Plague Wars 06: Comes the Destroyer (21 page)

Mind stunned and blank despite believing herself prepared, Repeth responded properly. “Aye aye, sir. Will that be all, sir?”

“Get out.”

She lifted her hand in salute and held it.

“Just get out.”

Repeth held the position a moment longer, just in case he was trying to trap her again. When he opened his mouth once more, she dropped the salute and about-faced, marched to the door and opened it. At any moment she expected to be called back for some petty infraction, but only silence followed her as she exited.

Duyers threw her a look of sympathy as he turned toward his boss’ office, and then she passed out of the battalion HQ spaces, her mind in turmoil. Her thoughts spun and twisted, trying to rationalize this kind of treatment by an officer with such a bizarre attitude toward command.

Encountering petty tyranny bordering on madness would not have surprised her in a training unit, which often bred or attracted strange unhealthy little minds. Or perhaps at some isolated posting, without oversight from higher up.

But perhaps this base, this command may fit that definition. It is certainly remote, and Simms is the most senior Marine, answerable only to Admiral Huen aboard Artemis, who himself has fifty thousand or more people to supervise. But still…it’s too extreme. It really does seem to be a kind of madness, a psychological pathology, brought on by…what?

As she walked around the battalion area, just strolling and moving to help her think, one phrase kept coming back to mind.
Broken in the ranks?
Where had she heard that saying? Some old movie, or perhaps a book?

In her youth she’d read sea stories, of Hornblower and Ramage and Jack Aubrey, and watched
Sharpe’s Rifles
, the entire series of movies. They had inspired her with tales of bravery and discipline, and especially of those wearing the red coats of Brittania’s Marines and soldiers. It sounded like a saying common in that time, roared by some aristocratic tyrant ship captain, or an army officer who had bought his commission instead of earning it.

The man is simply bughouse mad. He’s living out some historical fantasy. That’s the only explanation. He’s gone ’round the bend, as the Commonwealthers would say. So what the hell can I do about it?

She spent a day or two just thinking without confiding in Rick, preferring to mull it over without input and observe, though eventually she did.

Master Sergeant Repeth did a double take as she passed the young lieutenant in the corridor. If he hadn’t looked so melancholy she might have missed him entirely, but she’d seen that expression before, she was sure…on someone else’s face.

Actually, she was happy to have a distraction.

“Pardon me, Lieutenant,” she began, and when the man turned, she used her cybernetic eye to zoom in on his name tag.
FLT Markis? That’s why he looks familiar.
“Vincent Markis? Sir?”

“Yes, uh, Sergeant…Aunt Jill!” Suddenly his face lit up and he reached out to hug her, changing his motion into a grab for her hand with both of his, as they were in uniform. Of course she was no blood relation, but she’d been “Aunt Jill” ever since she married “Uncle Rick” Johnstone, who was twelve years older than Vincent. The Johnstones and Markises had lived across the street from each other in Carletonville, South Africa.

Repeth squeezed his hand in return with no more than ordinary pressure. “I see wings. You’re an Aardvark pilot?”

“Yup. And you’re assigned here?”

“Yes. Rick and I just got here a few days ago.”

Vincent’s smile widened even more. “That’s fantastic. With the…I mean, it’s all training, and these guys are buddies, but…”

Jill nodded. “It’s not the same as having real friends and family nearby, especially a billion kilometers from anywhere.”

“No, it’s not.” The lieutenant’s face fell slowly back into the miserable expression it had started with. “Not at all.”

“Having a tough time?”

Vincent looked around at the people coming and going, passing them as they stood talking at the side of the corridor, and Jill could see pain in his eyes. “Yeah, kinda. Maybe we could go somewhere?”

“I’m off duty in about an hour. Why don’t you come by our quarters after the duty day? It’s over in the married officers’ block.” She told him the address. “Twenty hundred hours?”

“Sounds great, really. Great.” To her, he resembled a starving dog that just had a bowl of food set in front of him but couldn’t quite believe it.

