Three Against the Stars (6 page)

“Konnichi wa!”
Sergeant Akira greeted him. “Rough day, huh?”

Looking up at the beautiful sergeant, Makki gave her a weary smile. She was dressed in clean fatigues and chewing an unlit cigar.

“Yes,” he said. “Very much tired. Many wounded to be cared for.”

Akira squatted in front of him. “Scuttlebutt has it that we’re headed for Rhajnara.”

“This one’s home planet?”

“That’s the word. You must be happy about that.”

Makki shook his head. He always experienced some anxiety whenever he returned to Rhajnara. What had happened to his family, to his friends, and to him at the claws of the Khandra Regime was something he’d never forget, something he had never discussed with anyone.

“This one has no family. All gone. Friends, too.”

“Oh—I’m sorry. I had a hunch that’s what happened.” Akira smiled gently and squeezed Makki’s shoulder. “You know, I think Cortez lost his family in the war with the Drakonians. And I grew up in an orphanage. Never had a real family of my own.”

“Does O’Hara have family?” Makki asked.

“Funny you should mention that,” Akira said. “I know he has a mother, but that’s all I know about his personal life. He can be a very private man.”

“This one has never talked of such things with you,” Makki said.

“No, you haven’t. Why is that?”

He shrugged. “This mewling is one very private Rhajni,” he told her. “But what of you? Will you plan to marry and have a litter of kittens one day?”

Akira coughed and blushed. “Yes . . . well . . . I do want to get married and raise a family. But when I do, I think I’ll have just one kitten at a time.”

Chapter Six

Aboard the
Iwo Jima

A
lone in his cabin aboard the
Iwo Jima
, O’Hara touched a button on the bulkhead opposite his bunk. Two panels slid open without a sound, revealing three shelves. A large funerary urn sat on the top shelf, surrounded by plasticene lilacs and lilies. Holographic photos of twin toddler boys, a cute freckle-faced girl about six years old, and a beautiful red-haired woman in her late twenties filled the second shelf. A vigil candle, a bottle of Irish whiskey and an empty glass were the only objects occupying the third shelf.

Moving a lever at the base of the candle, a red electric light sparked to life. O’Hara reached for the bottle of whiskey and the glass, and poured himself five fingers of the amber-colored nectar. He swallowed half the drink, and then set the glass on the table next to his bunk.

“Well, Colleen,” he said. “It’s Day Watch and scuttlebutt has it that we’re being deployed to Rhajnara. We’re getting briefed in about an hour or so, and then it’s off we go, first to fight, as always.” He paused and took a breath before going on. “I got some bad news for you, honey. We lost Lieutenant Hooks. You remember Sam. He dressed up as Santa for the kids one year.”

He sipped his whiskey and continued talking to the photos.

“We lost quite a few good Marines, too—young men and women you’d have been proud to know.” His sigh was heavy with sadness. “Anyway, I’m glad you and the kids are along for the ride. Patrick, Brian—I hope you boys are minding your mum. Katie, I know you’re helping keep them twins in line.”

As he sipped his drink, O’Hara remembered . . . and the hole in his heart, never to be healed, began to ache.

He had been aboard the Imperial Starship,
Inchon Landing
, just entering Earth’s solar system, when a tsunami hit the Fiji Islands; his wife and children had gone there on vacation. By the time O’Hara had returned to Earth, their bodies had been recovered from the wreckage. Colleen and the kids were cremated a few days after his return…

O’Hara rubbed tears from his eyes. It was hard to believe that fifteen years had passed since that terrible day when he said farewell to his beloved family. 

“I’m worried about Makki, my love,” he said. “You know . . . that wee Rhajni corpsman who was assigned to our regiment about a year back. What with him getting into all sorts of trouble with Cortez, and Akira teachin’ him how to fight—I don’t know what’s gonna happen to him. I know there are rules and regulations against it—but he wants to be a Marine!

“He’s a good lad, though. Don’t get me wrong. But he has no business wantin’ to be a warrior. Poor kid has seen enough war and death in his young life, I can imagine. Besides, he has what it takes to be a real fine doctor. I ride him hard, that’s the truth. But that’s my way, and I’m hopin’ he’ll come to his senses and decide to go to medical school.”

O’Hara paused as if listening to some voice only he could hear.

“What’s that, love?” he asked. “Oh, I’ll be behavin’ myself, I promise. Now I’d best be shovin’ off. Kids—I love you, and try to behave
yourselves
, okay? Colleen, love of my life, I miss you more than I can say. Keep a light burnin’ in the window for me.”

O’Hara finished his whiskey and set the empty glass on the table.

