Theirs Not To Reason Why: A Soldier's Duty (35 page)

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Authors: Jean Johnson

BOOK: Theirs Not To Reason Why: A Soldier's Duty
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That stung most of them into straightening. Harkins twisted his mouth, suggesting his nickname “Happy” was sardonically meant at best. “Just wondering why
you
aren’t so eager.”
Ia, mindful that Lt. Cheung, leader of the 1st Platoon, hadn’t yet left the table behind her, took a moment to pick the right reply. But looking into Harkins’ brown eyes held her tongue just long enough for a wave of time to reach up and drag her down into
laser fire, shrapnel, exploding hand grenades, the ship rocking beneath her feet, the sight of Harkins impaled through the chest by a chunk of hydrofuel pipe . . .
No. I will not let that happen. He will
not
be in that corridor. I need him to be alive five years from now.
“Or are you afraid of buying a star out there?” Double-E asked dryly. His deep voice gave her something in the here and now to focus on, to pull herself out of the cold, cold waters.
“Death and I are already well-acquainted. Trust me, I don’t need to shake his hand.” Shifting her gaze to the back of the boardroom, she lifted her chin. “The crowd has cleared. We can get to the prep bays now.”
Leaving them to follow—or not—Ia headed for the doors. From the wisps of sound, they had chosen to follow her.
Seven minutes later, she was stripped and clad in the dark, silvered, tight-fitted p-suit that every mechsuited member of the Space Force wore into combat while in space, a brown headband covering her brow to absorb any perspiration. This was her first combat, and she wanted to get it right, without distractions. Once her helmet snapped into place, she wouldn’t be able to scratch her nose, let alone wipe sweat from her eyes.
Familiarity had gotten her into the suit, but not from precognition; every single member of the Space Force, regardless of Branch, had to don and strip the suits five hundred times, and don them in less than one minute flat, blindfolded, by the five hundredth try before they could pass out of Basic Training. Pressure-suits were located in every section, every cabin, every corridor on board a Space Force vessel; with o-ring sealed boots, gloves, and helms and an emergency air pack, they were the default survival tool for interstellar travel.
The airtight plexweave had a peculiar, foam-like inner layer that, when depressurized, would expand much like a marshmallow in a vacuum chamber. The foam was designed to press against the pores and dimples of her skin, preventing them from inverting painfully, something which had been a severe annoyance in the earliest space-faring days. Unlike the training suit she had worn back in Basic, the trunks of this one were designed to capture and contain any leaks from the occupant’s bladder—which was why she hadn’t drunk her juice at lunch. And instead of solid boots, her feet were covered in thin, fitted booties.
Stepping up into her suit, she stooped and made sure her feet were cushioned comfortably in their sensory shoes, with nothing pinching her flesh. Mechsuits were hard-suits—even the lightweight version known as half-mech—which meant no part of the wearer’s body was exposed to the outside. Nothing contacted the world directly. That meant tactile feedback sensors were vital for successful operation. Strapping her legs into place, she sealed the lower torso, methodically checking sensor lights as she went. Not that it would be airtight just yet, but the seals had sensors on their inner edges that green-lit as they made full contact, visual confirmation that everything was right.
Next came the somewhat thin, fitted gloves. These weren’t the standard p-suit gloves; these gloves came with feedback sensors that would plug directly into the flexor gloves of her suit. In its wisdom, the Space Force had figured out that its recruits learned best in increments. The first week of mechsuit drill did not include the glove feedback sensors, specifically so that the operator could get used to the simple, awkward chore of walking and maneuvering. By adding in the sensory gloves, she could literally pluck a flower out of midair with the larger robotic hands extending beyond her own by a quarter of a meter, and not crush the delicate petals. If she didn’t want to.
If she wanted to, Ia could crush a brick in her mechsuit hand. A brick, a blade, a skull . . .
A twist of her wrists locked the wrist-rings into place, hooking her wrist unit, sensor gloves, and flexor gloves into a single unit. Flexing her fingers, she leaned her head back and closed the rest of the suit, lifting her chin to clear the O-ring that formed at the base of her throat and merged with the one on her p-suit. The helmet came down and locked in place, forcing her head back to level.
The faceplate lit up from the inside, wires projecting the HUD, heads-up display, into her eyes and onto the half-silvered screen. The faint hum of the power cocooned her from the clanks, whines, and thumps of the others in A Squad’s section of their platoon’s prep bay. Focusing on the menu floating to one side, Ia blink-commanded a level 1 diagnostic; the wires, tracking the focal points of her eyes, directed the onboard computer to comply.
A model of her mechsuit rotated in front of her eyes, lighting up from the feet to the crown with first yellow, then green pinpoints, green-lighting the suit for combat. Beyond the floating representation of herself, the tactical software outlined and identified the approach of an unarmored male, zeroing in on his name patch and face: Lance Corporal Vic “Viper” Dunsby, her counterpart from the 3rd Platoon.
Ia politely stepped down out of the alcove to meet him. The redhead looked like he needed a shave and at least another three or four hours of sleep, but while his green eyes were hooded and his jaw cracking with repeated yawns, he didn’t miss a step in checking her visually, slapping panels, poking joints, testing connections on those few cables that couldn’t be completely concealed. She watched the flexing of the serpents tattooed on his deltoid muscles, clad as he was in a sleeveless brown shirt, and knew she’d be doing a similar task all too soon.
Ferrar likes to keep one platoon in reserve, resting and on double-check duty for battle prep. If they have to get called into armor, it’s potluck as to how prepared they are, particularly since they have to be up and mobile in mere minutes. But this careful prebattle prep does pay off in fewer accidents, complications, and casualties overall.
I’ll have to remember to implement it when I get my own platoons.
Just as he had done for Estes in the next alcove, he fetched the c-clip and e-clips for her own forearm mounted guns. Ia flexed her fingers and blink-coded the suit, popping the guns out so they could be loaded. Just as they had both been taught to do in Basic, he carefully displayed each of the disk-like objects before slotting them into place.
Mounted on her left forearm was a stunner turret; it received one energy pack. Its remote-controlled nosecone wasn’t quite as flexible as the Mamas, but it was more of a holdout weapon. There were slots in her upper arms on both sides for five more e-clips each. Her right forearm took a c-clip, hiding a miniature, holdout version of a Jelly. He lifted the c-clip for that one last, giving her a chance to read the identifying marks.
“Grey mushrooms with green diamonds,” Ia dutifully noted aloud, knowing her wrist unit would record anything she said from this point forward. Standard ammunition for a routine space boarding; unless they were boarding a true derelict, it was unlikely the soft-metal slugs would puncture even a standard bulkhead, let alone the hull of whatever vessel they encountered. Still, she had to acknowledge aloud what she was being handed. “I have been issued a single c-clip of splatters with tracers for my right forearm gun.”
Nodding, Viper slotted the magazine into her right forearm. “Anything else? Grenades, tranks, in-flight magazine?”
She wouldn’t need grenades, this trip. “Explosives scanner, and a knife.”
He gave her a sardonic look. “Paranoid much?”
She blink-raised the volume of her suit speakers two notches, echoing it down through the prep bay. “There are old Marines, and there are bold Marines—”
“—But there are no old, bold Marines!” Estes called back from her alcove.
“Eyah?”
“Hoo-rah!”
everyone else answered, Viper and Ia included. He grinned and slapped her on one metal-plated thigh, then went to fetch the requested gear. He came back a few minutes later with a knife in a clip-on sheath that fastened to the front of one thigh, and a thin box with four antennae, which slotted into the pauldron covering her left shoulder joint.
She started a diagnostic of that as well, noting the floating lights targeting and outlining the c-clips in the room, the e-clips, and mechsuit power packs. In twos and threes they lit up, then faded from her HUD view, identified and labeled as ally-controlled components. Once that was settled, she stepped back up into the alcove, bumping her metal-covered backside into the power plugs to conserve internal energies. A blink-code unsealed her helm, lifting it back out of her way so she could breathe unfiltered air.
She wasn’t the only one to retreat and attempt to relax, nor the only one to unseal their helm to conserve lifesupport power. The noises of the others died down as well. While they rested, the members of the 3rd Platoon attending the 2nd padded out of the prep bay, no doubt to find the nearest acceleration seats. That left the platoon in near-silence as the minutes slowly ticked away.
Someone spoke up from further down the bay. “Well. That’s the military for you—”
“—Hurry up and wait!”
several others catcalled back. Chuckles broke out. From his position two alcoves over, Double-E called out to her.
“Hey, Ia. You bored, yet?” he asked. Then joked, “Want me to tell you a story?”
“You want me to sing you a song?” she countered, unfazed.
“Oh, please,
do
sing us a song,” Private First Class Hooke catcalled from the alcove across from Ia’s. “Double-E’s stories always start out with ‘No
v’shova
, there I was . . .’ and always end with the rest of
us
saying ‘bull
shakk
!’ ”
Others joined her in laughing at Double-E’s expense. He chuckled, too. “Okay, okay . . . fine. You sing us a story, Corporal Ia. A good one, with action and plot and stuff. Prove you got what it takes to be a real Marine while you hurry up and wait.”
“A song
and
a story? Don’t push your luck,” she countered. “But if you ask nicely, I’ll sing you a simple, easy song right here, right now. Something even you would know.”
“Alright then, I’m askin’
nicely
, Corporal,” he drawled. “Sing us something, pretty please?”
The others chuckled, and a couple more muttered and joked with their neighbors.
“As you wish.” She would rather have been in her quarters, filling out letter after precognitive letter. But that wasn’t an option. “Like they say,
Lock and Load
. . .”
Out on the battlefield,
Your weapon, you gotta wield
Out on the battlefield
You gotta bear your load.
Out on the battlefield
The enemy ain’t gonna yield
Out on the battlefield
You gotta lock and load!
 
