Роберт Хайнлайн: Starship Troopers

“Yes, sir,” I agreed happily. “We hunt Bugs.”

“Johnnie!” he said sharply. “If you go hunting medals instead of Bugs — and I find out — you’re going to have a mighty sad-looking Form Thirty-One!”

“Captain,” I said earnestly. “I don’t ever want to win a medal. The idea is to hunt Bugs.”

“Right. Now quit bothering me.”

I called my platoon sergeant, explained the new limits under which we would work, told him to pass the word along and to make sure that each man’s suit was freshly charged, air and power.

“We’ve just finished that, sir. I suggest that we relieve the men with you.” He named three reliefs.

That was reasonable, as my ground listeners had had no time to recharge. But the reliefs he named were all scouts.

Silently I cussed myself for utter stupidity. A scout’s suit is as fast as a command suit, twice the speed of a marauder. I had been having a nagging feeling of something left undone, and had checked it off to the nervousness I always feel around Bugs.

Now I knew. Here I was, ten miles away from my platoon with a party of three men — each in a marauder suit. When the Bugs broke through, I was going to be faced with an impossible decision… unless the men with me could rejoin as fast as I could. “That’s good,” I agreed, “but I no longer need three men. Send Hughes, right away. Have him relieve Nyberg. Use the other three scouts to relieve the listening posts farthest forward.”

“Just Hughes?” he said doubtfully.

“Hughes is enough. I’m going to man one listener myself. Two of us can straddle the area; we know where they are now.” I added, “Get Hughes down here on the bounce.”

For the next thirty-seven minutes nothing happened. Hughes and I swung back and forth along the forward and rear arcs of the area around Easter Ten, listening five seconds at a time, then moving on. It was no longer necessary to seat the microphone in rock; it was enough to touch it to the ground to get the sound of “frying bacon” strong and clear. The noise area expanded but its center did not change. Once I called Captain Blackstone to tell him the sound had abruptly stopped, and again three minutes later to tell him it had resumed; otherwise I used the scouts’ circuit and let my platoon sergeant take care of the platoon and the listening posts near the platoon.

At the end of this time everything happened at once.

A voice called out on the scouts’ circuit, “ ‘Bacon Fry’! Albert Two!”

I clicked over and called out, “Captain! ‘Bacon Fry’ at Albert Two, Black One!” — clicked over to liaison with the platoons surrounding me: “Liaison flash! ‘Bacon frying’ at Albert Two, Square Black One” — and immediately heard Do Campo reporting: “ ‘Frying bacon’ sounds at Adolf Three, Green Twelve.”

I relayed that to Blackie and cut back to my own scouts’ circuit, heard: “Bugs! Bugs! HELP! ”

“Where?”

No answer. I clicked over. “Sarge! Who reported Bugs?”

He rapped back, “Coming up out of their town — about Bangkok Six.”

“Hit ’em!” I clicked over to Blackie. “Bugs at Bangkok Six, Black One — I am attacking!”

“I heard you order it,” he answered calmly. “How about Easter Ten?”

“Easter Ten is —” The ground fell away under me and I was engulfed in Bugs.

I didn’t know what had happened to me. I wasn’t hurt; it was a bit like falling into the branches of a tree — but those branches were alive and kept jostling me while my gyros complained and tried to keep me upright. I fell ten or fifteen feet, deep enough to be out of the daylight.

Then a surge of living monsters carried me back up into the light — and training paid off; I landed on my feet, talking and fighting: “Breakthrough at Easter Ten — no, Easter Eleven, where I am now. Big hole and they’re pouring up. Hundreds. More than that.” I had a hand flamer in each hand and was burning them down as I reported.

“Get out of there, Johnnie!”

“Wilco!” — and I started to jump.

And stopped. Checked the jump in time, stopped flaming, and really looked — for I suddenly realized that I ought to be dead. “Correction,” I said, looking and hardly believing. “Breakthrough at Easter Eleven is a feint. No warriors.”

“Repeat.”

“Easter Eleven, Black One. Breakthrough here is entirely by workers so far. No warriors. I am surrounded by Bugs and they are still pouring out, but not a one of them is armed and those nearest me all have typical worker features. I have not been attacked.” I added, “Captain, do you think this could be just a diversion? With their real breakthrough to come somewhere else?”

“Could be,” he admitted. “Your report is patched through right to Division, so let them do the thinking. Stir around and check what you’ve reported. Don’t assume that they are all workers — you may find out the hard way.”

“Right, Captain.” I jumped high and wide, intending to get outside that mass of harmless but loathsome monsters.

That rocky plain was covered with crawly black shapes in all directions. I overrode my jet controls and increased the jump, calling out, “Hughes! Report!”

“Bugs, Mr. Rico! Zillions of ’em! I’m a-burnin’ ’em down!”

“Hughes, take a close look at those Bugs. Any of them fighting back? Aren’t they all workers?”

“Uh —” I hit the ground and bounced again. He went on, “Hey! You’re right, sir! How did you know?”

“Rejoin your squad, Hughes.” I clicked over. “Captain, several thousand Bugs have exited near here from an undetermined number of holes. I have not been attacked. Repeat, I have not been attacked at all. If there are any warriors among them, they must be holding their fire and using workers as camouflage.”

He did not answer.

There was an extremely brilliant flash far off to my left, followed at once by one just like it but farther away to my right front; automatically I noted time and bearings. “Captain Blackstone — answer!” At the top of my jump I tried to pick out his beacon, but that horizon was cluttered by low hills in Square Black Two.

I clicked over and called out, “Sarge! Can you relay to the Captain for me?”

At that very instant my platoon sergeant’s beacon blinked out.

I headed on that bearing as fast as I could push my suit. I had not been watching my display closely, my platoon sergeant had the platoon and I had been busy, first with ground-listening and, most lately, with a few hundred Bugs. I had suppressed all but the non-com’s beacons to allow me to see better.

I studied the skeleton display, picked out Brumby and Cunha, their squad leaders and section chasers. “Cunha! Where’s the platoon sergeant?”

“He’s reconnoitering a hole, sir.”

“Tell him I’m on my way, rejoining.” I shifted circuits without waiting. “First Platoon Blackguards to second platoon — answer!”

“What do you want?” Lieutenant Khoroshen growled.

“I can’t raise the Captain.”

“You won’t, he’s out.”

“Dead?”

“No. But he’s lost power — so he’s out.”

“Oh. Then you’re company commander?”

“All right, all right, so what? Do you want help?”

“Uh… no. No, sir.”

“Then shut up,” Khoroshen told me, “until you do need help. We’ve got more than we can handle here.”

“Okay.” I suddenly found that I had more than I could handle. While reporting to Khoroshen, I shifted to full display and short range, as I was almost closed with my platoon — and now I saw my first section disappear one by one, Brumby’s beacon disappearing first.

“Cunha! What’s happening to the first section?”