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CHAPTER 15
They do not preach that their God will rouse them
a little before the nuts work loose.
They do not teach that His Pity allows them
to drop their job when they dam'-well choose.
As in the thronged and the lighted ways,
so in the dark and the desert they stand,
Wary and watchful all their days that their brethren's day
may be long in the land.
–Rudyard Kipling
"The Sons of Martha" (1907)
Franklin Sub-Urb, Franklin, NC, United States, Sol III
1048 EDT Thursday September 24, 2009 ad
"Look, buddy, do you have a problem with the concept of 'written orders'?" Mosovich asked.
The security guard behind the armored glass looked at the piece of paper again, then gestured for them to wait. "Let me call somebody. This is the first time I've had to deal with this."
"I hate these fucking holes," Mueller grumped. And Mosovich had to agree. Mansfield was going to owe him. Big time.
The "request" to go check out this crazy bitch came at a good time, anyway. After the last reco
Mosovich had heard rumor that Bernard had requested permission to nuke the encampment with SheVa antimatter rounds. It had been denied of course—the President was death on nuclear weapons—but the fact that the question might have been asked was comforting. It meant that somebody was taking the landing seriously.
However, until they figured out a way to probe the Posleen, Mosovich, Mueller and Sister Mary didn't have a job. Since sooner or later somebody was going to notice and figure out something stupid for them to do, Mosovich was just as glad to have this "request" forwarded through corps. It had ensured a written pass from headquarters, without which getting in would have been nearly impossible. And it got them away from corps and the various idiotic projects that the staff would be coming up with.
The flip side to it was that they had to go into the Sub-Urb. He'd been in a couple in the last five years and they were depressing as hell. The sight of all those people shoved underground was somehow obscene. Especially since ten years before, ninety percent of them had been living in comfortable neighborhoods. On the lines there were times when you could almost imagine that, yeah, there was a really big war. But, fundamentally the United States was still there, still functioning. And once the off-planet forces returned, everything could go back to being more or less normal.
Then you went to a Sub-Urb and realized that you were kidding yourself.
The Franklin Sub-Urb had a particularly bad reputation and he wasn't surprised. Half the escalators on the perso
Realistically, though, the conditions weren't too surprising. Not only was it one of the oldest ones, meaning that it had people from the first refugee waves when the Posleen were really hammering civilians, but its proximity to the corps support facilities had only managed to degrade the condition. They'd had to catch a ride from their barracks in the Gap to Franklin and it was apparent on the ride that even though the Line forces in the Gap weren't the greatest, the support groups were worse. No wonder they'd placed the Urb off limits; he'd have kept these "soldiers" out and he was a soldier. And from what he'd heard the first few months when they hadn't kept the soldiers out boiled down to a sack.
No wonder the security was jumpy about letting them in. Especially armed.
Mosovich shifted his rifle as the female guard returned with an older male. The newcomer was overweight, but not sloppily; it was clear that a good bit of the body was muscle. He was wearing rank tabs for a security major which meant he was probably the senior officer on duty. No wonder she'd been gone for a while.
"Sergeant Major—" the security officer said, looking at the e-mail orders, "—Mosovich?"
"The same, and my senior NCO, Master Sergeant Mueller."
"Could I see some ID?" he asked.
"Okay," Jake said, fishing out his ID card and gun orders.
"This is fairly irregular," the security officer continued. "We have a few perso
"Unless they're on orders," Mosovich said. He supposed that he could bow and scrape and it might help. But the hell if he would to this Keystone Kop outfit.
The officer carefully considered the two IDs and then sighed. "Okay, it looks like I have to let you in. . . ."
"Then would you mind opening the door?" Mueller growled.
The officer put his hands on his hips. "First, a few words . . ."
"Look, Major . . ." Mosovich leaned forward and peered at the badge, " . . . Peanut? We're not support pogues. We're not the barbarians you had coming down here before. I may look 22, but I'm 57; I was in the Army when you were a gleam in your daddy's eye. We're here on a mission, not to fuck around. And there's only two of us; if your department can't take down two soldiers then you need to shitcan it and get some real guards. And, as you noted, we've got qualified passes. So open the door."
"Well, that covers part of it," the major said dryly. "Here's the rest. People down here don't have guns. They don't like guns; they're afraid of them. Except for the ones that want them and will gladly take yours if you give them half a chance. Carry them slung across your back, not combat slung. Make sure you maintain control of them at all times. If you lose one, I guarantee you that the corps commander will make your life absolute hell."
"He'd be hard pressed," Jake said. "We're Fleet. But I take your meaning."
"Okay," the major said with a sigh, activating a solenoid. "Welcome to the Franklin Sub-Urb."
* * *
Mueller shook his head as they passed through another one of the open gathering areas. "Strange looks." The sprite turned left out of the commons and onto another slideway.
"Yeah," Mosovich replied. "Sheep."
Mueller knew what he meant. The people of the Sub-Urbs were giving them the sort of look sheep gave sheepdogs. They knew that the dog wouldn't bite them. Probably. This time. But they definitely did not like to see the uniforms or the guns. To sheep, all sheepdogs are wolves.
"Probably worried about an attack," Mosovich added.
"I would be," Mueller agreed. The Sub-Urb was an easy drive from the front lines; whatever idiot put it this close should be shot.
"No way out," Mosovich said. "Stupid."
"Lots," Mueller contradicted. "All marked. And the armory at the front."
Mosovich just snorted. If the Posleen ever came up the Gap, the people in the Sub-Urb were so many food animals caught in their pens. And with the Armory on the upper side of the Urb, unless they got the word in very good time, the Posleen would be sitting on their weapons.