Battlespace (10 page)

“Sir,” Garroway said. They'd agreed earlier on that he would be their spokesperson. They'd been invited to the party by his friend, after all. “We accept the NJP.”

“Very well. We'll keep this short and simple then.” He leaned back in his swivel chair. “What the
hell
were you young idiots thinking, getting into a brawl ashore? Were you, each of you, aware of the delicate nature of the relationship between Marines and civilians here just now?”

“Yes, sir,” Garroway replied.

“What about the rest of you? You all downloaded the spiel before you went on liberty? The one about being good ambassadors for the Corps while ashore?”

All of them nodded, with a few mumbled “Yes, sirs” mixed in.

“I didn't hear that.”

“
Yes, sir
!”

“Right now, ladies and gentlemen, the Marines can
not
afford a major firefight with the civilian sector. Brawling in a bar in downtown San Diego is one thing. Smashing up a
condecology in the high-rent district of East Side LA is something else entirely.”

As Warhurst spoke, Garroway wondered what was in store for them. Warhurst had told them they were on report when he'd bailed them out of that police holding tank. “Captain's nonjudicial punishment” was an old tradition within both the Navy and the Marines, a means of noting and punishing minor infractions short of the far more serious proceedings of an actual court-martial. It was more commonly called “captain's mast,” from the ancient practice of holding these proceedings in front of the mast on board old-time sailing ships at sea.

But when Warhurst had said they were going up “before the man,” they hadn't realized that “the man” would be Warhurst himself. Captain Warhurst
must
know what had really happened that night….

“Liberty, as you all have heard many times since you enlisted, is a
privilege
, not a right. I know that was the first liberty in some years subjective, but that is no excuse! Do you read me?”

“
Sir, yes, sir
!”

“What happened?”

“Sir,” Garroway said. “First of all, we didn't smash up anything. And besides,
they
started it….”

“Excuses are like assholes, Marine. Everyone has one, and they all stink.”

“But someone grabbed Anna…I mean, Corporal Garcia. All she did was break the hold. Some guy started to rush her, then, and I took him down…pretty gently, I thought.”

“Pretty gently? Martial arts as adapted for close-quarters battle tactics are
not
gentle. You dislocated his knee cap and tore some tendons. The medical report says he is not seriously injured. He'll be walking again after a few days of medinano treatment. But you are
very
fortunate, Marine, that that man is not pressing charges. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You said they started it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“Well, they were on about Garcia being
Aztlanista
.”

“Start from the beginning. What were you doing at a private party in the first place, Garroway?”

And so he began describing that evening, starting with his calling up Tegan and getting her invitation to the sensethete…or was that the name of the room, rather than the party? He wasn't sure.

Warhurst heard him out, asking questions from time to time to flesh out the picture. When he was done, Warhurst leaned back again in his chair. “Very well. There
are
extenuating circumstances—including one hell of a high-voltage bit of culture shock. That, however, is no excuse for attacking civilians…even if you thought it to be in self-defense.

“Lobowski, Womicki, Vinton, and Eagleton. I'm dropping all charges against you. You went to the aid of your fellow Marines, but you did not strike or assault civilian personnel in any way. Downloads from your implant recorders supports this assessment. A record will be sent to the civilian authorities, with my recommendation that no further action be taken against you.

“Garcia, you struck a civilian, but both Garroway's testimony and implant recordings show that you did so only to break her hold on your uniform. Fourteen days' restriction to base.

“Garroway. Your testimony and the download record show that you kicked a civilian in the knee, injuring him. It is clear you did so because you felt he was about to attack a fellow Marine. The next time you find yourself in a similar situation, I recommend that you consider tripping him, rather than crippling him with CQB tactics. Thirty days' restriction to base, and five hundred newdollars' fine, to be deducted from your pay in equal installments over the next five months. A
record of these proceedings will be uploaded to the civilian authority with jurisdiction in this case. Should further civilian complaints be filed, you will be subject to further charges, but I have been given to understand that this disciplinary hearing should end the matter here and now. Understood? Any of you have problems with my decision?”

There were none.

“Very well. You are dismissed.”

