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Only a nutcase would want to get into the service at this point, and you have to have a mental defect to want to stay in after your enlistment contract is up. Naturally, when the time came for me to sign my name again or pack my things and become a civilian once more, I signed on the dotted line.
One of my fellow combat controllers has the words Planetary Remodeling Kit written on the lid of his tactical control deck, and that joke is not too much of an exaggeration.
The Commonwealth—humanity—is in deep shit, and we’re the people with the shovels. The trouble is that it’s a huge pile of shit, and they’re very small shovels.
I fight because it’s the only way I have to control my destiny at least a little bit.
I’m the fifth wheel on this particular wagon, but nobody minds having me around, because I carry the radios that call down the thunder if there’s a need for it.
Once more, I’ve won the roll against death and cheated my way past clusters of antiship mines that can turn a frigate into scrap instantly. Of course, the ingress is the easy part of the mission. I’m about to set foot onto a Lanky-colonized world, and there are many ways to die a quick death down there.
We don’t abort drop-and-shop missions unless most of the team is dead and the survivors are bleeding from the eyeballs.
“Whoo-ee,” the lieutenant chirps. “Don’t nobody pop off their helmet to scratch a nose. Radiation level is ‘extra crispy.’”
I recall the Book of Exodus, the verses telling of the angel of death passing through Egypt at night and killing all the firstborn children, sparing only the houses with the mark of lamb’s blood on the doorposts. In a way, I am an angel of death as well, but the power I serve is even more vengeful and merciless than the god of Israel. I’m the one who marks the doorposts in the night, and we pass over none.
“Time to earn this month’s paychecks, boys and girls. I see any bolts cycling before I give the go-ahead, we will have the first casualties of the day.”
“If I ever find the bastard who designed those new autonomous cannons, I’ll skin him with a salted pocketknife,” our platoon sergeant says.
In truth, warfare has changed very little since our great-great-grandfathers killed each other at places like Gettysburg, the Somme, Normandy, or Baghdad. It’s still mostly about scared men with rifles charging into places defended by other scared men with rifles.
“Holy shit,” someone chimes in nearby. “Flyboys don’t fuck around, do they?”
I’ve seen drone shots of the seed ships in many intel briefings, but this is the first time I am looking at one through a direct camera feed, and the sight of it makes me want to crawl into my armored boots.
“Independence Station?” Staff Sergeant West repeats. He looks at me with a raised eyebrow. “That’s the corporate civvie station. Wonder what’s wrong with old Gateway.” “Beats me,” I say, and take another sip of my coffee. “Maybe it finally fell into the North Atlantic. Every time we get back there, it looks more run down.” “You know the fleet. They’ll run it ’til it breaks, and then they put it back together with polyglue and run it some more.”
The meaning of the swelling troop buildup in one of the NAC’s three major orbital hubs is pretty clear—we’re gearing up for a major operation, and Command is throwing everything but the kitchen sink at the Lankies this time.
“So how did you end up on the shit list, Sarge?” “Oh, hell, you know me,” she says with a smile. “I don’t think it was any particular thing, really. I’ve been a pain in Division’s ass since before you joined us. They say I have a problem with authority. I say I have a low tolerance for stupid.”
You can choose to follow orders without question, or you can choose to follow the law. Keep in mind that without the law, we’re not a military, just an armed gang that dresses alike.
One of the civvie radio techs walks into the conference room and looks around, clearly unsure of the military hierarchy. Then he turns to Sergeant Fallon, who looks like she’s in charge wherever she goes.
The Chinese or the Russians sure haven’t bothered us any.” “Good thing, too,” Colonel Decker says, looking up from the stack of printouts he has been studying for the past fifteen minutes. “’Cause your planetary defense network is a pile of shit. I’ve seen welfare clusters that were better defended than this moon. Whoever designed this defense grid needs to be fired for gross incompetence, or shot for treason. Maybe both.”
“Well, it was nice being all introspective, Andrew. Now let’s get back to shooting people.”
“You’re our whole C3 section now. Nobody else can use that slick computer of yours.” “I’m touched by your concern, Master Sergeant,” I reply. “Just trying to preserve our limited stock of knuckleheads.”
“Did he just threaten to shoot nukes at one of our own ships?” “He did,” I confirm. “But he does have a history of that.” “I think I love that man. I want to meet him.”
“Back to work, I guess,” Sergeant Fallon says. “That’s why I hate positions of authority. Everyone always bugs the shit out of you.”
“If our time is up, at least we’ll be dying in fresh air,” I say. “With rifles in our hands and a hearty ‘fuck you’ on our lips.” “There are worse ways to go,” Sergeant Fallon agrees. “’Course, I want to explore every other option before we get to the ‘dying in fresh air’ part.”
“Indianapolis and Gordon concur with the crazy option,” he says. “And the Gordon’s skipper says his new boat is a piece of shit anyway, and he hopes it will make a better missile than a freighter.”
