So It Begins (41 page)

  “But you do believe me, don’t you, Sarge?” she cried, as if seeking a final bit of certainty.

  “Yes,” I replied softly as I reached out and hugged her close to give her one last bit of comfort against the cold dark and partly to ensure that nothing would remain for the Shardies to analyze.

  “You’re as human as me.”

Looking for a Good Time

Tony Ruggiero

Now

  “But Admiral, the repercussions could be quite severe if the truth ever got out. Hell, it would jeopardize the human race’s standing in the known galaxy,” General Albacon said, as he stood in front of the admiral’s desk.

  “Well then, General,” Admiral Rector, the Supreme Military Commander began, “we must make sure then that the truth is
never
known.”

  “But that will be difficult, sir. There are many people involved,” the general said, as he made a wide motion with his arms.

   “I didn’t say it would be easy. Just keep a few rules in the forefront at all times and the word N E V E R as it applies. As far as the enemy goes, there are to be no prisoners. Never. As to these unique forces, you are to keep them restricted to their own unit at all times. They are not to mix with any of the regular or even special ops units. Never. Do you understand these conditions?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I also want any formal records of their existence erased. They never existed. No one needs to know that they exist or how it all started.”

  “Is that part even clear?” the general asked. “I always thought of it as a rumor.”

  “The answer to that is it’s whatever version works best for us at any given time. We have to be flexible, General. We are dealing with what, potentially, could be the next step in a war that could end all wars . . . and perhaps even humanity, if we are not careful.”

  “I don’t understand,” the general said. “I can see how their capability as a military force can contribute significantly to overall effectiveness, but not as the make-or-break consideration in a war or how they could have such a grave effect on humanity.”

  “It never starts out that way,” the admiral said. “I’ve seen it happen more times than I can remember, but for some reason we ignore the warning signs. Even the simplest things such as
looking for a good time
can sometimes go south on us. But do we worry? Of course not. It’s the human thing to think we are superior. We always think we have things under control . . . until it’s too late. You mark my words, General, at some point, what is an asset today will become a problem in a few years or even decades. And then it will have to be dealt with. Some poor bastard will have to clean up the mess I have made. God help them.”

Months Earlier

  Space Marine Corporal Patrick Vanner waited impatiently in the berthing area for liberty call, as his ship landed at the space yard on the planet Ziron. At twenty years old he was one of the newest and youngest members of his unit onboard. However, he was descended from a long line of explorers and space-faring family members going back centuries and he felt as if he had come home when he finally got into space. Yet many often commented that, when one spoke with him, he always sounded as if he was an older and more seasoned veteran in certain matters, rather than a newbie to the service.

  As he waited, he gave careful attention to his uniform. It fit him well, but youth always seems to help with a good fit. At almost six feet in height, and two hundred pounds, he filled it out in all the right spots. His hair was short, the traditional Marine buzz cut, but it worked for him. He brushed off the uniform for the fifth or sixth time and pulled the tie knot up to his neck for the second or third. He wanted to make a good impression—this was his first excursion on this world, so he scrutinized every inch of his uniform ensuring that it looked good. The only luxury he allowed himself during his visual inspection was for his eyes to linger on the patch that he wore on his right shoulder. The patch reflected his unit designation: a plain white skull and crossbones with crossed swords and the name,
Death Dealers
.

  He had thought that the word
elite
meant “to be special”, but he was quickly learning that more often than not, elite meant that they were only used for the most important and dangerous missions. This in itself was exciting, but it also resulted in long stretches of time when there was nothing to do. This had been one of them. They had been in space for over six months and nothing had happened. Nothing. All he heard were stories from the other, more seasoned team members about past battles, the killing and the victories.

  “What the hell is taking so long,” he said, glancing at the clock on the bulkhead.

  “What’s wrong, Vanner? Got a hot date or something?” A voice said, from around the corner of the small and cramped berthing space.

  “Shut the hell up,” Vanner said, in a tone that conveyed familiarity rather than any animosity. “It’s been a long cruise and I’m just antsy to get off this damn ship and sink my teeth into something sweet, that’s all.”

   “Ah . . . a good meal. I agree. This stuff onboard here will kill you—well, if we weren’t already dead,” Rufus said, referring to the motto of their unit:
The Dead Fear Nothing
. ”But mooring will take as long as it always does. You know that. And then you have to get
the speech
from the chief.”

  “Yeah I know,” Vanner said. He then made the motion of sniffing the air. “I can almost smell it—the land and the people on it.”

  “Uh-huh, sure. Anything else you’re looking for?” asked Rufus. “Hmmm . . . sailor boy,” he said, as he put his arm around Vanner. “I love you long time. Love you like number-one sailor,” he said as he raised his finger in prominent gesture.

  Vanner smiled and said, “I’m always looking for a good time, but you have to be careful where you . . . well you know about—”

  “Alright, ladies,” a deep voice bellowed. There was no mistaking that the owner of the voice was
the chief
. “If you have any desire to get off this ship on this one night of liberty, you better get your candy asses in line, and I mean now!”