Thirty days' restriction and five hundred newdollars? A bit steep, Garroway reflected…but not a serious hit. There was no way he was going to mingle with civilians ashore any longer…so the restriction and even the fine didn't hurt him that much.

The
principle
of the thing still burned. He and his friends had been insulted and attacked. Worse, the damned watchdog nano had then incapacitated them, rendering them helpless.

At least they hadn't also been fined for the loss of their uniforms. Those were cheap enough—they were grown right on the spot from raw synthewool to spec—but they'd expected to be gigged for the thefts as well.

Mostly, he kept remembering his conversations at that party…his difficulty even understanding what was being discussed. Oh, sure, there were translation programs that could be run in his implant, but the attitudes he'd seen seemed as alien as the language, or more so.

It was a bit disconcerting to know that he'd come home…and not to feel at home after all….

10
NOVEMBER
2159

Alpha Company Barracks
Star Marine Force Center
Twentynine Palms, California
1420 hours, PST

“All right, Marines. Listen up!”

Garroway looked up from his LR-2120, partially disassembled on the table before him, to hear what Staff Sergeant Dunne had to say. Around him, the steady buzz of conversation among other Marines in the company died away.

“Gentlemen, ladies,” Dunne went on, “first off…
happy fucking birthday
!”

The announcement was met with cheers and shouts of
Ooh-rah!
and fists pounding on tables. The tenth of November was the anniversary of the creation of the U.S. Marines—originally the Continental Marines—by an act of Congress in 1775, a date celebrated by Marines around the world and far, far beyond.

“Festivities begin at 1900 hours tonight at the mess hall. Cake, ice cream, and pogey bait
will
be the order of the day.”

He waited for a fresh round of cheers to die down. “Okay, okay, simmer down. Next order of business. The waiting is over. The Nergs are going to war.”

That raised a low-voiced murmur of excitement.
Nergs
was a new battlename for the Marines, another in the long list of nom d'guerres bestowed by enemies and friends alike—devil dogs, leathernecks, jarheads, gyrines. Nerg, or Nergal may-I, was from the phrase, identical in both An and in ancient Sumerian,
nir-gál-mè-a
, which meant something like “respected in battle.” The Fighting Forty-fourth had won that accolade from the Ahannu warriors on Ishtar immediately after the desperately fought action that had ended in Ramsey's Peace.

“Now,” Dunne went on, “the really good news. Authorization has come through for promotions for all personnel who were on the Ishtar op. You have all received an automatic advancement by one pay grade. Personnel advancing to sergeant or higher will still be expected to take the test for your new rank, but the time-in-grade requirement has been satisfied.”

There was some more cheering and a rattle of applause at that. Garroway grinned. He'd just made corporal. Decent!

“A new download is available,” Dunne went on, “coded White Star-one-one. Please open it up and take a look.”

Garroway brought up the code phrase and thought-clicked it. Immediately, he was in a noumenal space….

“The ring is our objective,” Dunne went on, his voice sounding in their thoughts as they studied the alien construct. “It is located in the Sirius star system, 8.6 light-years from Earth. We believe it to be a stargate, a device floating in deep space that allows instantaneous travel between stars. Those patterns of light along the rim suggest that it is inhabited. We do not know by who.”

Sirius
. Garroway felt the word strike hard, like a blow to the stomach.
Lynnley
!

The Marine company watched in silence as the golden needle-shape emerged from the ring, accelerated, and the image was suddenly and disconcertingly lost.

“These images were transmitted ten years ago by the explorer ship
Wings of Isis
,” Dunne's voice went on as the blast of static was replaced by another view of the ring. “We do not know what happened to the
Isis
, but we must assume she was destroyed. There's been no word from her since these images were received.

“The
Wings of Isis
had a crew of 245, 30 of them Marines, as well as several AIs. We have no real hope that any of them are still alive out there—or, if they are, that they will still be alive ten years from now when we arrive in-system. However, the Marines do
not
abandon their own. Accordingly, MIEU-1 is being prepared to deploy to the Sirius system. Once there, we will recon the area and assess the situation. We will attempt to make contact with whoever or whatever is operating that stargate. If necessary, we will organize a boarding party, enter the artifact, rescue human survivors if any, and maintain a beachhead, providing security for a science team which will perform a threat evaluation of the structure.”

