Song of Redemption Read online

  “Attention. Let’s get everyone back to their seats. We’ve still got a lot to cover and not much time to do it.”

  There was a slow movement of bodies filing back. It took a couple of minutes before everyone was seated and General Begay could address them again.

  “Now for the nitty-gritty of what we have on our plate. The Safe Harbor Marine Corps will be involved in this operation.”

  There were some murmurs of surprise among the attendees, and Rev began to have a glimmering of why the general had just said that. He was even more sure when the general called Colonel Trejo to the front.

  “General Begay, thank you for this opportunity to brief your commanders,” the colonel said before addressing the audience at large. “My name is Colonel Augustay Trejo, IBHU Project Head. Some of you know what the IBHU project is. For the rest of you, this will be new. I apologize for some of you, particularly general officers, but if you weren’t directly involved, it was determined that you didn’t have the need to know. All of this was about to be briefed to you soon, but this just accelerated the release of information.

  “For the last year-and-a-half, the Safe Harbor Marines were chosen to test out a new weapons system. You are somewhat isolated from the rest of the Corps, and from the more populated worlds, for that matter, and it gave us a more secure environment in which to put this through development and into combat testing. The last test, which cleared the system for general deployment, took place on Mistake.”

  There were a scattering of nods, probably from Marines who’d heard rumors of them, and two officers turned in their seats to look at the three Marines in the back. Rev could see the comprehension come over them.

  “IBHU stands for Integrated Bionic Hoplological Unit, and maybe it’s better if I just show you.”

  He stepped back, and a two-D image appeared over the stage. Rev was in training, employing his various weapons against the fake Centaurs before the mission on TRT-36. There were some murmurs from the audience, but they raised in volume as the feeds from two of Rev’s Centaur-kills were shown. It switched over to a distant feed of McAnt on Mistake and one of his kills.

  “Ooh-rah!” a voice cried out, too excited to keep decorum. Several more joined in. The entire presentation took about five minutes before it shut off.

  “Hey, where’re my kills?” Randigold muttered.

  “This is what an IBHU Marine can do. With an IBHU, an individual Marine can be more effective than a tank in certain situations.”

  “You take away an arm?” one of the one-stars asked incredulously.

  “I’m not going into the details of the project now because of time constraints, but rest assured, each of the three current IBHU Marines volunteered and had already suffered the loss of an arm, as have the nineteen Marines currently undergoing the process. Corps-wide, we have over five hundred potential candidates before we run out.”

  “Nineteen more,” McAnt whispered. “Good to know.”

  “If you turn around, you will see the Corps’ first three of what will be a force of IBHU Marines. Sergeant Reverent Pelletier and Corporal Thesbian McAnt, both Raiders from Second Division, and PFC Ethereal Randigold, a Raider from First Division, from your own Safe Harbor Marines. Stand up, Marines.”

  Forty-plus faces swiveled to look back as the three stood up. Rev sheepishly raised his social arm in a small wave.

  “Unless the word has changed, PFC Randigold will conduct a short demonstration at twenty-one-thirty this evening for those interested but not otherwise engaged in the planning.”

  “Glad someone told me about that,” Randigold said between clenched teeth.

  “Once we have time, my team and I will conduct a more thorough brief, but for the moment, that will have to suffice.” Several hands shot into the air, but he said, “I can’t take questions now. I’ll be around to answer what I can after this brief, as will all three of the Marines, at least for a short while.”

  “So, we’re going to be part of the Centaur treasure hunt.”

 

  “See if you can dig up any rumors about what we’re looking for.”

  Another colonel stood up and faced the group. “As the general said, we’re being put in the game, and soon. We’ve got twenty-two hours before our units deploy.” There were some mumblings at that, and he held up a hand to say, “The affected units are already preparing, and the overall ops plan will be coming out of HQMC while the forces are en route. As soon as we end this meeting, the principles will remain to hash out our plan and ensure our units are embarked. And if we can’t deploy in that amount of time, then we need to tender our resignations and let someone else take over who can get it done. Understand?”

