited Dean and the other men of the platoon who'd stayed behind to visit him there, but Dean had
declined because he thought his presence would be an imposition. Captain Conorado, Company Ls
commander, had offered to put Dean up for a weekend with his family in New Oslo—officers were
allowed to marry and bring their families to their FIST bases—but Dean politely declined that offer too.
Although the generosity of the offer pleased him enormously, he would have felt too awkward in the
Skipper's home to be comfortable there.
Dean had decided against going on leave himself, despite the fact that he was eligible and Top Myer
had encouraged him to go.
"Dean," the first sergeant had told him, "you're at the top of the list for home leave, with your mother
dying and all. And I thought you said you wanted to go back to Wanderjahr—for whatever reason, I'll
never know." Of course, by then everyone in the 34th knew that Dean had had an affair with Hway
Kuetgens, the oligarch's daughter.
"I know, First Sergeant, but, well, my mom's been gone quite a while now and I have nobody else
back on Old Earth I'd care to see. Maybe when I ship over I'll go back there—or somewhere."
Top Myer had been delighted that Dean was thinking about reenlisting, but all he said was, "Well, can't
force you to take leave, son. But if you stay at Camp Ellis, I'll have you on shit details from dawn to
dusk, until the guys get back and we go on our next deployment."
In fact, Dean had no place he wanted to go, and after thinking it over, he realized that returning to
Wanderjahr, where he'd met the first love of his life, just would not work. As a new oligarch, filling her
mother's place as ruler of Morgenluft Staat, Hway would not be free to spend much time with him. But
with so many familiar faces missing, hanging around Camp Ellis was no fun either. And at night he had
recurring dreams of combat on Diamunde that did not leave his mind when he was awake.
Brigadier Sturgeon understood very well what Lance Corporal Dean was going through. He knew that
readjusting from combat to garrison duty was not an easy transition for young men—and by no means
was Dean the only Marine in 34th FIST who was having that problem, although most would never
mention it. The brigadier had never put much faith in psychiatry or so-called "grief counseling," but that
kind of help was available—professional consultation and treatment with various drugs—for those who
wanted it. As far as he was concerned, that was for sailors and soldiers, not Marines. The FIST
commander knew from personal experience that long-term healing was best assured through close
association with other men who had shared the same experiences. As long as the Marines of the 34th
hung together, they could get through anything. But with so many of the old hands away, it was proving
difficult for the younger men like Dean.
So Brigadier Sturgeon ordered the days filled with the Marines' age-old prescription for depression
and distraction: hard physical labor. The days started with vigorous calisthenics on the grinder, followed
by training sessions on weapons and tactics, interspersed with cross-country marches and close-order
drill, where the platoons in each company competed with each other to see which could march faster,
longer, and harder; on the parade ground the corporals and sergeants had their men shouting the age-old
cadences marching men rely on to make the miles go by more quickly:
I don't know, but I've been told
'Finni pussy is mighty cold!
And there were the endless company details that ranged from repeated cleaning of weapons and
equipment—and the attendant in ranks inspections to make sure the gear was really clean!—to
whitewashing the rocks along the walkways outside the barracks. And Dean spent many hours working
with Sergeant Souavi in the company supply room, conducting interminable inventories.
Camp Major Pete Ellis, 34th FIST's home base, was located on Thorsfinni's World, one of the most
distant human-settled worlds, and was considered a hardship post. Even so, it was not without places
where healthy young Marines might find innocent diversions. The night of the big fight, Captain Conorado
had dismissed Company L early, so Dean found himself at loose ends. He really didn't want to go into
Bronnoysund, the liberty town just outside the main gate of Camp Ellis, but the more he thought about
what lay before him that weekend, the more a cold beer and a thick reindeer steak seemed appealing.
Besides, there was Erika—a slim dark-haired girl at Big Barb's who spoke such flawless English—and
she was available. Thinking of her caused a pleasant tingling in Dean's loins.
"So let's go to Big Barb's," he said to Owen. Big Barb's was the ship's chandlers, bar, and
whorehouse in Bronnoysund that served as Company L's unofficial command post whenever the men
were in town. The woo wobbled and glowed pleasantly at the words. Sometimes Dean thought Owen
actually did understand English. Dean had met an old prospector on Diamunde who swore that woos
could read human thoughts.
