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Carney nodded. Of course Tweed would not stint on the quality of materials or workmanship if he had to trust his life to the outcome. Carney, however, caught the implication of the word "plans" in Tweed's statement.

  "I cover my back, Valley."

  Carney saw where things were headed. "Oncho, my dear friend!" he protested. "You can count on me! You always can count on me. All I want from this project is what you will make on the bogus cost overruns. And possibly the loan of some of your equipment."

  "You mentioned the use of my Bomarc and possibly one of the interstellar cargo vessels I keep in my fleet. Why? What will you do with them?" Tweed grinned.

  "I am not at liberty to say, Oncho," Carney replied stiffly. "My, um, gems—er, I mean my associates, do not want me discussing their business with someone else."

  "Who are these associates, Valley? Maybe I want in on this deal."

  "I am afraid not, Oncho," Carney said with unaccustomed firmness. It would be very bad to offend Oncho Tweed, but it would be infinitely worse to betray the confidence of Madam Piggott Thigpen. Infinitely worse. The fear of that made him bold. "You shall get the vessels back and a very tidy profit from this contract. That was our deal, and you should be satisfied with it. Haven't I played straight with you in the past, Oncho? I've gone a long way toward making your enterprises solvent. A very long way," he concluded.

  "You have profited too, Valley. And this hull breacher—the kickback I'm giving you for your help will finance your reelection campaign, maybe more."

  "Well..."

  "Valley, there have been... inquiries."

  "Who?" Carney was alarmed.

  Tweed shrugged. "The usual snooping the Bureau of Investigation carries on."

  Carney made a dismissive gesture with one hand. "The BOI are useless. I have had them neutralized. If necessary, I'll speak to the Attorney General herself. She listens to me more carefully than to the President." He could not resist the boast. What he did not mention was that when the time was right, he would carefully leak enough information to the Bureau of Investigation to put Tweed in jail for the rest of his life. But the time was not yet right.

  Back in Puuwai, Tweed considered his future. Why did that little rat Carney want to borrow starships from his fleet, and who were his mysterious partners? Carney was being paid well enough to cooperate, and indeed would come through for him. But something really big was afoot, and he was not to be a part of it.

  Gems. Carney had mentioned gems. He tried to cover it up as a slip of the tongue, but he'd actually said "gems." Tweed pondered that. What the hell could he and those partners of his be planning that included gems of any kind? What was going down in the gem market? Well, his old friend Sly Henderson would know. Sly knew the market better than anyone.

  But the real problem was that he could not trust Carney. Carney knew too much and was in a position to use that knowledge to destroy him. If some stupendous deal really was going down, Carney would want to cover his tracks, and that, Tweed knew, meant that Carney would have to neutralize him. It was time to sever relations with Carney, and he knew just how to do that.

  What was that investigator's name? He'd been snooping around asking for interviews. No subpoenas for his business records, just an informal inquiry. Tweed had talked to him briefly before refusing to cooperate, but the man had impressed him with his quick intelligence and acumen. He could be dangerous. Nast, that was his name, Nast. Well, it was time Oncho Tweed gave Special Agent Nast a bone. It was high time someone took a large bite out of Val Carney's skinny little ass.

  Chapter 3

  PFC Jorge Hayes took his time returning from morning chow. Not because he was enjoying a casual saunter on a nice morning; there was nothing about the fishy drizzle that he found enjoyable. A short distance ahead of Hayes, PFC Longfellow was walking just as slowly, head down, shoulders hunched against the drizzle. When Hayes left the mess hall, PFC Gimbel had been lingering over a last cup of coffee and ignoring the dirty looks the messmen were giving him for delaying their break. If Gimbel didn't start moving soon, he'd be late for morning formation, and Gunny Thatcher would give him more than a dirty look.

  Hayes, Longfellow, and Gimble were new men in third platoon, Company L, 34th FIST. New men, especially men on their first duty assignments, were almost always hard chargers, doing their best to impress everyone with their eagerness to do anything and be the first to do it. But not these three. They wished they were somewhere else. Hayes glanced back when he reached the barracks. He saw someone following through the gloom and rain and thought it was Gimble.

