In Every Clime and Place (6 page)

ASTEROID BELT RESCUE SUBSTATION ECHO 7

“Those bastards set us up?” I asked. “And were willing to let ten thousand people die to sell their version of events to the world? What kind of asshole would wipe out the population of an outpost to make a few bucks?”

“Warlords.” Jensen shrugged. “Pirates. Slavers. And captains of industry, of course, but they get to plan it over cocktails and have somebody else get bloody.”

I grunted. I had seen it. Whole villages in Africa wiped out because they were inconveniently located near some precious resource. And when I thought of it, history was full of colonial land-grabs that amounted to genocide. Smallpox laden blankets, the Trail of Tears and Wounded Knee opened a lot of space for US agriculture. It’s not like my ancestors left Ireland for America because things were so good in the Old Country. The Famine was just a grand opportunity for the Ascendancy to clear the rabble off the land and graze cattle on it.

“If it makes you feel better,” he said, “we did get most of the truth. After a lot of people went to jail.”

SNN News File 2, courtesy Brian Jensen

15 Nov 2075

United Belt Mining Corporate Headquarters, Austin, Texas

Bart Rodman, Chairman of the Board of Directors, scowled as he watched the replay of the newscast. He angrily rewound it and played it again. It was the last thing he wanted to see. Corporate officials panicking, pushing toward the escape vessels as armed Marines held them back and loaded the miserable riffraff onto their craft. It was just the thing to inflame the masses, he thought. Ragged, starving orphans and pretty, earnest young women being saved from the indifference and incompetence of the corporate suits and their hired thugs.

He swore and killed the image when the video closed in on a Marine scooping up a crying child and carrying her to safety.
God damn it,
he thought
, who does their publicity? Is the frigging news sponsored by the damn Marines?

“How the hell did it get this far, Joe?” he asked. “I thought I said I wanted this one controlled?”

His assistant shrugged and rubbed his receding hairline. “I don’t mean to sound like an asshole, but I told you I thought it was getting out of hand. You pushed the miners too far and it got crazy. It was only a matter of time before the military stepped in.”

“Don’t we have contacts? What about our man in the fleet?”

“Burton?” Joe shrugged, “He’s only a lieutenant commander. He can’t change orders. And he tried to keep the rescue team from going in, but they don’t have to listen to the Navy in peacetime. They pulled their usual justification that the station could become a hazard, and went in.”

“Bullshit!” snarled the older man, his complexion reddening.

“Sure it is. But prove it to the public.”

“We can’t do anything?”

“Like what? You can’t arrest an ambulance for responding to an accident. Even with a liability suit, it won’t fly if they didn’t do any damage. And they were called heroes by the Fleet.”

“How the hell did they get that breach sealed, anyway?”

Joe O’Leary consulted his pocket digital assistant. “Our contacts on the scene say that the rescue ship sealed the hole with the foam they use for a hull breach on a spaceship.”

“The hole should have been too big for that.”

“It was. They used a UBM shuttle as a patch and sealed it into the breach. We could maybe sue them for the cost to free the ship, if you want even worse press.”

Rodman silently considered his situation, his white hair and beard throwing his angry flush into even starker contrast. “How many senators do we still own?”

“James and Donovan are solid. Peters can be bullied. We have plenty of dirt on his little addictions.”

“Let’s get in touch with them. I need that damn station shut down. I need the insurance, and I need to clear the facility if we’re going to work this deal. Have our friends in high places lean on the cost of the patrols and lean on the unions.”

“Got it,” said O’Leary. Then, almost as an afterthought, “There is something else we can work on...”

USS
TRIPOLI

Once the pressure stabilized, we had a long, uneventful wait for the assault craft. Now that the crisis seemed less imminent, the crowds weren’t willing to face our rifles to get to the shuttles.

When the boat arrived, we filed on. It was a tight squeeze, with the embassy Marines and diplomatic personnel, but we made it. I was covered in sweat, cramped and shaking with spent adrenalin. I was also worried about Terry. If the docs could get his arm patched up, I would see if I could get him promoted to Lcpl O’Rourke.

“Hey boss,” Sabatini asked, “how come they screwed up the ambush that bad? At that range, why aren’t we all dead?”

