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JUSTICE
“Every Communist must grasp the truth; political power grows out of the barrel of a gun. Our principle is that The Party commands the gun, and the gun must never be allowed to command The Party.”
- Mao Tse-Tung, Problems of War and Strategy
Around evening a recovery team finally came out to drag their broken vehicles back to a regeneration area in the shadow of Smoke House 3 where the Regiment had quickly established a forward headquarters and new Logistics Support Area inside the nearly 4 meter perimeter wall. 2nd Platoon hitched rides on the remaining vehicles that drove. The overflow including Lt. Petrova and most of 1st Squad piled on top of the Oliphant Recovery Vehicles flat-towing their mauled Lioness and one of CAAT’s Ocelots. Someone would come around later for Red 4, Wham!, and their Prizes.
It was odd watching the ruined city as they passed through. She’d expected it to be quiet in the aftermath, but civilians were boiling out of every hideaway. Despite the ‘cease-fire’ a gunshot was audible in the distance every so often. This was actually the first time she could remember seeing any. In the hours after the Feds surrendered they were scurrying about trying to piece together shattered lives, and, of course, to loot.
There were crowds and crowds of desperate looters tearing through every ruin. From bombed out stores to housing, nothing was out of play. Evidently, the battle had ended, but order was far from restored. No one in the hordes of non-combatants seemed particularly angry at them, but they kept their distance. It was very much a case of ‘we won’t bother you if you don’t bother us’.
At one point their progress was blocked through an intersection by a mob of looters. She and Lt. Eichmann weighed their options for progressing. The Senior Mechanic Sergeant leading the recovery team made an only half-joking suggestion to just drop the entrenching spade on his Oliphant and plow through if they wouldn’t get out of the way.
The situation however sort of resolved itself when a quartet of Lynxs marked with the Rifle, Chain, and Quill flash of 1st Rifles, STB came from the opposite direction. A platoon of Marshals, complete with their gaudy ‘Military Police’ brossards and riot equipment on full display, quickly formed a firing line and ordered the looters to disperse with a vehicle mounted speaker.
No one really paid attention to them at first. Obviously not feeling too patient, the platoon commander directed his troops to fire with an impatient wave. Volley after volley of baton rounds blitzed through the crowd, skipping off paving stones and ricocheting wildly. There was an eruption of screams as everyone fended for themselves. What was already a disordered mass devolved into a human stampede. The crowd scattered, some of the people still lugging articles of food and clothing.
The Marshal Lieutenant eventually waved them through after the street opened up. Their convoy rumbled past the trampled body of a young boy and what must’ve been his elderly male guardian. He was face down on the cobblestone in a pool of blood, head split by a baton round that’d bounced upwards off the street.
She probably wouldn't have been too appalled by it before, but now she couldn’t even muster the tiniest bit of sympathy. She was having trouble feeling much of anything. Krieger was perched next to her on top of the overloaded Oliphant. He just shook his head at the scene; it all seemed so senseless.
Upon arrival to the outskirts of Smoke House 3 their vehicles were hauled into maintenance tents. Some bored looking Mechanic Sergeant directed them to surge tents while formal billeting was arranged. She and the squad-leaders took quick accountability of equipment and personnel then sent everyone to drop their kit and go to sleep while they hashed out details with Captain Eckartt and the rest of Company Staff. They all looked like hammered shit. She probably looked about the same, if not worse.
Lt. Halverson from 3rd and Lt. Steiner from Weapons Platoon arrived shortly after her and joined the huddle around Capt. Eckartt. Everyone was accounted for minus the 1st Platoon’s Commander Lt. Juno and the Company XO Lt. Yeoman, however there was no doubt the later was just buried under a mountain of maintenance problems at the moment. Captain Eckartt didn’t have much to say. The first thing he did was inform them that Black 1, with Lt. Juno in it, had taken a pair of AGM’s to the front glacis. There were no survivors.
After that it was business, a quick thumbs up from all of the Platoon leadership that they had accounted for all soldiers, weapons, and equipment. Everything else, even congratulations on a job well done could wait. Capt. Eckartt let the NCO’s go and got a line-by-line from each of the Officers then let them disperse to rest. They’d iron out the details in the morning.
The sun had fully set by the time she’d arrived back at the tent, everyone else was already passed out in various states of undress. The tent was pressurized at least so she could take her mask off, but for the moment she had one more priority mission. Some one, probably Rand, had been nice enough to take her mainpack and sustainment gear in here and save her a spot in the corner. Dumping all of her kit in front of the cot, she set out back into the compound.
After spending a few minutes trudging around the dimly lit maze of hastily erected tents and repurposed buildings, she eventually found what she was looking for.
