Starfist: Blood Contact (2 page)

Top Myer had been delighted that Dean was thinking about reenlisting, but all he said was, "Well, can't force you to take leave, son. But if you stay at Camp Ellis, I'll have you on shit details from dawn to dusk, until the guys get back and we go on our next deployment."

In fact, Dean had no place he wanted to go, and after thinking it over, he realized that returning to Wanderjahr, where he'd met the first love of his life, just would not work. As a new oligarch, filling her mother's place as ruler of Morgenluft Staat, Hway would not be free to spend much time with him. But with so many familiar faces missing, hanging around Camp Ellis was no fun either. And at night he had recurring dreams of combat on Diamunde that did not leave his mind when he was awake.

Brigadier Sturgeon understood very well what Lance Corporal Dean was going through. He knew that readjusting from combat to garrison duty was not an easy transition for young men—and by no means was Dean the only Marine in 34th FIST who was having that problem, although most would never mention it. The brigadier had never put much faith in psychiatry or so-called "grief counseling," but that kind of help was available—professional consultation and treatment with various drugs—for those who wanted it. As far as he was concerned, that was for sailors and soldiers, not Marines. The FIST

commander knew from personal experience that long-term healing was best assured through close association with other men who had shared the same experiences. As long as the Marines of the 34th hung together, they could get through anything. But with so many of the old hands away, it was proving difficult for the younger men like Dean.

So Brigadier Sturgeon ordered the days filled with the Marines' age-old prescription for depression and distraction: hard physical labor. The days started with vigorous calisthenics on the grinder, followed by training sessions on weapons and tactics, interspersed with cross-country marches and close-order drill, where the platoons in each company competed with each other to see which could march faster, longer, and harder; on the parade ground the corporals and sergeants had their men shouting the age-old cadences marching men rely on to make the miles go by more quickly: I don't know, but I've been told

'Finni pussy is mighty cold!

And there were the endless company details that ranged from repeated cleaning of weapons and equipment—and the attendant in ranks inspections to make sure the gear was really clean!—to whitewashing the rocks along the walkways outside the barracks. And Dean spent many hours working with Sergeant Souavi in the company supply room, conducting interminable inventories.

Camp Major Pete Ellis, 34th FIST's home base, was located on Thorsfinni's World, one of the most distant human-settled worlds, and was considered a hardship post. Even so, it was not without places where healthy young Marines might find innocent diversions. The night of the big fight, Captain Conorado had dismissed Company L early, so Dean found himself at loose ends. He really didn't want to go into Bronnoysund, the liberty town just outside the main gate of Camp Ellis, but the more he thought about what lay before him that weekend, the more a cold beer and a thick reindeer steak seemed appealing.

Besides, there was Erika—a slim dark-haired girl at Big Barb's who spoke such flawless English—and she was available. Thinking of her caused a pleasant tingling in Dean's loins.

"So let's go to Big Barb's," he said to Owen. Big Barb's was the ship's chandlers, bar, and whorehouse in Bronnoysund that served as Company L's unofficial command post whenever the men were in town. The woo wobbled and glowed pleasantly at the words. Sometimes Dean thought Owen actually did understand English. Dean had met an old prospector on Diamunde who swore that woos could read human thoughts.

Owen fascinated the 'Finnis. They had never seen such a creature before, and the woo enjoyed their good-natured attention. Dean certainly did: He could never pay for any beer when the 'Finnis were admiring Owen. And on those nights when Dean drank too much beer, Owen perched happily on his shoulder, lighting the way as the young Marine staggered to the parking lot for the bus back to Camp Ellis.

At first that night, Big Barb's was not crowded. The few 'Finnis who were there, mostly men off the fishing ships that anchored in the harbor, bought Dean a round of beer and played with Owen, but after a few pleasantries, returned to their endless card games.

"Where's Erika?" Dean asked a waitress as he seated himself at a vacant table. She nodded upstairs, and Dean felt his heart sink, thinking she was with another man. Owen, who'd been glowing bright pink when they entered the bar, turned a dull orange, almost matching Dean's mood.

It was only then that Dean noticed Corporal Pasquin sitting by himself in a far corner, nursing a beer.

Since they were in the same platoon, Dean knew he should have at least acknowledged the corporal's presence. But since he was off duty, miffed at Erika, and the corporal didn't like him anyway, Dean just ignored him. Pasquin glared at him but kept to himself.