Owen fascinated the 'Finnis. They had never seen such a creature before, and the woo enjoyed their
good-natured attention. Dean certainly did: He could never pay for any beer when the 'Finnis were
admiring Owen. And on those nights when Dean drank too much beer, Owen perched happily on his
shoulder, lighting the way as the young Marine staggered to the parking lot for the bus back to Camp
Ellis.
At first that night, Big Barb's was not crowded. The few 'Finnis who were there, mostly men off the
fishing ships that anchored in the harbor, bought Dean a round of beer and played with Owen, but after a
few pleasantries, returned to their endless card games.
"Where's Erika?" Dean asked a waitress as he seated himself at a vacant table. She nodded upstairs,
and Dean felt his heart sink, thinking she was with another man. Owen, who'd been glowing bright pink
when they entered the bar, turned a dull orange, almost matching Dean's mood.
It was only then that Dean noticed Corporal Pasquin sitting by himself in a far corner, nursing a beer.
Since they were in the same platoon, Dean knew he should have at least acknowledged the corporal's
presence. But since he was off duty, miffed at Erika, and the corporal didn't like him anyway, Dean just
ignored him. Pasquin glared at him but kept to himself.
"Owen!" Erika shrieked as she came running down the broad staircase that led to the second floor,
where the girls had their rooms. She ran to Dean's table and placed a large kiss on Owen's bulbous
forehead.
"What about me?" Dean asked sourly. There were times when he felt ambiguous about Owen being
around.
"Ach, my darling Joe!" Erika put one hand behind Dean's head and kissed him full on the lips, her long
dark hair enfolding them both in its rich tresses. She smelled fresh and clean, and her teeth scraped
pleasantly against his. Momentarily, Dean forgot about his ego. She sat down and put a soft hand on his
thigh. The waitress brought another schooner of ale, from which Erika enthusiastically poured herself a
glass. She raised it, toasted Owen, and drank thirstily. Dean laughed and did the same. Together they
finished the schooner and ordered a second one.
"I bought myself some nice thinks today, Joe," Erika said, making circles with her finger on the wet
tabletop.
"Yeah?"
"That's why I was a little late coming down," she added.
Dean brightened immediately. "Oh," he responded.
"Would you like to see dem?" she asked quietly.
Upstairs, Dean put Owen on the mantel, then undressed and crawled under the covers with Erika.
"Where's your new ‘thinks’?" he asked as he snuggled down beside her.
"You see dem, Joe! Dere on the back of the chair!"
They both laughed. Dean rolled over on top of Erika. Then he froze.
"Vat is it? Vat's wrong?" she asked.
Dean shook his head. "That goddamned Owen!"
"Oh, Joe, you shouldn't talk like dat!"
"No, I can't do it while he's sitting up there. It's—It's like somebody's watching!"
Indeed, Owen was watching, his luminous eyes staring unblinking down on the pair. Dean leaped
naked out of the bed, opened the closet and thrust Owen inside. "You take it easy in there, old buddy. I
got some heavy work to do out here," Dean said, and closed the door. For the next hour pink light
seeped out from beneath the closet door, dimly illuminating the two figures as they enjoyed themselves on
the bed.
Things had picked up at the bar by the time the pair descended the big staircase. Several crewmen
from a fishing vessel that had just come into port were standing there, drinking and talking loudly. A big
man with a full beard slammed his mug down hard as the couple crossed the floor to an empty table and
shouted, "Erika!" then something in Norse Dean didn't catch, but his gesture was clear enough.
"Never mind him." Erika shrugged as she guided Dean toward a table with one arm. "He tinks he's got
a claim on me. He doesn't. Dat odder one too." She nodded at Pasquin, who was glaring sullenly at them
from his corner. "He haf dirty mind." She shook her head disgustedly. She squeezed Dean's arm in hers.
Owen perched comfortably on an unoccupied chair at their table.
The big, bearded man shouted again, louder this time, and in English, "You goddamn Marine, leaf my
Erika alone!"
"Uh-oh," Dean muttered, his back to the bar. Owen jumped onto Dean's shoulder and emitted several
quick bright flashes of white light. Dean whirled around. The man was already halfway to where he
stood, a wicked fillet knife grasped in one hand. Owen's flashing had temporarily blinded the man, but he
blinked rapidly several times and came on, his eyes tiny slits against the light. Owen leaped back toward
Erika. The attacker carried the knife extended before him in his right hand and low, a foot or two from
his right side.