444

Standing on the hangar deck, Akira was amazed by the condition of the
Iwo Jima.
It was an old rocket ship designed only for interplanetary travel; she had no FTL drive, and had to be hauled from one galaxy to another by the massive starships of the Imperial Fleet. Patched and battle-worn, the ship was a relic from the early days of space exploration, around the last decade of the 21
st
century. Docked at one end of her landing bay were twenty-four Comanche AEVs—two squadrons—like the ones used on the missions to Cindar and Grant’s Planet.

444

The Marines of Company E were standing at ease with their sergeants and officers.

“What a heap of nuts and bolts!” Pretty Boy complained.

“I’ll be a happy camper if this bucket can maintain an orbit,” said Horseface Jenkins.

Fatty Russo cursed with disgust. “We’ll be lucky if this garbage scow gets us halfway across the next solar system!”

“Jeez! The Fleet tours the universe in brand new starships and all we get is this rickety relic left over from some ancient science fiction movie,” Tattoo Annie complained.

“Even Flash Gordon wouldn’t be caught dead flying in this crate,” Akira said.

Cortez shook his head. “Who is this Flash Gordon?”

“Quit your whining, ya miserable beggars!” O’Hara growled.

Horseface nudged Blondie Hampton and then pointed. Her eyes popped wide open.

“Officers on deck!” she yelled.

“Company—‘ten-shun!” Captain Branch shouted.

The Devil Dogs snapped to attention.

Colonel Stella Dakota marched toward them, as regal as a fierce goddess of war. The click of her heels on the cold metal deck echoed like rifle shots. She was a stunning Native-American in her 40s, with white-streaked hair, a patch over one eye and a ramrod up her spine.

Accompanying Colonel Dakota was Major Steve Helm, a tight-lipped African with a sparkle in his eyes and a slight accent in his soft voice. Tagging behind them was Corporal Flix, a Grimalkin catman from Rhajnara, with one ear and the face of a lynx. He was a member of the Rhajni Armed Forces, attached to the Corps as an aide to the colonel; he wore a brown and tan military uniform, mottled with various shades of green and gold.

O’Hara grinned at Colonel Dakota. “Good day to ya, Colonel, darlin’.”

“Space that grin, Sergeant O’Hara!” Captain Branch ordered.

Dakota adjusted her eye patch to hide her smile. O’Hara covered his mouth. Akira shook her head. Major Helm cleared his throat to address the Marines.

“Each of you did a fine job on Island 881,” he said. “But the Imperial Fleet will now take over and try to find out what the Drakonians are up to.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, Major, but is it true that we’re going to Rhajnara?” O’Hara asked.

“Hold your water, Sergeant. I’m coming to that,” Helm told him. “At 0900 tomorrow, this ship will rendezvous with the
Courageous
. They will drop us outside the Ambala System, where we will proceed to Rhajnara and join the Third Regiment stationed at Camp Corregidor.”

“We thank the Major,” O’Hara said.

“They’re all yours, Colonel,” Helm said.

“Thank you, Major,” Dakota said to him.

The colonel stared at the Devil Dogs and looked each Marine directly in the eyes. Akira had the feeling that they were being examined like some newly-discovered alien species.

“At ease, Marines,” Dakota finally said.

The Marines returned to parade rest and were as silent as Centauri mice.

Dakota looked her Marines over. “Now, since you space-happy grunts have never been to Rhajnara, there are certain rules of conduct that must—I repeat—
must
be obeyed.”

Monster Kowalski and Tommy Barnes groaned with disappointment. Dakota silenced them with one look, and then turned to her sergeants.

“One, alcohol is not tolerated on Rhajnara. So once we land you will drink nothing stronger than tea and coffee. Is that clear, Sergeant O’Hara?” she asked.

O’Hara looked as if he were ready to weep. “Clear as holy water, Colonel.”

“Two, there will be no brawling in the streets or in any public establishment,” Dakota said. “Do you hear me, Sergeant O’Hara?”

“Loud as a church bell, Ma’am.”

Cortez shot O’Hara a devilish grin.

“Three,” Dakota continued. “Gambling is not allowed on Rhajnara. So keep your dice, card tricks and shell games in your ditty bags. Do
you
read me, Sergeant Cortez?”

The sound of her voice ambushed Cortez; the cold look in her eye finished him off. Nevertheless, he bowed and smiled. “Chapter and verse,
mi Coronel
,” he said.

Akira winked at Cortez and poked him in the ribs.

“Sergeant Akira, you’re the only sensible one,” Dakota told her. “See to it that your fellow musketeers stay out of trouble. Do you follow me?”

Akira thought she would escape being singled out. “Like a beacon, Colonel.”

“Services for Lieutenant Hooks and the other Marines killed in action on Grant’s Planet will be held at 0600, tomorrow,” Dakota announced. “Clergy from all religions will be in attendance.” She turned to Captain Branch. “Captain—you may dismiss the troops.”