"Owen!" Erika shrieked as she came running down the broad staircase that led to the second floor, where the girls had their rooms. She ran to Dean's table and placed a large kiss on Owen's bulbous forehead.

"What about me?" Dean asked sourly. There were times when he felt ambiguous about Owen being around.

"Ach, my darling Joe!" Erika put one hand behind Dean's head and kissed him full on the lips, her long dark hair enfolding them both in its rich tresses. She smelled fresh and clean, and her teeth scraped pleasantly against his. Momentarily, Dean forgot about his ego. She sat down and put a soft hand on his thigh. The waitress brought another schooner of ale, from which Erika enthusiastically poured herself a glass. She raised it, toasted Owen, and drank thirstily. Dean laughed and did the same. Together they finished the schooner and ordered a second one.

"I bought myself some nice thinks today, Joe," Erika said, making circles with her finger on the wet tabletop.

"Yeah?"

"That's why I was a little late coming down," she added.

Dean brightened immediately. "Oh," he responded.

"Would you like to see dem?" she asked quietly.

Upstairs, Dean put Owen on the mantel, then undressed and crawled under the covers with Erika.

"Where's your new ‘thinks’?" he asked as he snuggled down beside her.

"You see dem, Joe! Dere on the back of the chair!"

They both laughed. Dean rolled over on top of Erika. Then he froze.

"Vat is it? Vat's wrong?" she asked.

Dean shook his head. "That goddamned Owen!"

"Oh, Joe, you shouldn't talk like dat!"

"No, I can't do it while he's sitting up there. It's—It's like somebody's watching!"

Indeed, Owen was watching, his luminous eyes staring unblinking down on the pair. Dean leaped naked out of the bed, opened the closet and thrust Owen inside. "You take it easy in there, old buddy. I got some heavy work to do out here," Dean said, and closed the door. For the next hour pink light seeped out from beneath the closet door, dimly illuminating the two figures as they enjoyed themselves on the bed.

Things had picked up at the bar by the time the pair descended the big staircase. Several crewmen from a fishing vessel that had just come into port were standing there, drinking and talking loudly. A big man with a full beard slammed his mug down hard as the couple crossed the floor to an empty table and shouted, "Erika!" then something in Norse Dean didn't catch, but his gesture was clear enough.

"Never mind him." Erika shrugged as she guided Dean toward a table with one arm. "He tinks he's got a claim on me. He doesn't. Dat odder one too." She nodded at Pasquin, who was glaring sullenly at them from his corner. "He haf dirty mind." She shook her head disgustedly. She squeezed Dean's arm in hers.

Owen perched comfortably on an unoccupied chair at their table.

The big, bearded man shouted again, louder this time, and in English, "You goddamn Marine, leaf my Erika alone!"

"Uh-oh," Dean muttered, his back to the bar. Owen jumped onto Dean's shoulder and emitted several quick bright flashes of white light. Dean whirled around. The man was already halfway to where he stood, a wicked fillet knife grasped in one hand. Owen's flashing had temporarily blinded the man, but he blinked rapidly several times and came on, his eyes tiny slits against the light. Owen leaped back toward Erika. The attacker carried the knife extended before him in his right hand and low, a foot or two from his right side.

Dean feinted toward the attacker's knife arm, stepped inside his reach and punched him solidly on the left ear as the man whirled past. The fisherman shook his head and pivoted toward Dean, who stepped in quickly again and smashed his fist onto the tip of the attacker's nose. Blood spurted everywhere and the man stepped back a pace but held firmly onto the knife, so Dean kicked him solidly in the groin. The man doubled over, gasping, and the knife clattered harmlessly onto the sawdust floor. Dean rammed his knee hard under the fisherman's chin, and the sound of his teeth slamming together could be heard all the way up on the second floor.

Breathing heavily, more from fear than exertion, Dean stood in a fighting stance over his opponent as the fisherman groped on the floor for the knife, muttering curses while the blood from his broken nose splattered the sawdust. Dean's legs felt rubbery under him, but at the same time he was wildly elated.

Without even thinking, he'd done just what his instructors in unarmed combat had taught him—attacked relentlessly until his opponent was down. But the man wasn't out yet. Dean wound up to deliver the knockout blow to the back of his head.

Before he could, a tremendous weight smashed into Dean's right shoulder and bounced sickeningly off the side of his head. Big Barb herself had laid him low with a chair. The next thing he knew, he was being dragged and pulled through the sawdust as men threw punches all around him. With Erika's help, he got to his feet and they staggered out the door into the cold night. Back inside, pandemonium reigned as the patrons carried on the fight. Big Barb was among them, screaming for order and bashing heads with the best. She wasn't called "Big" Barb for nothing.

