Armor (41 page)

There were ample targets. They found several ants not only alive, but apparently uninjured. They were tangled in the bodies of their dead, strung like jungle undergrowth in then path. From this grotesque trap, they managed to collect six ideal samples and return to the walls in less than five minutes flat.

They sent Ling into the bunker with the spines. Felix informed the gunnery crew chief about the live ants. Thereafter, warriors took turns manning the cannon for signs of movement. Great fun was had watching the ants extricate themselves painfully, only to have their exoskeletal hides boiled away after two steps.

The eighth hour order for “Scouts Out” meant, essentially, Felix and Railsmith. Since no activity other than that among the dead and dying had been sighted, they were sent ahead of the other scouts on a “quick run” up the runway itself to the ridge for a sighting.

Felix was automatically dubious. But he followed the predetermined route, leading Railsmith up the slope between the piles of dead and the edge of the maze. He took a lot more time than the brass had wanted, however. Surprises meant a lot more outside the fort than just a report to the Command Platform.

He needn’t have bothered. They found nothing at all until they reached the Dorm itself, and little there. Only a handful of ants were in sight, wandering aimlessly about outside the entrance. Felix was sure they were spotted, but, though three of the ants carried blasters, no effort was made to attack them.

“Hard times in Antland,” commented Railsmith with happy relief while Felix reported the situation.

“Stay put and watch,” was the word that came back to them minutes later. They obeyed without comment, sitting down side-by-side against a dune less than a hundred meters from the perimeter of the Dorm.

Soon they were joined by five warriors bearing shovels, Siliconite cylinders, and a case of blazebombs. Felix and Railsmith got out of their way.

Ten minutes later. Forward Observation Post One was ready. It consisted of a curved, sheltered bowl from which sightings could be made in safe, seated, comfort. Then the five warriors left to build Ops Two and Three farther down the line.

“Looks like that’s it,” remarked Railsmith when they were alone once more.

“What do you mean?” Felix asked.

“The ants are finished,” He replied. Then, when Felix was silent, he added: “Don’t you think?”

Felix considered a moment, said: “No.”

“Ah, c’mon, Felix! After all this?”

Felix nodded. “And more.”

Railsmith was astonished. “You really think there’s something to worry about?”

“I don’t know,” Felix admitted after a moment.

Maybe I’m just tired, Felix thought and keyed a stimule.

Railsmith was probably right. Almost certainly. But. . . .

Was it just too easy? Was that it? And what was wrong with it, if it was? They were sure due!

Still, he felt uneasy. And oddly depressed.

“Well,” said Railsmith after a while, “we’re sure as hell killing ‘em! Doesn’t that count for anything?”

Felix sighed. “It never has before,” he replied blandly.

He began a four-hour rest period at the ninth hour. By 9: 05, he was inside the bunker, outside his suit, and under the shower.

Dominguez was just reaching the squad bay when Felix emerged, dripping and smoking.

“Did you see all those people coming down?” the sergeant asked him.

Felix shook his head. “Who are they?”

“Dunno. Not warriors. Just p-suits. All size p-suits at that.”

Felix nodded. “Volunteers.”

“For what?” asked Ling from the far bunk.

Felix shrugged, smiled. “Well, we’re out of ants. . . .”

Shoen found him in the mess, stuffing his face.

“You’ll get fat,” she warned. Her face was glowing.

He smiled. “That’s a deal.”

“Look at this,” she said and slid a two-dimensional hard copy of a computer holo under his nose.

“Lovely,” he said.

She punched his arm. “Bastard. It’s an x-ray of a snip.”

“Okay.”

“It’s from that last batch you collected.” She leaned over and pointed with her index finger. “Note these striations along the core. Here, too.”

He nodded. “It looks cracked. Broken.”

“Uh, hub. As though badly healed. But it’s not. It’s badly grown””

He got it. “It’s working?” he breathed.

“Yep.”

He looked at her smiling face. “It’s really working!” he exclaimed.

She laughed. “It really is! Let’s celebrate.”

He laughed as well. “Walk on the beach? The poison is lovely this time of drop. ‘ ‘

“I’ve got a better idea. Let’s go to the Old Man’s press tour. It’s in the main hall. I’ve just been there. Felix, you should see it. It’s jammed with reporters.”

