Decisively Engaged (Warp Marine Corps Book 1) (4 page)

Year 163 AFC, D Minus Ten

Heather McClintock led the newly-minted Marine captain to the embassy car. The locally-produced four-wheeler was overbuilt and massive, a civvie version of a Kiroshan military vehicle with off-road capability. It was painted a light sky blue, a color that indicated high-caste ownership. Her staff driver was leaning against the car. He was of the same species as the denizens of the Kingdom, but from a different nationality and ethnicity. The locals called themselves Kirosha, a term that covered the capital city, the greater nation-state, and its citizens, not unlike Earth’s Rome. Her driver’s name was Locquar, and he was the most trusted member of her staff. Among other reasons, because he wasn’t Kirosha, but a foreigner, as loathed and hated by the locals as any other aliens.

Like most sophonts from Class Two biospheres, the natives of Jasper-Five were humanoid in shape and general biology. They were bipeds with opposable thumbs on their four-fingered hands, with body size and mass well within human ranges. Their skin had a reddish tint, ranging from a deep scarlet to a light flamingo pink, the lighter varieties being most common among the Kirosha; they had very little body hair, concentrated mainly on a ridge beginning at the top of their heads and running down to the small of their backs. Their large eyes and smooth heart-shaped faces gave them a cartoonish appearance to human sensibilities.

Locquar’s skin was a deep scarlet, which clearly marked him as an outsider. He also shaved his ridge-hair, as was the custom of his tribal group but was considered barbaric by the locals. His small mouth was set in what Kirosha would consider a grim expression and humans would perceive as a comical moue.

“Captain Fromm, this is Locquar Asthan, Embassy Staff.”

To her surprise, Fromm squatted down, hands upraised in a standard Kirosha greeting, instead of trying to shake hands American fashion, as both she and Locquar had expected. The jarhead had done his homework, which put him well ahead of many Americans, who mostly assumed it was the locals’ job to learn their customs and language. The squat was awkward – human leg joints couldn’t quite reproduce the Kirosha motion – and he showed more deference than appropriate to the driver, who was technically three social rungs beneath him. The gesture was still miles better than what most State Department employees usually managed, let alone the other two thousand-plus humans currently dwelling on the planet. Cultural sensibility was not high on the list of US priorities. Understandable, given that humans were viewed largely as barbaric parvenus in Starfarer society and treated with contempt, but often regrettable. The only other human polity, the Greater Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere, was even worse; being largely Earth-bound, its behavior wasn’t readily apparent across the stars, however.

Locquar returned the squat – the greeting wasn’t what his people used, but he was well-versed in Kirosha mores – and batted his eyelashes at the Marine, the equivalent of a warm smile.

“It is a fine day, is it not?” Fromm said in Kiroshan, or tried to.

“It is, and also a pleasure to meet you, Captain,” Locquar said in English, which he could manage better than humans could speak the local languages; the natives’ audible range was a little past what human vocal chords could manage without mechanical aid. Heather’s throat implants, courtesy of the US Embassy, allowed her to talk like a native.

“We’ll leave as soon as everybody’s ready,” she said. The colorfully-painted bus Caterpillar Inc. had provided for its employees was filling up fast; a van hired by Star Mining Enterprises was collecting its own share of the shuttle’s passengers. They all had agreed to leave together. Safety in numbers. Things had gotten bad enough that no Starfarer dared leave the Enclave alone; two AmCits had been injured in separate incidents during the past week, and the Kirosha authorities didn’t seem to be in a hurry to round up any suspects. The arriving human passengers would travel in a convoy comprising the bus, van, and Heather’s embassy vehicle, sandwiched between two escort cars manned by armed private contractors.

Fromm spotted the lead and chase cars just before they drove off. “I guess it’s time for that briefing.”

“I’m sending chapter-and-verse to your imp,” she said. Analyzing that information would take time, however, so she went on. “The gist of it is, a peasant rebellion has been simmering for several months. At first it was limited to the outlying provinces, especially southwest from here, but the discontent has spread to the capital.”