There it was, the pinnacled peak of the POG-palace. Brand new portashitters. Just brought in today. Even more than food, even more than a shower or sleep she just wanted to relieve herself in something other than a putrid bucket. The familiar stink of that ageless blue chemical water filtering through her mask was a relief. There was even paper AND wipes inside. It might as well have been the old imperial court to her senses.
With the deed done, she washed her hands in a foot pedal operated station and headed back to their tent. It seemed kind of funny. Her hands and ass, thanks to the wipes, were now undoubtedly the cleanest parts of her body.
Shower and clean uniform tomorrow; sleep now. They’d at least managed to put a sign up to identify from the score of identical tents in the row. The top of a ration box was tapped to the outer lock door with ‘2nd G 2/1RFL’ blocked in marker. Ducking inside the mostly darkened tent through the lock, she yanked her sleeping system out of her mainpack, accidentally flinging her undrunk can of Voltzade across the room.
She had to go find it, if she just left it there no doubt someone would have their grubby field-dirtied hands on it before she did. Looking around by headlamp for a few moments eventually identified it up against Rybeck’s cot. He had stripped himself nearly naked and was curled up on top of his sleeping system spooning his rifle. Apparently it was too hot in here. Weeks in single digit cold with only minor protection from the elements made the regulated 21 degrees in here seem balmy and tropical.
She left him alone and stripped off her CES completely for the first time in ages. While zipping herself into her own sleeping system she tried to count the days. They’d just blended into each other while they were out there. It was 23 April according to her chrono. They breached The Warrens on the 28th of March, and took up positions in Pavlov’s house on the 10th. Had it really only been 25 or 26 days? It seemed like both a lifetime and a single moment. Combat operations had started then but they’d been away from Ridge City for months now, half the time they spent in tents just like this on the opposite side of the border, patiently waiting for the go ahead. They maneuvered around the desert in endless rehearsals, counting down the moments until diplomatic relations, which had been designed to fail, finally broke down.
She cursed herself for being too hasty in smashing her personal comm. Not only was she now out a few hundred Shil on account of having to buy a new one, but there was no way to contact anyone. No one to vent to. Hopefully everyone was alright, especially Dalia. She didn’t really want to lose another friend. There was also the matter with Sam, some kind of thanks was owed. That and she wanted to see him regardless. He had to be worried about her as well, no?
She tried to relax, all these anxieties were still buzzing around her head. Turn off, the danger’s over. Just turn off. Think about something else. She needed answers, maybe a trip to a Zoo or something? Did the one in Ridge City have anything bigger than Iguanas? She couldn’t remember.
They were awoken early the next morning by the sound of angle grinders, sledge hammers and screaming powerplants. The Regimental regeneration area was less than a hundred meters away from the surge tents. The maintainers had gotten to work bright and early, if they’d slept at all. 0537 by her chrono. She’d slept like the dead, but she really really would’ve liked to get some more rest as every part of her body was aching and sore. She could tell her leg had swollen some by a simple visual comparison. Stripping off the bandage revealed that the outside had healed quite well, but under and around the staples was sploched with dark red and purple bruising. The cuts on her arm were superficial at least. Dygalo had zipped them together with wound glue while she held the edges the day prior.
Still groggy, she dug through her mainpack looking for a waterproofing bag containing clean clothing that she’d never had a chance to change into. Her CES was full of holes, stained with blood and sweat, and disgustingly stiff. She wasn’t putting it back on if she could help it.
Captain Eckartt had said something about a Company muster at 0900 in utilities or something the previous night and she’d already passed word to Rybeck with instructions to disseminate. There was time to clean up now at least. She dug out her hygiene bag and a clean towel then shoved everything back into her mainpack.
It seemed almost laughable that she’d packed all this dumb shit. ‘It was on the gear list’ If they’d been dismounted like in Raider school she would’ve been much more selective. Though the primary advantage of being mechanized was her Lioness was carrying all of the heavy shit.
There had neither been the time or opportunity to use any of it save for a few wet wipes and shaving gear for the men. She changed into PT attire, grabbed her rebreather and slipped on horrendously ugly but functional olive shower clogs. She took her rifle with her out of habit. Leaving it more than an arm's reach away just seemed irresponsible.
Most of Weapons was already outside, sitting on crates and field stools in a circle attempting to smoke. They’d already burned clean through the ZV’s she’d acquired, (not that they’d burn well out here anyways), and were passing around a shitty disposable nic-stick they must’ve pawned or extorted off a mechanic. They were inhaling the vapor by shoving it into their masks drinking tubes in a gross perversion of its intended purpose, but the impressive part was it actually worked. Balachenko offered it to her as she passed but she waved it off. It was just one more addiction she was hoping to avoid.