He stared, remembering what Dominguez had said about the visitors. “You’re joking. Here? On Banshee?”

She gestured about them at the bunker walls. “Well, hardly on Banshee. Come on!”

He did.

There were over three hundred people in the main hall. There were the Liaison Officers he had heard so much about but never seen, warriors rotated back inside for rest like himself, all manner of techs and reporters. Reporters everywhere.

They ran up and down the aisles between the vast sea of well-scubbed faces and freshly cleaned jumpsuits shaking hands and gossiping. There were hearty greetings and heartier reunions.

Felix found that it bothered the hell out of him.

Shoen had found them seats up front, just behind the top brass and assorted VIPs. She plopped down beside him only after several cheerful exchanges with superiors she didn’t bother introducing to him. He thought it was just as well. He didn’t feel like meeting anyone. It all seemed a little too eerie to concentrate.

She waved an arm in a broad gesture which indicated the vast throng. “Fleet’s finest!” she proclaimed.

“I believe you,” he said seriously.

Too seriously. She glanced sideways at him. “What’s wrong?”

He frowned. “I’m not sure.”

She was irritated. “You’re not still sneering at us, are you? We did it, didn’t we? What else do we have to do to prove our competence?”

He met her bitter gaze. “It’s not that,” he tried.

She sniffed. “I should hope not. Let me tell you something, Felix. Some of the finest minds of man are in Fleet. Some are in this room now.”

Somewhere deep within him a bell rang. He sat forward in his chair. “That’s it!” he whispered excitedly, “What’s it?” she asked suspiciously.

“That’s the point. What are they doing here? What are they doing in Fleet? ‘

She blinked. She was completely bewildered. “For such a good fighter. . . Felix? Are you antiwar? I mean. . . are you a pacifist?”

A pacifist?

Was he?

He thought back.

He shook his head a few moments later, said: “No.”

She still wasn’t happy. “It took you long enough. . .”

He looked at her. “It was a long trip for it.”

Then the lights went down and the screen grew bright with the warm and winning smile of Brigadier Hammad Renot.

Half an hour later, Felix decided the Old Man should have become a vid star instead of a soldier. Though when he really thought about it about the stone silent and unhelpful figure on the Command Platformthere was little evidence that he was a soldier at all.

In any case, the man handled the tour brilliantly. He had a genuine gift for using the vid. Moving about through the bunker with the monitors in tow, explaining what this was or that did, sliding jokes in and out without a scratch, he projected the model image of the humble soldier forced by his own excellence up through the ranks. He was terribly handsome as well, his huge screen face somehow capable of intimacy despite the vastness. Paternal, brotherly, and grand at will, he was, at the same time. The Commander, favorite uncle, wiseman, king, drinking buddy, and Dad. Sexy, too, Felix assumed, glancing at Shoen’s upturned and attentive face.

When the tour was almost over, the star was “surprised” with a plaque of gold, silver, and plassteel for which all personnel had supposedly contributed. Felix had not, to his knowledge, contributed a thing. No one had asked him to. Perhaps, he thought ruefully, they solicit during briefing another thing they hadn’t bothered him with.

He glanced again at Shoen. There was nothing wrong with her. It was just Banshee. On impulse, he reached over and patted her hand. She smiled, trapped it with one of hers, and smiled warmly, scaring him.

“Want to go to a party?” Shoen asked him when the show was over. She had left him briefly to huddle with her colleagues. She returned with an impish expression. “Where?”

“A party, Felix. There’s a terribly festive, incredibly illegal party going on even as we speak. Shall we?”

He laughed. It was perfect. Of course these people would have a party afterward! He should have expected it.

Before he’d go, he insisted on returning to the main seal and to the monitor banks beside it. The techs on duty before the screens assured him no trace of ant activity had surfaced.

Further, there was no indication that any would appear. Felix nodded, allowed Shoen to lead him to the fete.

In truth, he hadn’t expected trouble. He would have been greatly surprised had there been any. But that wasn’t why he had gone to the monitors. He had gone to the monitors to warn himself.

Banshee. Ants. Death. Still.