“Company—dismissed!” Branch shouted.

Dakota, Helm, Branch, and Flix turned and marched away. The Devil Dogs of Company E slowly dispersed, griping and grumbling as Marines had been doing for hundreds of years.

Cortez nudged Akira and looked questioningly at O’Hara. “What is a musketeer?”

Akira and O’Hara ignored Cortez as they strolled down one of the ship’s passageways. They passed doctors, nurses, Fleet pilots, orderlies, and other Marines.

“I knew it! I just knew it!” O’Hara whined. “Posted to bloody Rhajnara where there’s naught to be drinking but tea and coffee!”

“You always know it all, Seamus,” Akira said. “But think of it this way—Rhajnara is the cultural nexus of this galaxy. You’ll see things you never saw before.”

“By God and Saint Patrick, woman—you sound like a ruddy travel agent!”

“Come on,
amigo
,” Cortez said to O’Hara. “Where is your spirit of adventure?”

“The only spirits I’m interested in are the ones that come in a bottle.”

444

Akira’s cabin was small but homey; only starships were built to accommodate their non-coms with more spacious quarters. Melancholy Italian music played over a bulkhead speaker. Colorful Japanese prints and a samurai sword graced the other bulkheads. Perched atop a shelf crammed with 19
th
century English novels was a holopic of Cooper Preston. 

Makki sat on the floor at a small table laid out with an Oriental tea set, an origami bird, and a sheet of gold paper. He had no trouble folding his lithe, cat-like body into the lotus position while Akira prepared instant espresso in a tiny, solarwave oven. He pointed to the holopic.

“Who is that picture?” he asked.

Akira poured the espresso into a pair of tea cups with all the grace of a geisha. She glanced nervously at the holopic and set the tea pot on the table.

“Oh, just an old friend,” she said. She picked up the sheet of gold paper and began to fold it. “Do you like the espresso?”

“Very much so,” Makki told her. “This ceremony of tea is part of your warrior code?”

“Yes. The code is called Bushido—the Way of the Warrior. Remember when I told you that a samurai holds duty, honor and loyalty above all things?”

“Very much like the Marine Corps, this one thinks.”

Akira nodded. “A samurai balances the martial arts with painting, poetry, music,” she explained. “I do
origami.
It helps me attain
wa
, which is perfect harmony with the universe.”

“Many Rhajni meditate in warm sun or visit grooming houses,” Makki said. “But if this is ceremony of tea, why do we drink this Joe you call espresso?”

Akira laughed. “Because I’m half Sicilian and half Japanese.” She finished folding the paper and held up an origami cat. “Would you like me to teach you?”

“One day, perhaps, when this one has become a Marine samurai,” Makki told her.

“But you
are
a part of the Corps, Makki. You do a fine job patching us up.”

“Assignment with Marines is only temporary. Soon this one must attend medical school.”

“Well, maybe you
should
become a doctor.”

“That is what everyone tells this mewling.”

“Your command of the English language may leave a lot to be desired, Makki, but you sure know how to take care of a wounded Marine.” Akira set the paper cat on the table and gave him a long look. “You don’t want to be a doctor, do you?”

“This one has found a home in Marine Corps.”

“I know how you feel. When I was growing up in the orphanage, all I ever dreamed of was joining the Corps.”

Makki picked up and studied the origami sculpture. “This mewling cannot decide which path to walk. What do you think, Sergeant Akira?”

“You know what I think. But you should always follow your heart.”

Makki set the paper bird back on the table. He stood, folded his paws and bowed to Akira. “This one thanks you for the espresso,” he said.

“The honor was mine, Makki-
san
.” Akira rose to her feet and bowed in return. “And don’t let that big ape O’Hara get you down.”

“But he is always yelling and biting off this one’s ears!”

“Oh, that’s just his way, Makki. He’s really all bark and no bite. You just have to bark back at him. Maybe bite him once in a while, too. ”

444

The
Iwo Jima’s
lounge was crowded with Marines and Fleet personnel. Music, laughter, and conversation combined to make a joyous noise. Cigar smoke clouded the air. Every Marine there was dressed in camies, their hands and faces smeared with camouflage paint. They drank, smoked cigars, played cards, shot pool or threw darts. It was Warrior Night, an old tradition, a night when the Corps honored every warrior who had fallen in battle.

Decked out in their camouflaged fatigues and painted faces, Akira, O’Hara and Cortez strolled into the ship’s lounge. They stopped at an unoccupied table laid out with four place settings, a black flag, and a P.O.W. flag. All of the dishes were turned upside down. The three sergeants came to attention and snapped reverential salutes.