Trapped on a dustbowl, Cameron Wade didn’t understand the price he would have to pay to leave.
Cameron Wade, or Bean to his friends, ignored the ever-present dust as it blew through the packed streets of Ozwin. He smiled as an off-worlder, newly arrived, struggled to adjust their face covering, letting out a huge sneeze as they took a blast of dust to the face. Newcomers were always so easy to spot, their faces the perfect picture of misery.
Their clothes were too clean, the colours bright and jarring to his jaded eyes. No local could keep their clothes looking new for more than a couple of months before the dust worked its way into the weft and weave in such a way that no matter how good their static cleaners were, they never returned to their former glory.
As a result, most had chosen to go with plain shades of brown, grey and black. Sit outside for too long, and you could find yourself practically invisible.
He turned his attention back to the ship on landing pad 25. Ellpee Two Five as the locals called it wasn’t large, merely a one hundred by one hundred metre pad. Just large enough to take a small ship, or a group of them if they were single-seaters. Not that many single seaters came this way outside of the Five System Loop, a race which was the highlight of the year for pretty much everyone on the planet.
It was an old ship, a CH1N 00K from the Republic. Back before the war between them and the Dominion went from cold to hot. A drop ship, it bristled with weapons and nearly filled the entire landing pad. Soldiers from all races – biological or otherwise - stood about the drop ship performing mysterious tasks or directing droids to load pallets of supplies.
In contrast to the CH1N 00K, all were dressed in the white-painted, plated combat armour of the Dominion, but the unit insignia on their uniforms, and the CH1N 00K clearly marked them as mercenaries, specifically the Lost Legion – denoted by large letters under the unit shield on the CH1N 00K- also known as the Hell Hounds. Mercs were a common sight on the Outer Rim. It was racked by war as the Dominion tried to exert its influence, and local governments and star systems fought back.
To add to the chaos, there were also plenty of warlords who liked the idea of owning their own planet, and resource hungry planets were always keen to exploit any weakness on neighbouring planets.
From a mercenary’s point of view, it was definitely a seller’s market.
However, the Lost Legion were not a common sight. They were legendary, one of the most famous merc units in the Galaxy, let alone the Outer Rim. Cameron knew everything there was to know about them. He’d pored over every single piece of data he could find about them, read every story, watched every newscast, scoured the datanet for any information he could find. As such, he was able to identify by sight every officer listed on the Legion’s Table of Organisation.
Back when the Dominion had tried to expand its borders, even trying to annex Torrplats, the Lost Legion had been one of their best units, the 5006th Vista Regiment. But when they were cut off, supplies drying up, and what became known as the Great Retreat began, and the Lost Legion was trapped, unable to get back. More importantly, they were abandoned, left for dead.
So they sought terms, made peace, signed a parole – essentially agreeing that they would never take up arms for the Dominion again – and then became mercenaries, fighting against any further Dominion attempts to expand. Making the Dominion pay for their treachery and killing their former comrades-in-arms. They even went so far as to accept non-humans into their ranks as equals, crafting Dominion-style armour to accommodate them.
Cameron sighed, resting his chin on his palm as an NCO, a white ursine chimera sat behind a table which looked comically small compared to their bulk. Paws the size of Cameron’s head, with claws as long as his hand rested on the NCO’s massive armoured thighs, probably in an attempt to look less threatening. Other soldiers laid out more tables, setting up weapons, laying out a full set of combat armour and several holoprojectors showing life as a Hell Hound.
It was a setup designed to catch the eye of young people such as Cameron, and those desperate to find a different life away from the dust. Cameron wiped at his mouth as he saw examples of the pay structure and bonuses and benefits paid to the members of the Legion.
Just the sign-up fee would be enough to buy a Class 1 moisture collector, which would then allow the hydroponics farm at home to be at least fifty per cent more efficient. They’d be set for life with a set up like that.
Even before they’d finished setting up a small group of potential recruits had clustered in front of the desk. Cameron watched as a human soldier herded them into some form of a line. Those that were clearly not suitable they gently pushed out of the line.
