In which the Sarge enjoys a quiet drink with an old friend...
Seven
I hadn’t checked in with any other member of the squad and although I knew Harrison was just along the corridor I wasn’t expecting visitors. Call me paranoid but I fished out my pistol before moving to the door, holding the weapon down against my right thigh.
This was standard accommodation, so the entrance didn’t have a view screen or intercom, just a low-tech spy hole to see who was outside. I didn’t have a peek, or even stand in front of it, instead sidling up to the door and jerking it open suddenly.
I stared. “Big Dog? What the ****?”
Marine Sergeant Don Mackenzie stood there grinning, brandishing an unlabelled bottle of clear liquid. “Woof, woof, asshole. Gonna’ invite me in or what?”
I laughed and stood aside, waving him in with my gun hand. “Mi casa es su casa,
dickhead”.
He eyed the weapon and raised an eyebrow. “You expecting trouble, Coop? I can make a few calls if you want to put together a reception committee, no questions asked.”
“Cheers, Mac, but I guess I’m just jumpy. Not enough down-time lately.“ I placed the gun on the shelf and gestured for him to take a seat on the sofa. Then it hit me. “Out of uniform, Mac? Jesus, I didn’t know you knew the meaning of smart but casual. Don’t tell me you got busted?”
“Hey, at least I own a suit, unlike some people I could mention. Nah, but you’re right, Coop, I’m not Corp no more. Put in my papers two weeks ago.”
I flopped down in the armchair opposite him. “You? No way. I had you pegged as a lifer.”
He placed his bottle on the low table between us. “Yeah, well, things change. After your crew rotated off Leander the Four-One kept stomping on the insurgents until the whole Earth thing went down. Man, talk about panic amongst the brass. We were confined to barracks and everyone with strong homeworld ties got transferred out. Then they recognised the new provisional government and then, I kid you not, they announced we were to train up the new Leander militia. Permanent assignment with a bonus should you transfer into the home-grown military.”
“As in former terrorists?”
“As in those assholes we’d spent months fighting, yeah. Well, that was it for me and I decided to get out ahead of any ‘truth and reconciliation’ hearings.”
I let out a long sigh. “Man, end of an era. End of. An era.”
“You’re telling me. Which is why when I saw your name on the list of billeted personnel I decided to come calling.“ He gestured at the bottle. “As a Greek, bearing gifts. Approximate vodka, the best that Leander can furnish. Almost guaranteed non-toxic and even has a nodding acquaintance with organic ingredients. Once it’s gone we will not see its like again.”
“I like your style, Mac. Wait one.” In the galley kitchen I managed to scare up a shot glass for Mac and a plastic beaker for myself. He spun the cap on his bottle so that it spiralled off, bounced on the table, and was lost. Mac poured me a generous measure, then one for himself. I raised my beaker. “A toast. To the Earth Alliance Marine Corps.”
He raised his glass. “Big guns, bigger problems.”
We tossed back the colourless spirit and I coughed, my vision blurry for a moment. “Smooth. Travels well.”
Mac’s voice was little more than a whisper. “My, but that sure improves with age.”
We were silent for a moment as the fire in our guts subsided, then he sat back, looking a little sheepish. “Tell you the truth, Coop, my being here isn’t just a social call.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, I got recruited by one of the new military corporations. Darker Suns. Their commercial arm has been around forever but they’re recently set up a security division. Serious kit. Couple of Marine support tenders, some frigates, handful of destroyers. They asked me to come see you, make you an offer.”
I laughed, a little bitterly. “Man oh man. Somehow I don’t see myself as a corporate security consultant, you either.”
He shook his head. “If they’re recruiting people like you and me, Coop, then Darker Suns has a shooting war planned, sooner rather than later. They’re taking on former Marines big time, all equipped with regular Alliance kit. Best part of a battalion so far, with a powerful need for experienced NCO’s. Master Sergeant pay scale, plus equivalent pension, plus hiring-on bonus. I said I’d lay it out for you, as a friend.”