Coming down off chewing three to five Go-tabs a day wasn’t fun as it was. It was like someone was yanking on her optic nerves and hammering on the inside of her skull. The undulled sounds of clanging metal and power tools echoing from the maintenance area certainly wasn’t making her any less irritable. She made a mental note to hit up BAS for some come-downs. Some come-downs and a fucking drink is what she needed.
It wasn’t freezing, but it was still a wet and misty equatorial spring morning, and she was regretting not grabbing a sweatshirt or something to tide her over on the trip to the showers.
Despite the early hour, grubby looking Soldiers from every part of the Regimental Combat Team were milling around looking bored, those that’d managed to crawl out of their cots at least.
It took her longer than she was hoping to find the female showers. There weren’t a ton and she was lucky to be among the first to stumble in here. She hung up her stuff, found a stall and stripped, resolving to burn this set of underwear. The water was hot, practically scalding but it was a relief.
Every part of her body still ached, her scalp itched and head pounded so hard she was surprised her brain wasn’t dripping out her ears. This shower though, another taste of civilization after living in absolute squalor. She was already in the shower when she remembered to actually untie her hair from the crown braid it’d been frozen in for weeks. The color of the water running off her body was another stark indication of how filthy they’d all been. She had nothing but nice thoughts to think about those enterprising barbarians thousands of years ago who invented soap.
The heat made the wound glue on her shoulder peel at the edges. It oozed a slow trail of crimson and she did her best to scrub it clean and then stick it back on. It was an unwelcome annoyance. The stinging she could ignore but now she was going to ruin a towel and maybe a shirt. She finished scrubbing every inch of her body thoroughly and then spent another minute fitfully trying to stick it back on before it finally mostly held. She toweled off reeking of pleasant lavender and threw a fresh set of PT’s on. She moved into the sink room and dug around for her hairbrush.
“Lucy, you bitch. You survived and didn’t even have the common courtesy to give your Battle a ring?”
She’d recognize that Sirenese pitch anywhere. Glancing up towards the mirror, 1.9 meters of south-asian stock Rift Guard wrapped in a towel loomed behind her. Green eyes stared at her from above soil-brown cheeks marked with utilitarian blood group and gene-type tattoos.
“Well, got anything to say for yourself, Petrova?” Dalia questioned again. She knew this stupid game too well.
“To you? Not a thing, too busy winning the battle.” She replied dismissively and turning her nose up in a jokingly exaggerated fashion.
“Yeah and getting yourself chew’d up too. What the fuck is this?” Dalia probed at the back of her leg and she yelped.
“Hey! Dalia, that shit still hurts!” Lucy protested, smacking her hand away.
“Uh huh, I bet.” Dalia smirked, approaching the mirror and running a brush through her straight black hair.
“When’d one-one get back here?” Lucy questioned.
“You came to us actually. Defiant’s been here since before that SOBE, rest of the Battalion was out maybe 3 and a half K west. Fuckin’ left us in the dust to break for the palace when that arty came in,” Dalia relayed.
“Oh, so you were just twiddling your thumbs then while I was getting fisted by the No-ak’s?” Lucy quipped.
“Twiddling my thumbs! Look at this! Fuckin’ No-ak shot me twice in the plate from point-blank.” Dalia parted her towel slightly to expose the bruise on her rib cage.
“Aw, the big tough Rift Guard got a boo-boo!” Lucy teased, a sly grin tugging at the edges of her mouth. Dalia jabbed at her leg in retaliation.
“Ow! Fine, fuck I’ll stop.” Lucy winced, rubbing the mark on her leg
“You’re so mouthy sometimes.” Dalia remarked innocently, honor now satisfied.
“Yeah, yeah. Was it bad here?” Lucy asked, redirecting the conversation and resuming the task of trying to untangle her hair.
“Pretty bad. Had maybe a battalion of No-ak mech-inf test the defense. None of their Arty though, guess they didn’t want to hit the stacks. I’ll admit we didn’t really get the thrashing you got at the Libertalia Park. We made our pay taking this place really. Holding it wasn’t so hard,” Dalia explained while chasing out more than a few split ends with her own hairbrush. “Y’know everyone’s been talking about you right?” Dalia added.
“What, they already taking bets on my court-martial?” Lucy replied indifferently.
“Actually brass is pumping it up. People think you’re some kind of hero.”
“It’s the name. They’re trying to score points,” Lucy dismissed immediately.
“Eh, if pulled my ass out of that fuckin’ legal fire I wouldn’t be so quick to shirk.” Dalia offered.
