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  Inside the terminal the four Marines were directed to a small office marked FIST LIAISON, where they found several comfortable chairs, a workstation manned by a lance corporal, and a captain, both wearing class B winter uniforms. The walls of the room were decorated with holograms of the attractions of New Oslo, all of which prominently featured beautiful young women.

  “My name is Captain Meadows,” the officer began without preamble. “I am military attaché at the Confederation Embassy here in New Oslo. As an extra duty, I also run the R and R program for the 34th FIST. This is Lance Corporal Minh. Any problems or questions while you’re here, contact him. Any of you ever been here before?”

  Only Bass raised his hand. “Good, Staff Sergeant. Are these other men from your platoon?” Bass answered in the affirmative and the captain nodded. “Good.” He smiled cryptically. “You show them the ropes, then. Lance Corporal...” He turned the proceedings over to Minh.

  Lance Corporal Minh did not bother to get up from his workstation. The immaculately tailored class B winter uniform he wore had no badges or decorations. He clearly considered the men from the FIST an annoyance, an interruption to his otherwise very important work. He had been selected for attaché duty right out of Boot Camp and had never had another assignment in the Corps except there, at the New Oslo embassy. His high intelligence, high security clearances, and close association with the Confederation diplomatic corps had given him a very high opinion of himself.

  “Here are some brochures about what to do and see in the city,” he said in a voice that reflected his bored, seen-it-all attitude. He spread out the brochures in front of him. He would not lower himself to passing them out to these boondock Marines. “If you must go outside the city, you are limited to a hundred kilometer radius. There are some fine winter resorts within that limit you might want to visit while you’re here.

  “We have rooms booked for you in the FIST R and R hotel downtown. They are first-class accommodations. You may stay there or anywhere else that suits you while you’re here.” He made a deprecating gesture at one of the holograms portraying a buxom young woman on skis. “In these envelopes is supplemental pay, in kroner, that you may find useful while you’re here. The uniform after dark is dress scarlets; otherwise, wear whatever in your seabag suits the occasion. You can buy or rent cold-weather gear if you need it. Somehow, I don’t think you will,” he added with a sneer. “Transportation to your hotel leaves in thirty minutes. Please be back here at oh-five hours next Freytag, that is, five days from today.

  “I want to do a quick download from your personnel records bracelets before you leave here, and I need to know your communicator call signs. If you need me, my call sign is R and R2. Please, don’t mumble that in your sleep.” Minh nodded at the captain that he was finished.

  “Well, welcome to New Oslo, Marines,” the captain said. “The people here are not as rough around the edges as they are back at Bronny, but they love their beer and a good time and they like Marines. While you’re here, though, remember the old commandment for men in port: ‘Lend and spend and not offend, till eight bells calls you out.’ ”

  “Men,” Bass said to the others as they checked into the lobby of their hotel, “I know a place here where we can get started tonight. It’s eleven hours local now. Meet me down here at sixteen hours, in your reds. After tonight you’re on your own.”

  In their room—the three had been assigned to one large suite—Claypoole bounced his seabag on the bed and began to undress.

  “You guys ever been on R and R before?” Schultz asked.

  “I haven’t,” Dean responded.

  “Bullshit,” Schultz sneered, “both you dukshits were on R and R the whole time we were deployed on Wanderjahr! What do you mean, you ain’t never been on R and R before?” They all laughed.

  “Yep,” Claypoole said, “while the real men like you, Hammer, were out in the boonies back there, ol’ Dean-o and me, we stayed back in Brosigville and just shot the shit out of everything that moved.” Schultz clapped Claypoole on the back and laughed with him at the joke. Despite being on detached duty at the FIST headquarters the whole time, both Marines had been promoted in lieu of a decoration for heroism during the training mission on Wanderjahr.

  “Well, with Charlie Bass along, we should have a good introduction to things in this town tonight,” Dean said.

