The Mag Comm filtered the limited data it received from the remote sensors scattered throughout Free Space. Something had gone wrong. Data began rerunning in the giant banks; one after another, predictive models had to be rejected out of hand. What could have thrown the carefully derived calculations into such flux? The data had been so precise, the Others so sure.
Where had the mistake been made?
The Mag Comm's activity increased. Who had made the mistake?
Chapter 9
Sinklar braced himself against the bed and stood. The two weeks he'd spent in the hospital would hold him for the rest of his life. Inflamed pink and red scar tissue mottled his left side in an irregular pattern. Experiencing a reverential awe, Sinklar ran his fingers over the tight surface of the angry flesh, marveling at the smooth texture he touched.
That's my body. Rebel blasters did that to me. Funny, during the running, I never knew I was so badly injured. It should have hurt. I should have been screaming from pain.
He took one last glance at the putrid green of the hospital walls and reached for his clothing. The undersmock rested gently on his skin as he pulled it over his head. Sinklar slipped into fresh new combat armor, unhappy with the stiffness in his arms and legs. The hospital unit they'd cocooned him in had also built more brawn on his thin lanky limbs. Electromagnetic cellular stimulation and increased vascularization of the striated muscle tissue occurred as a side effect of the healing process. He cocked his head, happy that the machine had finally tended to his ruptured ear. Even the ringing had disappeared.
He checked himself in the mirror. He looked fit as he strapped the weapons belt onto his lean hips. In the reflection, his long pensive face stared back the same as it always had: one eye gray, the other a tawny yellow. His wispy brown hair glinted with slight tints of red, his nose a bit knobby at the end.
He walked down the hall to the assignment desk and handed his card to the chunky woman who sat behind the desk. She wore the insignia of a First Physician.
"Private Fist, Sinklar, Company B, Second Section, First Targan Assault Division," the woman observed, pulling his records from the file. She glanced up with flat blue eyes.
"I'm marking your file as Al — fit for combat. They want to see you in Operations, Personnel section. I'm notifying comm you're on the way."
"Thank you, ma'am," Sinklar rapped out a salute and left, getting directions from a harried clerk-secretary in the hallway.
A bustle of new people scurried through the halls of the converted concert hall they'd made into the Regan Expeditionary Headquarters. Rega had responded with a vengeance after the virtual annihilation of the first pacification divisions.
Outside Operations, he had to wait twenty minutes before being called in. A panel of five Personnel Second officers took his salute.
"Private Fist." One of the officers looked up from the comm monitor before speaking to the others behind a privacy screen. One by one they studied him, each hidden behind a bureaucratically-stiff face. "Would you please scan the following report and make a declaration of accuracy for the panel?"
Sinklar was handed a flimsy. Scanning the page, he read a general statement of his escape with MacRuder and Gretta up to the point when they were picked up by the patro craft.
"Accurate to my knowledge, sir, with the exception that I disagree with the final conclusion that I single-handedly saved their lives. We worked as a team. And one last correction, sir. I noticed that the report states and I quote, 'Private Fist's concern regarding the possible rebel strike to the post office command center was ignored by Sergeant Jeen Hamlish.' That wasn't the case, sir. I didn't have time to inform the sergeant." He handed the flimsy back.
The lead Personnel Second nodded. "Your objections are noted, Private." He looked at his colleagues who nodded one by one. "Further, considering those objections so stated, the board hereby promotes you to Sergeant Third of the Second Section of the First Targan Assault Division. Corporal First MacRuder of your Section will relinquish command to you at the D Block Barracks. Pick up your orders, promotion, and equipment at the Supply Depot. Dismissed."
Sinklar snapped a salute, swallowed, and left at a trot. It
took more questioning to find Supply. After he made his way through the line, they handed him sergeant's chevrons, a new assault rifle, and compete field pack, including orders. Dazed, he finally found D block — a commandeered residential section just behind the energy barriers of the perimeter. And a seedy one at that, he thought, seeing a private clearing old bedding platforms from what had obviously been a whorehouse.
Halfway up the barracks steps, he heard MacRuder's barking voice. Turning, he spotted the corporal running a bunch of wide-eyed, panting privates across the open square where trollops had once hawked their bodies.
"Hey! Mac!" Sinklar raised a hand.
"Cump'neeeee, halt MacRuder's voice bawled over the pounding feet. "Sink! You're alive!" MacRuder started over at a trot. He stopped short at the chevrons and whistled. "By the Rotted Gods, they made you a sergeant. I was happy enough to make Corporal First."
"Yeah, they told me I'm your commander." He dropped his gaze awkwardly. What trouble did this brew for his newfound friendship. "Um, look I…"
"Shut up. I recommended it. Wonder how it happened they listened to a lowly Corporal First?" MacRuder turned and looked over his squad where they watched curiously. "Gretta and I, well, we're alive because of your leadership, Sink." He smiled. "I'm not enough of a crud that I don't recognize when I owe somebody my ass — at least, not yet anyway. And I like working with you. We make a great team."
"Yeah. Gretta's okay?"
MacRuder's eyes glinted. "Yeah, and she's been worried sick about you. They made her Corporal First, too. She's in charge of A Group and I've got B.", Sinklar shook his head. "I don't get it. Why all the promotions?"
MacRuder's smile fell. " 'Cause we're veterans, pal. We're still alive. Promotions come fast when a division takes almost ninety percent casualties. You, me, and Gretta are all that's left of the Second Section, Sink. Nobody else made it out of the Gods Rotted post office. Just us."
"Blessed Etarus!"
"Yeah, and you keep us alive. Gretta and me, well, we're counting on it."
"Anything I should know?" Sinklar asked, oddly nervous at the sudden responsibility that had dropped on him like so many bricks out of a crumbling wait.
"Yep, we're headed out tonight at dusk. I had orders to wait for a new CO.
That's you, buddy. Division First Atkin has ordered us to take a position on a road up in the hills. It's some sort of pass between here and the back country. They think the rebels are using it to get supplies into the city. Our ob is to cut that supply ine and hold it."
At his words two LCs roared overhead in a wide sweep, wings spreading and gear dropping. Sink had a sudden understanding of why D Block had been chosen for a staging barracks. LCs could land in the open square.
"Get the bloody hell out of the way, you bastards!" MacRuder ordered, waving his still standing troops out of the square. They scattered as the LCs settled in a vortex of dust and grit.
"Dumb!" MacRuder cursed. "Targans will rip these sheep apart!" And he left to berate his huddled command.
A ramp dropped and a flight tech came bouncing down and out. "That all of them?" he called over the growl of the LCs. "There's supposed,to be a whole Section!"
"All of who?" Sink asked.