Dean was bleeding from the blow struck to the side of his head. Erika found a handkerchief and dabbed at the blood. She was laughing. "My wunnerful Marine!" she said. "You knock him silly!"

Dean began to laugh too. Owen, who'd stayed firmly attached to Erika's shoulder throughout, glowed a subdued pink. They found a restaurant a few blocks up the street and slipped inside. The place was warm and smoky, crowded with late evening diners. Heads turned when people noticed Owen sitting on Erika's shoulder, but evidently nobody had a second thought about the big bloody smear on the side of Dean's head, or the sawdust that still clung to his liberty utilities. The 'Finnis were brawlers, and no one in the settlement considered a black eye or a fat lip out of the ordinary on a man or a woman.

Dean and Erika ordered two huge reindeer steaks and large schooners of beer, and when they were done with the meal, Erika ordered Clintons and both lighted up.

"Who was that guy?" Dean eventually asked.

Erika shrugged. "Karl. He is nice enough man when not drinking, but nobody special. You goddamn Marines, going away all the time, what's a girl to do?"

Dean nodded and gingerly felt the side of his head. "That goddamned Barb, jeez."

"She keep order dat way." Erika laughed. "Besides, you pick up one of dem chairs, yah? You know, dey could be lots heavier? She make dem out of soft wood 'cause dey get broke so much, and besides, she don't want to kill her customers!"

"Couldn't prove it by me," Dean said ruefully. His fingers came away with crusted blood on them.

Well, a hot shower would take care of that.

As if reading his thoughts, Erika said, "We take good, long, hot shower, we get back to my place, Joe." She winked and blew a cloud of cigar smoke into the air. Owen, who did not like tobacco smoke, sat glum and dull gray on Erika's shoulder.

Outside they walked arm in arm down the dark street, bodies close together. Impervious to the cold night air, Owen dozed on Erika's shoulder. Suddenly, a horrible face, nose twisted, bulbous, and red over a leering mouth full of broken teeth, popped up before them. It was Karl! He held one hand over his eyes before Owen could go into his flashing routine.

"You broken my nose," Karl said accusingly. "No, no," he said to Owen, "don't do dat! Is okay. Yah, everytink is okay."

Karl swayed drunkenly in front of them. "I loose my knife too," he added. "Ve haf dam good fight, yah, Marine?" Karl grinned. "Nex time I come back here, we fight, okay? Maybe nex time I wins." He stepped into the street to let them pass, waved good-naturedly at the pair, then staggered off into the dark.

Erika stared at Dean for a moment and then doubled over with laughter. "You know, Joe, I tink dat Owen, I tink he is very good friend for you Marines!"

A voice in the dark sounded throughout the barracks one night several days later:

"Prettiest girl I ever seen.

Was smokin' thule in my latrine."

Dean shot bolt upright in his rack. "Sounded just like that fool, Wolfman!" he muttered. Footsteps came down the hallway, then the door to the third fire team's cubicle right next door burst open with a crash.

"Drop your cocks and grab your socks!" MacIlargie shouted, sliding his seabag noisily across the floor. "Thirty-fourth FIST is now combat ready!"

Well, not quite, but it was getting there. Its men were coming home.

CHAPTER 2

"Gunnery Sergeant Charlie Bass..." Brigadier Sturgeon began sternly.

The wall behind the desk he sat at, on which Bass's eyes were fixed, held 2-D pictures of Confederation President Cynthia Chang-Sturdevant, Confederation Minister of War Marcus Berentus, and Chairman of the Confederation Combined Chiefs of Staff Admiral Horatio Perry. Confederation Marine Corps Commandant Kinsky Butler was depicted in a hologram. The four images were flanked on one side by the Confederation flag and on the other by the gold-and-scarlet Marine Corps flag and 34th FIST's battle standard—the latter so thickly festooned with campaign and unit-citation streamers it was barely visible through the pennants. Four men sat in chairs along one side of the office: Colonel Ramadan, Sturgeon's chief of staff; FIST Sergeant Major Shiro; Commander Van Winkle, the FIST's infantry battalion commander; and Sergeant Major Parant, the infantry battalion sergeant major. Standing at attention in front of the brigadier's desk, Gunnery Sergeant Charlie Bass, acting platoon commander of third platoon, Company L, was flanked by his company commander and first sergeant, Captain Conorado and Top Myer.