the first verse. A collective groan rose from Victor Company, and then Victor Company echoed the response, a bit less enthusiastically and a bit more off-key. Back and forth it went, first the gunny and then the unit.
I saw an old lady humping down the street.
I saw an old lady humping down the street.
She wore a gravchute pack and mechboots on her feet.
She wore a gravchute pack and mechboots on her feet.
I said, Hey, Old Lady, where you going to?
I said, Hey, Old Lady, where you going to?
She said, I’m going to the RAW-MC Atmo School.
She said, I’m going to the RAW-MC Atmo School.
I said, Hey, Old Lady, I think you’re too old.
I said, Hey, Old Lady, I think you’re too old.
You’d better leave drops to the young and the bold.
You’d better leave drops to the young and the bold.
She said, Listen, Private Atumbi, I’m talking to you.
She said, Listen, Private Atumbi, I’m talking to you.
I’m a trainer at the RAW-MC Atmo School.
I’m a trainer at the RAW-MC Atmo School.
As the cadence ended, Ramuel barked out, “Company, forward, march!”
Victor Company eased into a brisk walk about fifty meters from Promise’s position, all eyes staring past her. To his credit, the aforementioned Private Atumbi was in sync with the rest of company, mostly, but on the wrong foot.
The right flank overtook Promise, and the gunny called out, “Company, halt!” Ramuel’s voice soared upward on “Pythons, right, face!”
* * *
Promise looked to her left, at Gunnery Sergeant Tomas Ramuel, her de facto second-in-command, and saw a plume of steam rising from between his ears. Ramuel was either overheated or pissed off. Promise was almost positive it was the latter of the two. After the gunny’s “Order arms!” every Marine was supposed to shift his or her rifle to the right side, with the butt of the rifle resting on the ground. Promise counted three boots with their barrels scraping the deck instead of pointed skyward. Then there was Atumbi, who didn’t have a rifle at all.
“Marines need feet to pound ferrocrete.” Promise’s voice carried over the field. “The gunny said order arms, not shoot the jane or jack beside you in the boot. Get it fixed. Now!”
Promise schooled her face to unreadable and began to walk the line. She stopped when she was standing in front of Private Atumbi’s row. Promise motioned for Atumbi to step out of line. But Atumbi’s eyes were locked on the aft compartment of the Marine in front of him, Private First Class Cervantes, and Atumbi had a dumb expression plastered on his face, and empty hands instead of a properly righted pulse rifle.
Promise cleared her throat to get his attention. “Private, I believe you’re missing something.”
Atumbi still wasn’t paying attention.
This is going to be fun, Promise thought. She cast the gunny a look. Shall we?
The gunny nodded back. Yelled, “Atumbi! When the lieutenant speaks, the obligatory response is to listen. When the lieutenant speaks to you the obligatory response is ‘Yes, ma’am.’ When the lieutenant points out your mistake the obligatory response is ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. I screwed the pooch, by the numbers, ma’am!’”
Now the private was looking unnaturally pale, which was odd for a man with skin as black as cinders.
* * *
Private First Class Cervantes matched eyes with Promise and muttered under her breath. “You need to listen better.” Then she looked over her shoulder and shifted her weight slightly. Atumbi’s head suddenly disappeared behind Cervantes’s smaller frame. When he came up for air, his face was pained and his shoulders were hunched forward.
* * *
Promise scowled at Cervantes and raised a finger. Mouthed, That’s one. Then she caught the gunny’s eyes. “Hmmm … one of my Marines is not like the other. Gunny, I believe Private Atumbi forgot something important.”
“We left before sunrise, ma’am. I should have double-checked.”
Cervantes opened her big mouth. “Estúpido imbécil—”
“Enough, Jupiter!” Promise glared at Cervantes and raised another finger. That’s two.
The gunny piped up, growled really. “Cervantes, you don’t want to get to three. Shut your mouth or Atumbi’s fate will be your own.”
“Thank you, Gunny,” Promise said, the full weight of her gaze on Cervantes, who was now looking quite pale too. “All of you. Keep your traps shut.” The words edged out as sharp as a force blade. “I’ll worry about Atumbi. You worry about you. Clear?”
Every boot in Victor Company looked dead ahead. Not a single jane or jack dared speak up and earn three klicks for the trying.
Cervantes nodded and broke contact.
Good, Promise thought, and