Orphan Brigade (8 page)

When the Force had triumphed there, CP-­2716 had become Secured Planet 2716 or SP-­2716. Only after a planet was secured did it receive a name, and this one had been called Platinus because of the vast deposits of minerals vital to the war effort that had been discovered there.

They'd also found other resources that would be highly valuable once the war was over, and so Platinus was one of the planets that received Olech's special attention. Force-­supplied information suggested that nothing unexpected was happening there, but the Chairman relied on other indicators to provide a more accurate picture. Much of the status feeds he could call up were provided by agencies he didn't completely trust, and so the reports from his network of informants were added into the display as well.

As could be expected, Force efforts to extract and exploit war-­specific minerals were going full bore. However, data provided by Olech's supplementary sources showed that development of Platinus as a colony was far ahead of other planets in the war zone that had been conquered much earlier. Excessive numbers of troops were based there, and Olech's spies had already tipped him off that settlements were being mapped out by the army corps that owned that region of space.

It was an old-­fashioned land grab that would have done justice to the worst of the colonial powers of Earth's rapacious history, and it was not easy to prevent. Despite Olech's best efforts, several alliance planets had managed to create corps-­level units composed entirely of their own citizens. The commanders of those organizations frequently saw themselves less as Force officers and more as representatives of their home worlds, and their different power plays were a constant source of friction. Their greed knew no bounds, to the extent that Olech had put an end to an earlier practice by which the Force would claim an entire planet as a military base by giving it the designation MC, for Military-­Controlled Planet.

Over the years Olech had become skilled at thwarting these land grabs, but he was never free of the nagging doubt that the war was simply too large to be managed.

Which was another reason for his special room. He knew that some of his critics referred to the boxy chair as Olech Mortas's throne, and that they mocked it as nothing more than a high-­technology amusement park ride. In the privacy of his own thoughts, he sometimes agreed with that notion.

Somewhere out there, in this limitless battlefield with so many uncontrollable variables and so many ways to be fatally wrong, waited an opponent whose very existence was doubted by some of his alliance partners. An opponent so advanced that it was able to create the Sims and use them to wage a proxy war without ever showing itself. The appearance of the alien—­whatever it had been—­was additional proof that the void contained entities that were simply beyond human comprehension. Just thinking of the shape-­shifting being that Jan had encountered was enough to drive him to distraction. As he always had in the past, Olech Mortas forced his mind from the things he could not control to the things he could.

“Okay, that's enough. Turn on the lights.” He allowed himself a rueful chuckle. “Bring me down to Earth.”

In the seconds before his command was obeyed, the chairman glanced around in the blankness and imagined a tiny dot of light, carrying his only son back to the war.

 

CHAPTER THREE

“W
elcome to First Brigade, Lieutenant. Please have a seat.” Colonel Jonah Watt returned Mortas's salute from behind a large metal desk. The brigade's headquarters stood on a wooded hill, and Watt's office occupied one of its corners. Broad windows allowed him to observe the lower ground where the brigade's three battalions were situated. Military-­Controlled Planet 1932, MC-­1932, had been wrested from the Sims early in the war. The Orphan Brigade was not the first unit to have occupied this ground, nor was it the brigade's first home.

Mortas sat down on an old couch facing the desk. The long trip to the war zone had ended the day before, but he still felt a sense of private accomplishment. Sealed in his transit tube and awaiting the loss of consciousness that would allow him to make the multi-­Step journey, he'd remembered a different tube and his first attempt to reach a fighting unit. Knowing how that other trip had ended, Mortas had been genuinely relieved when he awoke to find himself on the warship that would deliver him to the Orphan Brigade. He'd been even happier when his stiff gray uniform had been replaced by a set of weathered fatigues bearing the green, black, and brown of woodland camouflage. Every soldier he'd seen so far had been dressed the same way, and the slightly beat-­up appearance of his new clothes helped him to fit in.

“I expect you've read the unit précis you were furnished.” Watt was stocky and in his midforties, with dark hair cut very close to his dark skin. His voice was calm and instructive. “So you already know that this brigade has a lineage that dates almost to the beginning of the war. What you don't know, and what nobody knows, is exactly how this came to be an independent brigade.

“The records are quite spotty, not surprising given the chaos in the early years of this conflict, but I personally suspect we started out as the remnants of a decimated division or larger. It's my understanding that casualty figures were so extreme at war's start that Command was afraid to report them accurately. So instead of combining a few beat-­up units into one, they kept them all on the books and fed them replacements.” The eyes twinkled, and the corners of Watt's mouth turned up slightly. “I think the Orphans somehow got lost in that little shuffle, then somebody probably decided it wouldn't hurt to have an emergency brigade handy.”