Profound silence attended this announcement. Garroway found himself grappling with a dozen questions. How big was that wheel? How were they supposed to get inside, ring a chime at the front door? What kind of defenses did the thing have? How the hell were the Marines supposed to draw up a battle plan when they didn't even know the nature of their enemy?

But more pressing still were the unanswered—and unanswerable—questions about Lynnley.

In subjective terms, the time he'd actually been awake and not crowding the speed of light, it had been less than a year since he'd seen her last, just before he'd entered cybehibe for the voyage to Ishtar. He missed her. In his mind, she was still very much alive, alive in his
recent
past. The knowledge that
it had been eleven years since whatever had happened out at Sirius had happened seemed completely surreal.

Dead eleven years? No. He couldn't get his mind wrapped around that one.

The images from Sirius faded out. Garroway sat, once again, at a table in the barracks, his laser rifle partially disassembled in front of him.

“Questions?” Dunne snapped.

“Gunnery Sergeant?” Sergeant Houston said. “What if we don't want to go?”

“Come again?”

“What if we don't want to go? I've got six years in sub, twenty-six ob. I‘ve done my bit. I want
out
, man.”

“This is not a volunteers only mission,” Dunne replied slowly. “The brass is treating this like an ordinary deployment, with two exceptions.

“First, if you're within one year of your scheduled retirement, you can request an exemption. Since your expected OTIS—that's your objective time-in-service—since your OTIS will be on the order of six months to one year for this mission, you may opt for taking an early out instead.

“Second, there will also be a case review board. Anyone with special needs or hardships arising from this deployment can talk to them. I'm given to understand they will not be unreasonable, and that they will consider each application on a case-by-case basis.

“However, I would ask you to think very carefully before deciding to remain on Earth. Things are different here, now, than we knew them twenty-some years ago. If you elect to stay behind, you will be given psychological assistance, including special programming for your implants to help you…adjust.”

Again, low-voiced murmurs sounded in the room. By now, every man and woman in the room had heard about the watchdog program that had taken out six of their number the
other night at the condecology in ELA, and they didn't like it, not one bit.

“I don't know about all of you,” Dunne added, “but
I'm
gonna be damned glad to get back out there!”

“We're with you, Gunny!” Corporal Bryan called out, using Dunne's new rank for the first time. It sounded a bit strange…but
right
.

“I've also been told to tell you,” Dunne went on, “that for those of you who stay with the MIEU, there will be an additional rank increase immediately upon returning. They're also in the process of putting through a special payment incentive. The word is it'll be fifty percent of your standard paycheck, above and beyond combat pay, hazardous-duty pay, and XS-duty pay.”

And that, Garroway thought, would come to a very nice sum. He took a quick moment to download the appropriate pay scale tables in his mind. Yeah…very sweet. As a corporal with over three years' subjective in, his base pay would come to n$1724.80 per month. Fifty percent of that was an additional n$862 plus change per month. That, plus the bonus for hazardous duty, extrastellar duty, and combat…

He gave a mental whistle and wondered if that kind of money made the Marines into modern-day, high-tech mercenaries.

“Is that ob or sub, Gunny?” someone asked.

“Yeah,” someone else added with a laugh. “It does make a difference!”

“Strictly subjective time, people, just like your base pay.” There were groans in response. “Can it!” Dunne added. “It's bad enough the government pays you while you're sleeping your sorry lives away in cybehibe! They're not paying you for time that shrinks to no time at all while you're traveling at near-
c
!

“Any other questions?” There were none. “Carry on,” Dunne said, leaving the Marines to discuss the news.

A few—Sergeant, now
Staff Sergeant,
Houston and Corporal, now
Sergeant,
Matt Cavaco—felt that arbitrarily ordering the Marines to go to Sirius, rather than making it a volunteer-only mission—was just flat wrong. Most, though, were excited by the prospect, both for the extra pay, and because of the distinct alienation many of them were feeling from Earth. Those few who'd gotten passes to go ashore in the past few days had returned with less than happy news about the planet, and about its inhabitants. Damn, but Dunne was right. The background culture of North America had
changed
and in some unpleasant ways.

