Ridiculous stuff.
Ninety percent of his men and women would do little more than drink themselves to death on planetside leave in preparation for some epic quest to do the dumbest things possible. And on that list of dumb, drunk things to do, executing a casino robbery ranked at least six hundred and eighty-seven spots behind seeing how many stuffed Bannorian aphroshrimp they could feed a Tennarian call girl.
What was the name of that stupid anti-military entertainment? The Right Side. That was it. With a hero, Cryson Hitch, who always seemed to have just the right insult for that week’s straw man military war criminal. The junior enlisted mafia had taken to calling any shamer a “Hitch” as of late.
As he planted himself in front of Arjun’s crew, he couldn’t help but think that personally, as a marine and not a general, he’d like to beat the living sket out of all of them. Just for GP. General Purposes. And he was sure the look on his face said as much. So, he swapped it out again and got it right this time by clamping what was left of his cigar in his mouth to force himself to shut up. That did the trick, or so he told himself.
“General…” one of his staff officers whispered in his ear. Probably trying to dial him back from a career-ending tirade in which Sheehan let these civilian document-pushers know exactly why they had freedom, and why that freedom depended on men like him doing exactly what needed to be done at this very moment. Which entailed, in Sheehan’s operational vision, a full-scale street sweep with pulse and hydro cannons set to high into the heart of the seething downtown district and a nice game of find-the-HVT with his best door-kickers. He’d call it Operation Barracks Party so his men and women would know exactly what his intent was regarding the protestors on the street.
“General… I think you ought to see something right now,” prompted the slight staff officer at his elbow.
The general turned and searched his aide’s eyes for some reason why he should be interrupted. He wasn’t arrogant… he just didn’t like to be disturbed in the middle of a good imaginary beat-down.
Behind the aide, a cluster of staff officers inside the MTOC, Mobile Tactical Operations Center, a heavily armored transport rigged for urban warfare operations, gathered around a bank of monitors assigned to monitor civilian news streams. Sometimes those proved to be excellent sources of intel. Sadly.
Ignoring the “chief investigator” and his clutch of government peacocks, General Sheehan strode away to the monitor and pressed forward through an ad hoc viewing party comprising his staff.
“Damn,” he muttered a second later.
On screen the battered body of a legionnaire was being dragged through a mass of protestors on the street. The corpse was being pulled by two grav cycles, and resisters in red and black were kicking the dead legionnaire while others hit him with anything they could get their hands on as he passed by. The helmet was gone, yet the face was unrecognizable. The rest of the armor had been savaged but still clung to the lifeless body as the grav cycles gunned their motivators and dragged the dead legionnaire onward.
Chief Investigator Arjun Kun had been right, thought the general soberly. “Brewing” had been an apt description of everything that had preceded this moment. Right now, the live feed of a dead legionnaire being dragged by citizens of the Republic was going out across the galaxy.
This won’t end well was an understatement. So, the general didn’t bother saying it. Everyone in the MTOC was thinking it all the same.
“Tell Colonel Summers to get an entire battalion over to the Legion barracks and put all of them under guard. And tell him to ask them to wait for me to speak with them before they do exactly what I’d do right about now.”
The aide dashed off into the MTOC darkness, sure he was on the most urgent mission of his life. Because he was.
25
The trail led deeper and deeper into Detron. Baldur had picked up the scent again after losing it near the initial exfil where Shaker and the new kid, Beers, had been taken off in a technical sled. It had been hard to figure out the trails.
The dog had also told Puncher that one of the legionnaires had died in the firefight in the alley courtyard.
“How do you know?” he’d asked as they knelt down near dried blood that was still sticky to the touch.
Smells dead, the dog replied.
Puncher knew the dog was right. Legionnaires had their vitals read constantly by their armor. Made it easier for medics, corpsmen, and med bots to triage when things went south. And the word was already out that two of them died on the scene. They all knew it.
Puncher’s gloved hand, which had been touching the blood with one index finger, involuntary made a fist and rested in the blood. He was kneeling, head down, and for a moment all he could see, as the world faded away, was the blood beneath his eyes. He didn’t know whose it was. But someone was dead. Not missing, but dead. No more hope.
Sorry, thought the dog. Then came in and nudged the legionnaire’s bucket with his muzzle. Come. More scents. Let’s go now.
Puncher stayed shaking with rage. He promised to kill them all.
Come. Let’s go. Some alive. More important. All your pack not dead. More to find.
Later they found the scents of the marine and probably Shaker and Beers. Theirs were the last two vital transponders