Mortas stirred uneasily, not sure if he was supposed to respond. Watt continued, with no indication of whether or not he'd expected a comment.

“So that's what we are. A fire brigade. We're used when and how we're needed, often on short notice. Which means we have to be ready for just about anything. We're currently in a period of rest and refitting, but you'll find that the tempo of our training is quite challenging. You'll be getting a platoon filled with top-­notch NCOs and a lot of experienced non-­NCO enlisted men, so you're in a position to learn from soldiers who really know their stuff.”

Watt rose, signaling with a wave that Mortas was to remain seated. Unlike most of the soldiers Mortas had seen so far, Watt's fatigues were freshly pressed. The brigade commander looked out the window for a moment, hands clasped behind his back, before sitting at the other end of the couch.

“You have only one job here, Lieutenant. And that's being a platoon leader. Everybody knows who your father is and what you experienced with the alien. So here's how this is going to work:

“This brigade is made up of warfighters. Most of the men who volunteered to come here did so with the understanding that sometimes we get handed jobs that are too big for us. Many of them did that because they were sick of the second-­guessing and other nonsense you find in far too many of the units out here. That was one of the worst effects of the Purge: it fast-­tracked the careers of some extremely political officers who now hold high positions in the Force.

“Unfortunately, that means that some very important decisions are made based on factors that have nothing to do with winning the war or preserving the lives of our troops. You as an officer, no matter what rank you attain, must never forget that we're fighting to win the war, and to keep as many of our soldiers alive as possible.

“So from this point forward you're not the son of the Chairman of the Emergency Senate. You're Lieutenant Jander Mortas, platoon leader in the First Independent Brigade.”

“Thank you, sir. I was hoping that would be the case.”

A momentary smile. “I'm not surprised. I read the report of your experience with the alien infiltrator, and as far as I'm concerned you did a damn fine job in a tough situation.”

“I wouldn't have made it without the others, sir.” The words came out easily, and for the first time the memory of his dead friends didn't fill Mortas with regret.

“Well said. The Orphan Brigade is a team, and the team-­building skills you demonstrated on Roanum got you into this unit. You relied on the talents and experience of the ­people who were with you, and I encourage you to do the same thing with your platoon.

“Which brings me to another issue. You'll be in First Battalion, but we have an excellent lieutenant in Second Battalion whom I understand is an acquaintance of yours. His name is Emile Dassa, and his father was executed for his connection to a general officer who died in the Purge. Do you know him?”

Mortas's feeling of calm evaporated. For a moment he wondered if the brigade commander had been lulling him into a false sense of security, but quickly decided the man must already know the full story.

“Yes, sir. I only met Dassa once, years ago in prep school. He made some accusations against my father, there was a fight, and he disappeared.”

“Disappeared is right. He was abducted from your school's infirmary and forcibly enlisted in a colonial militia unit out here. He served with distinction, got transferred to the Force, and won a battlefield commission shortly after that. He's done a splendid job as one of our platoon leaders.

“He's been in the war for five years now, and his promotion to captain should be coming through shortly. He told me about your previous association when he heard you were coming to the brigade.

“The Emile Dassa you met at school is not the Lieutenant Dassa with whom you'll be serving now. He's internalized the values of this unit, and I can tell you from personal observation that he's left his previous life behind. I doubt you'll be seeing much of each other, but when you do I expect you to both to act as brothers in arms and part of this team. Can I expect that from you?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Good. The Purge was an awful thing, and it left some animosities that are nothing short of vendettas. Honestly, I've always been a little worried that somebody might decide to drop this brigade into a real meat grinder just to get rid of Emile.” He nodded, as if confirming his own words. “Yes, Lieutenant. We have some weak, demented individuals out here who would do something like that just to curry favor with other weak, demented individuals further up the chain of command.

“And that's another reason why I accepted your application. You and Emile may just balance each other out for us. Anybody trying to harm this brigade to score points with one side or the other from the Purge would be taking the chance of killing both of you.” Watt smiled. “The kind of ­people we're talking about don't like to take chances.”

Mortas's head was simply swimming. The turmoil of his voluntary return to the war zone, combined with the arduous journey and the stress of reporting to his first duty assignment, was tough enough to handle but not unexpected. Now he was seeing that even here, in this reputedly apolitical unit, his father's deeds and misdeeds were still with him.

Watt took his silence as a signal to continue.

“I'm glad that's settled. Because there is one more thing that we need to discuss. The entire Force has been warned about the alien, but you're the only Forcemember who actually interacted with the thing. As commander of this brigade, it is my duty to learn as much as I can about this new threat, but it's also my duty to make sure you get to focus on your new job.

