Sergeant Fallon turns her palms up in a “there you have it” gesture, and I digest this information for a few moments.
“HD grunts are the main muscle on the ground. They get enough battalions just sitting down and saying no, they won’t have any way to keep the welfare rats in the PRCs. Unless they start giving drop ships and infantry training to the city cops.”
“Exactly,” she says.
“So how did you end up on the shit list, Sarge?”
“Oh, hell, you know me,” she says with a smile. “I don’t think it was any particular thing, really. I’ve been a pain in Division’s ass since before you joined us. They say I have a problem with authority. I say I have a low tolerance for stupid.”
“What was the excuse?”
“Failure to comply with a direct order from a superior officer, conspiracy, blah blah blah. You know the mutinous company I told you about, the one that ended up shooting it out with another unit?”
“Yeah.”
“That was Bravo Company, from the 300th. The 365th was the one they called up first to smoke ’em out. You remember your old pal, Major Unwerth? He was the head Indian in charge at Battalion that day. I told my company commander that my platoon wouldn’t shoot at fellow HD grunts, and the captain came around to my viewpoint.”
She smiles again, this time with a spark of genuine joy in her eyes.
“God, it was such a pleasure to tell that useless sack of shit to go fuck himself. I may have even used the all-battalion channel. Terrible abuse of non-commissioned-officer-in-charge privileges.”
“Terrible,” I concur, and we both grin.
“He got the last laugh, of course. I spent a month in the brig after that. They didn’t want to give me a proper court-martial. Didn’t want the pictures of the sergeant with the Medal of Honor on her Class A standing before a tribunal. Plus, some of the NCOs from the 300th used the unlawful-order defense, and the media got wind of the whole thing somehow. So they let me out of the brig a few weeks later and handed me my marching orders. Dissolved the platoon, and spread us out all over the 330th. The whole battalion is nothing but obedience-challenged grunts from all over the brigade.”
“They’re not helping us out,” I conclude. “They’re getting rid of you.”
Sergeant Fallon shrugs.
“That way we’re not a bad influence on the units that still do as they’re told.”
“And you don’t cause the brass any sleepless nights, having to worry about a whole battalion turning on them and giving drop ships to the PRC militias.”
“Better to just shunt us off into space, get ground up by the Lankies, or cool our jets on some deserted rock far away from Earth. You got it, Grayson.”
“The question is—where the hell are they sending us? Where are they going to stick two battalions of combat troops they want to keep away from the rest of the corps?”
“Beats me,” Sergeant Fallon says. “All I know is that the corps is at the end of its rope, and so’s the entire Commonwealth. Things are going to come to a head pretty soon, and we’re getting ringside seats to that particular show.”
Overhead, the speakers of the shipboard announcement system pop to life with a brief squelch.
“Now hear this, now hear this. All hands, prepare for Alcubierre transition. Repeat, all hands prepare for Alcubierre transition. Infantry passengers, report to your assigned areas. Countdown twenty minutes.”
All the HD troopers in the room look at me, eager for some explanation of the unfamiliar protocol.
“We’re hitting the chute for FTL travel to wherever the hell we’re going.”
“How long is that going to take?” someone asks.
“No idea. Depends on the system. Could be two hours, could be twenty. They never tell you the destination ahead of time.”
Beyond the wall of crates making up the walls of the makeshift lounge, there’s the shuffling of many pairs of boots on the deck as the crewmembers of the Midway rush to their duty stations.
“Well, you heard the brass,” Sergeant Fallon says, and stands up to collect her armor plates. “Let’s go back to our little tent village and see where the rabbit hole pukes us out.”
She claps me on the back as she walks by.
“Good to see you again, Andrew. Maybe we’ll have some more time to catch up on things before the world completely goes to shit.”
I spend the last twenty minutes before our Alcubierre transition composing two last messages to Mom and Halley. I know they’ll most likely never leave the Midway’s neural-network data banks, but I send them anyway, just in case this is my last chance to say good-bye.
I will keep my promise. See you in six months. I love you.—Andrew
When I hit the send button on the message to my fiancée, I realize that this is the first time I’ve said those three words to her.
Wherever we’re going, I’m determined to come back from it, even if I have to shoulder aside every Lanky in the universe.
CHAPTER 15