Terms of Enlistment (24 page)

“Unit 3006,” I say. The low-level sense of panic I had been feeling since Major Unwerth’s visit is growing suddenly.

“Stratton and Paterson are dead,” Sergeant Fallon says, her voice suddenly flat. “Hansen is in rehab with a new shoulder joint. Everyone else is back at Battalion already, but as far as I know, they’re keeping our squad confined to quarters for now, like we’re some sort of freaking penal unit.”

“My fault, I guess,” I say. “Shouldn’t have used that rocket. Shit, I didn’t even realize I had a thermobaric loaded. I just aimed the thing and let fly.”

“And you know what, Grayson? I would have done the same fucking thing, and so would anyone else in our squad. Don’t even think twice about it. They got some bad press from the Networks, and now the public liaison at Battalion is all in a panic. It’ll blow over.”

“I don’t know, Sarge. The major seemed pretty set on pinning that tail on me.”

“We’ll see about that,” she repeats. “I may just have a word or two with him. We go way back, Major Unwerth and me.”

“If they toss me in the brig, just let the rest of the squad know I’m not a fuck-up, will you?”

“Don’t worry,” she says. “They try to fuck you over, the whole battalion’s going to know about it, trust me on that one. We don’t throw our own to the wolves to appease some candy-ass civilian brass.”

Her words make me feel a little more at ease, but I still feel as if there’s a sword hanging over my head. Sergeant Fallon has a lot of pull in the battalion—there aren’t many living Medal of Honor winners in the service, and she’s a prestige item, like a trophy in the battalion showcase—but she’s still just a Staff Sergeant.

“Is it true that you got to pick your assignment when they gave you that medal?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Sergeant Fallon says. “That’s part of the package. You get a yearly bonus for the rest of your life. They give you a nice blue flag in a nice wooden case, and even
the brass have to salute you. And if you want reassignment, they have to grant it. You can’t ask to be a starship captain, of course, but if I had wanted to be a tank driver or drop ship pilot, they would have sent me off to armor or aviation school.”

“And why didn’t you?”

“Didn’t want to leave my guys,” she shrugs. “Different service would just mean different kinds of crap. I like sticking with the crap I know. I guess I didn’t want to feel like a recruit all over again. Shit, can you imagine a Staff Sergeant going to Fleet School? Sit in a classroom with all those green kids just out of Basic?”

I try to imagine battle-hardened Sergeant Fallon sitting in a lecture on interstellar travel or shipboard safety, with all the other students staring at her Medal of Honor ribbon, and I shake my head with a smile.

“Why didn’t you pick retirement? Take your bonus and go home?”

Sergeant Fallon looks at me as if I had just suggested she should strip naked and dance on the table.

“Retire to
where
? You think anyone musters out after sixty months? Do you know the retention rate in the military?”

I shake my head.

“Ninety-one percent, Grayson. Ninety-one out of a hundred service members who make it to Month Sixty end up re-enlisting. You think you were going to take the money and run after five years?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“The money they pay out? That’ll pay for shit outside in the real world. You get out as an E-3, maybe E-4, that’s half a million Commonwealth Dollars for five years. That kind of money means you don’t qualify for public housing, and it’s not enough for anything bigger than a broom closet in the suburbs. It sure as shit isn’t anywhere near enough for a slot on a colony ship. And even if you could go back to the PRC, what the hell kind of reception do you think you’ll get as former TA?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “My father was TA, but he got kicked out early. I don’t know any other veterans.”

“There’s a reason for that, Grayson. Shit, we just killed a few hundred welfare rats last Saturday night. How do you think they feel about the military right now? The TA gets sent out every time the welfare cities get out of control. What do you think will happen to you if you show up back home with your shit in a duffel bag, and a government bank card with half a million Commonwealth Dollars on it?”

I chew my lip at that. What she says makes perfect sense, of course, and I feel like an idiot for not having thought about this before. There are no recent veterans in our PRC—people who leave for Basic never come back. I always figured it was because they didn’t want to come back, not because they couldn’t.

“No, we were all locked in the moment we signed that paperwork in Basic. You can’t go back home after five years, and you don’t have enough money to do anything else, so you sign for five more, and then five more. Before you know it, you’re a lifer. You go for the ten-year bonus, then the fifteen-year bonus, and then you figure you might as well stick it out for twenty.”

She looks at me and circles the rim of her coffee cup with one finger.

“They know that most of us are going to keep re-enlisting. And seriously, what the hell are we good for in civilian life? I spent the last eleven years as a combat grunt. I know small-unit tactics. I know how to blow up shit and kill people. Can you see me working as a commissary clerk somewhere?”

“No, I can’t,” I say. “You’d scare the fuck out of the civilians.”

“That’s no longer our world, Grayson.”

“Well,” I say. “Guess I better get used to the thought of becoming a lifer. Unless they court-martial me, and kick me out.”

“What do you want to get out of the military? What would you ask for if the President put that medal around your neck tomorrow?” Sergeant Fallon asks. She studies me with a slight smile, as if she already knows what I’ll say.

“Seriously?”

She nods in reply. “Seriously. Private Grayson, Medal of Honor. Sky’s the limit. What would you do with that ticket?”

I don’t want to answer, because I don’t want to sound like I’m not loyal to my unit, but I find it hard to be dishonest with Sergeant Fallon. So I tell her the truth.

“I’d ask for a slot in a space-going service. Navy, Marines, whatever, as long as I get to go into space.”

“No shit? Sergeant Fallon raises an eyebrow.

“No shit.”

“Well, that’s the only way people like us are ever going to get off this shitty rock. I should give you a speech about how the other services suck, but truth be told, I don’t blame you one fucking bit.”