“I hear ya’, Mac, I hear ya’.” I inspected the bottom of my cup. “No offence, my man, and no reflection on you, but I’m Corp. Just the way things are, just the way they’re gonna’ stay.”
My friend nodded and poured both of us another measure. He lifted his glass. “A toast. End of an era.”
“End of an era.” I brought the beaker to my lips and maybe it was a reaction with the plastic but there was an evil-looking sheen to the vodka. “Jesus, Mac, what is this stuff?”
He grinned. “An acquired taste I admit. Best you keep throwing it straight back before your senses realise what a bad idea it is.”
Mac is a crap card player. He’s got the open, innocent face down pat but get him to speak and you can pick up if he’s excited or stressed, easy as anything. The Mac sitting opposite was stressed to the max. His left hand unbuttoned his jacket and there was the hint of a pistol tucked into his waistband.
My gut twisted like I’d been kicked. I gestured with my drink, leaning forward in my chair. “How many of these before I hit the floor?”
He sighed, sounding almost relieved. “Just a few, even for you. I’m loaded up on Anabuse and it’ll just make me puke. Look, Coop, Darker Suns have got a serious hard-on for you. My orders are if I can’t bring you in then I’m to take you out.”
“Orders? You trying to make murder sound legit-“
Mac went for his gun in a cross-belly draw, dropping his glass and lifting that hand to shield his face against the expected thrown drink. I didn’t bother and jerked forward, closing the distance, chopping at his left wrist. He grunted, the pistol dropping from nerveless fingers, and smashed his right fist into the side of my face. From a seated position the blow lacked true force but it was hard enough to send me staggering.
He stood, flexing his fingers, and we faced each other for a moment. “Better this way, Coop.” He reached into the back of his waistband and produced a combat knife in each hand. I backed up as far as the galley kitchen, grabbing two mismatched knives from the block.
We fought. We fought Marine style; elbows close together, hands shielding the face, knives held so the blades lay along the forearms. It’s a blocking, parrying stance, lending itself to quick jabs and back-hand blows. And kicks. A heavy Marine boot can crack bone and rupture blood vessels, but neither Mac nor I were dressed for the part.
We fought. One man then the other would press home with a flurry of blows, the only sound being the chink-chink of blade-on-blade and our breathing. No insults, no taunts, no witty rejoinders.
If I had a plan it was to force him far enough back and make a grab for the gun lying there on the carpet. My own weapon was by the door, behind Mac, and way out of reach. Not a long-term plan though, as his kicks were having more effect - even civilian shoes are better than bare feet. I closed in, striking hard, driving him into the space between armchair and table where he didn’t have room for fancy leg action.
Chink-ping.
The blade of the bread knife in my right sheared off. I jumped back, ditching the useless handle and holding my hand in an open fist. I saw his weight shift and knew he was going to lead with his left; an obvious move but no less effective for it.
I snatched up the vodka bottle, swinging at him over-arm, feeling the cold fluid pour down my skin. He blocked instinctively, still in knife-fighting mode, and the glass shattered on his raised blade. Alcohol splashed his eyes and Mac roared in pain, blind, slashing at me with his right. I didn’t get behind his blow properly, my stance all wrong, and the impact drove my own left fist back into my face. I tried to give ground, roll with it, but the table hemmed me in and I overbalanced; falling, glancing off the furniture, the floor coming up to meet me, remaining knife gone.
I twisted on the carpet, scrabbled for the gun, turning to face him, aiming. Mac stood there, eyes red and blinking, breathing heavily, hands by his sides. We looked at each other down the years.
I shot my friend one-two-three in the chest.
Mac coughed and sank to his knees, still staring at me. It can take a man two minutes to die and I wasn’t prepared to watch that.
Single shot, forehead.
My friend pitched forward onto the carpet and lay there, blood spreading out over the cheap pile.