Dean feinted toward the attacker's knife arm, stepped inside his reach and punched him solidly on the
left ear as the man whirled past. The fisherman shook his head and pivoted toward Dean, who stepped in
quickly again and smashed his fist onto the tip of the attacker's nose. Blood spurted everywhere and the
man stepped back a pace but held firmly onto the knife, so Dean kicked him solidly in the groin. The man
doubled over, gasping, and the knife clattered harmlessly onto the sawdust floor. Dean rammed his knee
hard under the fisherman's chin, and the sound of his teeth slamming together could be heard all the way
up on the second floor.
Breathing heavily, more from fear than exertion, Dean stood in a fighting stance over his opponent as
the fisherman groped on the floor for the knife, muttering curses while the blood from his broken nose
splattered the sawdust. Dean's legs felt rubbery under him, but at the same time he was wildly elated.
Without even thinking, he'd done just what his instructors in unarmed combat had taught him—attacked
relentlessly until his opponent was down. But the man wasn't out yet. Dean wound up to deliver the
knockout blow to the back of his head.
Before he could, a tremendous weight smashed into Dean's right shoulder and bounced sickeningly off
the side of his head. Big Barb herself had laid him low with a chair. The next thing he knew, he was being
dragged and pulled through the sawdust as men threw punches all around him. With Erika's help, he got
to his feet and they staggered out the door into the cold night. Back inside, pandemonium reigned as the
patrons carried on the fight. Big Barb was among them, screaming for order and bashing heads with the
best. She wasn't called "Big" Barb for nothing.
Dean was bleeding from the blow struck to the side of his head. Erika found a handkerchief and
dabbed at the blood. She was laughing. "My wunnerful Marine!" she said. "You knock him silly!"
Dean began to laugh too. Owen, who'd stayed firmly attached to Erika's shoulder throughout, glowed
a subdued pink. They found a restaurant a few blocks up the street and slipped inside. The place was
warm and smoky, crowded with late evening diners. Heads turned when people noticed Owen sitting on
Erika's shoulder, but evidently nobody had a second thought about the big bloody smear on the side of
Dean's head, or the sawdust that still clung to his liberty utilities. The 'Finnis were brawlers, and no one in
the settlement considered a black eye or a fat lip out of the ordinary on a man or a woman.
Dean and Erika ordered two huge reindeer steaks and large schooners of beer, and when they were
done with the meal, Erika ordered Clintons and both lighted up.
"Who was that guy?" Dean eventually asked.
Erika shrugged. "Karl. He is nice enough man when not drinking, but nobody special. You goddamn
Marines, going away all the time, what's a girl to do?"
Dean nodded and gingerly felt the side of his head. "That goddamned Barb, jeez."
"She keep order dat way." Erika laughed. "Besides, you pick up one of dem chairs, yah? You know,
dey could be lots heavier? She make dem out of soft wood 'cause dey get broke so much, and besides,
she don't want to kill her customers!"
"Couldn't prove it by me," Dean said ruefully. His fingers came away with crusted blood on them.
Well, a hot shower would take care of that.
As if reading his thoughts, Erika said, "We take good, long, hot shower, we get back to my place,
Joe." She winked and blew a cloud of cigar smoke into the air. Owen, who did not like tobacco smoke,
sat glum and dull gray on Erika's shoulder.
Outside they walked arm in arm down the dark street, bodies close together. Impervious to the cold
night air, Owen dozed on Erika's shoulder. Suddenly, a horrible face, nose twisted, bulbous, and red
over a leering mouth full of broken teeth, popped up before them. It was Karl! He held one hand over his
eyes before Owen could go into his flashing routine.
"You broken my nose," Karl said accusingly. "No, no," he said to Owen, "don't do dat! Is okay. Yah,
everytink is okay."
Karl swayed drunkenly in front of them. "I loose my knife too," he added. "Ve haf dam good fight,
yah, Marine?" Karl grinned. "Nex time I come back here, we fight, okay? Maybe nex time I wins." He
stepped into the street to let them pass, waved good-naturedly at the pair, then staggered off into the
dark.
Erika stared at Dean for a moment and then doubled over with laughter. "You know, Joe, I tink dat
Owen, I tink he is very good friend for you Marines!"
A voice in the dark sounded throughout the barracks one night several days later:
"Prettiest girl I ever seen.