When Corporal Miller takes me back to my room, I feel a little better. My recently fused internals are processing the solid food without complaint, and I’ve picked up a few spare donuts to carry back to the room, a reminder of Basic that’s almost making me nostalgic. All things considered, I’d gladly be back at NACRD Orem right now, trading jokes with Halley, and listening to Sergeant Burke drone on about the structure of the different military branches. We had to hit the quarterdeck several times a day, and I racked up a lot of miles on my running shoes, but things were decidedly simpler back then. Nobody was shooting at me, and I didn’t have the threat of a jail term and subsequent dishonorable discharge hanging over my head.

“Friend of yours?” Corporal Miller asks on the elevator ride up.

“She’s my squad leader,” I say. “Do you know where they quartered her?”

“Same floor, unit 3022. Hey, you guys can get together and play cards or something. You know how to work that chair now, and you don’t need me to baby-sit you, I suppose.”

“Am I allowed out?”

“Sure,” Corporal Miller shrugs. “This is not a jail, you know. You need to stay in this building, but you can go out for a stroll in the hallways any time you want. There’s a rec room on the top floor, and the chow lounge is open twenty-four hours.”

“Excellent,” I say. “So much luxury. I won’t want to leave, you know.”

“Hey, that’s just part of the Army’s generous benefits package. Every day a holiday, and all that.”

I laugh out loud.

“Yeah, and last Saturday was fucking Commonwealth Day, fireworks and all.”

My PDP still won’t let me onto MilNet, but the document reader still works. Most troopers in my platoon only use the reader for field manuals and military reference materials, but I figured out a while ago that it works with any form of electronic text. There are plenty of public repositories for literature out there, and it takes me all of two hours to shovel a small library worth of classic books onto my PDP.

I’m a third of the way through “Heart of Darkness”, and halfway through my second donut, when the door opens, and Major Unwerth walks into my room.

“As you were, Private,” he says as I wipe my mouth and dump donut, napkin, and PDP onto my night stand. I hate the fact that he’s in full Class A uniform, and I’m in flimsy hospital garb. The difference in dress makes me feel vulnerable, and the fact that I’m in bed only makes it worse. The only way I could feel more uncomfortable would be if he walked in on me in the bathroom while I’m taking a dump.

“Major,” I say. “Did you go all the way to Shughart and back since breakfast?”

“Yes,” he says. “I had a meeting with the battalion commander over lunch. I see they’re feeding you okay in here.”

“Yes, sir. All the luxuries of home.”

“Well, good. Do you feel up to a debriefing? I need to get your version of events on the official record.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m entitled to having a Legal Corps officer in the room, if you’re going to do that, sir.”

Major Unwerth makes a face as if he just caught a whiff of something unpleasant. His amiable demeanor evaporates in a blink.

“You’re entitled to nothing, Private. You’re about three nanometers away from a court-martial, and you can be damn glad I didn’t bring a pair of MPs with me to park outside your room and escort you every time you leave to take a piss. I’d keep a low profile if I were you. Now, you can give me your version of the events to record, or I can write down that you refused to give a statement. Come to think of it, I’d appreciate it if you just did that and saved me a bunch of paperwork. I’m getting a bit tired of your attitude.”

I’ve changed my mind about the disciplinary offense. I reach out to grab the major by the lapels of his Class A smock, but before I can get a hold of him, someone yanks him backward violently. I see the look of grim satisfaction on his face replaced by one of shocked surprise.

The major left the door open, and neither of us heard Sergeant Fallon come in. She is out of her powered chair, and even with a missing lower leg, she has the strength and leverage to haul Major Unwerth away from my bed as if he’s merely a moderately stuffed combat pack. He falls on his ass in a rather ungraceful fashion, and Sergeant Fallon is on top of him in a blink. She seizes him by the collar with one hand, and pins him to the floor. With the other hand, she snatches one of the pens the major carries in the breast pocket of his uniform jacket. She uncaps the pen with a flick of her thumb, and presses the pointy end right against the major’s throat. Then she brings her face close to Major Unwerth’s, until their noses almost touch.

“Listen up, fuckhead,” she says. Her voice is so infused with anger that it comes out as a hoarse growl.

“That man over there is one of
mine
. He dragged me through half a mile of hostile territory. If I ever hear you talking to him again like he’s some green recruit who overstayed his weekend leave, I will tear out your trachea and piss down your neck. Is that understood?”

I can see Major Unwerth’s throat move under the tip of the pen as he swallows. There’s naked fear in his eyes now, and the sight of it gives me intense satisfaction. Part of me wants Sergeant Fallon to drive the barrel of that pen right through his throat.

Finally, he gives an almost imperceptible nod. Sergeant Fallon releases him and drops the pen in front of him. Her face is contorted with disgust, as if she has just cleaned out a latrine with her bare hands.

“You are out of control, Sergeant,” Major Unwerth says. He tries to sound assertive, but his voice is unsteady. “Assaulting a superior officer,
again
. That’ll get you drummed out, Medal of Honor or not.”

“You can go back and report me,” Sergeant Fallon says. “They may even manage to lock me up before I get a hold of you again. In fact, you better hope they do. I’ll tell you one thing, though?. Every last grunt in the battalion is going to know about the stunt
you’re trying to pull with Grayson, and then your life won’t be worth a bucket of warm piss. Have fun checking the shitter for frag grenades.”

“You are out of your mind, Fallon,” Major Unwerth says. He stands up and straightens his jacket collar and tie. “You can’t threaten me like that. The CO is going to throw you into a cell and throw away the access code.”

“Yeah,” Sergeant Fallon says. “He might. And think about what lovely headlines that would make for the fucking Army Times. ‘Medal of Honor Winner Tries To Kill Officer’. There’s a morale booster for you. I’m sure the civilian press is going to be all over that one.”