Meanwhile, down at deck level, the bio bods were listening to music, watching vids, playing cards, repairing their gear, cleaning weapons, doing push-ups, or just shooting the shit. “Whatcha got for us, sir?” Staff Sergeant Briggs wanted to know, as he looked up from his hand comp. “Are we headed dirtside?”
It had been noisy till then, but the sound level dropped by 50 percent as everyone waited to see what Santana would say. “We’ll hit the dirt soon,” the company commander predicted. “But not today. . . . The bugs had quite a welcoming party waiting for the navy—and the swabbies are still in the process of kicking their ugly butts. Then, once the heavy lifting is over, we’ll go down and tidy up.”
That produced a chorus of chuckles, and the legionnaires went back to whatever they had been doing as Santana weaved his way through the crowded compartment and made his way back to where Company Sergeant Dice Dietrich was seated on the deck. The noncom had his back to a corner, his eyes were closed, and it appeared that he was asleep. But when Santana entered the area, Dietrich’s eyes snapped open, and he was suddenly on his feet. “Good morning, sir,” the noncom said. “And welcome to the sauna.”
Santana grinned. “Thanks, Top. . . . I don’t know which is worse. This, or the two-person cabin I’m sharing with three of my fellow offi?cers. Here’s hoping we get dirtside before we all go crazy. In the meantime I have a job for you. . . . It seems Private Bora-Sa got into a game of Rockets and Stars with some jarheads, came to the conclusion that he was being cheated, and put fi?ve of them in the sick bay. There weren’t any fatalities, thank God,” the offi? cer added gratefully. “But the brig is overcrowded, so the jarheads are willing to release the idiot into our custody, so long as we promise to keep him here.”
Like all Hudathans Bora-Sa was huge, and Dietrich couldn’t help but smile, as he imagined marines fl?ying in every direction. “Yes, sir. I’ll go get him.”
“Thank you,” Santana replied. “And tell the private that he’s going to pull every shit detail that Sergeant Telveca can come up with for the next thirty days.”
“I’ll tell him,” Dietrich agreed grimly. Then, having eyeballed the offi?cer’s fl?awless Class B uniform, the noncom raised an eyebrow. “You’re looking pretty sharp today, sir. . . . If you don’t mind my saying so.”
Santana knew that was Dietrich’s roundabout way of asking where he was going, whom he was about to see, and ultimately why. “It seems that the commanding general is fl?ying from ship to ship in an effort to meet as many senior offi?cers as he can,” the legionnaire explained. “Colonel Quinlan was invited, and since the XO isn’t available, General Kobbi tapped me to sit in for him.”
Dietrich nodded. The XO had been injured in a vehicle accident back on Adobe—and had therefore been unable to lift with the rest of the regiment. Most of the enlisted people thought Santana should be named acting XO, but no announcement had been made, and now it looked as though Kobbi might be about to force the issue. All of which was well above Dietrich’s pay grade, so the noncom was careful to keep his face expressionless, as he made his reply. “Sounds like fun, sir. Have a good time.”
Santana had a deep and abiding hatred of meet-and-greet evolutions, a fact that Dietrich was well aware of. Which was why the offi?cer said, “Screw you, Top,” before executing a neat about-face, and exiting the compartment. Meanwhile, all of those who had been busy listening to the conversation witnessed the interchange, saw Dietrich smile, and chuckled appreciatively. Entertainment was in short supply aboard the Enceladus—so any diversion was welcome.
Crowded though conditions were on the troopship, battalion commanders had been given cabins of their own so they would have a place to meet with subordinates. When Santana arrived outside Quinlan’s quarters, the offi?cer saw that the hatch was closed and assumed another visitor was inside. Military courtesy required him to knock three times and wait for an invitation to enter. When nothing happened he knocked again and counted to thirty.
Still not having received a response, and expecting to fi?nd that Quinlan had departed without him, the offi?cer palmed the entry switch just in case. Much to his surprise the hatch cycled open. A few tentative steps carried Santana inside. And there, slumped over his fold-down desk, was Colonel Liam Quinlan.
The offi?cer was drunk, judging from the half-empty bottle of gin at his elbow, and completely motionless. “Colonel?” Santana said experimentally as he reached out to touch the battalion commander’s arm. “Can you hear me?” Quinlan attempted to lift his head, mumbled something incomprehensible, and began to snore. Conscious of how the scene would look should someone pass by, Santana hit the door switch, and waited for the hatch to close before returning to the desk. The colonel was in love with meetings, especially ones where he could clock some face time with his superiors, so why was the bastard drunk?
Having noted that the battalion commander was facedown on a sheet of offi?cial-looking hard copy, Santana placed a hand on top of the other offi?cer’s nearly bald skull, hooked his fi?ngers over Quinlan’s forehead, and pulled upwards. That freed the piece of paper, which the legionnaire removed prior to lowering the other man’s head onto the desk.
The BuPers printout, because that’s where it had originated, was a bit blurry where some of Quinlan’s gin had come into contact with the ink, but still readable. As with all such messages, it was brief, formal, and brutally direct: “Dear Colonel Liam Quinlan,” the message began. “It pains us to inform you that your daughter, Lieutenant Junior Grade Nancy Ann Quinlan, was killed in action off CR-0654 in the Rebor Cluster. Please accept our heartfelt condolences regarding this terrible loss. More details regarding Lieutenant Quinlan’s death, plus remains, if any, will be forwarded to your address of record. Sincerely, Major Hiram Fogles, Commanding Offi?cer ComSec, BuPers.”
Santana swore softly as he put the printout down and looked at a picture he hadn’t had any reason to pay attention to until then. The face that looked back at him was young, surprisingly pretty given her father’s porcine features, and locked in an eternal smile. The possibility that Quinlan might have a family, and have feelings toward them, had never occurred to Santana.
It wasn’t easy to drag the portly colonel over to his bunk, roll him onto it, and arrange his body so that he looked reasonably comfortable. Then, having thrown a blanket over the offi?cer and dimmed the lights, Santana slipped out into the corridor. There was a gentle hissing sound as the hatch closed, and the red “Do not enter,” sign appeared over the entry.
The meet and greet with General-453 was already under way by the time Santana entered the ship’s wardroom. Kobbi was seated at the far end of the compartment and shot the company commander a questioning look as he slipped into the room. But there was no chance to talk as a marine colonel rose to pose a question. “What about weather, sir?” the grizzled leatherneck wanted to know. “I understand winter’s on the way—and we don’t have the proper equipment.”
Santana was seated next to Kobbi by that time, and the two men exchanged glances, both thinking the same thing. The cold-weather gear that Santana and Dietrich had “requisitioned” from the navy was aboard, but wouldn’t be issued until the very last minute, lest the swabbies fi?nd out what was going on.
Meanwhile, General-453 was perched on the corner of the head table and seemed to enjoy the interaction with