Was smokin' thule in my latrine."
Dean shot bolt upright in his rack. "Sounded just like that fool, Wolfman!" he muttered. Footsteps
came down the hallway, then the door to the third fire team's cubicle right next door burst open with a
crash.
"Drop your cocks and grab your socks!" MacIlargie shouted, sliding his seabag noisily across the
floor. "Thirty-fourth FIST is now combat ready!"
Well, not quite, but it was getting there. Its men were coming home.
CHAPTER 2
"Gunnery Sergeant Charlie Bass..." Brigadier Sturgeon began sternly.
The wall behind the desk he sat at, on which Bass's eyes were fixed, held 2-D pictures of
Confederation President Cynthia Chang-Sturdevant, Confederation Minister of War Marcus Berentus,
and Chairman of the Confederation Combined Chiefs of Staff Admiral Horatio Perry. Confederation
Marine Corps Commandant Kinsky Butler was depicted in a hologram. The four images were flanked on
one side by the Confederation flag and on the other by the gold-and-scarlet Marine Corps flag and 34th
FIST's battle standard—the latter so thickly festooned with campaign and unit-citation streamers it was
barely visible through the pennants. Four men sat in chairs along one side of the office: Colonel Ramadan,
Sturgeon's chief of staff; FIST Sergeant Major Shiro; Commander Van Winkle, the FIST's infantry
battalion commander; and Sergeant Major Parant, the infantry battalion sergeant major. Standing at
attention in front of the brigadier's desk, Gunnery Sergeant Charlie Bass, acting platoon commander of
third platoon, Company L, was flanked by his company commander and first sergeant, Captain
Conorado and Top Myer.
"It has come to my attention," Sturgeon continued, "that a certain platoon in this FIST's infantry
battalion has a tendency to run wild when it's on liberty." He fixed Bass with a steely eye and drummed
his fingers on his desktop.
"Sir?" Bass said into the void.
"You know what I mean, Gunnery Sergeant," Sturgeon snapped. "I'm talking about the third platoon
of Company L."
Bass's jaw clenched. His platoon didn't run wild. When his men were on duty, they were the most
disciplined platoon in the entire FIST, and he'd bet the pension he didn't really expect to live to collect on
that. So what if they were particularly high-spirited when they were on liberty?
"When your platoon pulls liberty in Bronnoysund, it makes more noise, damages more property, and
gets into more fights than any other unit in this FIST. It's a wonder that every man jack among them
hasn't been in front of Commander Van Winkle for nonjudicial punishment—or before me for a formal
court-martial!"
"Sir, it's a good platoon. My men work hard and they play just as hard."
Sturgeon seemed to ignore Bass's defense of his platoon. "I think the matter could be properly
resolved if third platoon, Company L, had a regular platoon commander instead of an acting
commander."
There it is, Bass thought bitterly. I won't accept a commission, so they won't let me keep a platoon.
Maybe they'll give me an ensign as good as the last one. The last officer of third platoon, Ensign Vanden
Hoyt, had died bravely during the fighting on Diamunde. Bass had served as acting platoon commander
ever since.
"You always say you refused a commission because you can do more good for the Marine Corps by
training and taking care of the Marines in one platoon or one company than by becoming an officer and
losing touch." Sturgeon snorted at the implication that officers lost touch with the enlisted men they led,
and exchanged glances with the other officers. "Therefore, I'm going to exercise a prerogative available to
me as commander of a remote FIST. That is to assign senior noncommissioned officers to fill the billets of
commissioned officers on a permanent basis. Commander Van Winkle concurs with me that you can
probably do the job. Captain Conorado has said he can put up with you as long as I agree to bust you a
grade or two if you screw up. So I'm assigning you to permanently fill the position of platoon
commander."
The brigadier stood abruptly. A broad grin split his face and he extended his hand across the desk.
"Charlie," he said when the stunned Gunnery Sergeant Bass took his hand, "just because you refuse to
accept a commission doesn't mean I can't get an officer's work out of you."
Bass hardly heard Sturgeon's last words. Conorado was pumping his other hand, Myer was pounding
on his back. Van Winkle and the two sergeants major were on their feet and crowding in to offer
congratulations Ramadan hovered behind them, trying to find space to squeeze in to add his own.