“See you then.” Jill nodded, as this accessway was a no-salute zone. With twenty-some thousand lieutenants and warrant officer pilots around, there were actually only a few places designated for standard customs and courtesies. As far as she was concerned, this was part and parcel of the whole rotten base.

Lose customs and courtesies and respect for each other isn’t far behind. Familiarity breeds contempt.

She spent the last hour inspecting the barracks, having instituted random checks of the lower enlisted personnel, something well within her scope of duties, no matter what the officers thought. In fact, Rapplean and the smaj both approved, the captain because he wanted his company to look good as long as someone else did the hard work, and the sergeant major because…well, all sergeants major loved to see a perfect display of kit in the barracks.

More than halfway through the line of bunks and lockers, she came to her Private Pyle, a kid named Wingen. In her experience, every unit of platoon size or larger had one, a screw-up that just didn’t get it. Five years ago EarthFleet Marines had been elite, the best of the best, but like any bureaucracy, the selection process had let more and more marginal people slip through with the pressure to recruit. All it took was a personnel NCO with a soft heart for a kid who “needed” a second chance, or a training company commander who didn’t want his attrition rate to drop below a certain number, and some goober would get passed to a line unit in hopes that the chain of command there could hammer him or her into a decent troop.

Sometimes it worked. Some youngsters just needed some extra time. Some became mascots, serving unusual functions or finding their niches. But a Pyle was always a Pyle.

This time his kit looked pretty good, almost good enough. Given that Repeth had held more than a dozen personal inspections in the last week, it had better be. Something odd about it this time, though. She slid a drawer all the way out and flipped it upside down, as she’d felt something catch and crackle on it. Taped to the bottom was a packet of clear flat buttons. Some kind of pills.

“That ain’t mine, Top,” Wingen babbled.

“You’re supposed to be at attention, Private,” Repeth barked. “How can you possibly see what just happened if your eyes are caged and locked front?”

“No excuse, First Sergeant!” The kid quivered like a half-trained dog told to sit and stay.

Repeth slipped the packet into her pocket.
Not about to jump to conclusions. It could be anything. It could be his, but I doubt it. It could be a setup, or just a place to stash something where Wingen takes the fall. It could be some kind of test for me.

She’d begun leaving her cybernetic eye on permanent record, downloading the video every evening so that Rick could take a look, incidentally covering her ass against any sort of accusations. As her husband was not finding his duties here too strenuous, he was spending a lot of time cataloging people and suspicious actions. Maybe a look at this sequence would reveal someone reacting when she found the stuff.

“All right. This barracks is finally looking shipshape. I might start believing I had Marines in this company instead of a bunch of Ground Forces wannabees. You’re gonna get a chance to prove it to me, because we’re going for a little run.” Repeth held up a “brick,” a walkie-sized box that held the command override codes for her people’s cyberware. “Muscles only.”

Last week she would have heard muttering. This time, the disciplined silence cheered her up. “You got two minutes to get in PT gear and fall out in company formation, starting now. Move!”

The barracks erupted into the controlled chaos of troops stripping out of their utilities and donning regulation physical training gear. She walked into the female head and quickly changed into her own, and then followed the rush of bodies as they flowed out the doors and onto the quad that gave them a place to assemble.

Once they’d all fallen in, she punched in a number sequence on the brick, and watched for the sway as implanted cybernetics went inert. With the push of a button they’d gone from supermen to ordinary, if fit, Marines carrying an extra twenty kilos of laminated bones and servos.

“Company! Right…
’ace
! For’ard…
’arch
!” Her commands came out more like the barks of seals than words. “Doub’ time…
’arch
!”

Twenty kilometers later she found out what she needed to know. Half of the company enlisted was seriously out of shape and had fallen out, which was absolutely pathetic. Parts of the run hadn’t even been in full gravity. She kept everyone standing at attention in formation as the stragglers came in one by one.

Over an hour later, the tram that Staff Sergeant Botkina had driven behind rolled up with those who couldn’t even make it under their own power.