“I see,” Fromm said, looking out the car windows. He nodded towards the smoke cresting over the horizon. “When did that start?”

“They set the first fires two days ago. You’d have been in warp-transit then.”

“Yes. A twenty-hour warp jump, New Parris to Lahiri, a day in-system, and then caught an inbound freighter here for an extra eight hours.”

New Parris was a harsh, barely inhabitable planet the Warp Marine Corps had adopted as its training and staging center. The Lahiri star system had no planets at all, but its neutron star was a major warp nexus, with space-time ‘valleys’ that led to dozens of other systems, including Jasper. A total of twenty-eight hours’ warp travel over three days was no picnic, but the Marine seemed to have handled the trip well.

“What’s the rebels’ beef with the government?” he asked.

“The Crown has been raising taxes to modernize its armed forces for some time, which wouldn’t have been so bad if a drought hadn’t hit half the continent a year ago. And there’s been the usual problems with rapid modernization: peasants being displaced by farm machinery and discovering factory work is not to their taste, that sort of thing. The main issue is that a faction within the Kirosha ruling class is manipulating the rebels into blaming foreigners for all their problems.”

“Not a big leap, since Kirosha hate just about everyone who doesn’t look like them, right? The info files I got made that clear.”

Heather nodded. “Pretty much. Their words for ‘foreign’ and ‘wrong’ are closely related. ‘Foreigner’ also translates as ‘evil.’ If you aren’t Kirosha, you’re a demon, basically. Humans and any other Starfarer species are known as Star Devils.”

“They sound like a great bunch of guys.”

“They’re kind to their children, and love their pets. But if you’re an outsider, watch out. The Preserver faction hates the influence Star Devils have over the Kingdom’s affairs. Everything from the new mines to missionaries opening hospitals, schools and orphanages. And it’s using the rebels against us.”

“This is a fucking mess,” Fromm said. “Why are we letting this happen?”

“Money and politics. We don’t want to handle the expenses necessary to assume direct control of the country, for one; it’d likely cost more than what we’re getting from the mines. And the Kirosha might turn to the Wyrashat or Vehelians for protection, which could lead to tensions between us. Which means we’re treading softly, for now.”

“Sounds awesome.”

“And you’re the senior military officer on site. Congratulations,” Heather said.

The Marine probably wasn’t the right man for the job at hand. Then again, no recently-promoted captain was meant to handle something with the makings of an interstellar incident. Unfortunately, Ambassador Llewellyn wasn’t up to the task, either, in Heather’s opinion. The developing situation was above everyone’s pay grade and, worse, their competency level.

They fell silent while Fromm mulled things over and accessed the raw data she’d uploaded into his computer implant. He started outlining some key data out loud, seeking confirmation and elaboration form her.

“All right. There are over two thousand Americans on Jasper-Five: about two hundred Embassy personnel and dependents, the rest either corporate employees or missionaries of assorted denominations, plus about two hundred military contractors.”

She nodded. “Plus a few odds and sorts, raising the total human presence on Jasper-Five to twenty-five hundred or so. About three hundred are working in the main mining operation on the Neesha Valley, about five hundred klicks inland. They should be safe enough there; the mines are isolated and far away from population centers. About half the military contractors on the planet are out there, providing security.”

“Got it. If things go wrong, the US military presence consists of my Marine contingent: a platoon plus a number of attached units, including the original Marine Security Detachment: seventy-eight personnel total.”

“There is also a hundred or so military contractors in the capital, an Enclave constabulary force with fifty-two peace officers, and a hundred and eighty-two Navy personnel, including thirty master-at-arms ratings, mostly stationed at the spaceport.”

“I guess that’s better than nothing,” Fromm said. Technically, his command’s sole mission was to protect the embassy. In practice, he and his men might be called upon to help any Americans in need.

