Orphan Brigade (19 page)

He spotted Sergeant Berland, wrapped up in a light field blanket and obviously asleep, and was just looking around for one of the other NCOs when Sergeant Mecklinger's tall frame appeared next to him. Mecklinger was Dak's opposite in that his hair was light and so was his demeanor. He projected a calm confidence that Mortas respected, and his voice was a whisper from the shadows.

“Whatcha got there, Lieutenant?”

“The air in our sector's getting thick because of the mud munitions. Lots of grit and dust, so they gave me these to hand out. Three apiece, and they said they'd get us more after things had stabilized.”

“I'll take care of that for you, sir.” The NCO took the bag, but didn't move away. “Can you do me a favor? Private Jute's having some trouble with this mission for some reason, and I can't get anywhere with him.”

Mortas knew the name but not much else. “He's one of the vets, right?”

“Yes, sir. Sometimes the seasoned men have more trouble than the greenies. They know what it's like, so they have good reason.”

“Is that what it is? He's been all right in the past?”

“Oh, very much so. But there's something about the way this one keeps changing that's got him thinking of his last unit, before he came to the Orphans.” A thin smile. “I swear, the best recruiting tool this brigade has is all the lousy outfits in the rest of the Force. Could you talk to him?”

“Yes.” What other answer was there, despite his own near-­total lack of combat experience? “Where is he?”

“Right there.” Pointing toward a silhouette against the darkened wall, a lean figure in fatigues. Sitting on the metal deck, knees bent, back against the wall, hands clasped in his lap. Not alone, but not right next to anyone either. Mortas nodded and walked over.

“How's it going there, Jute?” He didn't wait for the answer, lowering himself to a sitting position facing the man. Making out the features, the shaved head, ears that stuck out, but not much more. Good. Let him sit in the dark and get himself together.

“Uh, not so good, El-­tee.” The voice was grainy, a man's voice, uncertain but still willing to talk. Needing to talk. “Sergeant Mac send you over?”

“Just making the rounds, checking up on everybody.” A bizarre memory, of himself inspecting the blisters on Gorman's feet back on the planet that now bore the dead mapmaker's name. “Anything you want to talk about?”

“Naw, I'll be fine.”

“We got some time to kill.”

“We do, don't we?” The bent knees disappeared, folding under him as he leaned forward and lowered his voice even more. “I been out here a long time, earned my spot as an Orphan. I'm no chicken. I'll go in when they say, and I'll do my best.

“But it's this mission. Every time I turn around they've got something new, like they don't really know what we're heading into. This mud field could dry up, or it could expand. The enemy's headed away from us, but they might come snoopin' around. We're opening up a counterattack lane, but it might just be for resupply. It's like Command is pulling this one right out of their butts.”

“I bet you've been there before.”

“Yeah.” A brief, spasmodic laugh. Not much, but something. “After all this time, I really shouldn't be surprised the bigwigs have no idea what's going on down on the ground. But that's what got me thinking. My first unit, we took over part of a trench line one night, a defense that had been in place awhile, solid positions and good fields of fire and everything's quiet. And then, no warning, we got told to move.

“Going into battalion reserve, somebody said, but nobody was coming up to take over our holes. We were on key terrain, sir. It made no sense. But we formed up and marched off anyway, darker than three feet up a cat's ass even with the night vision, still quiet, walked for a ­couple miles, then we get the order to go back where we were.

“It had all been a mistake, and they knew it, so of course they rushed us back. Next thing you know we were practically running, carrying all our stuff, tripping over anything and everything, before long the column's all jammed together or spread out, I didn't recognize any of the guys around me. When we finally got there, nobody knew where they'd been because we'd only just taken it over a few hours before. It just got . . . crazy.

“The officers and the sergeants, they were trying to get things organized, but nobody wanted to just stand there, so the guys began occupying positions on their own. It turned into a real clusterfuck. Machine guns, boomers, chonks—­none of the heavy weapons where they should have been. And right in the middle of all that, the enemy attacked us. Artillery, rockets, machine guns, and they just Sim-­waved across the low ground straight at us. Everybody was firing from where they were, but before we could call for artillery they were almost on us.

