March To The Stars

chameleon suits and standard helmets. They won't have all the features of our stuff, but enough. Coms at least, and basic tactical readouts. And thermostats.

'Furthermore,' he smiled thinly, 'they can act as bodyguards for you, Your Highness. You realize, of course, that you're not going to be in on the ship assault.'

'Oh?' Roger said dangerously.

'Oh,' the captain replied. 'You're Heir Primus now, Your Highness ... and there is no Heir Secondary or Tertiary. You can't be risked. And, frankly, many of the points you brought up about the Mardukans hold for you. You're not trained in shipboard combat. I'll freely admit that—leaving aside such minor matters as the imperial succession, a little matter of a coup, the need to rescue your Lady Mother, and my personal oath to protect your life at all costs—I'd take you in a Mardukan jungle over a squad of Marines any day. But not in a ship. Different circumstances, different weapons—and you're not trained for either. And it's not a time to let 'natural ability' take its course.'

'So the Mardukans and I sit it out on the planet? While you and the Marines take the ship?'

'That's the right plan, Your Highness,' the sergeant major interjected.

'But—'

'If you decide to overrule me, Your Highness,' the captain said stoically, 'I will resign before I'll attempt the action. I will not risk you at this point.'

'Pock,' Roger said bitterly. 'You're serious.'

'As a heart attack, Your Highness. You're no longer in a category that can be even vaguely threatened. You are the Heir. I can't stress that enough.'

'Okay,' Roger said, shaking his head. 'I'll stay on the ground with the Mardukans.'

'I want your word on that. And no weaseling.'

'I'll stay on the ground ... unless you call for reinforcements. And take note; if you don't call for reinforcements when you need them, you'll be endangering me. And if you are rendered hors de combat, all bets are off.'

'Agreed,' Pahner said sourly.

'So you'd better take the ship quick,' Roger pointed out.

'That shouldn't be a big deal,' the sergeant major said. 'Most tramp freighters are pretty coy about being jacked, for obvious reasons. But we'll have a shielded shuttle, and once we're through the airlock, there's not much they can do with a platoon of Marines on board.'

'You're taking everybody?' Roger asked.

'There are enough suits in the Morgue to outfit all our survivors,' Kosutic pointed out. 'It's another thing to toss on Poertena's pile, but it's not like he's busy.'

* * *

Julian strode down the hallway, twisting his shoulders from side to side. The issue uniforms were made of a soft, pleasant cloth, and should have been very comfortable. But the uniform he'd just carefully folded and put away had been on his body for almost eight months. The various cloths of which it was comprised had been worn in. No matter how well-made, or how basically comfortable its fabric, a new uniform always took a certain amount of breaking in.

He forgot his minor discomforts as he rounded a corner on the final approach to the Armory. Besides new uniforms, they were drawing new weapons and turning in the ones they'd wielded for the last half year. Given that most of the bead rifles and grenade launchers with which they'd arrived were suitable only for salvaging as spare parts, he'd simply packed the weapon up and headed for the Armory. Like the uniforms, it made more sense to throw the guns away than store them.

Which was why he stopped with an expression of surprise. Half the remaining Marines were lined up on the floor in the corridor outside the Armory, laboriously cleaning their weapons.

'Don't even bother, man,' Gronningen growled. 'Poertena's being a pocking bastard.'

'You're joking.'

'Go ahead,' Macek said tiredly. 'See for yourself.'

Julian stepped through the blast doors and shook his head. The new weapons, many of them freshly manufactured, and all of them gleaming with lethal purpose, were arrayed on racks in the back of the Armory, with a mesh security screen between them and the main administrative area. In the front of the large vault was a counter, with a swinging gate on one end and a repair area on the opposite end. Poertena had settled himself behind the counter and was minutely inspecting each weapon that was turned into him.

'Pocking pilthy,' he said, and tossed the grenade launcher back to Bebi. 'Bring it back when it clean.'

'Come on, Poertena!' the grenadier snarled. 'I've cleaned it twice! And you're just going to DX it anyway!'

'I'm not explaining to Captain Pahner why t'e pocking Inspectorate downcheck my pocking Armory,' the sergeant growled. 'Bring it back when it clean.'

'We're planning on overthrowing the Inspectorate!' the grenadier protested, but he left anyway. With the launcher.

'Poertena,' Julian said, 'you've got too much to do to be picking over guns with micro-tools!'

'Says you,' the Pinopan replied, and snatched the bead rifle out of Julian's hands. 'Barrel dirty!' he said, as he broke the weapon open and checked it. 'Silica buildup in t'e pocking discharge tube! Julian, you know better t'an t'at! Nobody gets a pass in t'is Armory!'

'Goddamn it, Poertena, you've got thirty suits to get online!' Julian snapped. 'There's a week of solid day- in-day-out work right there. More, probably! Not to mention reconfiguring the manufactory to outfit all the Vashin and Diasprans!'

'I guess I'm going to be too busy,' the armorer replied with a grin. 'I hear t'at t'e sergean' major is looking for you, though ...'

'Ah, there you are, Adib!' Kosutic strode into the Armory. 'Poertena, take the sergeant's rifle and find somebody else to clean it. He's going to be rather busy.'

'Oh, no,' Julian groaned. 'Come on, Eva.'

'Don't you 'Eva' me, Sergeant,' she said with a grin. 'You're fully qualified out on a Class One—I checked your records. And it's going to take a squad to get all the work done, anyway. Fortunately, you're a squad leader.'

'Look,' Julian said mulishly, 'I can stand here and argue all day over whether you should pick me or somebody else. And do it well. To start with, I am a squad leader; I'm supposed to manage my squad. You're the one who told me that—'

'Hi, Poertena,' Roger said, as he stepped through the blast door. 'I need to turn in my bead pistol and —'

'I'm outta here,' Julian announced, and darted for the exit. 'I think you said something about setting up the manufactory, Sergeant Major?'

'What did I say?' Roger asked as Kosutic snickered her way out of the room in Julian's wake, and Poertena snatched the pistol from his hand.

'What? You call t'is po ... You call t'is clean? You Highness.'

* * *

'Okay, Captain Fain, welcome to Supply Central,' Aburia said as she beckoned for the Mardukan to come through the door.

In deference to the locals' temperature sensitivity, the room had been set at nearly forty degrees. For most humans, it would have been sweltering, but after six months on Marduk, the Marines found it pleasantly cool. Which didn't prevent the corporal from wiping a drop of sweat from her forehead as she gestured to the platform.

'Sir, I'd like you to stand up here, please,' she said. 'We're going to measure you for your uniform.'

'This is an odd way,' the Diaspran said. The room was filled with sounds that the Mardukan classified as a triphammer, and also a peculiar rushing noise. The most prominent feature, though, was a low vibration through the floor that Fain found very unpleasant.

'Well, we do it a bit differently, Sir,' the corporal replied. 'Please, on the platform.'

The captain complied, and the Marine triggered a code with her toot.

'The lights are harmless, Sir,' she said, as lasers patterned the Mardukan's body in blue. 'They're