“I figure we should hang back, let the resocs die for the Confederacy, and live to fight another day,” Tychus replied.
“They may be mind-zapped, but they aren’t dogs,” Raynor objected. “They’re people, just like you and me.”
“Are they?” Tychus inquired cynically. “You saw Rockwell’s guys. I’m not so sure.”
Raynor sighed. “If you’re done eating my lunch, let’s go inside. It’s raining out here.”
The cavernous high-speed tube station had once been the backbone of south Polk’s Pride. It boasted twelve parallel arrival and departure stations, plus an equal number of tracks, all accessed by escalators and bridges. The walls were covered with colorful murals, each of which was a landscape inspired by a different region, all harkening back to the days before the fighting. And unlike what Doc had seen earlier that day, the underground facility was untouched by the wars except for the fact that more than a thousand troops were housed in the vast lobby, the arcades located to either side of it, and the tunnels themselves.
Cave-ins, both accidental and intentional, meant that the underground tubes through which crowded trains once roared were silent now and home to nothing more than a few hardy eccentrics and a legion of flesh-eating rats. Animals that had grown fat on the dead bodies that littered the area bordering the river.
Cassidy shivered at the thought of them as she followed a frozen escalator down onto platform two, and from there out along an island of concrete toward the train that was parked next to it. A sign proclaimed that she was about to travel on the “Yellow Line,” which, had it been operational, would have carried her to Picket, Traverston, Oakwood, and the suburbs beyond.
Because the city was so crowded, there weren’t any open areas upon which a command center could be built. So Vanderspool had been forced to take up residence in the underground tube station.
A couple of marines were on sentry duty outside the train where his office was located. Cassidy immediately recognized them as belonging to the colonel’s newly created “color guard.” Though theoretically charged with protecting the battalion’s colors in battle, that was a largely ceremonial function, and no longer relevant to the way battles were being fought.
No, the real function of the platoon-size unit was to serve as Vanderspool’s personal bodyguards, both on and off the field of battle. And, judging from the intensity with which the men greeted her, the rumors were true. They were not only resocialized, they were willing converts, which was to say, fanatics. “Hold it right there,” a weasel-faced corporal said, with one hand on his sidearm. “This is a restricted area.”
“Yeah,” Doc replied, “I know. My name is Cassidy. Colonel Vanderspool sent for me.”
That was true, and a subject of some concern for the medic, since repeated trips to see Vanderspool would be noticed by Tychus and the rest. But only three days had passed since the battalion’s arrival and there hadn’t been any opportunity to set up an alternate system. “Scan her,” the noncom instructed, as he examined his Handheld Personal Information-Gathering and Navigation Unit, otherwise known as a Pig.
The scanner flicked across Doc’s eyes and she heard a soft beep. “Her name is Cassidy,” the second marine said, “and she’s a medic.”
“Roger that,” the corporal said evenly. Then, having turned his attention to Doc, his eyes narrowed. “You’re two minutes late, Petty Officer Cassidy. You can do better. Perfection is within our grasp.”
Doc eyed him emotionlessly. “Flick you, Corporal … and the private you rode in on.”
The resoc shook his head sadly, apparently unable to understand why she was so hostile, and stood to one side as the medic brushed past him and entered the streamlined car beyond.
The car’s interior was much as it had been before the wars, except for the fact that all of the seats had been torn out and replaced with mismatched office furniture salvaged from the surrounding office buildings. The same corporal who’d been in charge of Vanderspool’s office back at Fort Howe looked up from a tidy desktop. She nodded politely. “Have a seat… . The colonel’s meeting is running long. It should be over any minute now.”
Cassidy shot the cutesy, pug-nosed girl a fake smile and sat down on one of two chairs. Unlike the last time she had met with Vanderspool, her crab supply was sufficient to get her through the next few days. Then, with the new stuff that she was about to receive, Doc figured she’d have some cushion. And that would feel good.
“You can enter now,” the corporal said, as a well-dressed civilian left.
Cassidy said, “Thank you,” and made her way along the left side of the car. More than half its width had been walled off to create an office for Vanderspool. The door consisted of a curtain that was pushed to one side. Doc knocked on a side window, heard Vanderspool say, “Come!” and entered a long, narrow space with an executive-style desk at one end of it.
She was about to come to attention but Vanderspool waved the formality off. The officer was in his military mode, as was apparent from the fact that he addressed her as “Cassidy,” rather than “My dear.”
“Have a seat, Cassidy,” Vanderspool said, as he pointed at the chair in front of him. “I must say that I’ve been looking forward to this meeting. Having scanned all the after-action reports, I know Overseer Brucker was killed during the raid on KIC-36. What I don’t know is how he died. Did his heart fail? That’s what Sergeant Findlay told the debriefers. Or was there some other cause?”
Cassidy answered the question by giving Vanderspool a blow-by-blow account of Brucker’s death, starting with the leg wound, and finishing with the words she had whispered into his ear. “Damn!” Vanderspool responded happily. “I love it! I assumed you’d have to shoot him. Could you tell if he understood?”
Doc nodded. “There’s no doubt about it, sir… . His eyes bulged, and he tried to say something, just before his heart stopped.”
“Then it was a heart attack,” Vanderspool exclaimed. “Well done… . You saw those POWs. The bastard deserved it.”
Cassidy had to agree, although the message she’d been asked to deliver to the dead man made Vanderspool’s motive very clear—it wasn’t a desire to seek revenge on behalf of the prisoners, but for himself. Just how dirty is this guy? she wondered. Business deals with Kel-Morians, spying on his own battalion, resocialized marines popping up all over the goddamn place …
“Here you go,” Vanderspool said, as he opened a drawer and withdrew a small metal box. “It’s payday. But be careful,” the officer added, as he pushed the container across the surface of the desk. “I wouldn’t want you to die of an overdose.”
“Thank you, sir,” Doc said dryly, as she accepted the box and slipped it into a pocket. “Your concern is very touching.”
“Watch your mouth, Cassidy,” Vanderspool warned sternly. “And remember your place. You may be useful, but you’re a crab junkie nonetheless, and a disposable one at that. Now, what else do you have for me?”
Doc’s lips were suddenly dry and she ran her tongue across them. “It’s about Private Kydd, sir.”
Vanderspool frowned. “The sniper?”
“Yes, sir. The way I understand it, Kydd was at basic with Raynor and Harnack. Back then Kydd claimed to be a guy named Ark Bennet. According to the story he told people at the time, he was drugged and sold to a Marine Corps recruiter.”
Vanderspool’s eyebrows rose. “Did you say Bennet? As in Bennet Industries?”