The mood of the troops darkens along with the cabin lighting.
“Questions?” Christie asks.
A soldier with dark hair and a cheekful of chewing tobacco raises a hand.
“I got a question.”
“It’s not the one about where babies come from, is it, Private Day?”
The soldier grins, shifts his chaw from one cheek to the other. “Why don’t we just line these damn pitdiggers up against the wall and X the****ing lot of them, Top?”
“Well now, that’s a wonderful plan, Private,” Christie nods. “And I suppose you’re going to operate the hermium processors when the civis are all sixed? Got an engineering degree in between combat tours and ****ing your cousins, did you?”
“So X their kids instead,” the private insists. “That’ll teach the rebs to **** with us.”
“The fact we have the miners’ families under lock and key is the only thing keeping the hermium outfit operational,” Christie growls. “We X them, the mine shuts down and we got no juice for Magellan. The official party line is still that there is no insurgency among the populace. So unstrap your head from your ***and leave the thinking for the Logistics Department.”
Day’s face sours, but he shuts up. Christie raises an eyebrow, waiting for any more inquiries. In the silence, a slender woman with bobbed black hair nods at the boy.
“Who’s the cherry, LT?”
“This is Specialist Lindstrom.” Lieutenant Christie slaps the blond kid heavy on the shoulder. “Electronics tech on loan from theMagellan. He’ll be overseeing systems maintenance in the Kerenza colony until further notice.”
“What happened to Albretto? Or Ingram and Couzens?”
“They were in the barracks when Dr. Monoxide paid a visit. They’re deep six.”
“And this kid is their replacement?” The woman glances at Lindstrom in disbelief. “What is he, twelve? He can’t even put on a ****ing ATLAS, LT.”
“Well, thank you for volunteering to help him, Sergeant Oshiro.” The ink on Christie’s face twists with his humorless smile. “Since you’re so concerned, you’ll be the specialist’s shadow until further notice. And as you’re nice enough to point out, we’re shorthanded on techheads, so if anything happens to him, it’s your *** in my line of fire. Understood?”
The woman blinks. Jaw tightening.
“…Sir, yessir.”
The Locust’s internal PA crackles.
“Top, this is Conn. Five minutes to surface, over.”
“All right, pounders!” Christie roars. “You heard the lady, five minutes to powder. Temperature is six below, wind at eighty klicks, so don’t forget your booties. If a single one of you choobs even thinks about X-ing out on this rotation, I will personally haul myself down into hell just to kick your sorry ***, is that understood?”
“Sir, yessir!”
“I can’t hear you!”
“Sir, yessir!”
“Your lives belong to BeiTech and your ***es belong to me. A pounder does not die unless they are given permission to die, is that understood?”
“Sir, yessir!”
“I can’t ****ing hear you!”
“Sir, yessir!”
Christie points to the BeiTech logo and motto painted on the hangar doors.
“Company! Commander! Corps!”
“Corps! Hooah!”
Twenty-four fists slam onto twenty-four breastplates. Lindstrom’s is only a little off the pace. Christie surveys his troops one more time before nodding.
“Out-****ing-standing. As you were.”
Without another word, the lieutenant turns and stalks back the way he came.
The soldiers set about finishing their prep. Weapons check. Temperature regulators. Signal strength. Six and a half months into their occupation of the WUC’s little hermium outfit, they’re a well-oiled machine. All the parts meshing except one. Lindstrom is still struggling with his suit when he looks up to find Sergeant Oshiro standing in front of him, hands on hips.
This close, I can see through Lindstrom’s cam that she’s not much older than he is. Japanese descent, slice of Eurobloc in there somewhere. Hard brown eyes. Pretty in a “do not **** with me” kind of way. The words THOU SHALT NOT KILL are printed on her breastplate. She’s almost a foot shorter than he is, but somehow seems to tower over him.
“How many times you worn an ATLAS, Cherry?”
“…Just in training, ma’am.”
After watching him struggle a moment longer, glancing up at that ridiculous quiff, she slaps the kid’s hands away.
“Watch. Learn.”
She runs him through the routine. Methodical. Checking to make sure he’s paying attention. The Locust rocks hard as it hits turbulence, and Lindstrom stumbles. Oshiro barely moves. When she’s done, the sergeant raises an eyebrow at the kid.
“Got it?”
“I think so.”
“You better do more than think so. Kerenza hits seventy below once the sun goes down. You flub your seal integrity and step outside into that, you’ll be frostbitten before you feel the sting.”