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  Admiral Perry studied Dr. Enderle as he considered just how to respond. She was showing her years, he thought. Her sharp, narrow face was a mass of wrinkles and her hair was thinning, but her black eyes were as bright as ever. People like her, he reflected, disdain people like us. Until they need us, and then it's like in the old poem, "A thin red line of heroes." Admiral Perry's anger surged. Against his will he found himself thinking, If something has happened to Morgan, at least it might shut the sonofabitch up for a while. Then he said, "I'll have my Operations deputy contact your staff in a few minutes, Doctor." He bit off the words. "Fortunately, we have the ships and the men to send on these—forays—no thanks to, uh," he was about to say "people like you" but said instead, "budgetary constraints."

  Dr. Enderle knew exactly what the admiral had been about to say. She rose. "Thank you, Admiral Perry" she said. "You offer an excellent cup of coffee."

  Back in her car, Dr. Enderle sighed. Well, that was done. Now to the really unpleasant task of the day, informing Senator Morgan that something might have happened to his brother.

  The chambers of the Confederation Senate were housed in a sprawling complex in the Red River Valley. A guard at the entrance passed her perfunctorily into the main building, where she was on her own to find Senator Morgan's offices. She had to consult the building directory to do that.

  "The senator is in a caucus now," a snotty receptionist told her and then went back to examining her nails. Dr. Enderle, head of a government agency that spent billions in appropriations, was left to sit in the reception area until the senator arrived—an hour later. With her long experience in government, Dr. Enderle knew full well that to the Confederation's elected representatives, who considered themselves gods, she was just another civil servant. She took her personal vid out of a coat pocket and activated it. She had time to read about a hundred pages of a historical novel titled Knives in the Night, when Senator Morgan finally came through the door.

  The senator's swollen, florid face jiggled as he walked. "Ah, yes, Blossom. Been waiting long?" His voice sounded like boulders rolling down a mountainside. He breezed by her and straight into his office without asking her in. She winced at the way he used her first name, the master speaking down to his servant. Well, as a government official she was a "servant" of sorts, she reflected again, so she swallowed her pride.

  Fifteen minutes later the snotty receptionist languidly informed her, "The senator will see you now."

  Inside his vast office, Morgan sat behind an enormous desk. He waved her into a chair. The chairs about Senator Morgan's desk were specially designed so that even the tallest visitor was forced to look up at him. The diminutive Dr. Enderle cut a ridiculous figure sitting there, as if she were a small child again, sitting, against the rules, in Daddy's favorite lounger. It was just the effect Senator Henri Morgan desired.

  "Sir, I may have some bad news about your brother."

  Senator Morgan hated his brother. He was a scientist, after all. They had never agreed on anything all their lives. Nikholas, the younger of the two, considered Henri nothing more than a political opportunist, which he was, and a very good one at that. Nikholas never missed a chance to tell everyone that Henri merely cut back-room deals with other pork-barrel toadies to redistribute the Confederation's wealth, never equitably and never in the sacred cause of the advancement of science. In Nikholas's view, Henri feared ideas and the men who shared them because thinking men have always been the bane of politicians.

  "Yes?" the senator replied. The question was neutral, as if someone had just called his name from the Congress floor for a comment on an issue under discussion. Enderle knew the Morgans hated each other. If Nikholas was dead, Henri wouldn't shed a single tear. But if his expedition had ended in disaster, Henri would use that as ammunition to sink BHHEI's funding the next time its budget came up for approval. That would really please the senator—a chance to savage BHHEI and be rid of his arrogantly self-righteous brother at the same time.

  Briefly, Enderle explained the situation. Senator Morgan listened impassively.

  "How long will it take to find out what's happened?" Morgan asked.

  "Several months, sir, if the navy launches a ship immediately. First they'll have to designate a vessel, then assign the mission to some unit—"

  "Keep me informed, Blossom."

  The interview was over. Dr. Enderle got out of the oversize chair and walked rapidly out of the senator's sanctum. As she passed the receptionist's desk she paused, bent over her, and said, "You are looking fine today! Who's your undertaker?"

  Dr. Enderle knew Admiral Perry despised her, and she knew that Senator Morgan was already happily arranging to torpedo her bureau. But those small animosities aside, Dr. Blossom Enderle was really concerned about the lives of the thousand scientists and technicians in Morgan's team, and she was afraid that something had gone terribly wrong on Society 437.

  Preliminary surveys of the planet had revealed no lifeforms inimical to human beings, but those surveys often failed to discover serious environmental threats. Morgan's earlier reports had come through with perfect regularity. She knew outsiders thought that her scientists got so wrapped up in their work that they sometimes forgot the basics, even on occasion forgetting to eat, but Morgan was a superb organizer and manager, and he had all the technical expertise needed to maintain his equipment. Even so, she worried.

  "The people at Behind are really antsy about this Society 437 business," General Aldie Middleburg said. "Strange, sir, but I've worked with them on plenty of other incidents like this one and they've never before shown so much concern." As Operations Deputy for the Combined Chiefs, he and his staff had been in close contact with BHHEI's people for the last two days. "We'd have to launch anyway, but those folks think something nasty's happened out there."