“You’re not wrong. It’s just frustrating. I know you know what I mean.” Lucy turned and motioned to the tattoos on Dalia’s cheeks. “They look at us differently.”
“Well you’re not wrong either. Chow?” Dalia admitted while redirecting.
“Sure, they serving anything good in this dump?” Lucy asked.
“Can’t say. Haven’t had anything but Rat-packs but Captain Wunder did say something about them setting up a field kitchen last night.” Dalia remarked from the next room while changing.
“Your company mustering at 0900?” Lucy asked.
“Yeah, there’s a Reg formation: pins and patches.” Dalia recounted while pulling on a skivvy shirt branded with 1/1’s flash and DEFIANT 3 across the back shoulders. When was Cutlass going to get unit shirts? Never-the-less Fritz had neglected to mention that part of this little ‘company muster’ to her. She glanced at her chrono 0612, there was still time. Though now she had to break bad news.
“Gross. I’ll meet you by that Drash in like 30 minutes or so.” Lucy said while turning back to the mirror.
“Make it an hour and change so someone can look at that leg at least; you’re limping. There’s an aid station in that tent left of the 1/1 colours.”
She finished drying her hair to the best of her ability. It wasn’t going to look perfect but they still weren’t in garrison either, she’d braid it in a bit. Still, a Regimental formation the day after the feds threw in the towel. She wondered what other dumb-ass ideas the Battalion and Regimental staff spent the night cooking up.
“I’ll have someone look at it. My troops are gonna kill me when I pass that word.” Lucy replied and grabbed her stuff while moving towards the door.
“Eh, comes with the shiny bar. See-ya.” Dalia bid her goodbye for the moment.
It was still chilly out here but less so. A glance upward confirmed there was already an engineer team stretching a temporary patch over the hole in the dome. It might take months to years to fully fix depending on how bad the structural damage was, but they’d have Atmo here again in a few days at most. Though it was evident no one in the Army wanted to be here much longer than a few weeks. This whole operation was the political equivalent of an armed robbery or smash-and-grab. No doubt Regent Kane and the Diet Chair were squeezing their desired concessions out of the Federals even now.
The clouds had mostly dispersed and some of the battle-fumes had vented out the hole during the night. Looking above the city it was still hazy but it had cleared significantly. She could actually feel a tinge of the sun's warmth on her skin.
She reslung her rifle. A Pins and Patches formation? Today of all days? Something exceptional had obviously happened. Given the time it normally took to process awards, she doubted it was anything good. Wandering for a bit she finally spotted the white and black Colours of 1st Battalion. They’d even adorned it with all of its many multi-colored campaign streamers. Each side of the flag was embroidered with rows of names from places as close as Claritas Fossae and as far as Senkyo Mountain and Sinus Iridum. Battle honors long past won. New ones would be joining them shortly. Two larger scrolls set above and below the Battalions coat of arms, a derivative of the Regiment’s read ‘First Born’ and ‘Fidelitas et Fortitudo’.
She followed the Colours around to the front side of the small tent square and then cut across the open part towards the left tent as instructed. Ducking through the slightly too low airlock confirmed it was the right place. Bored looking medical personnel of every grade lazed about on racks. There were more than a few casualties resting here as well but it seemed anyone in need of higher echelons of care had already been whisked away.
A Hospitalman sat up from a cot and stared at her, evidently trying to read the name tape sewn on the center of her shirt from across the room while she did the exact same thing since he wasn’t wearing a blouse.
He sighed and got all the way up and trudged over to her. Drawing closer, she got a better look: ‘HN(A) CARAKO’. She wasn’t in the mood, nor normally of the disposition to make a correction, but it was obvious he needed both a shave and a haircut from the fact that his stubble had fully connected with his overly long sideburns.
“Uh, what seems to be the problem Ma’am?” He questioned while squinting awkwardly, still half-asleep.
“I need some new wound dressings and some come-downs if you’ve got any to spare,” she explained.
“Right, sure, fine. Just take a seat over there ma’am and roll your shorts and sleeves up.” he rubbed his eyes and gestured towards a field examination table while yawning. He dumped some sanitizer onto his hands and then threw on a set of gloves while kicking a rolling stool in the generally right direction.
“First things first,” he grumbled as he picked up his scanner. She held out her wrist and he waved the scanner near it and glanced down when it chirped. “Just confirm your Name, Rank and Bond number for me, ma’am,” he requested through a yawn while reviewing the information on his scanner.
“Lyssa Ophelia Petrova, Rifle Lieutenant. ATR-007563999” she responded, sort of annoyed that he was requiring all these formalities.
“Right, now what’s the problem?” Carako asked. She pointed to her shoulder and then saddled onto her side to expose the back of her leg.