“Don’t go getting any ideas son,” his laid a hand on his shoulder, startling him. He’d been so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he hadn’t heard his father approach. “A soldier’s life isn’t the way to go, believe me. Moisture farming might not be as exciting, but it’s a damned-lot safer.”
Cameron didn’t argue, there wasn’t any point. His father was a veteran of the bitter Five-Day War, and still bore the physical and mental scars. Many of the people in Terminus did, as did the buildings. Cameron had been asking for permission to go to the Footsore Academy near to Ferrus for the last couple of years. The answer had always been the same.
Desperate to get away from the arid desert planet of Torrplats and his family’s moisture fam, Cameron had dreamed of leaving for the academy for as long as he could remember. As like all children on Torrplats, he’d been brought up amongst the ruins and stories of the Five-Day War. Moisture farming was a hard, thankless task on such an arid planet, his father and he constantly swung between feast and famine, always struggling to get a decent harvest.
“Come on,” his father’s pneumatic leg hissed as he led Cameron away from the LP, “let’s go get a drink. You can have a Highball, we got a good price from Kazakis this time.”
Cameron grinned, it must truly have been a good price if his father was willing to spring for a highly watered-down mixer. Kazakis was a miserly old woman. It was said she was so tight that if you stuck carbon up her arse it would come out a diamond.
***
The Watering Hole was just like any other bar-cum-tavern in Torrplats. Filled with moisture farmers, miners, city dwellers and the odd scavenger, it looked as sand worn as its customers. Due to the fact it didn’t have a sign outside advertising its wares, it was rare to find outsiders in it, which was just the way the locals liked it. A holojuke played a song which had been old when his father was his age, and conversation was muted.
His father waved to a couple of farmers, people he’d served with in the Savannah Rifles, as well as three scar-covered Asaakians. Cameron tried not to stare, he had never known his father even knew one of the purple-skinned, four-armed humanoids. Let alone three.
“It’s rude to stare son,” his father muttered, placing a hand firmly on Cameron’s head and turning it forward as they reached the bar. Volun Whis was another member of the Savannah Rifles. He and Cameron’s father had been in the same platoon, both being injured by the same Dominion Crescent Blade ground attack fighter’s strafing run. Whis had kept both legs but had lost an arm and an eye.
“Teer, good to see you. Been a few weeks,” Whis flicked at the top of bar ineffectually as he greeted Cameron’s father. The bar counter’s static charger had long broken and so he fought a continuous losing battle against the fine dust. “Cameron, I can tell you’ve been looking at the Hell Hounds by the way you’re hopping up and down. Good bunch. Well, they were when your father and I fought alongside them.”
Cameron’s neck twinged he turned his head so rapidly. It seemed today was a day for surprises. His father rarely spoke about the war, and when he did, he never talked about what he’d done. Every knew that that Savannah Rifles had been one of the most combat-effective units.
Stolen story; please report.
Teer sighed, scrubbing at his dust-stained face. “Aye, Cerberus was a proper hard bastard. Could have done with their help when this happened.” He tapped his leg.
“You fought alongside the Hell Hounds?” Cameron asked, switching his focus between the two men. He felt every so slightly in awe of the fact that his father had fought alongside such legends.
“Yes lad,” Whis chuckled as he poured three shots of Blood Whiskey, topping one off with soda water as Cameron’s father gave a slight cough. “Savannah Rifles were tasked with supporting the Hell Hounds in the Battle for Logos Hill. We took it. With minimal casualties as well thanks to the Hell Hounds.”
“Don’t go filling the boy’s head with stories of glory, Volun,” his father warned. “I had to tear him away from LP and the recruiting table they’ve got up. Thought his eyes were going to turn into prunes he barely blinked.”
The two old men; old in Cameron’s eyes at least, shared a laugh. He felt his cheeks heating and looked down at the floor. “I’m sixteen, old enough to sign up,” he muttered as he took a sip of his Highball.
“Old enough to get shot to pieces as well then,” Whis snapped back. “You really reckon we didn’t think we were invincible? That we weren’t going to get hurt, that it would be someone else?”
Cameron hadn’t seen the old barkeep so angry before. In the blink of an eye he was utterly transformed from laconic barkeep to the NCO he had once been.