  "I know that," Admiral Perry answered, referring to the necessity of launching a rescue operation; the law required that. "They're ‘concerned,’ General, because with Nikholas Morgan's precious ass on the line, his brother's going to cut off their allowance," he added.

  Normally, General Middleburg would have agreed with this assessment. "I don't know, sir," he ventured. Admiral Perry's eyebrows shot up at this. He nodded for General Middleburg to continue. "Project Golem has developed some activity out there."

  Admiral Perry started. He saw the Golem reports on a regular basis, but personally he did not put much faith in them. He couldn't recall offhand any specific mention of activity anywhere in the general direction of Society 437, but then he was exposed to so much information, who could retain it all? "Golem. Society 437," he said to his computer monitor. Instantly, a top secret report appeared on his screen, the Society 437 portion highlighted, just two lines. The intelligence analyst who'd prepared the report rated the information fairly reliable. It had not been shared with BHHEI or anyone else outside the Combined Chiefs, and access to the information was strictly need-to-know for them as well—neither the Commandant of the Confederation Marine Corps, a full member of the Combined Chiefs, nor the Chief of Staff of the Army was cleared for this information.

  Admiral Perry rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Now if Golem was on the money... "Who do we have who can deploy to that sector in the fastest time?" he asked his monitor. General Middleburg's staff had already compiled a list of available vessels, and it flashed onto his screen immediately. It was very short. "We probably don't need a capital ship for this mission," he mused. He reviewed the list of available units. If this was a Golem hit, a combat unit would be needed; a ship's landing party might not be able to handle what could come up on Society 437 if, in fact, anybody was still there. Marines.

  "General, I see your staff recommends the CNSS Fairfax County and a contingent of Marines from the 34th FIST?" Admiral Perry thought about that for a moment. "Send the order," he sighed, and leaned back in his chair. "But, General Middleburg," he added, "specify in that order I don't want them to send more than a platoon of Marines. I'd send a corporal and two private
s if I could get away with it. Damned if I'll waste the time of any more than a platoon on those people. We need to keep our deployable strength at as high a level as we can, to deal with really important things. I'm no gravel grinder, but I know even in the best of times infantry units are lucky to deploy with sixty percent of their authorized strength." He sighed again. "But 34th FIST can operate minus one platoon for whatever time it takes them to get to this place, straighten things out, and get back. Goddamn eggheads have probably all gone native or got wrapped up in their experiments. Nothing out there a platoon of Marines can't handle."

  Chapter 9

  Marine FISTs were dispatched to tend to the business of the Confederation of Worlds when force or the threat of force was called for. As a unit assigned to a remote outpost, the 34th Fleet Initial Strike Team often went to places nobody had ever heard of. Sometimes the simple arrival on the scene of a naval flotilla with an embarked FIST was sufficient to quell whatever disturbance had attracted the attention of the Confederation. Usually, the Marines had to make planetfall and deal with it directly, and they often had to fight. So they trained, constantly. No one knew what kind of operation the FIST would next be dispatched on, so they trained for every contingency their commanders could dream up—and from time to time the commanders dreamed up some doozies.

  For now, nobody dreamed up doozies. Thirty-fourth FIST had taken the brunt of the heaviest fighting on Diamunde and had too many new men to integrate into its infantry battalion, air squadron, Dragon company, artillery battery, and headquarters units, so training was fairly basic. Even so, the Marines trained as hard as Brigadier Sturgeon and his subordinate commanders could train them, to make sure they'd be ready when they were sent in harm's way again. When Marines go in harm's way, people die, and the Marines were determined that it was the other guys who would do the dying.

  When they came in out of the field, off the live-fire range, out of the virtual-reality training chambers, and pulled liberty in Bronnoysund, they played as hard as they trained. Not much of the playing was at the level the promotion parties had reached, but enough of the Marines returned to Camp Ellis after liberty with split knuckles, blackened eyes, broken bones, and monumental hangovers to keep them satisfied and out of serious trouble.

  Then there were the inspections. It seemed to the junior men and junior NCOs that inspections were thrown into the schedule whenever the commanders were too tired to maintain the pace of training. They didn't understand why the commanders held inspections instead of simply giving extended liberty, or even on-planet leave, which they thought would have made a great deal of sense and boosted morale tremendously. After all, the inspections seemed to be more about how pretty the gear and uniforms and barracks were than about how functional anything was. Few of the Marines were concerned with how pretty their gear and uniforms were—except for their dress reds; they wanted those uniforms to sparkle when they wore them. The men were concerned with how well everything worked; their lives depended on it. And so they wondered what happened to a man when he became an officer that made him suddenly so concerned with "pretty." Many of them had known a corporal or a staff sergeant who had been as rough and tumble as any enlisted Marine, then got commissioned and suddenly was taken by the very same "pretty" he'd complained so bitterly about before. Maybe, they told each other, it had something to do with the shiny precious metal of the officers' insignia, and the fancier uniforms they wore. If they glittered so much, so should everything else.

  So life went; training, inspections, and liberty, as the component units of 34th FIST integrated their new men and prepared for the unknown.

