Sergeant Findlay and the first squad stood ramrod straight, their blue armor gleaming in the morning sun. Quigby had come to rely on the huge noncom, who, in spite of his criminal record, was clearly more trustworthy than the rest.
Lance Corporal Raynor was next in line, but a bit too smart for his own good and therefore presumptuous. It would be a long time before he was promoted.
Quigby was slightly disappointed to see that Doc Cassidy’s hardskin looked good. Her armor was different from all the rest; it had red crosses on both shoulders and the word medic emblazoned across her chest. Would that save her from a Kel-Morian rocket? No, probably not, but it was worth a try.
Suddenly Quigby felt slightly dizzy. Was it the Vilnorian curry he’d consumed the night before? Yes, probably. His mouth felt dry, so he drank some water, and was grateful when the vertigo disappeared.
Private Harnack’s red firebat suit was noticeably different from the blue armor the others wore, and not just because of the color. The tanks built into the hardskin gave it a bulky profile, which the enemy would soon learn to fear.
And then there was Private Ward, whose suit was equipped with two rocket launchers, one mounted on each shoulder. Both were capable of firing four fire-and-forget missiles. Just the thing for battling armored Kel-Morians, which Ward was clearly eager to do.
And so it went as Quigby eyed Zander and the rest of squad one before turning his attention to squad two. That was when the dizziness returned. He staggered and nearly lost his balance. Sergeant Stetman, who was in charge of the second squad, was there to steady him. “Are you okay, sir? Should I have Doc take a look?”
“I’m fine,” Quigby insisted impatiently, as he shook the noncom off. If there was a worse possibility than submitting himself to Cassidy’s not-so-tender ministrations, the officer couldn’t imagine what it was.
Besides, Colonel Vanderspool was in the process of reviewing the new battalion on the parade ground nearby. In fact, Quigby could hear the sound of martial music, the occasional clash of cymbals, and knew his father was among the VIPs seated near the carefully arranged buffet. And opportunities to impress General Quigby didn’t come along every day.
So Quigby fought off the vertigo and accompanying nausea long enough to complete a perfunctory inspection, checked the readout in the upper right-hand corner of his HUD, and saw that it was time to prepare for what was intended to be a very spectacular jump. The idea was to leap over the audience as the last of the battalion’s conventional troops marched past, and land facing the VIPs in perfect formation! It was the sort of thing that was bound to leave a lasting impression.
There was a problem, however, a very urgent problem, which Quigby was powerless to solve. Suddenly he needed to go to the bathroom! And unlike some combat suits that were equipped to recycle waste, the prototype was not. Sergeant Findlay could lead the troops, of course, but that would mean missing a rare opportunity to impress his father, so Quigby chose to gamble instead.
Thanks to the fact that the ceremonial jump had been practiced at least fifty times, the orders came naturally, as Quigby instructed the platoon to stand by, and watched the last few seconds tick away. Then, as he said, “Jump!” the entire platoon took to the air.
There wasn’t much to do on the way up, as thirty-six sets of armor soared over the line of trees that bordered the parade ground and quickly reached apogee. At that point it was necessary to cut power for a second and fire steering jets as gravity pulled the hardskins down. The problem was that Quigby had lost control of his bowels by then, along with the CMC-230-XE itself.
The result was an amazing and almost perfectly synchronized THUMP as thirty-five sets of boots hit the ground at once, each gleaming soldier standing at attention. All except for Quigby, that is, who landed on his back in the middle of the buffet table, thereby destroying it and showering all of the VIPs with flying food!
People began to scream.
That was bad enough, but the moment was made immeasurably worse when the suit’s onboard computer decided that Quigby was in need of immediate medical attention and blew itself open so that medical personnel could access his body. That left a mostly naked Quigby lying spread-eagled on top of the wreckage with a dazed expression on his face, and semi-liquid feces all over his light-colored pants. General Quigby was not amused. Nor was Colonel Vanderspool.
Without opening his visor, Tychus communicated with his squad over the comm. “Doc? What the hell happened? What’s wrong with Quigby? Over.”
There was a long moment of silence—followed by Cassidy’s voice. “It’s really hard to say, Sarge, but if I had to guess, I’d say it was something in the water. Over.”
That was followed by an explosion of laughter, the sound of an approaching siren, and an order from the battalion’s furious executive officer. The review was over.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“No question about it; I’m gonna be strong and tough and smart, and I’m gonna help all the farmers here get free from them bankers. Stick by your people: that’s what Pa says.”
FORT HOWE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II
The sun was low in the sky, shadows lay long on the ground, and the air was starting to cool as Lisa Cassidy prepared to leave the base. Although the nearby city of Whitford lay in ruins, and the Honky Tonk District that adjoined Fort Howe had suffered some collateral damage during the recent attack, the HTD—as the troops referred to it—was not only resilient but still open twenty-five hours a day. And as Doc slipped out through the west gate, the two-block-deep strip of tawdry bars, strip joints, and flophouses took her in.
The HTD was her real home in many respects, since none of the bartenders, thieves, or hookers who lived there thought less of Cassidy because she was a crab addict. On the contrary, they understood her in a way that her military buddies couldn’t. And that granted Doc a sort of sleazy legitimacy her fellow rangers couldn’t hope for and weren’t seeking.
Still, Cassidy liked the other members of her squad well enough, even if they were absurdly easy to manipulate. Something that made her feel slightly guilty but a bit smug, too. Because, at the end of the day, it was each person’s responsibility to look out for themselves.
And in her case that meant feeding Colonel Vanderspool a steady stream of information in return for relative freedom and a steady supply of crab. And that was a delicate task. Because if she said too much, her squad mates might find out, and if she said too little, Vanderspool would send her to a work camp.
“Hey, hottie, you need some company?” a soldier inquired hopefully, as Doc made her way past the sidewalk table where he and his buddies were seated.
“I’ll let you know if I get that desperate,” the medic said as she cleared the bar and took a right. She could hear the soldiers laughing as she followed a narrow passageway back between two buildings. It reeked of urine, was littered with empties, and decorated with graffiti.
The walkway emptied into a rather pleasant courtyard that fronted a restaurant called The Gourmand. The establishment was way too expensive for enlisted people, which was one of the reasons Vanderspool chose to eat there. That and the fact that his mistress had an apartment on the second floor.
So Cassidy weaved between linen-covered tables to the restaurant’s south wall, climbed a set of stairs to the second floor, and followed a wraparound balcony to the front of the building, just as she had on prior occasions. Vanderspool was sitting on a wicker chair near a pair of glass doors. They were open to the apartment beyond, and the faint strains of classical music could be heard from within.