  Inside, he climbed the stairs to the second floor and turned toward the small room he shared with Corporal Dornhofer and Lance Corporal Schultz, the other two men in his fire team. The low voices coming from the room stopped as soon as he reached the doorway. Dornhofer glanced at him.

  "Better hurry" the fire team leader said, "or you'll be late."

  Schultz didn't look up from his preparations for morning formation. He didn't even grunt to acknowledge Hayes's presence.

  Hayes repressed a shiver. He'd heard about the clannishness of Marine infantry units, how they excluded outsiders. But he'd never heard of the Marines in an infantry unit treating their own new men so coldly. Well, sometimes, maybe. If a new man was replacing someone who'd been with them for a long time, someone who'd been well liked. But the Marine he replaced, Dobervich, had been killed before anyone had really gotten to know him. It was a bit different with Longfellow. He'd been brought in to replace Lance Corporal Nolet, who had been with Company L for so long he was on the short list to rotate to a unit on another world. Nolet had been well liked. The same applied to PFC Clarke, a Marine who'd been with the gun squad for nearly two years, and was replaced by Gimbel. Neither Nolet nor Clarke was dead, just badly enough injured to need replacement. Hell, they might even return to the platoon when their injuries healed and their physical therapy completed.

  But none of that explained to Hayes why the three new men were treated the way they were. Everything could be going all right for a little while, then someone would say something about "Waygone," or "skink," and conversation would stop, which left the new men feeling purposely excluded.

  In fact, before the new men arrived, third platoon had been dispatched to a planet designated Society 437 to find out why a scientific mission had missed making two scheduled reports. The official story was that a native microorganism decided it liked human hosts and wiped out the mission. Supposedly, that microorganism had also killed Dobervich and sickened Nolet and Clarke, who were sent to the Center for Extraterrestrial Disease Control in Fargo on Earth for study. A day or two before third platoon returned to Thorsfinni's World, a highranking emissary arrived from Headquarters, Marine Corps, with a verbal message from the Commandant himself about their involvement on Society 437: "What happened is classified as Ultra Secret, Special Access." Dire but unspecified consequences were threatened for anyone who divulged any information.

  Though 34th FIST's entire command structure was outraged, there wasn't a thing it could do about it.

  "Third platoon, formation!" a voice boomed in the passageway. Hayes recognized it as Staff Sergeant Hyakowa, the platoon sergeant.

  "Formation! Formation! Formation!" the voices of the squad leaders echoed.

  "You ready?" Corporal Dornhofer asked Hayes as he grabbed his blaster and stood up.

  On his way out of the room, Schultz brushed past the new man as though he wasn't there.

  "I guess," Hayes said, and picked up his weapon. He didn't know if he was ready or not. Frankly, he didn't care.

  In moments Company L was standing in formation behind the barracks. In the rain.

  Everybody in the Company knew they had to stand formation in the rain instead of inside because the command unit was so unhappy about the secrecy surrounding third platoon. Everybody knew that after Captain Conorado finished giving his morning briefing, Gunny Thatcher would conduct an inspection. They also knew that the men of third platoon would b
e the only ones to flunk the inspection, and since the rest of the company resented the silent treatment they'd gotten from third platoon, standing formation in the rain was marginally bearable for them.

  It was fifth day. At sixteen hours liberty call sounded, they were off until morning formation on first day. Two whole days of freedom to drink and chase the local women and participate in the fights the men—and some women—of Bronnoysund—the town located just outside the main gate of Camp Major Pete Ellis—gleefully had at the slightest provocation, or at no provocation at all.

  Liberty call. Except for third platoon. Third platoon had to spend extra time cleaning weapons and fixing garrison uniforms because they had, to a man, flunked that morning's inspection.

  At 1715 hours Staff Sergeant Hyakowa called for the men to assemble in the company classroom. They quickly reassembled their weapons and ran. Maybe Gunny Thatcher would let them pass the inspection this time and they could take off on liberty.