  One morning, after several months of garrison routine, Captain Conorado was a few minutes late arriving at morning inspection. So were Gunny Bass and Staff Sergeant Hyakowa. Lieutenant Giordano, the company executive officer, had company Gunnery Sergeant Thatcher stand the men at ease while they waited for the company commander. Even though Owen the woo technically belonged to Lance Corporal Dean, it also served as the company mascot. Now, it sat in its formation location a few meters in front of third platoon, facing the command group. Owen's bright expression and cocked head made it look like it was wondering what was going on.

  Captain Conorado came out of the barracks accompanied not only by Bass and Hyakowa, but by Top Myer, the company's first sergeant, and that was unusual. Top Myer almost never attended morning formation. Conorado looked displeased about something, and Bass and Hyakowa didn't look happy either. Myer was glowering, but that didn't mean anything—Top Myer usually glowered.

  Gunny Thatcher didn't wait for Giordano's instructions—he called the company to attention as soon as he saw Conorado. The men waited expectantly while the captain took the company from Giordano and quickly went through the short list of business items he had for everyone. Then Conorado studied his company, looking more searchingly at third platoon than any of the others. Sharp-eyed Marines saw that the captain was nibbling on his lower lip.

  "You all know that 34th FIST is one of the most active in the Marine Corps," Conorado began. "This FIST and its subordinate elements have been on more operations, expeditions, and other missions than almost any other unit in the entire history of the Confederation Marine Corps."

  He paused a moment, then continued. "As you may know, the Bureau of Human Habitability Exploration and Investigation has research and exploration stations on numerous uninhabited planets throughout Human Space—and even beyond its fringes. One of those stations missed a reporting cycle. The bureau has asked the Marine Corps to dispatch a platoon to investigate. Thirty-fourth FIST is the closest to this world, Society 437, so the job falls to us. In particular, third platoon gets the call, and will mount out on a special mission in two days.

  "Some of you have gone on investigations such as this before, so you know there's probably no emergency. Usually when a Behind mission fails to report as required, it's because the scientists got so wrapped up in what they were doing that they forgot to report. Either that or there was a malfunction in the courier drone." He stifled a shrug. "Sometimes pirates or some natural disaster wiped out the scientific mission. In the first case, the scientists and technicians don't need any help, just a reminder. In the other case..." This time Conorado did shrug. "By the time third platoon reaches Society 437, nearly a year will have passed since the courier drone should have been dispatched, and it will be too late to fight off any dangers."

  The captain abruptly stopped talking and pursed his lips. It seemed to him that sending Marines to investigate the situation was a waste of valuable manpower. And he knew if 34th FIST mounted out during the three or four months third platoon was gone, his company would be dangerously shorthanded. But there were things he couldn't say. "That is all." He pivoted to face Gunny Thatcher. "Company Gunnery Sergeant, the company is yours."

  "Sir," Thatcher said, pivoting to face Conorado, "the company is mine." He saluted and held the salute until Conorado began marching back to the barracks. Then he watched as the other officers and the first sergeant followed, and only then turned to face the company and dismiss it from formation.

  The woo felt the mood in the platoon behind it and broke from its position to join the Marines. "Woo?" Owen seemed to ask a question as it jumped onto Dean's shoulder. It rippled through several colors, not at all sure what its emotional state should be.

  Bass went to the company office while Hyakowa instructed the squad leaders to get their men packed and ready to go. As soon as the squad leaders had the men moving, Hyakowa went to the company supply room to make arrangements with Sergeant Souavi for the storage of personal gear the Marines of third platoon would leave behind and the issuing of gear they'd need where they were going. Then he went to the company office looking for Bass.

  "He's not here, Staff Sergeant," Corporal Doyle, the company's senior clerk, told him. Doyle was a bit surly; having one platoon detach for a mount-out meant more work for the two clerks. "He wanted to see the Skipper, but the Skipper was busy with the Top a
nd couldn't see him."

  Top Myer wasn't at his desk, and the door to the company commander's office was closed. Thatcher wasn't there either.

  "Where'd he go?"

  "I think he went to his quarters to pack."

  Hyakowa grunted, and headed toward the wing of the barracks where the officers and senior noncommissioned officers had their private rooms. Bass's door was open.

  "Why us?" Hyakowa demanded as soon as he entered the room. "Why are they sending third platoon? We've got more new men than any other platoon in the battalion, more new fire team leaders and squad leaders learning their new jobs. Hell, I'm a long way from fully knowing my job. We need the training time! We're the last platoon that should be sent out on something like this."

  Bass was sitting on a chair in front of a chest of drawers, sorting through its contents, separating the items he was taking from those he was leaving behind. He didn't look up; a head shake was his only reply.

  "Gunny, we need to talk to somebody, get some other platoon sent on this mickey mouse errand. Our Marines need to be spending their time on training exercises, not lounging around on a troop ship."

  Bass looked up and snapped, "You think I don't know that, Wang? We have our orders, even though we disagree with them. We'll set up the best training program we can manage on board ship, that's all. This trip doesn't have to be a complete waste."