John Ringo - Yellow Eyes

And I can’t leave anyone behind to guard him. I can’t even autoprogram the suit to take him back to base; he’d be dogmeat on his own.

At least the sergeant could follow simple orders: up, down, forward, back, shoot, cease fire. Connors kept him close by during the long, bloody grueling fight to reach the ford. They reached it too late, of course. Captain Roberts’ radio had long since gone silent before the first B Company trooper splashed into the stream.

By that time, Connors found himself the sole officer remaining in the company. That was all right; the company was down to not much more than platoon strength anyway.

Connors heard his platoon sergeant — no, now he’s the first sergeant, isn’t he? — shout, “Duncan, where the hell do you think you’re going?”

Looking behind, the lieutenant saw his damaged sergeant beginning to trot back to the rear, cradling a body in his arms. Some friendly hovercraft were skimming the greasy-looking water of the swamp as they moved to reinforce the ford.

“It’s okay, Sergeant… First Sergeant. Let him go,” Connors said, wearily. “It’s safe back there, now. See to the perimeter, Top.”

Leaving the NCO to his work Connors sat down on the mound the Posleen had created apparently to honor the spirit and body of the late Captain Roberts. He began to compose a letter to his wife, back home on Earth.

“Dearest Lynn…”

The battalion had suffered grievously in the move to and fight for the ford. B Company was down to one officer and fifty-one others. Of the fifty-one, one — Staff Sergeant Duncan — was a psychiatric casualty. The rest of the battalion’s fighting companies were in no better shape.

The battalion commander was gone, leaving the former exec, Major Snyder, to assume command. Only two of the company commanders had lived, and one of those was chief of the headquarters company which didn’t normally see much action. In total, the battalion’s officer corps had left to it one major, two captains, half a dozen first lieutenants and, significantly, no second lieutenants. Like other newbies, the shavetails had died in droves before really having a chance to learn the ropes.

Connors thought he was lucky keeping his old platoon sergeant as the company first sergeant. Snyder had wanted to take him to be battalion sergeant major.

Somehow, Connors thought, I don’t think Snyder meant it entirely as a compliment when he let me keep Martinez.

“Sir,” Martinez asked, when they were alone in the company headquarters tent, “what now? We’re too fucked to go into the line again.”

The tent was green, despite the bluish tint to all the vegetation on Barwhon V. It smelled musty, and a little rotten-sweet, from the local equivalent of jungle rot that had found the canvas fibers to be a welcome home and feed lot.

“The major… no, the colonel , said we’re going home for a while, Top,” Connors answered, distantly. “He said there’s not enough of us left to reform here. So we’re going back to get built up to strength before they throw us in again.”

“Home?” Martinez asked, wonderingly.

“Home,” echoed Connors, thinking of the wife he’d left behind so many long months before.

“Attention to orders,” cracked from the speakers above the troopers’ heads as they stood in ranks in the dimly and strangely lit assembly hall.

“Reposing special trust and confidence in the patriotism, valor, fidelity, and abilities of…” The 508 th’s acting adjutant, normally the legal officer, read off the names of the remaining officers of the battalion. One of those names was, “Connors, Scott.”

“A captain?” Connors wondered when the ceremony was over. “Wow. Never thought I’d live to be a captain.”

“Don’t let it go to your head, Skipper,” advised Martinez who was, like many in Fleet Strike, a transferred Marine.

“No, Top,” Connors agreed. “Would never do to get a swelled head. Makes too big a target for one thing.”

“The bars… look good,” Duncan said, staring at the wall opposite the headpiece of his medical cot. His voice contained as much interest as his blank, lifeless eyes. “The diamond looks good, too, Top,” he added for Martinez.

Outside of his suit, Connors and Duncan might have been taken for brothers, same general height, same heavy-duty build. Though fifteen or more years Duncan’s senior, Connors looked considerably younger. He was, unlike Duncan, a rejuv.

“How have you been, Sergeant Duncan?” the newly minted captain asked.

“Okay, sir,” he answered tonelessly. “They say I can be fixed up… maybe. That I’ll either be back to duty in a year or will never be able to go into the line again. They’re talking about putting me in a tank for psych repair.”

Patting the NCO’s shoulder, Connors answered, “I’m sure you’ll be back, Bob.”

“But will it be me that comes back?” Tears began to roll down the NCO’s blank, lifeless face.

“God… I don’t know, Bob. I can tell you that the tank didn’t make me any different on the inside.”

“Me neither, Sergeant Duncan,” Martinez added, more than a little embarrassed for the junior noncom. Martinez knew Duncan was going to remember the tears and feel the shame of them long after he and the skipper had forgotten. “I came out the same Marine I went in as… just younger, stronger and healthier.

“By the way, Skipper,” Martinez asked, turning his attention away from Duncan’s streaming face, “what were you doing before the rejuv? I was a retired gunny, infantry, and just marking time in Jacksonville, North Carolina… waitin’ to die.”

“Oh, I did a lot of crap after I left the Army, Top. Do you mean what did I do in the Army? I was a DAT.”

“What’s a DAT?”

Connors smiled. “A DAT is a dumb-assed tanker, Top.”

“So how did you end up in infantry, sir?” Duncan asked, showing for once a little interest in something.

“I hate the internal combustion engine, Sergeant Duncan. Just baffles the crap out of me. So when I got rejuved and they sent my unwilling ass to OCS I worked that same ass off so that I’d have a choice when I graduated. And I chose Mobile Infantry to keep the hell away from tanks.”

Duncan rocked his head slightly from side to side, which was also a bit more life than he had shown for a while. “Okay… maybe I could see that.”

“Let me see my e-mail, AID,” Connors ordered, alone in his cramped cabin aboard ship.

The cabin measured about six feet by nine, and had a ceiling so low Connors had to duck his head to stand up to stretch his legs. The bed was stowed against the wall and a fold-out table served as the desk on which rested the AID, a black box about the size of a pack of cigarettes.

The AID didn’t say anything. Neither did the e-mail appear holographically.

“AID?” Connors insisted, an annoyed quality creeping into his voice.

“You don’t want to see it,” the device answered definitively.

“Don’t tell me what I want,” Connors said angrily, heat rising to his face as blood pressure turned it red. “Just gimme my goddamned mail.”

“Captain — ”

“Look, AID, I’ve had no word from my wife since leaving Barwhon. Just give me my mail.”

“Very well, Captain.” The e-mail list appeared immediately, projected on the air over the desk.

Connors was surprised to see only a single letter from his wife. He opened it and began to read. It was short, a mere five lines. Then again, how much detail is required to say one’s wife is pregnant by another man and that she has filed for divorce.