A Scrimmage at a Border Station

"The only thing deeper on the Pile than the mines is the bullshit," Groves said. "More like stalemated. We're keeping the hitest rods coming. That's why we're here. The Pile builds the Empire. We pull out ore and plant Orbital Marines in its place."

"OM's gotta do something to earn its keep," the Sarge said. "We've got the supply chain to keep operating in these mountains without starports. Army needs too much infrastructure. They can't build it without upsetting local culture and customs."

"'Leave nothing but our footprints,'" Groves quoted. "What crap. Whenever the locals aren't praying for thaw so they can get a crop in, they're begging us for jobs. They'd cut each other's throats to have a chance at construction work."

"Then why not hire them?" the newbie asked.

"'Cause we're the ones who need the construction," Groves said. "Don't matter if we'd build ports they could use, roads to move on, bridges, tunnels, plus hospitals and schools for the workers, since we're the ones doing it, not the natives, we can't. Go figure."

"There's construction work. Buildin' palaces for the Hoovin," Huong said.

"The flatlanders? Yeah, those cock-knockers are richer than Croesus," Groves agreed. "Being the biggest liars in the history of the Empire when the surveyors were making the maps and the xenothologists were writing their dissertations paid off for them.

"Problem is they pissed the mountain-folk off, when the multisystem corporations started mining in their valleys. The Fuzzies need that bottomland. So now we have to hike these hills with our assholes cinched, making sure the hitest keeps filling Commercial Space bottoms."

The lieutenant raised an eyebrow. "Groves, be careful who's around you back in the Flats, if you're going to talk like that. I don't want to have to explain why someone in my platoon got court-martialed for an Article Three. All it would take is one Political Officer looking for a rep, and you'd be spending the rest of your service term at hard labor."

"Understood, sir. Can't say that I care either way. The last time I froze my balls off on the Witch's Tit, I was thinking hard labor wasn't such a bad option."

Outside the tent, the snowstorm blew harder. The fourveefour gave a tiny tick as it increased its output.

The lieutenant activated his bookmark in the plasticback and put it away. "You do have a point."

#

The Witch's Tit shone in the morning sun, looming over Feldspar Pass. A sagging, lopsided mountain, its exposed Pilaxian granite colored the rounded peak pink. Drifted snow stood in the lee of every rock, reflecting the harsh glare of the planet's blue-white sun. The five centimeter dusting had been sculpted and formed by the constant wind into endless, razor-edged sculptures clinging to the rocks.

The patrol was already above the treeline. The soldiers moved up the side of the mountain in a dispersed file.

"I don't care how hot you are. Keep that thermal overall buttoned," Sergeant told the newbie over intercom.

"But it's malfunctioning," the newbie said.

"Can something that never works right from the day it's issued be said to be ?malfunctioning?'" Groves asked no one in particular.

The patrol paused. Baffled ventilators made sure no steam rose from their masked helmets.

"The guerillas have infra-scopes now," Marsh told the newbie. "You'd make a fine target against this snow. They might just stick a dart in you for fun, so you get a dose of Howler juice."

"They have that kind of vis-im on their guns?"