Don’t forget it, he thought to himself. He sighed. Was he being foolish? Was he. . . . What the hell was he?

He tossed the thoughts aside with another sigh and hurried to keep up with Shoen, anxious to rejoin her friends and the glowing novelty of this, their very first, really and truly, official, Antwar Campout.

The party was indeed festive and most illegal and therefore a great success. It was held in a sealed off section of the second floor, an area housing most of the Liaison Observers and other Fleet Names. Technically, it was for the press only. In reality, it was for Kent. It was a ceremony, a rite, held in his name for all. The high point of the evening, Felix soon learned, was to be the awarding to Kent of his first battle ribbons.

Felix loved the very idea of that. He noticed his own wide grin only when he caught himself laughing out loud at the sight of the forest of brass spread about the room awaiting the ribbon ceremony. His mysterious recklessness had returned, he noted dimly. But it didn’t seem to matter. Not here.

“Everyone who is anyone is here,” he said straight-faced to Shoen, only to find that she had left him to join a gaggle of the likeminded.

He shrugged and walked over to the bar and had a drink his first since. . . Since when? Since that last night before. That first night Before. As he tasted the first sip of beer, the knowledge that he must return to duty in a mere four hours and the horror of the chance he was taking seemed not only distant and irrelevant. It was macabrely funny.

He forgot those thoughts, too. Half an hour later he was mildly drunk. He didn’t care. He was having too much fun enjoying the crowd.

The food, too. Beside the bar was a long table covered with decorative knickknacks and, more importantly, many goodies. He had, on very first sight, officially designated the table as his all-time favorite Fleet Thing. He had remained within arm’s length of it since that moment, sipping and munching and patting his happy tummy.

Not that the chow aboard the Terra was bad, because it really wasn’t. It was famous, in fact, for being the very best to be had aboard warships. Felix accepted this oft repeated accolade without examination, though the image of gourmets making a culinary pilgrimage between warships did not come easily to him. On the other hand, he conceded, it was no sillier a use for faster-than-light than rending exoskeleton.

Even Hammad Renot made appearances. Every half hour he would stop by just long enough to receive his due before assuming the truly perfect expression of the great leader who, though at heart a fun loving fellow, was nevertheless far too dedicated to allow his personal needs to come before his noble suffering ‘neath the awesome burdens of command.

“Wish I could play hooky and stay,” he would remark with a twinkle before leaving to return to unspecified duties.

But then, almost exactly half an hour later, he would return and do and say it all again. Felix wondered what the man did in the meantime. Watch the clock, probably. It made him a bit queasy at first. Later, he enjoyed even this.

But more than anything else, he loved watching Kent. He hadn’t seen him since the trouble at the Dorm. He had assumed this was because of Kent’s embarrassment at freezing up under fire. If so, he seemed to Felix to have gotten over it. Warm and friendly to all, tall and handsome, exuding twin auras of good will and unintentional physical intimidation, he really was everything Forest had said he was. The shyness was there, too, broadcasted by his pained efforts to conceal it. It was a genuine attempt, Felix knew, to be what everyone seemed to need him to be: the lion he resembled.

Felix smiled and sipped. He knew a thing or two about lions. And Kent wasn’t in it. Nowhere near arrogant enough. It was Felix’s firm conviction, furthermore, that it was no loss. None at all.

“Gentle is better,” he whispered, tilling his glass at the bhandsome features across the sea of admiring officers and press.

Then Kent saw him looking and everything changed. At first Felix thought it had been his imagination. Kent’s sudden paled expression couldn’t be due to recognition, he thought. How would he know me outside my armor? It soon became apparent, however, that Kent did know him, knew, in fact every move he made through the crowd. Every few seconds or so, Felix would catch Kent watching him. He would always look away when their eyes met. But he would be looking again a few seconds later. Looking and drinking. He drank a hell of a lot, even or especially for a well tuned athlete. Felix was becoming alarmed and he wasn’t the only one. The first time Kent staggered, the entire horde seemed to bow with the shock of the sight.

Felix hated it. He wasn’t equipped for it. He wasn’t adequate. Not now. Not anymore. He left quietly, sliding unobtrusively out the door as the ribbon ceremony began.