  Gunny Thatcher wasn't there. Gunnery Sergeant Charlie Bass, their platoon commander, was. His face bore an unreadable, stony expression.

  "Shut up and sit down," Bass said as his men boiled in and tried to arrange themselves into a formation in the limited open space between the chairs and the front of the classroom. The lean, tallish veteran stood with arms akimbo, watching his men as they took seats in the front rows. Hyakowa stood next to the door and closed it as soon as the last man was inside.

  When everyone was seated, Bass said, "Hammer, front and center."

  Lance Corporal Schultz jumped to his feet and stood at attention in front of Bass.

  "Inspection, arms," Bass said softly.

  Schultz sharply brought his blaster up to the port arms position, held diagonally across his body, and jacked open the battery port to show it was unloaded. Using sharp, parade ground movements, Bass slapped the blaster out of Schultz's hands and twirled it around. He glanced at the open battery port and at the muzzle, then held it out for Schultz to retake.

  "Third platoon has passed this inspection," Bass announced. "Lance Corporal Schultz, resume your place."

  "Aye aye, sir," Schultz replied, executed an about-face and briskly stepped back to his chair.

  Bass visibly relaxed. "I had a talk with Gunny Thatcher," he said. "Also with Top Myer and the Skipper."

  Hyakowa cut off a snicker. He'd been at the "talk" Bass had with the company's command unit. Read them the riot act was more like it.

  "The Mickey Mouse is over. Nobody likes the fact that we can't talk about what happened on Society 437." He glanced at the three new men and sadly shook his head. "Not even to you. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is. Nobody likes it, but I convinced the Skipper, the Top, and the Gunny that it's neither fair to anyone in the company nor proper Marine behavior to treat third platoon the way they've been treating us. Liberty call will be sounded for third platoon when we're through here. When you return from liberty, things should be back to normal with the company.

  "As for you," he indicated the new men, "I know you've been through a rough time. We found something... most remarkable on Society 437. The powers that decide these things determined that no one who wasn't there should know about it. That has put a considerable strain on everyone in the platoon. I have to apologize to you for the cold shoulder you've been given. It's nothing personal. Normally we greet newcomers quite warmly." He shot a glance at a few of the veterans who snorted at that. "Really. We're a team. We have to work closely together if we're all going to survive when we go in harm's way. It's the stress we've been under that has had everybody—including, I'm sorry to say, me—closing you out."

  He looked at the entire platoon. "That will cease as of now. These men are members of third platoon, they are to be treated as such."

  He looked at the time. Nearly 1730 hours. "I've held you up long enough. Liberty call is sounded. Now get out of my barracks. I don't want to see any of your ugly faces until morning formation two days from now."

  The men of third platoon jumped to their feet. Their headlong rush toward the exit stopped abruptly when Sergeant Ratliff, the senior squad leader, called out, "Toon! A-ten-HUT!"

  Everyone stopped in place and snapped to attention.

  Ratliff faced Bass and said in a loud, clear voice, "Gunnery Sergeant, the men of third platoon thank you, sir. Three cheers!"

  The Marines all turned to face Bass and roared out, "OOURAAHHH! OOURAAHHH! OOURAAHHH!" The cheers rattled the windows.

  Bass looked down for a moment and swallowed. When he looked up, his face was stern. "I thought I told you to get out of my barracks."

  Ratliff grinned at him. "And we'll take good care of our new men too." He reached out and gave Hayes's shoulder a squeeze.

  "Better get out of here," Hyakowa said, "before he decides you like the barracks so much you want some additional duty.

  They scrambled.

  "How did HQMC find out about it so fast?" Lance Corporal Joe Dean asked.

  "Damned if I know," replied Lance Corporal Rachman

  Claypoole. He didn't bother asking either of the other men who sat with them on the gravel bank of the fjord. It was the afternoon of the next day, and they'd finally managed to break away from the welcoming party third platoon's squad leaders had decided they needed to throw for the new men they'd been neglecting so badly. The party was still going strong an hour earlier when they snuck away. They suspected it would still be going whenever they decided to return to it. Probably everyone in the platoon would pay quiet visits to the company's corpsmen to get something to sober up before the next morning formation.