I remembered to breathe.
Seven
I hadn’t checked in with any other member of the squad and although I knew Harrison was just along the corridor I wasn’t expecting visitors. Call me paranoid but I fished out my pistol before moving to the door, holding the weapon down against my right thigh.
This was standard accommodation, so the entrance didn’t have a view screen or intercom, just a low-tech spy hole to see who was outside. I didn’t have a peek, or even stand in front of it, instead sidling up to the door and jerking it open suddenly.
I stared. “Big Dog? What the ****?”
Marine Sergeant Don Mackenzie stood there grinning, brandishing an unlabelled bottle of clear liquid. “Woof, woof, asshole. Gonna’ invite me in or what?”
I laughed and stood aside, waving him in with my gun hand. “Mi casa es su casa,
dickhead”.
He eyed the weapon and raised an eyebrow. “You expecting trouble, Coop? I can make a few calls if you want to put together a reception committee, no questions asked.”
“Cheers, Mac, but I guess I’m just jumpy. Not enough down-time lately.“ I placed the gun on the shelf and gestured for him to take a seat on the sofa. Then it hit me. “Out of uniform, Mac? Jesus, I didn’t know you knew the meaning of smart but casual. Don’t tell me you got busted?”
“Hey, at least I own a suit, unlike some people I could mention. Nah, but you’re right, Coop, I’m not Corp no more. Put in my papers two weeks ago.”
I flopped down in the armchair opposite him. “You? No way. I had you pegged as a lifer.”
He placed his bottle on the low table between us. “Yeah, well, things change. After your crew rotated off Leander the Four-One kept stomping on the insurgents until the whole Earth thing went down. Man, talk about panic amongst the brass. We were confined to barracks and everyone with strong homeworld ties got transferred out. Then they recognised the new provisional government and then, I kid you not, they announced we were to train up the new Leander militia. Permanent assignment with a bonus should you transfer into the home-grown military.”
“As in former terrorists?”
“As in those assholes we’d spent months fighting, yeah. Well, that was it for me and I decided to get out ahead of any ‘truth and reconciliation’ hearings.”
I let out a long sigh. “Man, end of an era. End of. An era.”
“You’re telling me. Which is why when I saw your name on the list of billeted personnel I decided to come calling.“ He gestured at the bottle. “As a Greek, bearing gifts. Approximate vodka, the best that Leander can furnish. Almost guaranteed non-toxic and even has a nodding acquaintance with organic ingredients. Once it’s gone we will not see its like again.”
“I like your style, Mac. Wait one.” In the galley kitchen I managed to scare up a shot glass for Mac and a plastic beaker for myself. He spun the cap on his bottle so that it spiralled off, bounced on the table, and was lost. Mac poured me a generous measure, then one for himself. I raised my beaker. “A toast. To the Earth Alliance Marine Corps.”
He raised his glass. “Big guns, bigger problems.”
We tossed back the colourless spirit and I coughed, my vision blurry for a moment. “Smooth. Travels well.”
Mac’s voice was little more than a whisper. “My, but that sure improves with age.”
We were silent for a moment as the fire in our guts subsided, then he sat back, looking a little sheepish. “Tell you the truth, Coop, my being here isn’t just a social call.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, I got recruited by one of the new military corporations. Darker Suns. Their commercial arm has been around forever but they’re recently set up a security division. Serious kit. Couple of Marine support tenders, some frigates, handful of destroyers. They asked me to come see you, make you an offer.”
I laughed, a little bitterly. “Man oh man. Somehow I don’t see myself as a corporate security consultant, you either.”
He shook his head. “If they’re recruiting people like you and me, Coop, then Darker Suns has a shooting war planned, sooner rather than later. They’re taking on former Marines big time, all equipped with regular Alliance kit. Best part of a battalion so far, with a powerful need for experienced NCO’s. Master Sergeant pay scale, plus equivalent pension, plus hiring-on bonus. I said I’d lay it out for you, as a friend.”