“Easy fix.” he responded while snatching up a few tools. Carako sprayed the wounds on her arm with disinfecting solvent and wiped the old wound-glue with some gauze then handed her the dressing to put pressure on while he dug around a field-cabinet for the right supplies.
“That’s good, that’s good.” He shoo’d her hand off and then carefully sealed the cuts closed with a fresh and much neater application of wound glue. Finally, he sprayed a catalyst on to hasten the drying and while quickly wiping off any excess. He turned his attention to her leg and craned his neck lower to try to get a better look at her leg.
“You mind getting up and laying down so I can peep this thing ma’am?” Carako asked.
“Yeah, sure,” she responded, crawling onto the table face down. Carako ran a med scanner over her leg and let out a low whistle.
“Damn, you really fucked yourself up. You been running on this?” He questioned.
“First of all, it’s ‘Ma’am’ or ‘Lieutenant’. Secondly, yes I’ve been running on it you clown. I had Feds shooting at me yesterday.” Lt. Petrova responded while glaring over her shoulder.
“Well, ma’am, whoever fixed this up actually did a pretty decent job otherwise you’d have have ripped the fucking thing open at least a few times already. What hit ya, a fuckin’ grenade?” Carako paused to rub his forehead with the back of his wrist. “I’m gonna pull these staples out and hit you with a dose of regen but no running, no heavy lifting, and double-rats for at least 72 hours alright?” Carako laid out.
“Yeah, fine.” Lt. Petrova responded distantly, staring at the opposite wall trying to ignore the pounding in between her ears. She winced when he set to pulling the staples. It felt like it was making the jackhammer in her skull even worse. There was another pinprick and the pain dulled slightly.
“Done.” Carako announced. The wheeled stool squeaked in a most annoying tone as Carako rolled across the room fetching a strip of paper from a printer. He whipped his stool around and kicked off a cabinet back towards her. The rhythmic squeel of a bent wheel was torture. Too lazy to stand up and walk, shitbag. ‘Able’ Hospitalman her ass, the ones in the Battalion Aid Station were always such garbage compared to those in line platoons. Carako handed the piece of paper to her and she barely even glanced it over.
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“The fuck is this?” she questioned, flicking her eyes directly to the bottom.
“What? It’s your light duty chit,” he responded defensively.
“Yeah, I know that. I asked for come-downs. You forget?” she replied. Carako sighed and rolled his eyes like her asking him to do his job was some kind of major inconvenience while tossing the sheet in the trash and skooching himself over to a terminal.
“Have you had more than 5 Go’s in the last two weeks?” Carako asked. He was reading off some stupid checklist. She’d probably chewed at least that many in the past two days, let alone two weeks.
“Yes.”
“Have you been experiencing headaches, restlessness or lethargy?”
“Yes. Are you really gonna go through the whole list?” Lt. Petrova inquired impatiently.
“Well, I'm not gonna bother to ask you about irritability if that’s what you mean ma’am.” Carako responded dismissively.
“Just give me the one week course you troon.” she snapped, fed up with his attempts at humor. Carako sighed defeatedly and then checked off half a dozen boxes on his terminal, printed out a new chit and flung a box of Nylextrol at her.
“One a day.” he instructed with a sigh.
“Yeah, thanks.” she replied while standing, it was half hearted at best. Her shorts having no pockets she awkwardly tucked the box into her towel and strapped her mask back then exited.
She wandered for another minute or so before she found her bearings. Recovery crews were dragging broken down vehicles out of the center of the Regeneration area to make more space for their ‘surprise’ formation. An Oliphant rumbled past, dragging a Jaguar with its main gun snapped off just in front of the bore evacuator. While rubbernecking as she passed she finally put together the reason for all this formality. A crowd of Marshals were busy at the center. They were fully resplendent in shining silver gorgets and gray brassards, hard at work assembling the star of the show: a field gallows.
With the mystery at least partially solved she made a beeline for the tent, finding even more of her Rifleman than before, still sitting outside aimlessly passing the same nic-stick. Even after a night's rest they still looked tired. Balachenko’s gaze in particular was as distant as the horizon.
Dygalo was the most senior person out here. Despite the chill he still had his CES fully unzipped with the top half tied around his waist. The fact he was still wearing it was already mildly off putting. When he stood to approach her she got a faint whiff through her mask and her face involuntarily contracted. Now clean, she could fully appreciate the rancid mixture of body odors emanating from him which instantly killed any appetite she’d built up through the night.
“What’s the word ma’am?” Dygalo asked while passing the nic-stick back to Balachenko who didn’t even look in Dygalo’s direction while he snatched it.
She forced herself to swallow the acid sensation that’d crawled up the back of her throat and instantly dreaded going back into the tent. She forced a professional face.