There was a lot else about the local scene Dunne had not mentioned, but the other Marines in the company had been discussing it endlessly for the past several days.

It wasn't just the shifting jargon and language, the strange new religions and philosophies, or the everchanging buzz about numnum persies or zaggers, whatever the hell
those
were. Where to begin?

Politics were one issue. The voices calling for separation were louder, more strident, than ever.
Aztlanistas
had been calling for independence since well before Garroway had been born, but the debate now approached open warfare in some of the Latino slums of LA, and in the borderlands of southern California, Arizona, New Mexico, and Texas. Strife was building with the Québecois, too, as the Canadian winters worsened. Their claim to western Pennsylvania and the Ohio Valley was less viable even than that of the
Aztlanistas
, since it had been the British Empire, not the United States of America, that had taken their old territories in the French and Indian Wars. Still, it made for amusing and often virulent name-calling on the public forums and news feeds.

There were more rules and regulations. Most states could now arrest and prosecute people for breaking one or another of the citizenship laws, dictums prohibiting any behavior
that might disturb good social order and public decency. That sounded so much like the articles of the Uniform, Code of Military Justice—specifically the one about “conduct prejudicial to good order and discipline”—that some Marines were speculating that America was now a military state. And with far more convicted criminals than prison space, more and more felons were being turned loose with specially programmed watchdog nano injected into their bloodstreams, nano that could evaluate their behavior against certain narrow parameters and administer punishment—even death—in the event of a violation. That was police-state stuff.

Scary.

And there were other problems, some of them not manmade. The weather was worse, a
lot
worse, than when Garroway had left Earth twenty-one years ago. Sea levels were higher, ultraviolet in the sunlight harsher, storms bigger and more dangerous. Most major coastal cities—Washington, D.C., coastal Los Angeles, Miami, New Orleans—all were enclosed now by high thick seawalls, and at least partly covered over by transparent domes to keep out both the worsening ultraviolet and the periodic storm surges that otherwise would have flooded them completely. Despite that, there was serious talk about abandoning the original cores of those cities and rebuilding inland. Some coast cities, because of their terrain, could not be completely protected; New York City, San Francisco, and Seattle were in grave danger.

Manhattan, in particular, offered such a tangled and problematical geography with its rivers and associated borough-cities that the seawall and dome offered only partial protection. Fifteen years earlier, Hurricane Trevor had come ashore at the mouths of the Hudson and East rivers, causing tens of billions of newdollars' damage. The next year, the state of New Jersey had, against riotous protests, finally
moved the Statue of Liberty to artificial high ground near Secaucus before her copper body deteriorated any further.

Most forms of cancer were treatable through various nanomedical techniques—one did
not
go into direct sunlight any longer without nanotechnical augmentation to eyes and skin!—but skin cancer in particular cost Americans tens of billions per year in both treatment and prophylaxis.

And the ongoing deterioration of the planet's climate appeared to be accelerating. Temperatures in the equatorial zones were rising steadily, fueling migrations of local populations to the north and south—but especially into the north. All across the globe, equatorial peoples were on the move as local government broke down and whole populations became migratory.

Scuttlebutt around the barracks had it that much of the furor over tracking down ancient alien technology among the stars was centered now on learning how to control climate on a planetary scale.

But was such an audacious goal even possible?

And then there were the religions.
Always
the religions. Dozens of new ones seemed to appear almost weekly, the majority of them either claiming the An were gods or that they were hell-born demons. Each new exoarcheological revelation on Earth, the Moon, Mars, or elsewhere seemed to spawn more ways of dividing humankind in the name of faith, peace, and spiritual brotherhood.

Established sects continued to splinter, sometimes violently. Within the Catholic world, Papessa and Anti-Pope continued to snipe at one another over issues ranging from how to think about the An to the use of nanomedical anagathics. Most Baptists believed the An were demonic; several new Baptist offshoots, however, continued to disagree on whether the An, like Lucifer, were fallen, or if Lucifer had somehow created them—an important theological question, since if they were fallen, then Christian missionaries
sent to Ishtar might bring a few of that deluded race to the light.