  Rev nodded in appreciation. He didn’t know this colonel from a hole in the ground, but he liked that he was telling it like it was and wasn’t going to take any crap. Maybe that’s why he made colonel.

  “OK, then. We, as in Safe Harbor Marines, are being included because of those three Marines sitting in the back. I don’t have to tell you that our vacuum capabilities have suffered during the war with the tin-asses, and with the potential targets in asteroid belts, well, that’s what we’re going to need. The XI Corps will be providing anti-piracy units to be the backbone of each of three forces, augmented by SEALS. Civilian assets will also be in play for the Grayling belt. However, once the target is located, then our units will become the assault elements, each containing one of our IBHU Marines, their assigned Raider platoon, and an anti-piracy company.”

  Rev raised his eyebrows at that. Technically, each infantry battalion had a company designated to train and fight in the vacuum of space. Cricket’s Delta Company, for example, was one. But as the colonel had said, with the war going on, the training had taken a back seat, and skills had atrophied. Maybe the XI Corps units had trained and reacted to real-life missions, but not the Safe Harbor Marines.

  The colonel went into more details over the next thirty minutes, but those were the salient points. The Safe Harbor Marines would have three company-sized units, each centered around an IBHU Marine, acting as the assault force to take whatever it was that the Centaurs were hiding.

  Not an easy task—not only because of the lack of training in vacuum ops, but the Centaurs wouldn’t passively allow the Marines to just waltz in and take the installation. Their habit of self-destructing could take out the installation . . . and the Marines trying to take it.

  9

  Nineteen hours after the Camp Falcon brief, Rev, the platoon, and Delta Company were aboard the PUNS Alacrity, heading to Asteroid Belt 6-067 in unincorporated space. The Alacrity wasn’t even a combatant. Most of Task Force 46-3 was aboard a Heg cruiser and a Union destroyer, but the Alacrity was a support ship, without much in means of defense should she be jumped by a Centaur ship in bubble space.

  There were two reasons for that. The first was that the Union wasn’t ready to reveal to the Hégémonie Liberté the existence of IBHU Marines. It may very well come out if the Centaur installation proved to be a fact, but until then, the IBHU project was to remain under wraps.

  Second, however, had to do with an unexpected glitch. No one had considered that the Marine Corps EVA combat suits were not made to accommodate the IBHU. Sieben was developing a suit made specifically to take advantage of an IBHU’s capabilities, but that was lower on the priority list and was months from completion.

  Four hours before boarding, an EVA was pulled from the embarkation pallets, and Daryll and others tried to fit Rev inside, but it just wasn’t going to work. After hurried deliberations, each of the three assault forces were cross-decked to whatever support ship with machine shop capabilities could be drummed up. The port support unit had to jump through their butts to reroute the supplies and equipment from the ground, but the Safe Harbor contingent of TF 46-3 went to the Alacrity, McAnt and the contingent of TF 46-2 went to the PUNS Restore, and Randigold and the contingent to TF 46-1 stood by until either a new ship was rerouted or the support Marines could rig up a new EVA combat suit.

  And now, Daryll, a Marine master sergeant armorer, and three Navy engineers were discussing how to rig an EVA so that Rev could use it. Daryll had also been a last-minute add, bypassing the paperwork necessary to allow for a non-military civilian to be taken into a combat zone and something against all sorts of regulations.

  Rev wasn’t sure why he had to sit there being ignored. They had Pashu hanging from a hoist, and he certainly didn’t have any mechanical advice to give the team. Let them figure it out and get him when they needed to fit it.

  He sighed a little too loudly, hoping they’d hear him.

  Nothing.

  Once more, a little louder.

  They kept arguing over F-20s, whatever that was, and whether they could stand up long-term in a vacuum.

  Punch knew he was bored, and he came to the rescue.

 

  Well, it’s not like I’m doing much else right now.

  “OK, I’ll play. Why are they afraid?”

