leaning up against the transparency. The plastic was several centimeters thick, but the speaker system let them talk and be heard. “It said to stay out of trouble. We figured, ‘Hey, no sweat. We’re not lookin’ for trouble.’”
“Did you read the fine print?”
“What fine print?” Womicki said. “It was a download.”
“Well, you should have heard someone telling you that you were being given Class 5 nanoingests.”
“You mean when they gave us something to drink?” Garroway asked. “I didn’t hear anything about nano in the stuff.”
“Mm. Well, we’ll check that out later.”
“What kind of nano, sir?” Womicki asked.
“Short-term autodegradable. Chelates with your current implant and creates a temporary low-grade AI that acts as a kind of watchdog. You get out of line, it puts you to sleep.”
“Shit!”
“Things have changed a bit since we were out on Ishtar,” Warhurst told them. “The brass is concerned about how we behave in public.”
“So they feed us monitor nano?” Garroway said, bitter. “Such a splendid reflection of civilian respect for us. Sir.”
“Like I said, things have changed.”
“There were two women with us, sir,” Garroway said. “Vinton and Garcia.”
“Staff Sergeant Dunne is springing them, Garroway. I’m here for you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me. You’ll be facing a mast for disorderly conduct.”
“But sir, they started it!”
“Freeze it down, Garroway. You boys put your foot in it. Part of my agreement with the authorities is that you go up before the Man. Copy?”
“Yes, sir. Copy.” He swallowed. “Sir?”
“Yeah?”
“Did they make you take that monitor nano for you to come down here?”
Warhurst grinned. “What do you think, Marine?”
“I don’t know, sir. You’re an officer and a gentleman and all that.”
“I had to take it, son. No exceptions. If the Marine Commandant was coming down here, they’d make him take a drink of the stuff. I don’t think they trust the devil dogs out of the kennel without a leash.”
“No, sir.”
“Don’t worry. It’ll dissolve and be out of your system within forty-eight hours.”
“I’m very glad to hear that, sir.”
“Open it up,” Warhurst growled at the guard.
The guard touched a control at his belt, and a panel in the transparency slid aside. Garroway, Womicki, Lobowski, and Eagleton all walked out of the cell.
The Marines were wearing bright lime-green prison utilities, unlike the civilians in the holding cell. “Sir, about our uniforms. …” Womicki began.
“I know. They told me at the front desk.”
“Sir, we were robbed!”
According to the report he’d seen coming in, Raphael security forces had arrived at the Starstruck to find all six Marines unconscious and naked. There was nothing unusual in that, perhaps, so far as the condecology police were concerned, and they’d turned them over to the East LA police without comment. The Marines had regained consciousness an hour later in the police infirmary, insisting that someone at the party had taken their things, including their asset cards.
The police had already put a stop on the cards. As for the uniforms, there wasn’t much that could be done. Warhurst shook his head. What the hell did civilians want with Marine Class A’s? Costumes for a costume ball?
Or maybe it had just been a damned prank.
The guards led them back to the front receiving area, where a clerk offered a screen panel for Warhurst’s thumbprint. “Thumb here, sir. And here.”
“I’ll have someone return the prison uniforms later.”
“Don’t bother,” a beefy police sergeant said. “They’re disposables.”
“Okay. These people have any effects to sign out?”
“No, sir, They came in stripped bare.” The man smirked. “You Marines really like to party, huh?”
“These Marines were robbed, Sergeant. I will be filing a report to that effect.”
The man shrugged massive shoulders. “Suit yourself. But maybe next time your boys and girls won’t come where they’re not wanted, tendo?”
“Yeah.” Warhurst said, his voice tight. “We tendo.”
He’d been warned. Things had changed in the twenty years they’d been away.
And in some ways, things hadn’t changed much at all.
7 NOVEMBER 2159
Navy/Marine XT Training Facility Fra Mauro, Mare Imbrium, Luna 0920 hours GMT
Hospitalman Second Class Phillip K. Lee was trying to run, but he was having a bit of trouble. His feet kept leaving the ground, turning him into a small low-altitude spacecraft, and he was having a hard time controlling his vector.
Overhead, Earth hung half-full in a midnight sky, an achingly beautiful glory of blue and white; the sun was just above the horizon at Lee’s back, and the shadows he and the dust cloud cast stretched for long meters across a flat and barren plain.
“Slow down, damn it!” he heard over his helmet headphones. “What are ya tryin’ to do, bounce into orbit?”
His feet hit powdery gray dust, kicking up a spray of the stuff. He tried to stop, overbalanced, and tumbled onto the ground. For a moment, he lay there, listening to the rasp of his own breathing. Readouts beneath his visor showed the workings of both his suit and his body. His heart rate and respiration were up, but otherwise he was okay. His armored suit, built to take rough usage in the field, was intact.
Good. Because if it wasn’t, he was in deep trouble.
Awkwardly, he tried to roll over. He was wearing Mark VIII vac armor, bulky