“No doubt you'll have to answer the odd question here and there, from members of your platoon and other units, but I've already made it clear you are not to become our resident alien expert. So I'm going to have my intelligence officer join us now, and I'd like you to walk the two of us through your experience with whatever that thing was. After that, Intel will work up a briefing that will be promulgated throughout the brigade. After you've been here awhile, you should start to refer questions about the alien to that report.”

The smile returned, and Mortas decided that it was genuine.

“We're not going to turn you into a celebrity, but we're not going to turn you into a freak, either.” He extended his hand, and Mortas took it. “Welcome to the Orphans, Jan.”

A
n enlisted man drove Mortas down the hill to First Battalion, and the man didn't say a thing the entire way. Mortas didn't mind the silence. Mulling Colonel Watt's words, he looked at the passing scenery through the side of the vehicle where the door should have been. Except for the windshield and a rubberized fabric stretched over its top, the conveyance was open to the elements. It was hot outside, and he enjoyed the breeze.

Everything around him was green, from the thick forest to the vast fields of trimmed grass, and he watched a family of small rodent-­like animals sprint across the road when they came around a sharp turn. The sky was clear of clouds, and he'd already been told that the temperature never actually got cold on MC-­1932.

The astonishing news about Emile Dassa had magnified the surrealism of his arrival in the war zone. Mortas knew that Dassa had disappeared from the prep-­school infirmary the night of their confrontation, but he'd almost forgotten the incident during his years at university. Dassa had gone a completely different route, spending all of that time in the war zone and covering himself with glory.

Mortas calculated that Dassa would probably be only twenty, and it surprised him to realize that was the same age Corporal Cranther had been when he died on Roanum. Cranther had spent the previous five years in the war and, like Dassa, had been forced into ser­vice.

Mortas shook his head as the road left the cover of the trees. When the vehicle reached the base of the hill, rectangles of manicured grass appeared on both sides. The open areas continued in front of them, but widely separated groups of two-­story buildings soon materialized. Beige in color, they were topped with rows of wavelike tiles bleached a dull orange by the sun.

Although he didn't recognize it right away, the three battalion areas of the First Brigade were all laid out in identical fashion. Fronting a long road, the headquarters buildings faced the brigade headquarters hill with their backs to a lower, level stretch of ground. The long barracks housing each battalion's three infantry companies stood in a row to one side of that open area, perpendicular to the headquarters. Mortas was able to make out a tall tower on the other side of the First Battalion area, outfitted with a rock-­climbing surface on one side and flat planking on the other, presumably for rappelling.

The driver stopped the vehicle behind the headquarters of First Battalion and was gone as soon as Mortas alighted. A ghost of a breeze brushed his cheeks, and Mortas realized he was alone for the first time since being awakened in his transit tube days earlier. He'd removed the cloth cap bearing his pin-­on lieutenant's insignia after almost losing it to the wind on the ride down, so he took it out of a large cargo pocket and put it back on. When he'd been issued his fatigues, Mortas had learned that pin-­on hat rank would be its only adornment. The supply sergeant giving him this nugget of wisdom had explained that the Orphans could be sent to so many different hot spots that one of the first indications of an approaching mission was the issue of fatigues in a different camouflage pattern. Lowering his voice, he'd also said that even the hat rank was removed in the field for fear of Sim snipers.

Looking out over the expanse below him, Mortas was able to identify the markings of two different kinds of athletic fields and another road just beyond. Farther out, the woods started again and then climbed another hill that blocked his vision. Mortas was just beginning to wonder where everyone was when he heard a frustrated male voice from around the side of the building.

Walking over, he spotted two young soldiers fiddling with a military radio on a wooden table. Both men had their hair cut very short and were dressed in green T-­shirts and black running shorts. One had a set of earphones on his head, and the other was working the dials on the radio set. It was one of the larger versions, usually vehicle-­mounted but sometimes carried on someone's back, and a snaking black cable attached it to a three-­legged antenna dish set up nearby.

“Station One, Station One, this is Station Two. Over.” An impossibly young voice came from one of the soldiers, and the man waited a few moments before repeating the call. He did this one more time before sweeping the earphones from his head. “Fuck!”

“Fuck is right.” The other soldier seemed amused by the difficulty, and Mortas, mindful of his status as an outsider, fought off a smile. “Just came back from maintenance. I told 'em it was in that mover that went off the bridge, but they wouldn't exchange it no matter how much water spilled out of it.”

Muttering, the man who'd been wearing the headphones began disconnecting different leads on the radio and cleaning them with a rag. The other soldier's eyes passed over Mortas for just an instant, then he too became interested in fixing whatever was wrong. Having spent his teen years in different prep schools, Mortas recognized the refusal to acknowledge the existence of a new guy. His face was just beginning to redden when a voice spoke behind him.