“Reg. formation 0900, pins and patches. Who all came back from BAS?” she responded, glancing toward Tybalt who’d reappeared in her absence.
“Just this one from my guys, I think Seniors supposed to be back tomorrow or the day after and Svertson maybe today. Pins and Patches? Seems a bit early for that, no? What’s the occasion?” Dygalo questioned.
Lt. Petrova mimed a hanging motion.
“Well, I suppose that makes sense. Who’s the unlucky winner?” Dygalo asked.
“Can’t say, guess it’s a surprise for the event. CLEAN utilities, I can fucking smell you pukes from here so bathe and shave.” she instructed with a wave of her hand.
Dygalo glanced down at his stained skivvy shirt and then back up with an embarrassed and apologetic grin.
“As you wish, your grace.”
“And knock it off with that, I don’t wanna have to explain that to someone with bigger shinies,” She scolded while entering the tent's airlock.
“Check rodge, ma’am.” Dygalo called out while urging the other layabouts to their feet to begin the day.
The door snapped close behind Lt. Petrova.
“Man, she’s kinda pissy today.” Tybalt observed while scratching his ear.
Dygalo slapped his hand away. “Keep doing that shit and it’s gonna come off again. Keep that attitude and I’ll peel it off myself, Rifleman.”
She took off her mask and took a deep breath, knowing full well what awaited her inside. Mental preparation went a long way but cracking open the inner door let loose the most powerful of human odors.
Senior wasn’t here for now, she needed to get the platoon in gear. Rybeck was sitting on the edge of his cot shaving out of a mess tin, Krieger was still fast asleep, his poncho liner pulled over his face. Santiago was similarly trimming his mustache while Cpl. Seevan, 2nd squad’s now acting leader stared blankly at the ceiling. She signaled rally with her finger subtly. Rybeck kicked Krieger’s cot and moved over towards her while his compatriot shot upwards startled.
“Ma’am, you uh… smell nice?” Rybeck commented while trying to make his observation as professional as possible.
“Yeah, and you all smell like shit.” she responded flatly, waiting for the rest of the leaders to assemble around her in a rough half circle before passing any more word.
“Two notes: one there’s a Reg formation at 0900, pins and patches. To that end, I want everyone in here washed, clean shaven and in clean cammies by 0830. Second, Rybeck you’re Acting Platoon Sergeant until Senior gets back. Make sure it gets done. Questions?” She glanced around.
“Uh ma’am?” Krieger raised his hand. “What’s the formation for?”
“The Regent’s Justice, for whom, I don’t know. Now get everyone up and hygiene before the rest of the Regiment gets the same idea. It’s 0652 now so you’ve all got plenty of time. There’s also supposedly chow around here too, so poof.” Lt. Petrova motioned for dispersal with her fingers and turned to go dig through her own pack.
“Well, they didn’t waste any fuckin’ time did they.” Cpl. Seevan commented while moving to spread the word amongst his squad.
There were a few sets of utilities packed in here somewhere. Eventually, she spotted them buried at the bottom of a waterproofing bag. They were wrinkled and the uniform was just starting to show its age with a slight fading of the blacks and already understated blotchy reds in its pattern that gave it a more tan dominant appearance. They still looked alright and more importantly were clean.
A light sprinkle with water and vigorous shake woke the memory polymers up enough for most of the wrinkles to disappear. She found her pins and patches in a metal tin at the very bottom along with a few extra sets of rank insignia, both subdued and non-subdued. They were encased alongside a set of Captain’s bars and her old and thoroughly scuffed golden Ensign bars. A good soldier plans ahead afterall, for all potential outcomes.
She pinned the Regimental flash centered above her left breast pocket. It was a simple design rendered in stamped metal and enamel, a single horizontal rifle set over the crossed sword and fasces of the White Army, encircled by laurels topped by a number one. Below a double folded scroll read the Regiment’s moniker ‘Brave Sons of Mars’.
She held the uniform taught to make sure it was on straight and then gave the rest of it once over. It was mostly stitched on so it would’ve been hard to forget but it was good practice to check anyways. The red diamond patch of the 1st Rifle Division on her left shoulder was inset with a large black number one further inset with white vertical letters commemorating the Division’s first and most storied battle, Ridge City. Either side was speckled with spheres of descending sizes denoting all the distant bodies the Division had fought on or near: Earth, Venus, Titan, Luna, Ceres, Hektor, Psyche and smallest of them all, Deimos.