A couple of catcalls mixed with several whistles as she began the opening verse slowly and steadily. Ia ignored them, launching into the carefully paced first round of the chorus.
Load ’em up
And rack ’em up
And put ’em in the chamber
Load ’em up
And rack ’em up
You gottta lock and load!
Load ’em up
And rack ’em up
And put ’em in the chamber
Load ’em up
And rack ’em up
You gottta lock and load!
 
The next verse picked up pace minutely, just a subtle increase in tempo.
When you’re in war
And you don’t care what you’re fighting for
When you’re in war
Your captain, he will goad
When you’re in war
Blood and death you may abhor
When you’re in war
You gotta lock and load!
 
 
Load ’em up
And rack ’em up
And put ’em in the chamber
Load ’em up
And rack ’em up
You gottta lock and load!
 
Load ’em up
And rack ’em up
And put ’em in the chamber
Load ’em up
And rack ’em up
You gottta lock and load!
Again, she increased the pace. With each new verse, followed by the twice-repeated chorus, the tempo quickened. This was an old song, but still a favorite in the Space Force. Particularly when sung drunk, but just as difficult when sung sober.
Your gun on your shoulder
You sure ain’t gettin’ older
Your gun on your shoulder
Move ’em down the road
Your gun on your shoulder
You gotta do it bolder
Your gun on your shoulder
You gotta lock and load!
Feet planted on the ground
Chamber up another round
Feet planted on the ground
It’s the soldier’s code
Feet planted on the ground
Concentrate through battle sound
Feet planted on the ground
You gotta lock and load!

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