"Jesus!" screamed Sergeant Duncan and dropped the suddenly red-hot case as his bunk dropped to the floor. As the floor began to settle, he slid forward as did his roommate on the other bunk. His roommate let out a bloodcurdling scream as his legs, from just below the knees, suddenly slid sideways away from his descending body and arterial blood spurted bright red to blacken the army blanket.
In his time Sergeant Duncan had seen more than any man's share of ugly accidents and he reacted without thought. He rapidly wound parachute cord around the stumps. The knife made an effective tightener for the first tourniquet; placed right it did not even cut the cord. The second tourniquet slowed the blood loss through the simple expedient of using a self-tightening hitch, very common when preparing vehicles for heavy drop or certain kinds of girls for bed. The unfortunate roommate screamed imprecations and began to cry; to such a man the loss of his legs might as well be death.
"Forget it," Sergeant Duncan snarled as he slid a screwdriver under the second tourniquet and tightened it until the blood flow stopped. "They can regrow them now." The soon-to-be ex-roommate was going glassy eyed as the blood loss began to affect him, but he caught the central idea and nodded as he passed out. "I'm the one who's fucked," Duncan whispered at last and cradled his burned hand to his chest as he crawled up the incline to the door. "Medic!" He yelled into the hallway and slumped back against the doorframe staring blank-eyed at the floor sloping towards the mirror-bright cut.
* * *
Sergeant First Class Black entered the battalion commander's office, did a precise right-face and rendered a hand salute. Staff Sergeant Duncan followed him in lock step and stood at attention.
"Sergeant First Class Black, reporting as ordered with a party of one," said Sergeant Black crisply, but with a hush to his voice.
"Stand at ease, Sergeant Black," Lieutenant Colonel Youngman said. He stared at Sergeant Duncan for a full minute. Sergeant Duncan stood at attention and sweated, reading the officer's commissioning document on the opposite wall; his mind had otherwise retreated to a safe place that did not include the probability of a court-martial. He had the intense feeling that the recent events had to be a dream, a nightmare. Nothing this awful could be real.
"Sergeant Duncan, and this question is purely rhetorical, what am I to do with you? You are tremendously competent, except when you fuck up, and you apparently do that by the numbers. I have had a chat with the sergeant major, your company commander, your platoon sergeant and, ignoring protocol, your former first sergeant. I have already officially heard several opinions of you from your current first sergeant."
Youngman paused and his face worked. "I will admit to being at a loss. We are certainly expecting combat in the very near future, and we need every damn trained NCO we can put our hands on, so a trip to Leavenworth," at that word both NCOs flinched, "which is the least you damn well deserve, is nearly out of the question. However, if I put you before a court, that's where you're going. Do you realize that?"
"Yes, sir," Sergeant Duncan answered quietly.
"You caused fifty-three thousand dollars worth of structural damage and cut your roommate's legs off. If it weren't for this new Galactic," the term was practically spit, "medical technology he would be a cripple for the rest of his life and as it is I'm out a superior NCO. He is being detached to patient's status and then to general replacement. They tell me it will take at least ninety days to grow him new legs which means we likely as not will not get him back. So, as I said, what am I to do with you? This is an official question, do you wish administrative or judicial punishment? That is, do you want to take whatever I order as your punishment or do you want to face a court-martial?"
"Administrative, sir." Duncan breathed an internal sigh of relief at being given the opportunity.
"Very smart of you, Sergeant, but it's well known that you're smart. Very well, sixty days' restriction, forty-five days' extra duty, one month's pay over sixty days and one stripe." The colonel had effectively thrown the book at him. "Oh, and Sergeant, I understand you were up for sergeant first class." The officer paused. "It will be a cold day in hell. Dismissed."
Sergeant Black snapped to attention, barked "Right face!" and marched Sergeant Duncan out of the office.
"Sergeant Major!"
The sergeant major entered the office after escorting the NCOs from the building. "Yes, sir."
"Get with the first sergeants and the S-4. We don't understand this equipment and we don't have time to mess with the booby traps in it right now. With Expert Infantry Boards coming up we need to concentrate on basic infantry skills; the scores on the latest round of core training processes were abysmal.
"I want every bit of GalTech equipment locked down, right now. Put all that will fit in the armories and the rest under lock and key in the supply rooms, especially those damn helmets and AIDs. And as for Duncan, I think he's been in the battalion too long, but we're critically short on NCOs so I can't rotate him out. What do you think?"
The stocky blond sergeant major worked his protuberant lips in and out as he thought. "Bravo could use a good squad leader in their third platoon. The platoon sergeant is experienced but he's spent most of his career in leg units. I think Duncan would be a real asset and Sergeant Green should know how to handle problem children."
"Do it. Do it today," the officer snapped, washing his hands of the matter.
"Yes, sir."
"And get that crap under lock and key."
"Yes, sir. Sir, when do you anticipate an ACS training cycle? I'll be asked." He had been asked already and repeatedly by the company first sergeants. Bravo company's first sergeant, in particular, was crawling all over his ass on a daily basis.
"We've got ninety days after EIB before we're scheduled to lift for Diess," Youngman said, sharply. "We'll do an intensive training cycle then. I've already submitted for the budget."
"Yes, sir."
"Dismissed." The colonel picked up a report and started to annotate it as the senior NCO in the battalion marched out.
9
New York, NY Sol III
1430 November 20th, 2001 AD
"My name is Worth, I have an appointment."
The office was on the 35th floor of a fifty-story building in Manhattan, a totally unobtrusive location were it not for the occupants. The sign on the door stated simply "Terra Trade Holdings." However, it occupied the entire floor and was the de jure trade consulate of the Galactic Federation.
The startlingly beautiful receptionist gestured wordlessly at the couch and chairs set to one side of the large and airy anteroom and returned to puzzling out her new computer.
Mr. Worth, instead of sitting, wandered around the reception area admiring the artwork. He considered himself a connoisseur, of sorts, of fine art, and quickly recognized several of the works for originals, or at least forgeries of extraordinary quality. There were two Rubens, a Rembrandt and, unless he missed his guess, the original "Starry, Starry Night" which was last seen firmly clutched to the bosom of the Matsushita Corporation.
As he passed among these trophies he began to notice that the furniture might also be originals; each piece appeared to be a genuine Louis XIV antique. Which made his mind return to the receptionist. If everything else in the room was original, a sincere possibility, a true collector would require some extraordinary level of originality for the receptionist. It only followed. He glanced surreptitiously her way, but was, frankly, stumped. As her console chimed she looked up and noticed the covert glance; it obviously affected her less than a puff of wind.