On her right shoulder the Tharsis flag roundel. A simple red, black and white affair consisting of broad diagonal red and white stripes of equal size representing the alliance of Regent Kane’s whites, principally the army from which he had risen, and the populist reds against the ‘green’ menace of Earther colonial authority. The two diagonal stripes were set against a black background. In the center a large red circle straddled the stripes dominating the background. Five carefully placed white dots represented the highest points of the Tharsis Plateau: Olympus, Alba, and the triplets of Ascraeus, Pavonis and Arsia.
The rest of the uniform looked in good order generally, but she took the time to pluck off a few irish pennants growing at the corner of both the plainly embroidered ‘PETROVA’ tape above her right breast pocket and ‘THARSIS ARMY’ above her left. She pinned her silver Lieutenant bar horizontally on her right collar and then the silver crossed rifles of her corps with ‘expert’ laurels on top of the black section of cloth on her left collar.
Every corps had a color, even members who hadn’t yet earned their ‘rate’, in a chosen branch and been awarded its unique insignia (Privates or Ensigns mostly) could still be identified by it. Black for Rifles, blue for Lancers, red for Cannoniers, brown for Pioneers, gray for Marshals, white for Hospital and so on.
She paused for a moment and stared at the rifles, she had something special in mind for them later and then made sure she had an extra set tucked away. Enlisted had the option to wear chevrons with their corps insignia in the center, but it wasn’t uncommon for a soldier to wear an unadorned one with their branch insignia on the other side like officers. This was especially common if one wanted to show off their expert laurels or additional campaign stars. When miniaturized inside a small black chevron they were hard to appreciate unless someone was looking especially closely.
She knocked as much off the mud and dust off the brown suede of her boots as much as she could and now satisfied, changed over. Propping up a field mirror to braid her hair now that it was dry revealed the sorry state of her complexion. She looked better than before, importantly much more clean, but still tired. The tiny and importantly new lines at the corners of her eyes were particularly distressing.
She buried her vain streak and set about brushing her hair. Well practiced at this point it was a relatively quick process braiding her shoulder length hair around the sides of her head and then pinning the free end in place.
A quick glance at the cracked face of a chrono confirmed she was already running late for her meet up. After another few fitful attempts to tuck in stray fly-away hairs and she decided she was done packed up her stuff and exited.
Dalia was leaned up against the blocky Drash brand atmospheric recycling unit supplying air to about a dozen tents on this line idly scrolling through her comm. Her sleeve cuffs were both unbuttoned and her pants were basically bloused around her ankles; both her top and bottom were so faded they looked more beige than tan, black and brown-red. There was an obvious repair on the left knee of her pants as the patch didn’t match the degree of weathering of the surrounding material.
The laxity of Dalia’s appearance wasn’t out of regulation, just frowned upon. It was something that she took a certain amount of twisted pride in. After all, who was going to correct her?
She towered over most people and wore her impressive resume on that ‘sloppy’ looking uniform. Just the Rift Guards service badge sewn on her breast pocket and the golden rifles with laurels and two campaign stars on her collar were enough to turn most away. The tattoos on her face were a dead give-away for those who weren’t familiar with the awards of now defunct institutions.
Dalia glanced upward away from her comm and offered her a wave and then squinted.
“Hey there slick-sleeve, where’s your Raider tab?” Dalia asked motioning to her own fixed above the patch on her left shoulder.
“Shit.” Lucy announced, glancing at her own shoulder. “Do you–?”
“Yeah, yeah I got an extra one.” Dalia announced digging through her shoulder pockets and handing her the small hook and loop device.
Lucy slapped it in place while turning her attention to the situation at hand. “You recon the chow situation?”
“Tray-rats,” Dalia replied with a sigh. “Though a little birdy at Reg. told me they’re holding Mess tonight.”
Lucy groaned as they started walking. “I think I’d rather eat that reheated shit on a shingle for a few more nights than go to Mess.”
“What, no Pomp and Circumstance for the Regent’s favorite Rifle-Lieutenant?” Dalia joked.
“It’s just a ritualized gossip event. Tradition and esprit-de-corps my ass.” Lucy rebuffed.
“You can’t tell me you’re not even a little excited to watch Ole Captain Mars get lampooned by his peers again?” Dalia offered.
“I can’t believe that dumbass still has a commission let alone a command.” Lucy shook her head.
“His old man is 1 Lancer’s CO. There’s a reason he got paired up with the best XO and First Sergeant in the Regiment. Though you’re not exactly one to talk O’ child of nepotism.” Dalia replied.
“Hey, I more than earn my keep. Everything I have, I earned. That being said, I never thought it was possible to fail upwards successively until I met him.” Lucy said as they approached the chow tent and cleared their already empty rifles into the barrel next to the door.