  "Must have happened when we were on New Cobh," PFC Wolfman MacIlargie opined. "The skipper of the Fairfax County, what was his name, Tuit? He probably sent a drone to Earth."

  Dean shook his head. "Not enough time." Interstellar communications was slow; the only way to send a message and have it arrive during the lifetime of the recipient was to send it on a starship. It would have taken four months for a message to get from New Cobh to Headquarters, Marine Corps, on Earth, for HQMC to come to a decision, dispatch a messenger, and have that messenger intercept the Fairfax before it reached Thorsfinni's World. The HQMC messenger, a major general, was waiting for the Fairfax at its last jump point, little more than one month after they left their unscheduled liberty call at New Cobh.

  "I think Captain Tuit sent a drone as soon as he found out what we were up against on Waygone," said PFC Izzy Godenov. "That's the only way there could have been enough time."

  MacIlargie snorted. "How would HQMC have known when we'd be at that jump point? How would they even know we'd survive to get there?"

  "We're Marines," Godenov said softly. "Some Marines always survive."

  "That major general couldn't have known when we'd get there," Dean said after mulling it over for a moment. "He must have been sent as soon as they got the message. I wonder how long he had to wait for us?"

  MacIlargie thought about it, then his face lit up. "Wow! A major general had to hurry up and wait for us! Think of that." He laughed. "Makes me feel damn important."

  "The only thing you're important for is cannon fodder," Corporal Kerr said as he joined the four. "Been wondering where my problem children disappeared to." He found a flat rock that wasn't too wet and sat down. "Shadow, Izzy." He nodded at Dean and Godenov. "You sure you want to hang around with these two? They set a bad example, you know."

  "I know," Dean said solemnly. "That's why Izzy and I are here, making sure they keep out of trouble."

  Claypoole punched at Dean. Godenov grinned. MacIlargie put on his best innocent look.

  "Maybe waiting so long was why that major general acted the way he did," Kerr said. "Ever think of that?"

  MacIlargie shrugged. "He's a major general. That's the way flag officers act.'

  Kerr slowly shook his head.. He'd never had much to do with generals, but he'd met more of them than MacIlargie had. He looked at the frigid water gently lapping against the gravel of the fjord's bea
ch and remembered.

  The CNSS Fairfax County had come out of Beamspace relatively near where the astrogator had aimed. It took little time for the astrogator to determine the ship's exact location, and hardly more time to plot the next jump, which would bring them into planetary space near Thorsfinni's World. What took the most time, several hours, was for the Beam drive to wind down following a jump and wind back up to make the next. During those hours the ship's comm shack had come to life on receipt of an unexpected radio message. It was rare for a navy ship to receive a message while in transit from one world to another, but it was sometimes necessary, which was why ships always had one or two predesignated jump points they were required to hit during a cruise. This last jump point before Thorsfinni's World was one of the required points.

  "Gunnery Sergeant Bass reporting as ordered, sir," Bass had said when he arrived on the bridge in response to a call from Captain Tuit, commander of the CNSS Fairfax County.

  "Gunny." Tait nodded at him. "We're going to be here for a while and I thought you should know why."

  Bass looked impassively at the ship's captain.

  "We've got company," the captain said.

  That was a surprise. "Sir?"

  Tuit nodded. "The fast frigate CNSS HM3 Gordon is waiting for us. It has a special courier on board who needs to transship and have a little chat with us."

  Bass raised an eyebrow. "‘Us,’ sir?"

  "Ship's crew and Marine passengers, that was the message." Tait looked at the wall of viewscreens that showed the space forward of the Fairfax County. "The message didn't say, but it managed to convey the impression that this courier carries a lot of rank and is delivering a message from someone with a lot more rank. I thought you'd like to know so you could get your men ready."

  Bass nodded. "I hope nobody minds that we didn't bring our scarlets with us, sir."

  Tuft laughed. "Just don't wear your chameleons; he'll want to know you're actually present for the briefing." The captain returned to his duties. Bass was dismissed.