“And that's when it happened. All of a sudden, guys are just jumping up out of their holes and running away. Me, I was on my stomach in the open, shooting, and the next thing I know I'm getting trampled. There's this huge number of Sims coming up the slope, our fire's slacking off to nothing, more and more ­people running off, so I jumped up and went with them.”

The face was close now, the eyes wide. “We lost that whole position. They didn't even kill that many of us because we outran them. It took all day to get the company back together, they fired the CO, then we had to go attack the same spot to take it back. Our new commander was this absolute prick who said it was our punishment for running away, like he had any idea at all about what happened.

“You know what caused it? One stupid order. One guy on the radio, saying we had to move when there was no reason to move. That's what did it.

“And this mission right here? It's got that same fucked-­up feel to it. I been an Orphan for a year now, this is one hell of a good unit, but it doesn't matter how good the outfit is if the guys calling the shots are jumping all over the place. And the way they keep changing this thing . . . I gotta wonder. I
wonder
, El-­tee. And that's never good.”

“You got me wondering, too.” Mortas laughed just a bit, to hide the fact that he was speaking the truth. He'd heard tales like this one before, nightmare stories of units coming apart because of bad luck or stupidity. Officers and NCOs vainly trying to create order out of the running, screaming chaos of it all. Remembering the Sim assault on Roanum, utterly unexpected, the crush of the bodies in the tiny ravine, his own face jammed into the dirt until he was sure he'd suffocate. He actually shook his head to drive the memory away, and was glad for the darkness.

“And it doesn't help that we're so shorthanded, sir. We're missing a third of the brigade right now, even counting the new guys. I'm not sure Command understands that, assigning us such a big area.”

Mortas was about to suggest that the reduced numbers might work in their favor in terms of avoiding enemy detection, but a better thought came along first.

“That's a good point. Shows you've got your eyes open and your brain engaged. And you're right that we've got some really new men, new to the war zone entirely. You know they're going to be looking to you and the other veterans, and they'll act just like you do.”

There was a silence that he didn't interrupt. Finally Private Jute spoke, and Mortas believed his voice was just a bit firmer. “Don't worry about me, Lieutenant. I'm cool once it starts.”

“I know you are.” He patted a fatigue sleeve and stood up. “Orphans.”

“Orphans, sir.”

He turned toward the main door, and saw Lieutenant Kitrick silhouetted against the light. He seemed to be looking for someone, and somehow Mortas knew it was him. He walked over, and Kitrick gave him a conspiratorial smile.

“Come on, Mortas. A little fun before the big fun.”

They passed into the corridor, and he was surprised to see Colonel Watt standing in the middle of a half dozen officers, including Captain Noonan and Emile Dassa. Most of them were from the brigade staff, so he didn't recognize them, but there was an air about the gathering that Mortas felt he should comprehend. Watt's eyes fell on him, and just before the brigade commander motioned him over he identified the sensation. It was the pregame edge he'd seen so many times among his lacrosse teammates, and Mortas wondered if it was related to the approaching mission. He didn't have to wonder long.

“Good. Come on, Jan, I'll tell you what we're doing while we walk.” They moved down the corridor in a tight bunch, and Mortas immediately noticed the way the ship's crew moved out of the way. “This is one of your duties as an Orphan officer, and you'd be well advised to do this in any other unit too. You know about triage? The classification of the wounded when they get back aboard ship?”

“Yes, sir. On Roanum, Corporal Cranther said anyone deemed too hurt to survive got taken into something he called the Waiting Room, where they stayed until they died.” The alien pretending to be Captain Trent had told him the same story, but Mortas decided to leave that part out.

“He told you right. And we don't tolerate it.” Murmurs of aggressive agreement answered him, and Mortas stuck with Watt as they descended a wide ramp. “You see, the triage is handled by these brainless drones instead of the doctors. That's Force regulation, by the way, so in case you're wondering, what we're about to do is something Command considers a rather serious crime.

