Angles of Attack (Frontlines #3)(99)

“The Lankies will be back sooner or later. I can’t count on the Homeworld Defense troops to defend us. They were absolutely no help last night, even though they have three bases within thirty flight minutes from here. When—not if—the enemy comes back, we are all that we have. I need people who can train others how to fight these things.”

He looks at Halley.

“Lieutenant Halley, you are a drop-ship pilot and a senior flight instructor. We have a small drop-ship fleet and very few pilots. If I could persuade you to stay with us and become head of our combat-aviation school, you could build your own program from scratch.”

Then he looks at me.

“You, Staff Sergeant Grayson, are a combat infantryman, and we always have a need for those. You are also a trained combat controller, and we have nobody in our ranks who’s qualified for that job. You would both be officers, if that sort of thing holds any importance to you. Lieutenant Halley, you would be a major in the brigade. Staff Sergeant Grayson, you would be a lieutenant. Or a master sergeant, if you would prefer to remain an NCO. Some do.”

“Where did you serve?” I ask. “You were a combat grunt, weren’t you? Marines?” I wager a guess.

“Marines,” Lazarus confirms with a smile. “2080 to 2106. I was a lieutenant colonel of infantry.”

“Who made you a general in this outfit?” Halley asks.

“The men did,” Lazarus says. “I was more honored by that than by those silver oak leaves the corps bestowed on me.”

Halley and I look at each other again. She gives me the tiniest of smiles and then shrugs. Hell if I know, the shrug says.

“Can we think about it?” I ask.

“Of course you may think about it,” Lazarus says. “My offer is good until you ask us for a ride back to the safe pickup point.”

Lazarus straightens out the front of his tunic with a sharp and short tug.

“Are you hungry? Maybe you can discuss this better over breakfast.”

“I’m starving,” Halley says. “Yes, please. I’d like something to eat.”

“Have you made the same offer to Sergeant Fallon yet?” I ask, and Lazarus smiles.

“I have,” he says simply, and from the look he gives me, it’s clear that’s all he’s going to say about that particular negotiation.



Lazarus and the two guards with him take us down to the basement level, and then out into the fresh air of a residential PRC plaza. It’s not the same we defended last night—the barrier dam is intact, and there’s no seedpod hull wedged into the corner of one of the towers here. They all look identical from the air, and without my suit’s navigation gear, I couldn’t even begin to guess which of Detroit’s many PRCs we are in.

Lazarus leads us to the admin center in the middle of the plaza. The admin centers usually hold public-safety personnel and food-distribution stations. We see ration booths open, but no public-housing cops. Instead, we see olive-clad brigade troopers milling about among the civilians, and nobody’s shying away from them or cursing them from a distance.



The chow hall is moderately busy. There are a few dozen brigade troopers sitting at tables and eating breakfast. General Lazarus deposits us at a table in the corner of the room, where two familiar faces are talking over barley porridge and coffee.

“The lovebirds slept in this morning, I see.” Sergeant Fallon takes a sip of her coffee and nods at the bench across the table from her. Halley and I sit down with our own meal trays.

“You met the general,” Jackson states matter-of-factly.

“We did,” I say. “And we just had the strangest conversation I’ve had since I left the PRC and put on a uniform.”

“I’ve had stranger,” Sergeant Fallon says.

“Did we win?” Halley asks. “I mean, I know we kicked the shit out of our Lankies down here last night, but there were a bunch more pods coming down.”

“Can’t tell from the PRCs without a brigade unit in them,” Jackson says. “But the ones we control, they won theirs. Took some fierce fighting, though.”

“I don’t doubt that,” I say. “How many did we lose last night?”

“Three,” Sergeant Fallon says. “Sanborn, Cameron, Bardo. Eight more wounded.”

“Hell of a bill,” I say. “But they did all right. Considering they had shit for training against Lankies.”

“Ah, hell. It’s all infantry combat. Shoot the bad guys until they drop. It’s just bigger bad guys, that’s all. Even the local guys and girls did okay, for a bunch of barely trained civvies and a handful of out-of-shape vets. Imagine what they could do with some training and better weapons than those antiques they have to use. They sure as hell aren’t short on motivation here on their home turf.”

I look at her, and she returns my gaze passively and with a little bit of amusement in her eyes. Something about Sergeant Fallon’s demeanor tells me precisely which decision she made when the general presented her with the same offer he made us.

“You’re staying,” I say. “You are staying with the brigade. You’re not going back to Homeworld Defense.”

“Ah, hell,” she says. “Homeworld Defense practically kicked me out even before they dumped us on that ice moon.” She takes another sip of her coffee and puts the plastic mug down again gently. “Besides, I think I have some shit to atone for anyway. Might as well do it here, where I know my way around.”