I paused for a moment. Come to think of it, why
weren’t
we all dead? “Gunny! You got any theories?”

The more experienced Marine’s lip curled in a sneer of contempt. “Because they were undisciplined shitbags. Specifically, they were firing downhill, and didn’t train to account for that, and they probably never thought about the lower G. Add close range to that equation and they were shooting high. They didn’t hold fire long enough to let us all in the kill zone, and they bunched up around their heavy weapon. If they’d spread out and made a longer ambush, extended the killing ground, and learned to shoot, we might’ve been in trouble.”

“Good thing they don’t train them better than they do.”

“If my platoon ever screws up an ambush that bad, they better hope the enemy kill ’em before I get the chance,” Gunny Taylor growled.

We made it back to the
Tripoli
without any trouble. I actually welcomed the drag of my equipment in the full G of the ship’s artificial gravity. We climbed the ladders out through the hatches into the main vessel.

Lieutenant Mitchell dismissed us, allowing everybody two hours’ free time before we resumed normal duties. The Navy could run the ship for now.

I tossed my helmet on my rack and unzipped the heavy body armor. I hated stewing in my own sweat. My faded olive drab blouse was dark with it.

“I’ll meet you back here in a few,” I told Sabatini and Johnson, securing my ACR to my rack. “Get cleaned up. I’m gonna check on O’Rourke.”

“Tell him we aren’t gonna let him rest his lazy ass in sickbay too long while we carry the load,” Sabatini said, removing her helmet. Her dark hair was matted with perspiration.

“Give him my love, too, Corp,” said Johnson.

Wow. His first smartass remark. He was going to be a good Marine.

“Call me Mick. You just joined the Brotherhood of the Damned. No titles between us.”

I hiked over to the sickbay. It was overrun with refugee children. The Navy medical personnel were running around doing tests and writing out instructions for care. I caught the attention of the doctor, a Navy lieutenant. “Excuse me, sir.”

He looked up at me in a distracted fashion. “Hm? One of the Corpsmen can put some antiseptic on that knee, Marine.”

“Wh—?” I looked down. I hadn’t noticed in the excitement, but the knee of my uniform trousers was torn and bloody. I must have skinned my knee on the rubble at the ambush and not noticed.

“Actually, sir, I was wondering about PFC O’Rourke.”

“O’Rourke?”

“Marine with a bullet wound to the arm, sir.”

“Oh yes.” Recognition lit his features. “The lacerated biceps and arterial bleed. He’s doing well. We repaired the damage to the muscle and blood vessels. We took a cell culture and we’ll regrow him some muscle to replace the scar tissue. After he heals up, we’ll see how much movement he’s lost and how much scarring there is. If we need to, we can replace the damage with new muscle tissue. He’s lucky the humerus wasn’t hit. If the bone had taken that round, it would have shattered into bits.”

“So he’s doing OK, sir?”

“He’s stable. His prognosis is encouraging.”

“Could I see him? I’m his team leader.”

The doc shook his head. “He’s still heavily sedated. Check back after nineteen hundred.”

“Aye aye, sir. Thank you, sir.”

We had to be a lot more formal with the Navy than our own officers.

“Have somebody clean that knee before you leave, Corporal,” he said, looking at another patient. He wasn’t a very friendly individual, but he cared about his patients, even if he only knew me as “minor abrasion to the epidermis of the knee.”

Doc Roy caught my eye. “Hey, Mick.”

“Hey yourself,” I replied. “Thanks for taking care of Terry back there.”

“Any time,” she said, smiling. “Thanks for taking charge back at the airlock.”

“Just got impatient,” I replied. “The Old Man would’ve said the same pretty quick.”

“If you say so.” She smirked. “I’m just glad you did it when you did.”

“Thanks. Oh, the doctor wants somebody to slap a band-aid on this knee. Do you mind?”

“Let’s take a look.” She pulled a curtain to close off the section of sickbay. “OK, Mick. Drop ’em.”

“It’s my knee,” I said. “I can roll up the leg of—”

“Who’s the corpsman here?” she asked. “I’m a trained medical professional. There’s nothing down there I haven’t seen before.”