Charlie Bass had been with third platoon, Company L, 34th FIST for more than two years. On
Diamunde he'd begun his third stint as acting platoon commander. Both of the previous times, he'd had to
yield command to newly commissioned ensigns. The first one...well, he preferred not to think about
Ensign Baccacio, who hadn't had enough enlisted experience before getting commissioned. The second,
Vanden Hoyt, had been a staff sergeant and a good platoon sergeant before being commissioned an
officer. Most officers—all Marine officers—were commissioned from the ranks, and he didn't resent
giving up command. But sometimes... And the constant changing of commanders couldn't help but be
disruptive to the platoon. Now third platoon was his. He wouldn't have to give it up to the next junior
officer, a man who'd probably come aboard with less experience than Bass had, who'd join the company
on his first assignment as an officer.
Bass was overwhelmed. He mumbled his thanks to the men congratulating him, but later couldn't
remember what any of them said or what he replied.
The campaign on Diamunde had nearly been a disaster. It was particularly tough on third platoon: it
had not only lost its commander, it also lost a squad leader, three of six fire team leaders, and a gun team
leader. A PFC had been killed in action as well. In a blaster platoon, seven men dead out of thirty was
heavy casualties no matter what kind of operation they happened on, and Diamunde had been maybe the
toughest campaign Bass had ever served on. Two other members of third platoon had been seriously
wounded in the campaign and, even though they had returned to it, were still on light duty. Third platoon
was in serious need of replacements. They got them. Well, they quickly got six, and six out of seven
wasn't bad.
The Marines of Company L stood in formation on the parade ground behind their barracks. At first
glance something seemed not quite right about the formation, even though the garrison-utility-clad
Marines were in uniformly erect positions, and the lines they stood in might have been laid out by a
surveyor. The woo squatting at attention in front of third platoon wasn't the oddity. Neither was it the fact
that First Sergeant Myer, who rarely attended the company's morning formations, stood to the left of
Captain Conorado. A second glance showed the problem—there were gaps in the ranks. Open spaces
had been left for the men who were no longer with Company L. Captain Conorado's eyes, and First
Sergeant Myer's, were held by the holes in the ranks. They'd lost some good Marines on Diamunde. Any
losses were too many, but the gaps were far too many. Behind the Skipper and the Top, Company
Gunnery Sergeant Thatcher stood in front of a smaller formation, twenty-one Marines drawn up in two
ranks. The next time the company fell into formation, those Marines would be in it and there wouldn't be
any gaps.
"We lost good Marines." Conorado was finishing up his eulogy to the men who died on Diamunde.
"We lost good friends." He didn't shout, but his voice was loud and clear and no one in the formation had
to strain to hear him. "But they aren't gone, not totally. They were Marines, and as Marines they will be
remembered by the Corps for all time. You will carry them with you for the rest of your lives. Marines
who follow along after you will carry you just the same.
"Centuries ago our progenitors, the United States Marines, had a saying: ‘Marines don't die. They go
to hell and regroup.’ Those old Marines also said that Marines guard Heaven's gates.
"Our companions remain with us in our hearts. Someday, whether it's as battle casualties, as the result
of the ravages of illness, or simply from old age, we will rejoin them. Now let us take a moment of silence
to remember them."
Conorado bowed his head, as did the hundred Marines facing him. Behind him Thatcher lowered his
head. Some of the twenty-one other Marines, the replacements, bowed theirs as well. Most of them had
been through such ceremonies before. All of them felt uncomfortable; the ceremony reminded them of
their own mortality, and starkly brought home to them the fact that they were replacing well-liked and
respected men.
After a moment Conorado cleared his throat and everyone looked up again.
"Behind me," Conorado said, "are Marines newly assigned to Company L. They have already been
assigned to platoons, you have already met some of them. When you are dismissed, you will go by
platoons to areas that have previously been assigned to you. The new men will go with you so that you
can formally meet them all and your platoons can be reorganized. But before I release you, one other
piece of company business remains."
He paused and looked from one end of the company to the other, then called out, "Gunnery Sergeant
Charlie Bass, front and center!"
摘要：

PROLOGUEAssiloisapVainloungedinhisworkstationinthedimlylitcontrolroom,keepinganeyeonthebankofscreensthatnearlysurroundedhim.Hisscreens,andthoseatfourotherworkstations,glowingwithreal-timeimagesthatrangedthespectrumfromgammatoradio,providedtheroom'sonlyillumination.Afewofthescreensshowedpictureseasil...

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