  “Yeah,” Schultz grunted, “intoxication and intercourse nonstop.” Although Schultz feigned world-weary cynicism most of the time and maintained that he never felt comfortable unarmed no matter where he was, all three men were delighted their platoon sergeant had been picked to go on leave with them. “If he could lead us out of the Martac Waste,” Schultz conceded, “he can get us laid in New Oslo.”

  “The place we’re headed for is called Bjorn’s,” Bass told them as they waited for a cab. They huddled inside their greatcoats, turning their backs to the bitter wind that ruled Kaiser Street outside their hotel. After three hundred years, the Confederation Marine Corps still hadn’t developed adequate foul weather clothing to go with the dress uniform.

  The cold did not seem to affect the people crowding the streets, many of whom nodded in a friendly fashion at the four Marines. The city’s citizens walked along purposefully, backs straight and heads held high, as if all of them were on the most interesting and important business. Evidently they took themselves seriously in New Olso. Evidently, also, they were prosperous, because everyone was dressed nicely despite the cold. Back in Bronnoysund, the natives dressed in practical work clothes and spit in the streets, and if they wanted to stop and gab in the streets, they did that too.

  “Bjorn’s has all the ingredients you need for a fine R and R,” Bass said. “Beer, women, and music. Oh, and food, lots of food!”

  Despite the fact that the place was crowded, the four Marines were shown to a table on the edge of the spacious dance floor. The raised platform for the band was empty but well-lighted, promising live entertainment later in the evening.

  Midway through their second reindeer steak, they were interrupted by a loud cry. “Charlieeeeee!” A beautiful, silver-haired blonde woman threw her arms around Staff Sergeant Bass’s neck and kissed him wetly on his cheek.

  “Katie!” Bass exclaimed. “Gentlemen—you too, Claypoole meet Katrina.” They stood and shook hands with her. Her grip was cool and firm. “I met Katie the last time I was up here, on embassy courier duty,” Bass added lamely.

  Katie slapped Bass playfully on the top of his head. “Vy you didn’t tell me you vas coming back again!”

  Bass made an embarrassed face. “I was going to, honey, but we just got here.”

  Katie looked at the others. “You boys are alone?” she asked; and frowned when they admitted they were. She stood up, put two fingers in her mouth and whistled loudly three times.

  “Local custom,” Bass said. In a few moments three other young women joined them. Waiters brought extra chairs, and they all crowded around the small table. The food scraps were removed and replaced with huge pitchers of cold beer. Then Bass broke out cigars, and everyone lighted up.

  A slight, dark-haired beauty named Jena took Claypoole’s hand and sat next to him. “You must excuse I don’t speak English so good,” she murmured, a Scandanavian lilt making her words musical.

  “Oh, your English is fine!” Claypoole protested.

  “Thank you, kind sir,” she responded, and smiled. Claypoole was reminded of a young woman he’d met on Wanderjahr, and he felt a sudden stab of sorrow; a sniper had killed her with a bullet that might have been meant for him. His unexpected change of mood was reflected on his face, and Jena asked if he was okay.

  “Uh, oh, yeah yeah. Just gas.” Claypoole smiled and burped loudly. Everyone laughed.

  “Thanks for not putting it out the other end!” Schultz shouted, and everyone laughed even harder.

  Claypoole had changed since Wanderjahr. The old wiseacre Claypoole was still around, but he showed up only occasionally now. The unhappy
memory passed quickly, and Claypoole smiled at Jena, took her hand in his own and with his free arm drew her closer to him.

  “Ah!” one of the women exclaimed. “Music!”

  Three men had emerged from the wings carrying stringed instruments. They bowed to the audience and sat down. Each adjusted his instrument and conferred briefly with his companions. When all nodded that they were ready, the leader stamped his foot three times and, without introduction, they began to play.

  In Bronnoysund sailors off the oceangoing ships and fishing trawlers often played for their own amusement in the local beer halls, sawing away or plucking enthusiastically on a variety of stringed instruments. The music was fine for drinking and for dancing across sawdust-covered floors at places like Big Barb’s, the beer hall, bordello, and ship’s chandler that served as third platoon’s drinking headquarters when they were in town. But these players were different.

