Umsil, what a stupid name, it even comes with that hard-to-pronounce glottal click consonant only the western seamen would use. The more Atyla thought about the prick, the more angry he was getting; the moment the insolent fool joined their squad, Ersulp was dead. What other explanation could be given other than the fact that Umsil killed the poor man; it would be unscientific, but nobody believes in science, science is to be falsified, one only believes in falsehood. There was a reason why "know" and "believe" were two separate words in the common tongue, and Atyla had decided that from now on, he BELIEVED corporal Umsil to be a murderer.

Atyla turned his head ever so slightly so as to take a glance at Umsil without being noticed; the man was sound asleep in his seat, his one hand holding onto the cannon breech where all the reload would happen, his other hand gripping his Pretender-General 86 bolt-action sniper rifle; the rifle was adorn with downs to counteract the metal's slippery grip in the snow, and it hadn't left the man's hand since the moment they saw the corporal standing beneath the watchtower and C-4, waiting to be picked up.

"My goddamn eyes..." The tank slowed to a crawl. Wuvalis pulled herself back from the periscope, "take over, private. Gonna take a quick nap."

Switching seats in such a cramped space was a complete and utter nightmare, Atyla had to practically climb on top of the commander to facilitate that happening. It did make Atyla feel better that Umsil was awakened by all the ruckus, though the man just shifted his posture a little and fell solidly asleep again. Yeah right, sleep yourself to death, corporal, the snowman is gonna get you in your sun lit dream.

Looking into the periscope, the wide-angle lens gave Atyla a view of the outside world: harsh wind, gray snow, all silently lit pale and white by their tank's headlight. . All crewmembers of a tank were required to operate the vehicle, especially for border patrol missions that involved months of constant driving. Atyla was not trained to drive a tank in the university; he was trained to run and shoot, to save his own life, and to cover for his comrades. But working under the legendary tank commander sergeant Wuvalis did come with its perk, Atyla had received some of the best hand-on-hand in location vehicle training anyone could have gotten in the republic.

Driving this bloated monstrosity was no small task. The Lemon tank was an absolute lightweight, and the wind was going nearly 60 mph out, so the tank constantly swirled left and right requiring constant course correction; easier said than done when the pale gray hell outside offered zero visual reference point. The monotony and the constant need for attention were often compared jocosely amidst the tankmen to bleach and ammonia, a deadly combo.

The tank's engine never stopped its humming; so goddamn loud, and hot, and dark, it's minus three out, a dark day ahead, hope there is no blizzard coming. Atyla took off his white camouflage suit.

"Private, is it within the protocol to take your hands off the steering sticks while driving?" Umsil's voice slowly rose behind him; there was a noticeable tinge of laziness and nonchalance in his voice, as though he didn't actually care if the protocol was broken or not.

What a crock of shit this man is. "No. Sorry, sir, it's torching in here and I would like not to have a heat stroke."

"Of course, private."

"Do you have a problem with that, sir?" Enraged, Atyla pulled his face away from the periscope and turned around to look Umsil in the eye; the man's face was bony, full of shadowy valleys like a badly chiseled statue of some unknown saint standing in the least politically relevant company of the most geographically remote battalion. Skin tone was on the pale brown side, black hairs hanging long and dreary, badly trimmed facial hair, all prototypical of western seamen, living by the western shore eating off clams and krills; the least developed regions in the Republic.

"You aren't even looking at the road now. I'm pretty sure that is definitely breaking some kind of protocol..." Umsil simply commented.

"Yes, thank you for reminding me of that, sir!" Atyla pulled the brake and the engine let out a painful screech, the tank slowly came to a halt. "Since you are so knowledgeable of the protocol, you would also be aware that the engine is nearing its overdrive and a half-hour intermission was needed! Isn't that right, corporal?"

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

"Maybe," Umsil simply shrugged and yawned, "you are more experienced with tanks than I am, private."

"God fucking damn you all... shut the fuck up, please," Wuvalis moaned as she turned herself over in the loader's seat, "I felt like I had my eyes closed and my mind empty but it didn't feel like I was asleep... god my fucking eyes..." she suddenly sat up as though coming to a horrified conclusion, "why the fuck are we stopping?"

"Intermission, madam."

"How long have I been asleep?" Wuvalis asked.

"It's been an hour since we changed shifts," Atyla answered.

