John Ringo: A Hymn Before Battle

The officer visibly pulled himself together. “It’s okay, sir. Heck, it was just a program, right?” The officer squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. “Is that all, sir?”

“Oh, a couple of points. You remember that memorable period where you checked out on me on the radio?”

“Yes, sir,” answered O’Neal with a sheepish expression. It was the closest to a smile the general had seen on him yet.

“Well, we checked that lovely little pharmacy in your suits after it happened. You know that the ‘Wake-the-Deads’ are loaded into the suit, not produced by it, right?”

“Yes, sir,” said Mike, wondering where he was going.

“Well, there was a little problem with the batch in your suit. And in most of the rest of the battalion’s as well. The damn pharmacy company that produced it forgot to put in the Provigil, the ‘anti-sleep’ drug. All that was in it was the GalTech stimulant.”

“Oh, God,” groaned Mike. The Galactic pharmaceutical was ten times as powerful as methamphetamine. It was no wonder he had felt like a tomcat in a room full of mechanical presses. He was surprised his head had not rocketed through the top of the helmet.

“And, since they apparently loaded it by volume, you were getting a triple dose.”

Mike put his hand over his eyes and shook his head. He finally grinned: “Well, sir, I guess that gets me off the hook anyway.”

“Yep. Sergeant Duncan is up for a pretty fair award as well. He was leading the Americans back to the lines, after the detonation, when the first Posleen counterattack came in. We weren’t ready for them and it would have been hairy, but he and a major from Eleventh Cav rallied the cav survivors and hit the Posleen on the flank. When those nuclear grenades of Duncan’s started landing it broke them like a twig. It gave us a breather we really needed and it put some spine back in the cavalry.”

“He’s a damn good NCO,” said Mike. “From what I heard he just never seemed to get a fair shake. He ought to get a promotion as well.”

“I’ll take care of it,” the general concluded, with a nod of agreement to the lieutenant. “You’re scheduled for a casualty lift day after tomorrow. Thanks for coming along, Lieutenant, it was a hell of a ride.” The general leaned forward to shake the lieutenant’s hand. “Good luck and Godspeed.”

“I have been to the speed of God, sir,” Mike intoned solemnly, “and I discommend it.”

General Houseman patted him on his shoulder with a tiny smile and silently left the room.

Mike opened the box that so many had paid for and regarded his first medal for valor with an iron face. He was afraid there would be more.

“Heroes occur because someone makes a mistake.

We don’t want any heroes today.”

Tulo’stenaloor gazed back at the receding planet and calculated all he had lost — better than half his oolt’ondai on the bloody retreat as the threshkreen pressed them hard, his oolt’ posol, and his eson’antai. His net-granted fiefs were back in the hands of the green thresh; he had even lost his castellaine, who had followed him for over fifty years. He limped away in this claptrap oolt’ posol, fit only for a scout, and if he could not find a oolt’ Posleen to bind to he would be left in the system to be hunted down like an abat.

All in all if he never saw another gray-clad thresh or, gods forefend, a metal one, it would be far to soon. He caught a transmission from a wandering oolt’ Posleen searching for oolt’ pos. It spoke of a distant world, far from these hated thresh and the asa’ endai seem reasonable. Whatever, a ride was a ride and the farther from this misbegotten star the better.

Mosovich raised his eyes and nose above the muck and peered around the clearing. The first rendezvous had been a bust, the AO covered with hunting Posleen. He had been holding position for two days awaiting pickup at the second and last rendezvous point and was about to give up. Twice Posleen patrols had swept the area. He knew that the Himmit were about as courageous as mice; if they had a sniff of a hot LZ they were didee-mao and so much for Momma Mosovich’s youngest.

His protein converter was gone along with his communicator. Already looking like a death camp survivor from malnutrition and vitamin deficiencies, there was absolutely no way he was going to survive another year until the AEF arrived. If the Himmit waved off he might as well just blow his brains out and get it over with. He dipped back down and began to breathe off a snorkel again.

Precisely on time he felt the muted rumble of a Himmit stealth ship transmitted through the muck. As he cautiously raised his head above the scummy surface, he sensed movement through the violet Barwhon mists.

Crap. That close. If the fuckin’ mules had held off two fuckin’ minutes, he raged to himself. Maybe if I snuff ’em quick enough the Himmit will land anyway, he mused doubtfully.

He raised the misbalanced Posleen shotgun to his shoulder and waited for a target. The rumble of the stealth ship continued to build and he felt amazement.

If he heard Posleen, the supernaturally effective detectors of the Himmit surely had acquired them. Maybe Rigas is having a brave fit, he chuckled grimly.

He raised the shot cannon out of the swamp and took up slack just as the scout shimmered into sight. The ramp dropped and two camouflage-covered figures darted out of the violet cover and pounded through the swamp towards it. Mosovich did not let shock slow him as he threw the shotgun over one shoulder and the cached bag holding a single surviving nestling over the other.

Mueller stopped long enough to take the bag and Ersin threw one arm under his shoulder as the three survivors lurched into the scout ship. It lifted out with a barely noticeable hum, the holographic distorters reengaged. All three sprawled to the floor in an untidy heap of mud and soldiery.

“Ironic, idn’t it,” Mueller gasped, spread eagle on the plasteel, violet mud and eel-leaches cascading to the floor. “Sometimes the diversion is the best place to be.”

Ft. Indiantown Gap, Pennsylvania was seeing a rebirth unlike any since World War II. Beyond the MP’s shack Mike could see work crews in fatigues and civilian clothes erecting temporary quarters on Utility Road. He handed his orders to the MP along with his ID and waited blank faced as the VW muttered. The scars were nearly invisible now but he could still feel weakness even with the time in the ship gym and in numerous gyms since landing. He longed to get back into a suit and do some serious cranking, to hop on a motorcycle and just open it up.

It was taking the MP an awfully long time and he waved several cars past as Mike waited. O’Neal could see him talking animatedly on the phone and wondered what was up. No more receptions, please, no more hand shaking. No more banquets or speeches. Just give me back a suit.

Since his triumphant return, he had been showered with awards. When he complained that he just wanted to get back to preparing for the next battle, the PAO shit-head major who had been put in charge of him told him that the public needed a hero. He was the best available, so shut up and soldier.

The campaign on Barwhon dragged on, and the factors that made Barwhon a tough nut to crack — relative lack of relief, and high levels of resources for the Posleen to draw on — were magnified on Earth. The victory on Diess, the victory that required thousands of the Earth’s finest soldiers, was being spun as the work of one man. No matter how he protested, no matter how he stressed the importance of teamwork, he knew better than to mention the problems of training; in his speeches, it always came out as “O’Neal, O’Neal, O’Neal.”