“At least almost everybody is in one place. A lot of people were working on assorted projects outside the capital, but after the first riot they’ve been advised to confine themselves to the Enclave. Which has caused no end of trouble; housing is scarce, and the area is packed with idle miners and machinery operators, not exactly the most placid folk. The constabulary force is having trouble keeping order.”

“I hope nobody thinks my Marines can help with that.”

“Not as far as I know. In fact, nobody at the embassy really knows what to do with your unit. The ambassador isn’t happy about the quote-unquote ‘needless expense.’ We got the reinforced platoon nine months ago; before that, our Marine Security Detachment consisted of nine men. The assignment happened over the ambassador’s protests, mostly because it’s put a big crimp on the budget even after additional funds were assigned for the platoon’s upkeep. He’d much rather spend the money on social functions.”

“Remfie,” Fromm muttered. Not the smartest thing to say, calling an accredited ambassador a Rear-Echelon Motherfucker, but Heather appreciated the gesture. She understood; he was placing her in a position of trust, because he needed somebody to trust among the Embassy’s weenies, or what was likely to be a nearly impossible mission could cross out the ‘nearly’ part.

“He is,” she admitted with a rueful grin. “Still doesn’t explain why we got reinforcements nobody asked for, unless someone in higher has figured out a way to foresee the future and anticipated we’d be having problems.”

“No, it had nothing to do with local conditions,” Fromm said.

“Budgetary?”

“You got it. The Corps had to disband five Marine Expeditionary Units after Congress overrode President Hewer’s veto and initiated cutbacks. A lot of their personnel got discharged, but a few units ended up distributed in penny-packets around the galaxy, with their upkeep paid for by the Marine Security Detachment budget. The Corps didn’t want to lose the trained cadre those troops represented, and this way the State Department pays for most of their upkeep. The Congress-Rats love the State Department, so they didn’t cut its budget.”

“Ah.” Heather had suspected something along those lines, but delving in Marine Corps’ politics wasn’t her job. Her professional curiosity was largely focused on the affairs of non-humans. “Sneaky,” she added appreciatively.

“We’re going to need those units,” Fromm said. “The Lampreys got slapped down hard on Astarte-Three, but they aren’t done playing games. I was there. I…”

The Marine froze for a second, his eyes focused on something only he could see.

“True enough,” Heather said, breaking the awkward silence. Fromm snapped out of it and turned his attention back on her.

Her own info on interstellar affairs was more detailed than a Marine captain was cleared for, and she agreed with his estimate. Of course, Fromm’s knowledge was of a far more personal nature; he’d lost most of his platoon during the skirmish on Astarte-Three. Said ‘skirmish’ had decimated a Marine Expeditionary Unit and almost sparked a full-fledged war with the Lhan Arkh – better known as the Lampreys – and their client races, which included the few Snakes left in the galaxy.

“Of course, none of that matters here. We’re nowhere near the Lhan Arkh’s sphere of influence,” she concluded.

“Yeah. Higher thought this would be a nice quiet spot to stash me away for the time being.”

The events at Astarte-Three were on the public record, as were Captain Fromm’s promotion and commendations resulting from the incident. Something else, something unofficial, had led to his transfer to the ass-end of nowhere, not to mention a command below his new pay grade: a reinforced platoon did not a company make. She’d have to do a little digging to find out more.

The captain took a moment to check out the countryside as they drove on. The bucolic scenery was pleasant enough: Kirosha children in colorful knee-length tunics ran through orderly rows of gold-tinged Jusha; their antics were both work and play, serving to scare an assortment of flying critters away from the food-bearing plants. Jusha’s nut-like seeds were the principal staple of the continent, being used for everything from bread and noodles to a variety of alcoholic beverages, some of which were quite pleasant to human tastes, even the ones who also were violent emetics to human metabolisms. New visitors to Jasper-Five were warned not to consume any drinks before using their implants to run chem tests on them. A few practical jokers loved to offer newcomers the bad stuff. That didn’t apply to Marines, though: their digestive nanites would strip anything even remotely organic of any toxins and allow its nutrients to be absorbed. Marines could almost literally make a meal out of mud and cardboard.