I shrugged and unbuckled. “I heard that about you.”

“Ha!” She swabbed my knee with a gauze pad soaked in stinging antiseptic. I winced and drew in a sharp breath. “Toughen up, Marine. It’s just a little iodine.”

“Stings like hell.”

“That just means it’s working.” She finished scrubbing at my wound. “You don’t know what kind of bacteria might be on that rock. I don’t want to leave anything behind. There.” She peeled off a square of Nuskin and gently smoothed it over the knee. It was some kind of synthetic skin that would adhere for a few days until my own new tissue replaced it.

“You done torturing me?” I asked.

“Almost.” She planted a kiss on my thigh, just above the bandage. “There. All better?”

I swallowed hard. “I think I’ll live.”

“Wow,” she commented. “You Marines stand at attention at the drop of a hat.” She stood, grasping the curtain with her left hand, the one with the ring winking on the third finger. “Better secure that thing. Don’t want to scare any of our other patients.”

I pulled up my trousers, adjusting myself with difficulty. “You’re an evil bitch, you know that?”

“See you around, Mick.” She sauntered away.

I gave myself a moment to stop hyperventilating, then hiked back to the rest of my team, reassured that O’Rourke would be alright.

As I entered the room, I found Johnson cleaning his TAR. The light machine gun was spread out over a poncho and he was sliding a cleaning rod and swab through the barrel. He looked up when I came in. “Sabatini’s taking her sweet time in the shower.”

“Shit, Johnson, if you promise to look that good, I’ll let you have privacy privileges too.”

“How’s O’Rourke?”

“Doin’ good,” I replied. “They got him sewn up. They’re growing some new muscle for him.”

“He looked pretty bad.”

I shrugged. I had seen a lot worse. “That wound was ragged, and bled like crazy, but the bullet missed everything vital.”

“I just never knew how bad a gunshot wound looked.”

I sat down on the rack and broke my ACR open shotgun-style, swinging the barrel down away from the lower receiver. I removed the bolt, then swabbed out the chamber. “Combat wounds can get pretty ugly. Get used to the sight of blood.”

“I still can’t get over how that guy’s head got opened up like that.” He shook his head.

“Better his than yours, Marine. Just remember that.” I wiped off the bolt, removing the powder residue. We cleaned our weapons in silence for a while. I don’t particularly care for the sight of slaughter myself, but there are people who ask for it, by shooting at us or letting children starve to death. I was at the point where I no longer had doubts or regrets about killing an enemy. They chose to die when they chose to screw with the Corps.

The hatch to the head opened and Sabatini walked out wearing a clean set of utilities, drying her dark hair with a regulation green towel. She has the annoying habit of reminding me she’s a woman every now and then, even surrounded by olive drab. I couldn’t forget the kiss at the airlock, either. And after Doc Roy’s teasing in sickbay...

“Hiya, chief,” she called out cheerfully. “How’s the leprechaun?”

I smiled. “A little respect for your elders. He’s doing OK. I didn’t see him, he’s still out. I was gonna swing by sickbay before I turn in tonight and see if he’s up.”

“Tell him I don’t have a victim for poker until he gets back.”

“You did a job on me,” Johnson complained.

“You’re still a student, not a victim yet,” she explained, smiling sweetly. “O’Rourke is experienced enough to know better and still gets his ass kicked.”

“You all done in the head?” I asked.

“Uh huh,” she said through the towel. “You boys go on in. No grab-ass in there, now.”

“Don’t worry, I told him no tongue until he makes lance corporal.”

It felt great to strip off my sweaty uniform and wash the grime of Sunflower One off my body. Christ, what a place. A mining asteroid named like a floating vacation resort. What the hell were they thinking?

****

It turned out one of the social workers did know how to play poker. Having two women at the table meant that Johnson was concentrating even less than usual. I held him back on putting up more of his pay, but he owed Sabatini a week of boot shining and he was cleaning the head for the rest of the cruise. Poor bastard would have to smarten up sooner or later.

