Ian Douglas - The Complete Legacy Trilogy - Star Corps, Battlespace, Star Marines

Pretty soon I’ll be able to noum what I want to. The thought came to mind unbidden.

Somehow—could his father do that?—Esteban caught the thought or its echo. “What do you mean by that crack?” his father said. “Where do you think you’re going?”

John felt the shifting cybercurrents of moving data packets. Damn! His father was sifting through his files. If he found out—

“What are you hiding, muchacho ? Huh? What do you have in here?”

Abruptly, desperately, John mindclicked and severed the link. He sat once again in his sensory couch, the familiar surroundings of his home E-room around him. He lay there for a moment, breathing hard. Damn, damn, damn his father! These encounters always left him shaking, weak, and feeling violated. Just because his father felt that he had the right to monitor everything that he did on the net …

Sometimes that translated as the right to monitor everything that he thought, and to John, that blatant invasion of privacy, self, and boundaries was as personal and as direct as a slap across the face.

If his father was angry at him for following Triple N’s coverage of the Egyptian crisis, he would have been absolutely furious to learn that in a few days’ time his son would be leaving home for good.

Tough, he thought. John Garroway Esteban had been a free agent since turning eighteen three months ago. For much of his life he’d dreamed about being a Marine, ever since his mother had told him about her ancestors, the Garroways, and the roles they’d played in wars from Korea to Mexico.

Soon he would be a Marine himself, and he could kick off the mud of this damned planet and begin to see the worlds.

Silim! …

Marine Planetary Base

Mars Prime, Mars

1914 hours Zulu

Some 210 million kilometers from John Esteban’s E-center musings, Colonel Thomas Jackson Ramsey—“TJ” to his friends—touched the announce pad at the doorway to the office of his commanding officer. The door slid open in response. “General Cassidy? Reporting as ordered, sir.”

“Enter,” William Cassidy said without looking up from his work station.

Ramsey entered, centering himself on the hatch, hands clasped stiffly at his back. He didn’t know why he’d been summoned here. He didn’t think he was in trouble, but with Brigadier General Cassidy—a tough, no-nonsense character with dark mahogany skin, silver hair, and a hard-ass attitude reputed to curdle milk at fifty meters—you never knew.

“At ease, at ease,” Cassidy said after a moment. He pulled the link circlet from his head and tossed it aside on the desk, then rubbed his eyes. “Drag up a chair.”

Ramsey floated a glider chair across the deck and anchored it with a thought. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Yes, damn it. You’ve got new orders.”

Ramsey’s eyebrows lifted themselves toward his hair line. “Sir? I’ve only been here eight months.” The usual length of off-world deployments was two years.

“I know. And I’m going to hate like hell to lose you.” Cassidy gave him a sidelong look. “What’s your famsit?”

Curiouser and curiouser. A Marine’s family situation was only raised for offworld deployments. “No current contract, sir. I had one before I shipped out for Mars.” Cheryl hadn’t been willing to wait for him, and he couldn’t say he blamed her. It still hurt, though. …

“Any kids?”

“No, sir. Do I take it that I’m being reassigned out-Solar, General?”

“I guess you could say that. It’s volunteers only, and it’s long term. Very long term. But it’s carrying a Career Three.”

“Goddess! Where are they sending me?”

“That,” Cassidy said, “is classified. They won’t even tell me. But they want you back on Earth so they can talk to you about it. Open up and I’ll pass you what I have.”

Ramsey uplinked to the local netnode with a coded thought and tuned to the general’s channel. Information flickered through his awareness, resolving itself into stark words hanging before his mind’s eye. There wasn’t much.

FROM: USMCSPACCOM, QUANTICO, VIRGINIA

TO: THOMAS JACKSON RAMSEY, COLONEL, USMC HQ DEPOT USMC MARS PRIME

FROM: DWIGHT VINCENT GABRIOWSKI, MAJGEN, USMC

DATE: 2 JUN 38

SUBJ: ORDERS

YOU ARE HEREBY REQUIRED AND DIRECTED TO REPORT TO USMCSPACCOM WITH YOUR COMMAND CONSTELLATION, DELTA SIERRA 219, FOR IN-PERSON BRIEFING AND POSSIBLE VOLUNTARY REASSIGNMENT.

THE IP PACKET OSIRIS (CFT-12) WILL BE MADE READY TO TRANSPORT COMMAND CONSTELLATION DELTA SIERRA 219 TO USMC SPACEPORT CAMP LEJEUNE, DEPARTING MARS PRIME NO LATER THAN 1200 HOURS LT 3 JUNE 2138, ARRIVING CAMP LEJEUNE SPACEPORT NO LATER THAN 9 JUNE 2138.

OFFERED MISSION REQUIRES FAMSIT CLASS TWO OR LOWER. RECENT CHANGES IN INDIVIDUAL FAMSITS SHOULD BE UPLINKED TO USMCSPACCOM PRIOR TO SCHEDULED DEPARTURE.

OFFERED MISSION ASSIGNMENT CARRIES CAREER THREE RATING.

SIGNED: D.V. GABRIOWSKI

This, Ramsey reflected, would not be an ordinary duty reassignment. Career Three meant a big boost to his career track … the equivalent of a major combat-command assignment or a long-term independent command, possibly both. The famsit requirement could only mean a long deployment, a couple of years at least.

Where the hell were they sending him, Europa?

Which reminded him …

“They want my whole constellation to go Earthside with me,” he said.

“I know Captain DeHavilland and Sergeant Major Tanaka are at Cydonia,” General Cassidy replied. “A C-5 has already been dispatched to bring them in. The rest of them are here at Prime, aren’t they?”

“Actually, sir, I was thinking of Cassius. He was seconded to Outwatch when I was assigned here. He’s been on Europa for eight months.”

“I don’t have any information about your sym, Colonel. But this is damned hot. I would imagine that Quantico has already made provisions to bring him back as well.”

If so, this assignment was hot, hotter than a class-four solar flare. The Corps was not in the habit of casually shuttling command constellations from Mars to Earth just for a briefing … and sure as Chesty Puller was a devil dog, it wasn’t in the habit of ferrying a lone AI symbiont all the way back from Outwatch duty in the Jovians.

Where were they being sent?

He had a pretty good idea already—there weren’t that many possibilities—and the thought both thrilled and terrified. …

2 JUNE 2138

Listening Post 14, the Singer

Europa

1711 hours Zulu

And further still from Earth, some 780 million kilometers from the warmth of a shrunken, distance-dwindled sun, a solitary figure crouched on top of the half-surfaced ruin of a half-million-year-old artifact, high above the swarming camps of humans who studied it. The figure was not human, and in this modality didn’t share even a basic humanoid shape with his builders. Humans called this model “the spider,” because of the low-slung, flattened body, the eight spindly legs, and the cluster of eye lenses and manipulators set into his forward armored casing.

He was patient, as only an artificial intelligence could be patient. AI-symbiont CS-1289, Series G-4, Model 8, known to his human companion as Cassius, had waited here in the icy cold for just over 4.147 megaseconds now, some forty-eight days in human terms. By slowing his time sense by a factor of 3,600, however, his wait thus far had seemed more like nineteen hours, and even those hours, passing uneventfully, were accepted without emotion or anxiety, as much a part of Cassius’s environment as the ice and the near-perfect vacuum around him.