“Believe it or not son,” Teer said, “Whis and I were young once. Young enough to think that the build-up to war was exciting, that we’d finally get a chance to maybe get off this planet,” his father’s mouth turned down. “I lost the whole of my class form in five day. Sixty per cent of our school year was killed, and another twenty-three point five per cent seriously injured. Another twelve per cent suffered what they call ‘light injuries. Only four point five per cent of us walked away without injury. Physical that is.”
There was silence for a moment. Then, with an unspoken signal, both men raised their glasses and threw down the blood-red spirit.
“One more,” his father said. “I’ll be sipping this.” It was rare for his father to drink.
“Did I hear some piece of shit say they were in the Savannah Rifles?” a heavily accented voice called out from the corner of the bar by the entrance. It was a Bearan accent, all the words drawn out far longer than anyone on Torrplats would ever do.
Cameron and his father turned to look at the speaker. She was of the same age as his father but looked harder. Her slate-grey eyes seemed to bore into his soul, and he felt his mouth go dry, whilst his right leg started to shake. He hadn’t been this scared his entire life.
Her jacket was dust-covered and worn, an old formal regiment jacket, dark green with burgundy piping. It was unbuttoned, revealing a sweat-stained shirt. Her trousers were also dress uniform but were a now dirty canary yellow with green piping.
“Looks like you served yourself,” Whis kept his tone polite. “Jaegers and Air Assault?”
Cameron was impressed. Jaegers were light infantry, tasked with hunting – and killing – mecha and robotic forces. It was a hard task, and only the best survived long enough to muster out.
Mecha were Cameron’s favourite unit of choice. They were like the old knights of old, striding across the battlefield in suits of armour weighing more than double-digit tonnes. Footsore Academy had a Mecha Cadre and, even though only history had truly gripped his attention, he’d worked hard to not only meet, but exceed the minimum academic requirements for entry.
AirAssault were infantry flown into key points in enemy-held territory and left to fight long enough for allied forces to get through to them. If she truly had served in them, she was a damned good soldier. Or had been. The fact that she was here, wearing a mixed uniform told Cameron she’d mustered out.
“Some others too, Jaeger in the rebellion,” she sneered, revealing red-stained teeth, a sure sign of heavy Blood Root use. Cameron gulped, Blood Root, otherwise known as ‘Brain Rot’, was highly illegal, and its users often became emotionally unstable. Dangerously so.
“Well, you’re welcome to have a drink,” Whis replied. “Just so long as you keep things civil. War’s over.”
“Rebellion,” she repeated, with even more emphasis. Cameron noticed the rank badges on her right arm. Sergeant at Arms. She also had some close-combat clasps, as well as three wound stripes on the left arm’s lower sleeve. Pretty much the only academic subject he was interested in was history, especially the Five Day War.
“Like I said, keep it civil, and you’re welcome to stay,” Whis continued to wipe the bar, but his natural hand had dropped beneath the counter. Every local in the bar knew what he was reaching for.
“Or fucking what?” All conversation in the room stopped.
Teer gently pushed Cameron away from him, a firm glance all that was needed to stop Cameron from protesting. At the same time, his other hand dropped to his hip where his holstered MK III blaster rested in an old holster.
A chair shifted and Cameron’s gaze snapped to the Asaakians, seeing that they’d also cleared some space around their table, hands resting on their blasters. His mouth was suddenly dryer than a busted moisture condenser.
Another chair shifted, Cameron turned at the noise to see an old farmer slowly dropping to the floor before crawling under his table.
Stand-offs had always seem so exciting when broadcast on the holonet. Law officers and bounty hunters tracking down criminals, blasting them to pieces after a tense eyeball-to-eyeball staring match. This was far scarier. He looked to his father. A bead of sweat tracked its way down his father’s face. His eyes were pinched, and his non-shooting hand was drumming its fingers against his thigh.
“Looks like you dummies didn’t understand,” she sneered, her own hand clearing her jacket away from her own pistol. “Or. Fucking. What?”
“Or, you won’t get served and I’ll call the law,” Whis softly replied. Cameron was surprised to see the bar tender looked sad. “Please, just leave.”