“I hear ya’, Mac, I hear ya’.” I inspected the bottom of my cup. “No offence, my man, and no reflection on you, but I’m Corp. Just the way things are, just the way they’re gonna’ stay.”
My friend nodded and poured both of us another measure. He lifted his glass. “A toast. End of an era.”
“End of an era.” I brought the beaker to my lips and maybe it was a reaction with the plastic but there was an evil-looking sheen to the vodka. “Jesus, Mac, what is this stuff?”
He grinned. “An acquired taste I admit. Best you keep throwing it straight back before your senses realise what a bad idea it is.”
Mac is a crap card player. He’s got the open, innocent face down pat but get him to speak and you can pick up if he’s excited or stressed, easy as anything. The Mac sitting opposite was stressed to the max. His left hand unbuttoned his jacket and there was the hint of a pistol tucked into his waistband.
My gut twisted like I’d been kicked. I gestured with my drink, leaning forward in my chair. “How many of these before I hit the floor?”
He sighed, sounding almost relieved. “Just a few, even for you. I’m loaded up on Anabuse and it’ll just make me puke. Look, Coop, Darker Suns have got a serious hard-on for you. My orders are if I can’t bring you in then I’m to take you out.”
“Orders? You trying to make murder sound legit-“
Mac went for his gun in a cross-belly draw, dropping his glass and lifting that hand to shield his face against the expected thrown drink. I didn’t bother and jerked forward, closing the distance, chopping at his left wrist. He grunted, the pistol dropping from nerveless fingers, and smashed his right fist into the side of my face. From a seated position the blow lacked true force but it was hard enough to send me staggering.
He stood, flexing his fingers, and we faced each other for a moment. “Better this way, Coop.” He reached into the back of his waistband and produced a combat knife in each hand. I backed up as far as the galley kitchen, grabbing two mismatched knives from the block.
We fought. We fought Marine style; elbows close together, hands shielding the face, knives held so the blades lay along the forearms. It’s a blocking, parrying stance, lending itself to quick jabs and back-hand blows. And kicks. A heavy Marine boot can crack bone and rupture blood vessels, but neither Mac nor I were dressed for the part.
We fought. One man then the other would press home with a flurry of blows, the only sound being the chink-chink of blade-on-blade and our breathing. No insults, no taunts, no witty rejoinders.
If I had a plan it was to force him far enough back and make a grab for the gun lying there on the carpet. My own weapon was by the door, behind Mac, and way out of reach. Not a long-term plan though, as his kicks were having more effect - even civilian shoes are better than bare feet. I closed in, striking hard, driving him into the space between armchair and table where he didn’t have room for fancy leg action.
Chink-ping.
The blade of the bread knife in my right sheared off. I jumped back, ditching the useless handle and holding my hand in an open fist. I saw his weight shift and knew he was going to lead with his left; an obvious move but no less effective for it.
I snatched up the vodka bottle, swinging at him over-arm, feeling the cold fluid pour down my skin. He blocked instinctively, still in knife-fighting mode, and the glass shattered on his raised blade. Alcohol splashed his eyes and Mac roared in pain, blind, slashing at me with his right. I didn’t get behind his blow properly, my stance all wrong, and the impact drove my own left fist back into my face. I tried to give ground, roll with it, but the table hemmed me in and I overbalanced; falling, glancing off the furniture, the floor coming up to meet me, remaining knife gone.
I twisted on the carpet, scrabbled for the gun, turning to face him, aiming. Mac stood there, eyes red and blinking, breathing heavily, hands by his sides. We looked at each other down the years.
I shot my friend one-two-three in the chest.
Mac coughed and sank to his knees, still staring at me. It can take a man two minutes to die and I wasn’t prepared to watch that.
Single shot, forehead.
My friend pitched forward onto the carpet and lay there, blood spreading out over the cheap pile.
I remembered to breathe.