“Get off that tram, you pukes!” Repeth turned to the rest standing in formation. “At ease! I want you to look at these dirty stinking scumbags who can’t even walk twenty klicks.” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “They had to ride the tram. They made you stand here in formation for over an hour. They are now on my shit list. Staff Sergeant Botkina will write down the names on my shit list, and those on that list will remain on restriction and will pull extra duty until this happy horseshit
ends
. Do I make myself clear?”

“
YES, FIRST SERGEANT!”

“You are also going to leave your cyberware off until you earn the privilege of using it again. Some of you have made it a crutch. You never know when it might fail, and it behooves every Marine to be in the best shape he or she can be, regardless of augmentation. So you will start hitting the gym, you will start running, and if that cuts into your drinking and whoring and gambling time, tough titties. Am I clear?”

“
YES, FIRST SERGEANT!”

“One more thing. If you override and turn on your cyberware yourself, you had better have a damn good reason, because if you do not, that will constitute failure to follow a direct order. For any barracks lawyers among you,” she tapped her temple, “everything is being recorded, and the system backs everything up. So ladies, I suggest you all get some sleep tonight, because now that we have your barracks and your gear in shape, I will be making it my personal mission in life to kick your asses until your bodies are too.”

Repeth’s face now lit up in a nasty smile. “Oh, and one more thing. Staff Sergeant Botkina will begin calling names. When she calls yours, you will fall out and go through the door behind me, where some medical technicians will be taking blood and hair samples. If I get any reports of illegal substance use, you will also be on my shit list, but! One time and one time only, I am going to forgive you, and not recommend disciplinary action. The second time…” She reached up and made a cutting motion across her throat.

Staff Sergeant Botkina began to call names.

During the drug testing, Repeth and her four platoon sergeants, whom she had already made sure were clear of such addictions, went through the barracks as thoroughly as they knew how to do, upending drawers and wall lockers, flipping bunks, unrolling clothing, unscrewing vent covers, looking for any sort of contraband.

The dice and gambling chips and porn she didn’t even bother to confiscate, just scattered everything and ground it underfoot, but she and the others half filled a duffel bag with illicit booze and drugs. They took careful notes of where they found each item.

They also went through the junior NCOs rooms, almost fifty squad and team leaders, as well as the orderly room staff. Repeth was disappointed to find serious infractions in almost half of them.

At least I don’t have to worry about nanocrack…I hope. What with their official nanites set to kill off any such invaders and their cyberware detecting and reporting, that shouldn’t be possible. Too bad all that doesn’t make them immune to ordinary illegal drugs.

Over the next few days First Sergeant Repeth personally interviewed everyone caught with contraband, or showing positive on a drug test, with Botkina in the background as a witness. What none of them knew was that Rick had tweaked her visual and auditory pickups, optimizing them for physiological changes, and everything fed back to recorders in their quarters.

In simple terms, he had turned her into one big bug.

In the evenings they went over the recordings of the interviews and divided the offenders into two categories: those that could be salvaged, and those that had to go. The former she whipped into shape in her own way. The latter began to receive unexpected transfers to certain remote stations, mostly back on Earth, where they were unlikely to do much damage, with minor disciplinary offenses appended to their records that would hopefully tip off the receiving commanders that they were trouble.

Unlike Sergeant Major Tano, Repeth had no problem transferring her problems to someone else if she knew her chain of command would not back her up. Had they been willing, she would have had them brought up on charges, but in the current environment, that was too much of a crap shoot. Doing so might have gotten her sent away, leaving the place in a worse mess.

No, it’s a dirty way to do business, but not half so dirty as covert ops, and in this case, the end has to justify the means. Especially when the end is survival of this base.

Sure, the fact that she hadn’t shoved the whole load into her veins meant she had some kind of self-control, or at least some smarts within her stupid, like a diabetic who only eats half the cake instead of all of it. He was also starting to get the idea that great sex and a great relationship weren’t exactly the same things.