Kydd’s prophecy came true as a small army of green blobs broke cover and were forced to weave their way between headstones as they sprinted forward. In the wake of the attack on Fort Howe, and the theft of the trucks, the team had been quick to bond. Now, faced with another common enemy, it was as though they had been fighting for years.
“I have them,” Ward rumbled, and fired a rocket. The range was so short the missile barely had time to arm itself before striking the first attacker and exploding.
Raynor’s visor automatically dampened the sudden flash of light, thereby preserving his vision. Once the explosion was over, only three blobs were visible, all running away. “Let ’em go, Ryk,” Raynor said, “and come on down. We have what we came for. Let’s get out of here.”
Kydd, whose finger had already been in the process of tightening around the two-stage trigger, let go. Then, as the targets disappeared into ruins out beyond the graveyard, a question occurred to him. The hijackers, if that’s what they were, had been running away. So why was he about to fire on them? Was it a game now? Made easy because blobs aren’t people? The answer was painfully obvious. The problem was that he didn’t feel all that guilty about it.
Kydd got up, made his way downstairs, and followed Raynor through the much-abused double doors. His buddies were waiting, the engine roared, and cool air wrapped him in a chilly embrace. The chapel, still radiating warmth collected during daylight hours, continued to glow.
FORT HOWE, ON THE PLANET TURAXIS II
Tychus liked Lisa Cassidy from the moment he first saw her. It was during the morning muster, and she was already present when the rest of the platoon arrived, standing at parade rest behind Lieutenant Quigby, who always made a point out of being there first. The medic was pretty, for one thing, and judging from the way she filled out her uniform, she was shapely as well. Qualities that Tychus was always on the lookout for.
But in addition to Cassidy’s obvious physical appeal, there was her attitude, which the entire platoon got a preview of when Quigby launched into one of his rants. This particular lecture was focused on the horrors of venereal disease, the negative impact that sexual relationships could have on unit cohesion, and the need for abstinence on the part of the entire platoon. That was when Doc came to attention and delivered a one-fingered salute to the officer’s back, before returning to parade rest.
It was all that Raynor, Harnack, and the rest of them could do to keep from breaking out into laughter as Quigby finished his sermon and turned to introduce the medic. “Petty Officer Cassidy will monitor each one of you for symptoms,” the officer said sternly, “and report them to me. I should add that she’s part of an experiment to see if medics should be added to the table of organization for standard infantry units, and we’re lucky to have her.”
Not too surprisingly, Cassidy—upon whom Tychus had bestowed the nickname “Doc”—was invited to join Tychus, Raynor, and the rest of them as they left Fort Howe that evening. By the time they returned to base, Tychus had a possessive arm draped across the medic’s shoulders, and, judging from her expression, she was happy with the arrangement. A fact that was something of a disappointment to Harnack, who would otherwise have taken a run at her. The whole thing was smoothly done, and when Doc made her first report to Vanderspool, he smiled.
More than two weeks had passed since the sale in Whitford. Long, hard weeks for everyone, including Lieutenant Quigby, Hiram Feek, and, to a lesser extent, Tychus, all of whom served as instructors. But once the steadily growing platoon mastered the CMC-225s, and graduated to the new CMC-230 series suits, Tychus went from instructor to student overnight. Because the Thunderstrike armor required a whole new set of skills—as crash after painful crash proved. It took both experience and good judgment to decide exactly how much power to apply during liftoff, maintain what Feek called “a heads-up posture” during transit, and to land without “making an ungodly mess” as Quigby referred to “non-compliant landings.”
And Quigby was a stickler. Everyone suffered under his arrogant tutelage, but no one more than Doc Cassidy. The reason for that wasn’t entirely clear, but probably had something to do with her lack of respect for him, which she signaled in subtle and not so subtle ways. Like forgetting to salute, call him “sir,” or comply with regulations that she considered to be stupid.
As a result Quigby rode her constantly, always looking for fault, and always finding it. That made Doc angry, which led to the incident in which he was forced to take a full course of inoculations all over again because his medical records had been “lost.”
It had gotten so bad that Quigby tried to have Cassidy transferred out, only to have the request turned down by the company commander, who claimed that Colonel Vanderspool was “monitoring the situation.” Whatever that meant.
But now, as the officer sucked a mouthful of water through the tube in his helmet and swallowed it, he had every reason to feel proud as he made his way down the line of fully armored soldiers that comprised the mixed-forced battalion known as the 321st Colonial Rangers.
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.