  From all directions in the berthing compartment, men spewed forth in various stages of dress and got in line. Vanner and Rufus fell in and stood next to each other.

   “Where the hell is the mustering officer!” the chief yelled. He stood in the center of the compartment. The chief wasn’t a big man—he was a huge man. Many just referred to him as “the mountain”. He weighed about three hundred pounds and stood slightly over six feet in height. He was basically one solid mass.

  “Here,” a voice called.

  “Then get on with it!”

  “Yes, Chief! Alright, everyone fall in!”

  When it appeared that most of the unit was in ranks, the mustering officer began calling the roll. After he had completed the list of names and checked off who was or was not present, he turned toward the men and said, “Unit 666, Parade Rest!”

  The men and women placed their hands behind them in the small of their backs as they slid their feet about eighteen inches apart.

  The petty officer turned in the chief’s direction, saluted and said, “Space Marine Unit 666 all present and/or accounted for.”

  The chief saluted and said, “Very well. Bring them to attention and fall in.”

  The mustering officer took his position in the front rank and then said, “Unit 666, Atten-hut!”’

  The chief stared at them. His eyes were deep sockets of emptiness when he looked at them this way. He remained like that for several seconds and then screamed at them, “Who are we?”

  “Death Dealers!” the soldiers responded in unison.

  “What are we?”

  “Killers!”

  “Who do we kill?”

  “The enemy!”

  “How do we kill them?”

  “Destroy their will to fight by sucking the life from them!”

  “Who is our allegiance to?”

  “The human race, the Corps and to each other!”

  “Who is God?”

  “You are!”

  “That’s right, and you best remember that.” The chief said the words slowly, allowing each syllable to sink in. “Alright, ladies, stand at ease.”

  The men and women relaxed somewhat, but as good Marines, they were prepared to snap right back to it in a second if need be.

   “Okay, boys and girls,” the chief began. “Here is your history lesson. If you need to take notes so that you don’t forget anything, I suggest you do so. Forgetting important information can get you killed just as easily on a safe planet as it can on the battlefield. Don’t ever forget that.” He added that boring-through-your-skull look to ensure that they would not forget. He then continued, “The planet Ziron was colonized originally by humans about fifty years ago. However, over the years it’s become a mixture of just about every kind of alien race, known and unknown. Needless to say, that there has been some intermixing of the races, so you will find just about anything you can imagine on the planet.”

  There were a few snickers from the soldiers as they took the chief’s words as if they had
carte blanche
as to the pleasures and fun that they could look forward to.

  “But that doesn’t mean you can do whatever the hell you want! Remember he or she might look human, but that doesn’t mean they are human—you got that?”

  “Yes, Chief!” They roared in unison.

  “Believe it or not, each and every one of you is an ambassador of the human race. If any of you brings dishonor to yourself, you bring it upon your unit and the entire human civilization. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, Chief!”

  “Now, there are some precautions we need to take to ensure that we are well received. You are Death Dealers, and many will not like you because of that. They do not understand who you are, what you do, and why you do it. So to quell their suspicions and fear, you will remove all identification from your uniforms that indicate such. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Chief!”

  The Chief looked down the front rank. “This is not the place to show off the fact that we kill for a living! Did you get that, Mr. Vanner? Take that damn patch off!”

  “Yes, Chief,” Vanner said.

  “Even without the patches, many of us will be recognized for what we are. You are to deny any accusations of what you are and move along. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Chief!”

  “To ensure that you don’t get lost, each of you will be given a map of the city. The areas in red are off-limits while the areas in green are the allowed ones. Off limits is bad—stay out of there. It’s so simple that even you idiots can’t screw it up. If you do, your ass is mine. You got that?”

  “Yes, Chief!”

  “And finally, liberty call expires at its usual time, one hour prior to sunrise. I will be waiting at the gangway to greet anyone that is late. Anyone who arrives at or after sunrise I will
burn you
myself. Understood?”

  “Yes, Chief!”

  “Good. Now go and hit the beach and have some fun. Death Dealers—Atten-hut! Dismissed!”

  They left the ship in small groups of two and three. There was loud and boisterous talk about where the best places to go were for anything imaginable. As they cleared the space port, or the “white area” as it was designated by its color, they entered the city area which was awash in people; virtually wall-to-wall people in this area of the city. Although they had been told about the inhabitant’s fascination for color, actually seeing it in operation was quite different. The city itself was color coded. Each commercial building was circular in shape and designated a color based upon its function. Vanner thought how this could be both helpful and confusing at the same time, not to mention monotonous, if stuck in an area comprised of similar type or functions. All things considered, it would be very easy to get lost, so Vanner and his group agreed to meet up at one of the places marked on the map. Several of his fellow soldiers said, “Good hunting,” and then smiled at each other, as they immersed themselves into the masses.