“Tell me more about these divisions.”
Kumar turns aside and says nothing. He looks like he doesn’t want to be reminded of something.
I look to Borden.
“Six divisions of Wait Staff report to the Gurus,” Borden says. “Together, they carry out the Gurus’ instructions, plan big plans, and interface with governments and leaders.”
“What’s Division Six?”
“Logistics and other affairs internal to Wait Staff.”
“Mostly civilians?”
“Mostly,” Borden says.
Kumar sinks deeper into his gloom.
“What kind of civilians?” I ask.
“Some were part of the original greeting parties, back in the desert days. Others were selected by the Gurus after the revelations, with special assignments and privileges. Division Four was like PSYOP.”
“Oh,” I say. “Who controls the war effort?”
“Division Four,” Borden says.
“The war is part of PSYOP?”
Kumar closes his eyes and looks sleepy.
Borden says, “Yeah. All meshed together. Eventually, some of us got tired of our own bullshit and started asking questions.”
“Enough about our questions,” Kumar says. “All will be obvious soon enough.”
I doubt that.
Hissing and clicking noises starboard. We resume our rotation. In the final quarter of our turn, with no more surprises possible this side of something really weird—hyperspace, electron spin space!—I see a much more familiar sight, three space frames tied to a big spent matter booster. Looks like we’re in for prep tanks, rotisseries, tubes…
I let out a groan. “That?”
“Our troops are already aboard and asleep,” Kumar says. “We’ll join them in the next hour. If all things work well—”
“Which they rarely do,” Borden says.
“If we get our job done,” Kumar persists, “then one or both of those other monsters might join us and carry us farther out into the solar system.”
“Why all the show, then?” I ask, trying to be blasé and not succeeding.
“Different kind of war out there,” Borden says. “The weapons are big. Everything is just… big.”
“What the hell are we up against?” I ask, glancing between them.
“Nothing much, at the moment,” Kumar says. “Right now Titan is undefended. Few if any surviving Earth forces, and apparently no Antags.”
“Something pushed a big button,” Borden says. “A button marked ‘delete.’”
“Or ‘reboot,’” Kumar adds.
“Something?”
Borden lifts an eyebrow, like maybe I have an explanation. A clue. That really makes me sweat.
Our lifter falls into deep shadow. We’ve closed the distance and now we’re linking up. More hissing and grappling. Long guide ramps swing around and lock on to our craft, and with a scrape like fingernails on slate, the transfer tube fastens around the hatch. The hatch slams open. My ears go through their usual discontent, and our seats release us with reluctant sighs.
“Time to go,” Kumar says, pushing past.
Borden looks ready to be sick again, but manages to keep it down.
The rest is familiar—to me. Humans take over. Prep teams float us to a pressurized work tank where cordons of vac techs, hooked foot and hip to cables that run the length of the tank, administer injections and brusquely ask how we’re feeling, in general, whether we’ve eaten in the last few hours, how much alcohol have we consumed in the last week, do we have allergies, have we experienced adverse reactions to Cosmoline?
The techs tell us to strip. Personal effects will not be preserved—should have left them home. Too easily, I fall back into the old, old routine. But it’s brand-new to Kumar and Borden and they look like sheep being prodded down the chute to slaughter. Rugged. And gratifying, sort of. Still, I know nothing about our mission. I have yet to get my orders, much less any sort of decent briefing. We’re heading somewhere—presumably Mars—and when we get there we will do mumbly-mumble—and then if that all turns out well, maybe we’ll go somewhere else. Somewhere far away. Maybe on the creepy-looking, beautiful Spook. Or inside Box.
The cordon pushes the three of us along none too gently, despite the fact that for the moment we’re the only victims in line. Rank hath no privileges here, and after the first few injections we’re propelled by casual, expert hands toward a slowly rotating bank of transparent cylinders at the aft end of the tank. One by one, techs fold our arms and legs, tell us to hold still, and prepare to slip us into bags. A pipette not-so-gently squeezes past my ass cheeks and shoves into my rectum. A hydraulic mask clips over mouth and nose. Nozzles on the bag poke out to receive Cosmoline. With a couple of brisk pinches, a head clamp settles around my ears and I feel thick gel worm into my ear canals. I don’t mind. I’m already dopey, feeling no pain and not much concern, except for the usual hope that I don’t wake up before it’s over. I’ve taught myself to play blackjack in my head, but pretty soon I can no longer keep track of the cards.
Then the old cool goop slurps into the cylinder and smears out against my skin. I smell cloves and lemon vodka—the usual. Soon I’m chilly all over. Then everything warms nicely. Warm and cozy.
Hello, sleep! My old friend…
Sweet dreams—long and dark and slow.
THE NEXT THING I know, I’m being decanted. My bag is popped and stripped and I’m hauled aside. Rough hands throw me into the car wash, where rotating cloths slap me awake and sponge off the goop.
Groggy, I look for my squad, anyone familiar…. Where the hell are they? Lots of faces! Grunts aplenty, and then I stop seeing triple and realize there’s maybe twenty of us, male and female, several different races, about half Asian—all naked, tense, shivering, and complaining, some loudly.
I recognize one officer from training in Hawaii—try to recall her name. Naveen something—Naveen Jacobi. That’s it. Slender, blond, close-spaced black eyes, corded shoulders and arms, long legs. Tough and distant.
One Asian is a Winter Soldier. Almost half of her body—one arm, one leg, half her head—is composite or metal. She’s cut her hair to match the plastic fuzz-lines on her composite cranium. Her organic eye is wide and very black; maybe she’s tinted the sclera. The fake eye is closely matched. She must have survived horrible wounds somewhere on Earth—maybe in training. We don’t bring them back from the Red when they’re that badly injured. She’s sleek, shiny, modesty minus. She’ll never really be naked again. Hard time peeling my eyes away. She sticks close to two females and two males. They fought or trained together. Typically, they’ve tattooed dead buddies’ names all over their torsos and legs. Tough crew.
Also waiting to be processed are four males, two young and skinny and scared, two in their late twenties or early thirties who look elaborately bored. Small load. Peewee drop. Usually, each decant delivers two hundred and females fly separate from males, but we’ve been given special dispensation.
As my eyes focus, I see Borden join the lineup. She’s five grunts away, beside Jacobi; the commander has nice but not spectacular breasts. Tries to cover her privates. Good luck with that. I turn to find Kumar. There he is—pale and pudgy. Makes no attempt to cover himself. Who the fuck cares. He seems just a tetch peeved, like someone’s delivered his Scotch sans rocks.
More techs in padded outfits like dog attack suits move down the lines. Grunts fresh out of Cosmoline can behave poorly. Sometimes we bite. Anyone who misbehaves will be spun like a top and pushed out of line to a recovery team—which injects more enthusiasm—and gradually, if not under control, will be spun into another tank, smaller, older, smells different—smells less like Cosmoline and more like shit and sweat and despair. But everyone’s tip-top. No wingnuts and no spaz. And so we’re rewarded with skintights dispensed by another pair of techs, blank-eyed and long past weary of slapping and sponging and injecting—looking forward to end of watch, to finishing this tour and hooking up with the next return shuttle. Maybe they go easier on each other when they return. Probably not.