.
that was brilliant green—but he decided not to ask questions. The stuff was edible—in fact, delicious—whatever it was, and that was all he needed to know for the moment.
Other Marine personnel were in the mess hall as well, though the cavernous room was not close to being filled. The others kept their distance, however, though he saw numerous glances and curious stares. He found himself trying to listen in on conversations at the nearest tables. He was curious. How much had Anglic changed in eight centuries? Did they even speak an Anglic-derived tongue, now, or had the vagaries of history brought some other language to the fore?
Again, he decided to wait rather than bombard Schilling with questions. While he could hear voices, the nearby conversations seemed muffled, somehow, and he suspected that some sort of privacy field was blanketing the compartment.
Thirty minutes or so later, he leaned back, watching his empty plate dissolve back into the table surface. “Well, if that was a sample of the food in the forty-first century, I could get to like this time.”
“You’ll like it more with your implant.”
“Eh?”
“You’ll find nanotech is a part of just about everything now, including what you eat. And your implant has programs that let you respond in subtle ways to nano-treated food. Speaking of which … here.” She handed him a small inhaler. He hadn’t seen where she’d been carrying it on that painted-on uniform, and wondered if she’d materialized it out of the table the same way as she’d summoned their meals.
“What’s this?”
“Your new implant. We needed you to get a meal into your stomach first, so the implant nano has some raw material to work with. Just press that tip into a nostril and touch the release.”
He followed her directions. A warm, moist puff of air invaded his sinuses, and he tasted metal.
“The nano is programmed to follow the olfactory nerve into the brain,” she told him. “It knows where to go, and will begin chelating into imbedded circuits almost immediately. You’ll find yourself coming back on-line within an hour or two. Full growth will be completed within twenty hours or so.”
“That’s good.” He was still feeling shaken at the emptiness he felt without an e-connect. Damn, what had people done before cerebral implants? “And this’ll be better than my old one, huh?”
“Oh, yeah. A lot. You’ll be amazed.”
“I don’t know. Takes a lot to amaze me. What about Lofty?”
She cocked her head again. “?‘Lofty?’ Who—”
“My essistant. Personal secretary and Divisional AI. Named for Major Lofton Henderson.”
“Oh, I see. Your personal software has all been backed up in the facility network. You’ll get it all back with the download. Who is Major Henderson?”
“Check your Corps history download, Captain,” he said with stern disapproval. “He was a Marine aviator in the pre-spaceflight era. He commanded VMSB-241 at the Battle of Midway in the year 167 of the Marine Era. Killed in action leading a glide-bomb attack against the aircraft carrier Hiryu. Won a posthumous Navy Cross.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Son of a bitch.”
“Pardon, sir?”
“Nothing. I just realized that I rattled that off without consulting my implant data base. Maybe there’s hope for me yet.”
“I’m very sure there is, General.”
“So what does a … what did you call yourself? A temporal liaison do?”
“Lots of people are disoriented when they come out of cybe-hibe, sir. And even with the download, they can feel … isolated. Cut off. I’m here as a kind of a guide. I can answer questions. And, well, I know what you’re going through. What you’re feeling. I can reassure you that you’re not as alone as you might feel.”
“If there’s still a Corps, I won’t be alone,” he said. “I confess, though, that I’m a little surprised there still is a Marine Corps. There was talk back in the early thirtieth about disbanding us. The Corpsman who put me under down in Noctis Lab offered to bet me that he’d be waking me up again within the year … that I’d end up being retired, anyway. I take it that didn’t happen?”
“If you’ll check your Corps history, General, you’ll recall that the Marine Corps has always been threatened with disbanding. Why maintain a separate military organization when there’s the regular army?”
That, Garroway thought, was the absolute truth. Since the creation of the Continental Marines in 1775, the Corps had been a kind of bastard unwanted child—except when there was a war on. During peacetime, it was budget battles and second-line equipment, “Truman’s police force” and “in case of war, break glass.” Once the shooting started, though, it was send in the Marines.
In fact, the whole Marine cybe-hibe holding facility was an outgrowth of that millennia-old problem. Even well before the thirtieth century, what Schilling had casually referred to as “cultural disjunct” had been a serious issue within the Corps. Marines tended to stick together, to evolve their own unique culture with their own language and their own ways of looking at the world, and that culture was generally at sharp odds with the local civilian background. The problem had become even worse in the early days of interstellar military operations, when Marine units were packed away in cybe-hibe and deployed to star systems light years away; those units might return to Earth two decades or more after they’d left, aged—thanks to the combined effects of hibernation and relativistic time dilation—only a couple of years. Men and women already isolated from the civilian population by the Marine microculture found themselves even more isolated by twenty years of social change—and the aging or death of any friends or relatives left behind.
Small wonder that Marines tended to form bonded relationships with Marines, that there were traditional Marine family lines going back, in some cases, two thousand years. Garroway’s great-grandfather had been Gunnery Sergeant Aiden Garroway, who’d taken part in the op that had broken the back of the ancient Xul menace at the Galactic Core in the twenty-ninth century. And there were records of Garroways going much, much further back. There’d been a remote ancestor—immortalized in Corps legend as “Sands of Mars Garroway”—back in the mid-twenty-first, even before the first voyages to other stars.
He started to make a mental note to check and see if there were any Garroways around now. He’d had two kids, Ami and Jerret, before his first stint in cybe-hibe. Their mother had discouraged contact with him, damn her, and they’d been distant after the break-up. But maybe enough time had passed for their descendents. …
He shook off the thickening mood, electing instead to stare up at the impossibly blue and white curve of Eris and the tiny glare of Dysnomia, hanging in the sky above the mess deck.
A new century. A new millennium.
He was looking forward to that download.
Upper Stratosphere, Dac IV
Star System 1727459
1820 hours, GMT
The RS/A-91 strikepod plunged out of the upper haze deck into a calm and empty gulf, and Marine Lieutenant Marek Garwe shifted from tactical to optical. Salmon-pink cloud walls towered in all directions, like vast and fuzzy-looking cliffs with gently curved and wind-sculpted faces. The haze layer above was composed mostly of crystals of water ice, scattering the local star’s light, turning the sky a deep, royal blue, with a ghostly halo about the sun.
Below, the cloud canyon yawned into darkness. The next cloud deck was over forty kilometers below, deeply shadowed in the depths beyond the slanting reach of the rays of a distant sun. Intermediate cloud layers indicated updrafts, including a vast spiral in the distance of a storm. Most astonishing was the sheer scale of the vista ahead