The social worker was an attractive twenty-two-year-old blonde just out of some school in the mid-west. Her name was Christine Sterndale, which sounded so horribly uppercrust prep school I was tempted to dislike her on the spot. I felt my old blue collar Irish insecurity manifesting itself. I saw the university sweatshirt with its Latin motto, heard the name, and had my knee-jerk reaction of spoiled-rich-kid-who-never-did-an-honest-day’s-work—until I remembered that she and her co-workers had volunteered for this duty out here in the boondocks to help people. And she’d probably had other options. If I’d been born wealthy, I can’t say I’d have been out there.

“I’ll take two,” she said, tossing her cards in the discard pile. “By the way, what made you all join the Marines? I didn’t expect you to be so...” She trailed off, embarrassed.

“Civilized?” I asked, dealing her two more cards.

“Walking upright? Having thumbs?” Sabatini chimed in. “Not drinking the blood of our fallen enemy?”

“I’m sorry. We’re all very grateful for your help. I just never thought of the military as compassionate. We always looked at you as bullies forcing Corporate America’s foreign policy down the throats of the underprivileged. I never realized that you sometimes oppose the bullies.”

This is why I have so low an opinion of college students. I bit back a smart remark; at least she had the guts to come out here for what she believed in. “Africa is a hell of a lot better off for our involvement,” I said, straining to keep my voice neutral.

“Well, yes,” she conceded. “But you have to admit it was colonialism that screwed it up in the first place. I apologize for making a snap judgment. I was wrong. The company and the rebels both exploited the people. When you picked up that little girl, Corporal—”

“Mick,” I corrected. “Corporal is what my bosses call me when they’re about to chew my ass. I couldn’t leave her. She was just a kid.”

“It was still the right thing to do. Is that why you joined the Marines? To help people?”

Actually, part of it was the chance to run around in the boondocks, shoot guns, and blow shit up, but I wasn’t going to legitimize a pretty girl’s waning prejudice.

“Kinda,” I answered, looking over my hand. “I joined up because my father and grandfather were Marines. It’s a family tradition. We owe the US some service since they took in our raggedy-assed starving ancestors during the potato famine. So the military became a tradition. I volunteered for the Expeditionary Units because I wanted to make a difference.”

“Lovely.” Sabatini smirked. “How many cards you taking, Albert Schweitzer?”

“Two, you jackal. Now what made a demure young flower like you join the Corps?”

“She probably got busted for running illegal poker games,” Johnson offered. “The judge told her it was prison or the Marines.”

“Boy, did you make the wrong choice,” I said.

“I grew up with five brothers,” said Sabatini. “I always played rough and tumble boy games. Sports, cops and robbers, that kind of thing. My older brother joined the Army. Went into the Rangers. I had to one-up him. Couldn’t let him think he was tougher than me.”

“I never would have guessed. What about you, Johnson?”

“Three.”

“No, you dumb bastard. Why did you join the Corps?” I gave him his three cards.

He shrugged. “Wasn’t no work in South Carolina. Especially if you was poor and black. There was high tech, but you need some college for that. Other than that, there was just farming or service jobs. I gotta wear a uniform it ain’t gonna be no red paper hat. I used to see the Marines on leave in their dress uniforms. They always looked like they was confident, going someplace. Even the poor blacks could get stripes. The Marine Corps give me three meals a day, clothes, a place to sleep, and they pay me on top of that.”

“I know what you mean,” I told him. “There wasn’t a hell of a lot of work around home. My dad had to work two jobs even with his pension from the Corps. At least we don’t have to pay rent on this palace.”

He chuckled. “I can just get you two to stop robbing me at the table, I’ll be all set.”

“Learn to play cards,” I advised. “Or learn to like cleaning the head.”

“I can’t believe they don’t teach you this in boot camp,” said Sabatini. “It’s way more useful than close order drill. Thank God you shoot better than you play or we’d all be dead back at that ambush.”

That was praise. Indirect and veiled in insult, but Johnson caught it.

I turned the inquisition back on our guest. “OK, fair’s fair. Why’d you volunteer for relief work out here at the back of beyond?”

Christine thought for a moment before answering. “I needed to make a difference too, I guess. I couldn’t just watch all the injustice in the world and not do something. I thought we could go and educate and feed the poor, and they would be able to make a better life. I never expected the violence we saw out here.”