"Oh..." she relaxed a little, "intermission, then. Grab me a cup of hot water would ya, corporal?"

Umsil pulled a cup off that tiniest shelf sitting in the corner and fetched some water from that little faucet sticking out of the wall; that was the emergency water supply on the tank, but it also drew water out of the tank's hydrogen fuel tank. "I think this will be your last cup, madam."

"Ack, we can share it."

They shared the cup and split a protein bar; they said their prayer and finished each other's portion silently facing the wall; the standard arrangement amongst tankmen, one just couldn't ask for much privacy in such a cramped space. After the meal, they just sat there, waiting for the engine to cool off. Wuvalis was reading a small brochure, Umsil fiddling with his rifle, Atyla seemingly in a daze; in reality, he was casting death glares at Umsil's direction, but he did a terrific job at disguising himself.

"Umsil... of Eleventh Division, Sixth Battalion, Company 14... that is nearing the last on the register. You are an ethnic. Werxoo?"

"Yes, madam." Umsil answered, "I was a krill catcher before being sent to school."

"Going to school," the sergeant corrected him, "I know you western seamen always have something to say, but you are currently on duty right now. Keep this easy for the both of us."

"Sorry, mam, I wasn't making a commentary. Just the way folks back home talk about it, that's all." Even when Umsil was apologizing, that facial expression of indifference remained, "sorry for the offense..."

"It didn't offend anyone," Wuvalis set the brochure aside and searched herself for a pack of cigarettes, "got a fire, any of ya?"

Atyla lit it for her. The wisp of gray smoke curled upward, lingering beneath the circular hatch door. "So," Wuvalis leaned back, "explain yourself, seaman. Did you give up your ethnicity for a bonus? How much did they pay you to be here?"

"Nothing, madam." Umsil was wiping his rifle with a piece of rag; it was making the gun dirtier, not cleaner, "Sick of krill catching, that's all. Convinced the company commander to retain my ethnicity and send me to the front line after university, spent a year in Tutut..."

"Tutut?" Wuvalis sat straight a little, "you were in Tutut during the winter defense?"

The meat grinder. The defense of Tutut during the winter of 157 was the single most devastating defeat the Republic had suffered in fifteen years, the casualty was estimated to be at least 90000 and the number only climbed up after each year's nationwide battle report. The Tututian Clan, a united military unit made out of at least twenty tribes of the North East region, shelled the city into flat ground. The Republic had since yet to reclaim the lost territory. Now Atyla understood where those thousand-yard stares came from. Of course, on top of being an asshole, the bastard was also a woe compactor, probably suffering from post-traumatic symptoms as well; it was a miracle that only Ersulp died upon his arrival.

"How old are you, corporal?" Wuvalis asked.

"A few months away from seventeen." Umsil answered.

"What kind of instructor did you get that sent a senior university kid straight to the meat grinder? Wait, never mind that." Wuvalis pinched the bridge of her nose, "What am I saying... it wasn't known as the meat grinder back then."

"Just a stroke of bad luck, I guess." Umsil forged a skin-deep smile; the curvature of his lips squeezed his already sharp and angular features together, making an absolutely abhorrent sight. He started wiping down his gun again.

"I presume that's your boy back in Tutut," Wuvalis said, nodding at Umsil's gun.

"Yes, madam. Wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him. Lets me stay in vantage points instead of squabbling in trenches."

So he is also a coward. The ever so slight shred of respect Atyla had for the man quickly dissipated; the comrades on the field were right, snipers really were all milksops.

"That's enough of that," Wuvalis turned back to her station, "let's go, long way ahead."

Atyla could feel his legs falling asleep; goddamn this Umsil, what in the goddamn was he doing in border patrol if he couldn't operate a tank? Veterans from Tutut was well regarded in the regiment, he could have asked to be assigned to wherever the fuck he wanted; hell, he could go back to fishing if he wanted that, he still had his ethnicity! Since Umsil couldn't drive, Atyla had to be the sole co-pilot, operate longer and longer shifts; and he couldn't just tag the sergeant back into the driving seat this soon, Wuvalis looked like she wanted to gauge her own eyes out, Atyla wouldn't want her to drive even if his shift was indeed over. It's hard to run into things in this pale white hell, but it is not impossible.

Cursing Umsil in his heart, Atyla turned back to the periscope, stepped onto the throttle and pulled back the brake, and as the engine soared a hideous scream, the tank resumed its journey.