“Well fuck them. Handheld readouts deciding if a wounded man gets to see someone who can actually save him. God Almighty.”

They arrived at a closed hatch in a wall that was covered with open insulation. The vibration of powerful machines came through the deck into Mortas's boots, and he knew they were deep inside the ship's innards. Kitrick stepped up and activated the hatch, and Watt stepped through before it was fully open.

It was a small room, full of exposed pipes and electrical boxes, and the paint on the walls was a dull, chipped red. Bedrolls lined the edges of the floor, some of them filled with sleeping forms, while a half dozen crewmen were seated around a table stacked with playing cards. Mortas was carried through the door by the press of bodies, and found himself right next to Colonel Watt.

“Hey, hey, there's no reason for this!” One of the cardplayers, wearing a tan full-­body suit like most of the others, protested while standing up from the game. The rest of the room's occupants were already trying to get the table between them and the infantrymen, and Mortas could almost smell their fear. “We know the drill already—­no Orphans go to the Waiting Room.”

A bald-­headed Orphan officer with broad shoulders and a barrel chest slipped past Watt, punching the man who'd spoken. It was a wide-­swinging right that caught him high on the left cheek, and he would have gone down if the others hadn't caught him.

“You tellin' our colonel what's what, you slimy piece of shit?” The puncher shouted, his right hand flopping crazily as he shook off the pain from the blow. The sleeping men had struggled free of their bedding, but had crowded the other side of the table in a fearful knot after that. Noonan grabbed the table with one hand and flipped it out of the way, cards and betting chips flying. Glancing at his company commander, Mortas was surprised to see a malicious smile on the man's face. Remembering Noonan's excitement whenever the action in the training simulator had gotten particularly hot, Mortas decide he'd uncovered an important clue to his boss's distant behavior. Noonan clearly enjoyed action, and for reasons of his own went to great lengths to hide that part of his makeup.

The two groups of men stared at each other. There was the smallest fluttering instant when it could have cooked off, and Mortas felt as if he was no longer in control of his actions. He'd been in many a brawl at boarding school, but this was different. Without a conscious thought, he sought the eyes of one of the triage techs, a man his own size, and stared into them with overt malice. Knowing that if even one more punch was thrown he would sail forward with the other officers, intent on pummeling this total stranger.

“Apparently you
don't
know the drill.” Watt's tone was arch, but he was otherwise completely calm. Mortas glanced down and saw that the colonel's hands were loose at his side, and only then did he see that his own were already balled into white-­knuckled fists. He forced them to relax.

“So here it is:
no one
goes into the Waiting Room at all. I'm not going to trust a gang of imbeciles like you to know who's an Orphan and who's not. No one goes in the Waiting Room, no matter what your machines say. Got it?”

Completely cowed, the techs nodded and murmured their understanding. None of the infantrymen moved, but Mortas slowly let out a long, silent exhalation. Watt wasn't quite finished, though.

“Don't get stupid later on, gents. You know who told us where you were hiding, and they'll tell us if anybody gets mistreated. Even if there's only one Orphan left alive . . . you're all fucking dead. Remember that.”

Watt turned and walked out, but the remaining officers stood their ground and Mortas did the same. The staring contest lasted for a minute, then the infantrymen closest to the hatch began passing through it. Mortas waited, feeling that as the most junior man he should be last. A hand pressed his shoulder, and he turned to see Dassa's face. They were the only ones left, and the captain motioned with his head for Mortas to leave.

The Orphan group was subdued as they went back up the ramp, clustered behind the brigade commander but leaving him to his thoughts. Drifting back, Mortas whispered in Dassa's ear.

“Who told us where those guys were hiding?”

“The surgeons. The docs don't like this shit any better than we do, so they tip us off. Oh, and this isn't all that uncommon in the rest of the Force. Sometimes the NCOs handle it, but here it's an officer thing.”