 

  “Really, Punch? That’s the best you can do?”

 

  Really? You’re creating your own jokes?

  Punch was continually surprising him. Rev had long considered his battle buddy a tool of the psychologists, designed to make him a more efficient Marine. And he’d been OK with that because he could see how much Punch helped him. But it seemed that every so often, Punch revealed something else of himself that hinted at something more.

  Unless that’s what he’s programmed to do.

  It gave him a headache to try and figure things out, and Rev shook his head and sighed. This time, the master sergeant heard him and looked up.

  “Sergeant, we’re not going to be getting anywhere for another couple of hours at least. Why don’t you go get some chow and get back here, say, zero-nine-hundred ship-time? And if we need you sooner, we’ll have you paged.”

  Rev didn’t need to be told twice. “Roger, that!” He jumped up and took off before the top could change his mind. The Alacrity was a big ship, full of engineering and maintenance spaces, able to repair almost any piece of Marine equipment and quite a few Navy, but it didn’t have the huge numbers of crew that some ships had. Rev wandered around, trying to find his way to the mess decks, frustrated at being lost.

  Since his augments, Rev had never been lost in the true sense of the word. He always knew where he was and where he wanted to go. But that was a combination of each world’s magnetic field and downloaded charts. The Alacrity didn’t have a planet-type magnetic field, the artificial gravity threw him off, and the ship’s diagram didn’t make sense to him. The mess decks were clearly marked, but he couldn’t figure out how to get there.

  Finally, he ran into a sailor who showed him the way, and he entered the galley where the smell of food reminded him that the dazzleberry donuts back at Camp Falcon were the last solid food he’d eaten. The galley was packed with Marines, and more than a few were sitting on the deck along the bulkheads as they wolfed down their chow. Evidently, the Alacrity wasn’t used to hauling Marines. With over two hundred of them aboard, they dwarfed the ship’s crew.

  Rev joined the back of the line, which ran the length of the galley. He scanned the eating Marines but didn’t see any of the Raiders. There was someone else he wanted to find, too, though.

  “Hey,” he said, tapping the shoulder of a Marine sitting at one of the tables. “You know Sergeant Aroyatan?”

  “You mean Cricket?” the other Marine, also a sergeant, said as he pointed to the far corner of the galley. “I think he’s over there.”

  Rev couldn’t see his friend facing him, so he yelled out his name. A familiar face turned and broke out into a smile. Cricket elbowed the Marine next to him. His friend Dyce saw Rev and waved a greeting.

  Rev motioned that he was going to get his chow and join them. It took a while, but he finally reached the head of the line. The ship’s Auto-Chef fabricators weren’t designed for this many mouths to feed, so the crew had broken out G-rats, which were a step up from D-rats, but not by much. Vats of food, each designed to feed fifty Marines, were opened, automatically being heated to the correct temperature. A petty officer was overseeing Captain Sauer and First Sergeant Limike, the Delta Company commander and first sergeant, and a gunny Rev didn’t know, as they dished up the food. Rev held out his tray while the first sergeant gave him a ladle full of rice, the captain covered that with a creamy, hamburger-like stew, and the gunny put a piece of bread on top. A vat of drink pouches was at the end, and he snagged one as he left the line.

  He brought the dish up to his nose and sniffed. It didn’t smell bad, at least. That didn’t mean it would taste good, however. He had to step over the legs of Marines sitting against the bulkhead as he made his way back to Cricket’s table.

  “I was wondering when you were gonna show up. I already saw Miko, and she said you were off doing whatever,” Cricket said as Rev reached him. “Hey, scoot over, Tundra,” he turned and said to the corporal sitting next to him. “Give a Raider some room.”

  “I’m almost done. Give me a second.”

  “Then you’re almost out of here, as in now.”

  The corporal grumbled but picked up his tray and left.

  “The new corporals these days,” Cricket said with mock dismay.

