THE PLANET TURAXIS II
After a night spent in the city’s spacious drunk tank, Raynor awoke to the sound of someone banging on a garbage can, while shouting “The party’s over! Time to go home.” He had a throbbing headache, and groaned miserably as he sat up and put both feet on the floor. The bunk bed shook as Kydd jumped down from above. There was a thump when his shoes hit the floor. “Good morning, Jim!” he said cheerfully. “You look like hell.”
Raynor was about to say, “And so do you,” when he realized it wasn’t true. Kydd’s uniform was wrinkled and a little dirty, but he was otherwise ready for inspection, all the way down to a pair of glossy shoes.
Raynor frowned. Even that hurt. “How come you look so good?”
“Because I got up, took a sonic shower, and used one of the free shaving kits the jailers hand out,” Kydd replied brightly. “We’re going to be marines today, you know… . We have to look sharp.”
“You’re not a marine,” Raynor complained bitterly. “You’re a friggin’ freak. Where’s Hank?”
“Right here,” Harnack said while yawning, as orders were shouted and the other prisoners began to file out. His kepi was missing, his shirt was ripped, and there were grass stains on his pants. His eyelids were heavy with sleep, but he still managed a smile as he staggered along. “Did we have a good time? I can’t remember.”
“We had a great time!” Kydd reported. “Come on … the MPs are going to march us back to base.”
“They’re going to what?” Raynor inquired, but Kydd was already three feet away by that time and headed for the door. So all the others could do was follow as the military personnel were ushered into a parking lot where a squad of MPs was waiting to receive them. Most wore knowing grins rather than the angry expressions Raynor expected to see. “Why is everyone being so nice?” Raynor wondered aloud.
“Fall in!” one of the noncoms ordered gruffly. “Make two formations of six ranks each with the tallest idiots in the back. Marines over here—swabbies over there.”
“I think they’ve done this before,” Harnack observed as the three of them fell in.
More orders were given and the first two ranks of swabbies were magically transformed into a column of twos. Once the fleet personnel were in motion, the marines followed.
“I have to take a piss,” Raynor muttered.
“Aim for Kydd,” Harnack responded, loud enough for the sniper to hear. “He’s on my nerves today.”
Kydd glanced back and grinned. “You’re a mean sonofabitch, you know that?”
“Oh, come on. You’ve seen Raynor shoot—you know he can’t aim worth shit.”
“Oh, wow. You are so going down.” Raynor stealthily planted a foot in Harnack’s path. After a quick stumble, Harnack regained his footing and the three recruits hid their smirks as the MPs led them out onto the street.
They might have been subjected to a long humiliating shuffle through the center of town, had it not been for a sergeant wearing a beer-stained uniform and sporting a black eye. He began to call cadence, the marines fell inot step, and the swabbies did likewise. As heads came up, shoulders went back, and the age-old command of “Your left, right, left,” echoed between the surrounding buildings as the troops marched through town.
Suddenly Raynor felt better. It was a bright, sunny morning, he could see distant contrails clawing the sky, and he was glad to be where he was—even if his head hurt each time he brought his left heel down hard. Somebody began to sing a marching ditty. More voices joined in, and the trip back to base was transformed from a retreat to a triumphant parade. The town of Braddock had been sacked and conquered.
Once Raynor, Harnack, Kydd, and the rest of their company were back on base, they were ordered to report to their quarters, where Gunnery Sergeant Red Murphy was waiting for them. The drill instructor had lost one arm, one leg, and one eye in battle, and having opted for electro-mechanical prostheses rather than the lab-grown limbs that most people preferred, he was more cyborg than man. And his replacement parts whirred and clicked whenever he moved.
But even though the replacement parts might not have been as pretty as their flesh-and-blood counterparts, they were very functional and granted Murphy a level of grim credibility he would not have had otherwise. Like most DIs, he was a pretty good actor, but his threats rang hollow, since the boots knew they were going to graduate at 1500 hours.
By that time it was clear that Macaby and the citizens of Braddock had been well aware of what would happen when the Marine Corps turned hundreds of recruits loose on the town. But appearances were important to discipline, so Murphy pretended to chew them out and the recruits pretended to listen.
Finally, when the speech was over, the noncom sent them off to “take showers, get some chow, and prepare for inspection at 1400 hours.”
Neither Raynor nor Harnack felt like eating, but Kydd did, much to their disgust. But what Raynor did want to do was call home. He had no idea what time it was for them on Shiloh, but figured his parents would be glad to hear from him regardless, especially on such an important day. It was going to cost several weeks’ pay to use the interplanetary fone, he knew that, but figured the sound of their voices would be worth it.
But before he could place the call, it was first necessary to wait through a fifteen-minute line before gaining access to one of the two dozen public comm units that were available for the boots to use. Finally, having been routed through an intricate series of signal boosters and relays, Raynor heard a series of beeps as the fone rang. Then, on the sixth ring, he heard his father’s voice. A vidfeed would have cost twice as much, so he had to settle for just audio. “I don’t know who this is,” Trace said, “but you’d better have one helluva good reason for calling at two in the morning.”
“It’s me, Dad,” Raynor said. “I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be a marine two hours from now. We’re about to graduate from boot camp.”
Raynor grinned as his father said, “Wake up, hon, it’s Jim!” Then, clearly awake by that time, Trace Raynor said, “Damn, it’s good to hear your voice, Son… . I wish we could be there to see the ceremony.”
“They’re going to give each one of us a vidsnap,” Jim replied. “I’ll send it along as soon as I get it. How are things going?”
“Fine,” Trace answered, “just fine. Hold on a sec… . Here’s your mother.”
Jim knew all of his father’s inflections, and the hesitancy in the older man’s voice made him wonder if things were going well, or if Trace Raynor was hiding something. So after his mother asked about his health, and where he was likely to be sent after boot camp, Jim put the same question to her. “So, Mom, Dad says everything is fine … but that’s what he would say even if the robo-harvester blew up. I’m counting on you to tell me the truth.”
“Well,” Karol Raynor said, “there’s a new regulation. Every farmer has to buy a business license. And they cost two thousand credits each. So that was something of a blow … but here’s the good news. Thanks to your signing bonus we were able to pay it! So in that sense everything is fine.”
What his mother hadn’t said was that the cost of the license had consumed two-thirds of the bonus, which meant they wouldn’t be able to pay their taxes as planned. Suddenly Jim wondered if joining the Marine Corps had been such a good idea after all. But it wouldn’t do to say that, so he told his mother that he was happy to hear it, and was careful to change the subject.
“You should see Tom now … he lost about ten pounds, he can do a hundred push-ups, and he claims to be good-looking. He says ‘Hi,’ by the way, and wants you to know that the cookies you sent me were really good. And he should know, ’cause he ate six of them.”