“Please, just leave,” mocked the woman in a sing-song voice. “Nope.”
She drew. Faster than anyone Cameron had ever seen draw in a holodrama. But Whis was faster, snapping out a huge sawn-off shot blaster. Both guns fired so closely together that it was nearly impossible for Cameron to tell them apart.
“Fuck,” the woman touched at the remains of her stomach. Cameron retched as he saw right through the woman’s torso in places, the gaping wounds cauterized by the energy blast. She dropped to her knees, then slowly bent forward until her forehead touched the ground, making strange mewling sounds, wounds smoking slightly.
Cameron gagged as the stench of burnt flesh and voided bowels reached his nose. He didn’t realise death smelt so bad.
“Everyone okay?” asked Whis, keeping his blaster trained on her.
“Whis! That was so fast! Faster than the Chromium Ranger!” Cameron laughed, the tension flowing out of his body as he realised he was still alive, his disgust at her wounds already fading in his delight of surviving his first gunfight.
“Whis was always fast. He’d beat wired to the draw every time,” his father said. Something in his tone made them both look at him. “Think I might have been winged.”
Cameron stared open-mouthed at the small hole in the his father’s chest. A wisp of smoke curled out with each breath his father took. Without another word his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he toppled backward, dead before he hit the floor.
Incapable of moving, his son stared down at him as the other patrons in the bar rushed to his father’s side, trying their best to bring him back to life. Tears poured unfelt down Cameron’s cheeks as he saw his one-remaining parent lying dead before him.
***
“Name?” growled the large white bear NCO. He was the biggest sentient being that Cameron had ever had the displeasure of standing before. Metal sheathed teeth glinted in the hot light of Torrplat’s sun as he gave what he probably thought was a reassuring smile, but which turned Cameron’s veins to ice.
“C .. Cameron Wade,” Cameron finally blurted. He couldn’t keep his legs from shaking and hoped that the NCO wouldn’t notice. Or call attention to it if he did. Then again, he was probably used to having that effect on every sentient he came across.
“Cuh Cameron Wade? Or Cameron Wade?” the bear tilted its head inquiringly, eyes glinting. Cameron hoped it was in amusement. An angry bear was most certainly not something he wanted to come across.
“Yes. No. Cameron Wade,” he winced as he spoke. Desperate to impress, he’d dressed in his mid-week best and rehearsed all the answers to the questions he thought he was going to be asked. Failing to answer his name correctly was not something he had ever thought possible. Em
“Age?” The bear selected another field on the slate before him.
“Sixteen,” Cameron replied, thrusting his chest out in what he already knew was a pointless exercise in bluster. He’d planned on lying, records on Torrplats weren’t in a good state due to the data-bombing of the Five Day War. But now, stood in front of the NCO, he realised that he couldn’t start his career with a lie.
He stood more naturally, no matter how big his chest, the ursine could crush it with one massive paw. And, looking around at the other Hell Hounds, he realised he wasn’t quite as stacked as he had once thought he was. Moisture farming built muscles, but not on the scale of the other soldiers.
“Don’t take anyone under eighteen without their parent’s consent,” the bear looked down at Cameron, speaking almost softly. “You got that?”
“They’re dead,” snapped Cameron, trying to blink back the tears. He’d buried Teer that morning after the Sharrif had finished his inquiry. Within an hour of the funeral, he’d closed on selling the farm for half its worth so he wouldn’t be trapped there, constantly reminded of his father. “Mother in the Five Days, father murdered just last week.”
“Ah, wait one,” the bear tapped away at his data slate with claws longer than Cameron’s hand. “Teer Wade, gunned down by a Blood Root addict. Former Jaeger; one of the regiments which lost to us on Logos Hill. Your father was a member of the Savannah Rifles?”
Cameron could only give a jerky nod, not trusting himself to keep back the tears. He didn’t want to bawl like a kid in front of these hard-eye veterans and his throat was already sore from crying for most of the week.
“Okay, put your hand in the DNA reader. If you’ve got no underlying conditions, you’ll be accepted for Basic Training. Any idea what branch?”
Cameron smiled for the first time in what seemed like forever as he slipped his hand into the reader, “Mecha.”