  At the first notes of their playing, a cold shiver went down Joe Dean’s spine, and his companions began keeping time with their fingers and toes. The music was “kinetic,” it made you want to move, and soon that’s just what the other patrons began to do. Men and women poured onto the wooden dance floor, stomped and shouted and whirled around while diners and drinkers shouted and clapped their hands. The music they played that night—rollicking fiddle tunes improvised long ago by hard men to enliven the rigors of life on rocky seacoasts in a time long before men could fly, imported by the first settlers from Old Earth, adapted to the harsh environment of a new world. over several centuries—stayed with the Marines long after the other events of that night were only a dim memory.

  Many people visited at the Marines’ table over the next few exhilarating hours. The fiddlers played and the patrons stomped until musicians and dancers both were soaked with perspiration. During breaks in the music, everyone drank heartily. The beer flowed in prodigious quantities but nobody went mean.

  At one point the Marines were joined by a red-faced young man who said he was a naval rating stationed at the embassy on special communications duty.

  “SRA Third Hummfree,” he introduced himself. Schultz rolled his eyes; Claypoole and Dean exchanged pained glances. Navy enlisted ranks didn’t make any sense to the Marines.

  “I was on the Denver, fellows,” Hummfree told them, “when you were training the field police on Wanderjahr. I’m the one who figured out where the rebels had their headquarters,” he added proudly.

  “That’s right!” Claypoole exclaimed. “Hey, that’s right! So you’re the guy! I remember the briefing at the brigadier’s headquarters when it was explained how you did that.” He clapped the young man on the back and poured him a beer from his pitcher. “He said you were too good for the navy, that the Marines should try to get you away from them.”

  “That was me,” Hummfree said a little tipsily. It was obvious he wanted to talk about it. “Surface Radar Analyst Third Class Hummfree.” He tapped his arm where chevrons would be if he were in uniform.

  “Watcha say yer doin’ here?” Schultz interrupted.

  “Uh, I’m in the communications cell, at the embassy.”

  “Yeah, but whatcha do? You snoop around on the ‘Finnis too?”

  “Naw,” he answered, “I work on Project Golem.” Instantly his hand half flew to his mouth and an expression came across the analyst’s face as if he’d just spoken an abominably filthy word. To the others in the noisy, smoke-filled room it sounded like “Project Go Get ‘Em.”

  “That’s deep-space communications and shit like that,” he added quickly. “Well,” the sailor said, “gotta go now. See you around, huh?”

  After the man had departed, Schultz turned to Bass and said, “Tell me the anchor clankers aren’t a bunch of pussy farts,” and laughed.

  In the early morning hours of the following day, Schultz, gamely assisted by a laughing Miss Helga Halvorson, staggered up the stairs and into the foyer of her small apartment.

  “Hold it!” Schultz commanded once they were inside. “I feel—I feel, a—communication coming through!” He swayed drunkenly as he brought his right wrist up to eye level. “R and R Two,” he said, speaking Lance Corporal Minh’s call sign into his communicator.

  “Lance Corporal Minh here, sir,” a tiny, sleepy voice came through the speaker.

  “Commandant of the Confederation Marine Corps here, Lance Corporal!” Schultz bellowed, trying to keep his voice even and grave. “I have an important message for you and all the other rear-echelon pogues and pussy farts in this town!” Doubled over with drunken laughter, tears streaming down his face, he put his wrist between his buttocks and farted.

  Two days later they were on their way to war.

  Chapter 5

  The staff and major subordinate unit commanders of the 34th Fleet Initial Strike Team sprang to attention as Brigadier Sturgeon entered the briefing room. The FIST commander strode to the lectern standing to the side of the large vidscreen at the back of the small briefing stage. Normally he would put the officers at ease while he walked through their ranks, but this time he left them standing at attention while he went to the lectern, then stood at it looking at them for a moment before saying, “At ease, gentlemen.” He gave them another moment to resume their seats and exchange questioning glances. The more they wondered what was going on, the sharper their attention would be when he told them. Not all of the staff and subordinate commanders of 34th FIST had ever been on an operation such as the one they were about to embark on. Then he gave them another, longer moment, long enough for some among them to begin to fidget.

