"Home?" Martinez asked, wonderingly.
"Home," echoed Connors, thinking of the wife he'd left behind so many long months before.
Indowy Freighter Selfless Accord, en route Barwhon to Earth
"Attention to orders," cracked from the speakers above the troopers' heads as they stood in ranks in the dimly and strangely lit assembly hall.
"Reposing special trust and confidence in the patriotism, valor, fidelity, and abilities of . . ." The 508th's acting adjutant, normally the legal officer, read off the names of the remaining officers of the battalion. One of those names was, "Connors, Scott."
"A captain?" Connors wondered when the ceremony was over. "Wow. Never thought I'd live to be a captain."
"Don't let it go to your head, Skipper," advised Martinez who was, like many in Fleet Strike, a transferred Marine.
"No, Top," Connors agreed. "Would never do to get a swelled head. Makes too big a target for one thing."
"The bars . . . look good," Duncan said, staring at the wall opposite the headpiece of his medical cot. His voice contained as much interest as his blank, lifeless eyes. "The diamond looks good, too, Top," he added for Martinez.
Outside of his suit, Connors and Duncan might have been taken for brothers, same general height, same heavy-duty build. Though fifteen or more years Duncan's senior, Connors looked considerably younger. He was, unlike Duncan, a rejuv.
"How have you been, Sergeant Duncan?" the newly minted captain asked.
"Okay, sir," he answered tonelessly. "They say I can be fixed up . . . maybe. That I'll either be back to duty in a year or will never be able to go into the line again. They're talking about putting me in a tank for psych repair."