  “Hey, good to see you, Rev,” Dyce said with the same look of respect mixed with awe that he’d shown since that first day they’d met back when Rev was a private. Which made Rev a little uncomfortable. Dyce was a sergeant, too, but senior to Rev.

  “Good to see you, too,” Rev said as he sat down on the other side of Cricket. “Is this stuff any good?” he asked, poking at the meal.

  “It’s calories. What else do you want?” Cricket said.

  “A medium-rare ribeye, Halsberg Mash, and baby snow peas, now that you’re asking. But I guess I’ll have to settle for this stuff.” He took a tentative bite, but it was OK. Not the ribeye, but certainly decent enough.

  “You guys settling in? Where do they have you?” he asked.

  “We’re racking out in whatever spaces we can find. Our platoon is in a storage space for tank parts. What about you?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to see yet,” Rev said. Which was true, but he’d already been told that the platoon was taking over a Navy berthing space—not that he was going to spring that on Cricket at the moment.

  He took another bite of the stew, reached for a container of ketchup, and liberally dosed the meal. Cricket looked at him with amusement and watched Rev shovel another spoonful into his mouth.

  Rev caught the look and said, “What? It makes it better.”

  Cricket laughed and then leaned in closer, quietly asking, “So, what’s the scoop?”

  Rev frowned and said, “The mission? Uh . . . we’re going after some tin-ass stuff. You know that, right?”

  “Yeah, yeah, that mission. But I mean, like here, now. Like why did we get moved to this tub at the last minute?”

  Rev knew exactly why, but he hadn’t been briefed on how much he could reveal. He stuffed another spoonful in his mouth as a shield against answering and shrugged.

  “I heard,” Cricket said, lowering his voice even quieter, “that the reason has to do with you Raiders, and in specific, with you.”

  “Rumor is just that, rumor.”

  “Come on, Rev. I’m your buddy. We go way back.”

  Rev turned to look at Dyce, who was obviously listening intently. Rev didn’t know how much a grunt’s hearing was augmented, but he had to assume that Dyce, and every other Marine on the table, could hear him.

  “I’m sure they’ll tell us soon enough,” Rev said. Not a lie, but he still felt bad about not being open with Cricket.

  And he could see that Cricket knew he wasn’t being forthcoming. His friend pursed his lips and seemed to accept that Rev wasn’t going to say any more.

  “So, where was Miko when you saw her? Why isn’t the platoon here at chow?”

  “Deathdealers first—”

  “Deathdealers!” several of the other Marines at the table chanted.

  “We’re eating first. Your platoon and the rest eat second,” Cricket said.

  “So, I crashed your party?”

  “Eh, we like to allow the lower forms of life to exult in our presence every once in a while.”

  “Lower forms of life?” Rev asked. “Crap, me sitting with you here just raised Delta’s average IQ by ten points.”

  Rev showed up at exactly zero-nine-hundred. Daryll and the others were sitting wherever they could find a seat, cramming stale-looking sandwiches into their mouths. From the looks of things, they hadn’t left the space since they boarded.

  “We’re almost ready for you, Sergeant,” the top said, licking his fingers clean, then wiping them on his trousers. He stood up and motioned for Rev to follow him to where an EVA hung next to Pashu.

  Rev took a look, then a double take. The thing had no left arm. He reached up to peer inside the shoulder opening. There was nothing there, and he could see inside the suit.

  “Um . . . Top, I don’t mean to tell you how to do your job, but I’ll be going into space, and I can’t breathe in a vacuum.”

  “You won’t be. We’ve got that covered. We’ll show you, but not here.”

  He told the others to finish eating, and then they wrapped up Pashu until it was unrecognizable. They hooked it, along with the EVA, on a cargo skid that looked like a smaller version of the mules that moved around shuttles and fighters on a flight deck. Once they were all ready, one of the Navy techs programmed the destination, and the little skid started rolling. The group followed it through the wide, central corridor and into a large, almost cavernous space, then to the back corner where there was a pressure chamber. Rev watched as the others maneuvered the EVA and Pashu inside, then joined them.