  “Gentlemen,” Sturgeon finally began, “we are going to war.” Some of the less experienced officers looked at each other quizzically. He could almost hear them thinking, Going to war? Thirty-fourth FIST was always going on operations, what could be different here? “Not all of you have been to war,” he continued after a few seconds. “On operations and campaigns, certainly. Expeditions, too many to count. There’s not a man jack in this room who doesn’t have four or five campaign medals and a few campaign stars on his Marine Expeditionary Medal. Those kinds of operations are the bread and butter of the Confederation Marine Corps, it’s how we earn our keep day in and day out. But we don’t often go to war. Those of you who have, you know the difference. The rest of you are about to find out.”

  Sturgeon touched a button on the keyboard in the lectern’s top. The vidscreen to his side went from gray to interstellar black studded with the patterns of unfamiliar constellations. The patterns shifted, grew, widened toward the sides of the screens. The view focused on one point of light and closed in on it until it was visible as the burning disk of a star seen close, and only it and eight planets circling it were in the view.

  “This is Drummond’s system,” Sturgeon said as he paused the changing view. “Most likely, few of you have heard of it. But you’ve all heard of this place.” The view on the screen began to change again, the focus shifting to the fourth planet out from the star. “This is Diamunde.” The silence in the room became almost palpable when Sturgeon gave the planet’s name. When the planet’s orb almost filled the screen, he stopped the screen again and looked at the officers. “You all know the Confederation has fought three major wars on Diamunde. Some of you fought in the most recent of them. You know what this means. I fought in two of them myself, so I can say without hesitation or fear of contradiction that the most recent was worse than the previous one. What I’ve read in histories tells me the second was worse than the first. Do you see the pattern here?

  “Another war has broken out for control of the gems and minerals Diamunde is so rich in. It’s a war the Confederation has to put down. The 34th FIST, along with the 13th, 19th, 21st, 36th, and 225th FISTs, reinforced with Marine heavy artillery—” He let his gaze sweep over the officers again, few of whom had ever been on operations or expeditions that included heavy artillery. “—have as their initial assignment the securing of a planethead for follow-on forces from the Confederation Army.” He paused
to let that sink in. Six of the Confederation Marine Corps’ thirty-six FISTS operating in concert to secure a single planethead was a mission of a magnitude almost unimaginable to most of the assembled officers. Those few who had experience with an operation of that size turned grim.

  “Gentlemen, we are not going up against tribal warriors riding horses and firing projectile rifles. We are not going up against guerrillas accustomed to fighting a comic-opera police force. We are taking on a million-man army equipped with modern weapons, using tactics very similar to those used by the Confederation forces, and commanded by generals with experience in major wars. What’s going to make this operation doubly difficult for us is, this million man army has—” He hesitated. “—tanks. Main battle tanks.” He pushed another button on his keyboard and the image on the screen changed from the rotating planet to a sixty-thousand-kilogram armored vehicle rumbling at high speed across the landscape, firing a 120 millimeter gun as it went, and hitting targets four kilometers away.

  Excited murmurs broke out. One officer exclaimed loudly, “Tanks? I thought they didn’t exist anymore!”

  “They do exist, and we’re being sent to kill enough of them to make room for the army to come in behind us,” Sturgeon replied sharply. He glared at the officers and they quickly became quiet. “As you well know, Marines haven’t fought tanks in several centuries. We haven’t even trained in antitank tactics for generations. Most of our plasma weapons are completely ineffective against heavy armor. Fortunately, the Corps is in the process of acquiring weapons that can defeat heavy armor—the same weapons that sent tanks into retirement in the first place.” He shook his head ruefully. During his forty years in the Corps, he’d always fought with the most modern of weapons; now he’d have to fight his FIST with weapons so archaic he’d never seen one outside a museum. Weapons neither he nor his Marines knew how to use. Weapons with which they would have to become proficient by the time they mounted out in less than a month. Weapons they didn’t have.