Orders of Battle (Frontlines, #7)

by Marko Kloos

We’ve managed to colonize planets a hundred light-years away, using starships that harness the energy of their own miniature suns, but we haven’t managed to eradicate cancer because nobody prioritizes funding to fight a disease that mostly afflicts the population of the PRCs.

On the battlefield, a single soldier mowing down seventeen Lankies with nothing but a rifle and a basic combat load of ammo would get so buried in medals that they’d never again be able to put on a dress-uniform blouse without the help of two strong attendants and a forklift.

I want to believe that he thinks I am too tough to let myself get ferried to my gate by a cute little automatic skateboard, and maybe he doesn’t suspect I don’t want to make an ass of myself by face-planting in the middle of the corridor in front of a bunch of junior enlisted troops.

“Lock ’em in a room with two anvils, and in ten minutes they’ll have lost one and broken the other,” he says.

“Any particular reason why you’re eager to stick your head out on this one?” Lieutenant Colonel Campbell asks. “I mean, not that I don’t appreciate the commitment.” “I’m not good at sitting on my hands and waiting for stuff to happen to me,” I say. “I want to find a way home soon. Because my wife will be livid if I get back from this deployment a few thousand years late.”

“I sure as shit won’t need any stim pills for a while,” Master Sergeant Drentlaw says. “Four days of boredom, ten minutes of terror. Ain’t that just the grunt life in a fucking nutshell.”