“Hey, hey, don’t be so quick to judge. I heard from a friend in Callous that he was out there on the front line leading the charge and slinging hand grenades with his bayonet fixed, Lucy. That’s ‘inspiring’ leadership, that’s what it means to be a combat leader. You know what? I think you should really study Captain Mulleux’s methods, he’s the shining star of our illustrious Rifle Corps,” Dalia sarcastically remarked.
“Really the epitome of the Kruger-Dunning effect isn’t he?” Lucy sighed again as they stepped into the tent’s airlock and took off their masks. A sign posted on the inner door read ‘DIRTY OR UNSERVICEABLE UNIFORMS ARE GROUNDS FOR EJECTION FROM THE DFAC - WCA-SO 167.21’
They both rolled up their field caps neatly and shoved them into their cargo pockets. The scent of powdered eggs and reheated bacun wafted through the open hatch. They’d evidently beaten the crowd as there wasn’t much of a line yet. Just bored looking Messmen cutting open recently heated trays and laying them out neatly. A few Soldiers evidently actually engaged in some kind of real work were in here as well. The as-of-yet unwashed masses hadn’t arrived.
They grabbed paper trays and had portions roughly slopped on as they made their way down the line. It wasn’t unappetizing, but it wasn’t really any different from the food they’d been eating for weeks on end. She really was looking forward to eating something that was fresh eventually. A nice Caprese or maybe only once-cooked Bouf. For now she’d have to suffice with a mass of watery ‘scrambled’ eggs, three pieces of bacun thin enough to see through in portions and a hearty helping of the humble hashbrown. They really never could manage to fuck those up.
Dalia dropped her tray on a table across from her while clamping three small paper cups of recaf with her fingers.
“You remember STB having this many marshals?” Lucy questioned.
Dalia shook her head. “I think they got plused up by Division. What, coppers got ya sweatin’?” Dalia jested.
Lucy leveled her fork at Dalia. “Not funny.”
“Oh come on, lighten up princess.” Dalia deflected. “You seem kinda on edge anyways, what’s the deal?”
Lucy rubbed at her temples with both hands. “My head is killing me, and this come-down isn’t doing shit.”
Dalia shoveled some eggs into her mouth. “I told you to lay off the tabs, it’s fine for a day or two but they’re no replacement for sleep. How many you have anyways?” she mused through a partially full mouth.
Lucy stared downward into her food, runoff from the poorly mixed eggs pooled at the corners of the tray section. “I dunno, maybe three or four a day?” She remarked while stirring them into a more appetizing consistency.
Dalia choked halfway through a drink of recaf. “Three or four? What’s your mass like 81?”
“Extenuating circumstances.” Lucy defended and then forced herself to eat. “Besides, my little liver friend’s always got my back.”
“Just because you can have more doesn’t mean you should. Remind me to keep you away from the Pervitin next time tweaker,” Dalia said while shaking her head.
“You see the gallows?” Lucy mentioned, Dalia always seemed to have the tea on what was going on behind closed doors.
She nodded in the affirmative “Yep, and I already got a little tip off about it. You remember Cillian right? She was in RPCC with us until she got rhabdo right after Tupolev Ridge.”
“Yeah, I remember Mayonnaise.” Lucy responded.
Dalia glanced around to see if anyone was listening, this was usually a good sign she had something particularly interesting.
“So she’s in Division G4 now, they re-corp’d her to Logistics or something wussy like that. Anyways, she told me earlier they had an Standing Order 31 summary trial at like balls 30 in the morning or something stupid like for three Riflemen from 3rd Bat.,” Dalia relayed in hushed tones leaning slightly forward.
“She find out what for?” Lucy questioned.
Dalia shook her head, “She wasn’t in the room for it, but apparently Ole’ Red Diamond 6 himself was stormin’ about it. They weren’t in session for very long before they spit out a sealed verdict.”
“Well, at least one of ‘em is getting necked. Guess we’ll just have to wait and see like everyone else.” Lucy commented.
“Little disgraceful if you ask me, couldn’t even wait to send ‘em back to Ridge City and do it there. The timing can’t be a coincidence,” Dalia responded.
“It’s political theater. I mean we did just dump, what, a thousand arty shells into an occupied arcology right? Gotta shed some of our own blood to convince everyone the WCA, the White Army in particular, still has some respect for the law of the land.” Lucy mused while snapping up a strip of paper thin bacun.
“Guess it doesn’t really matter if they’re guilty then does it?” Dalia questioned.
“There’s hundreds of people on both sides who probably would be shot if MLAC was enforced to the letter, myself included.” Lucy paused, swirling the last bit of recaf in the bottom of her cup. “They’re guilty of something; I’m sure of that. Field Grades ’ll make a big racket about it too, but really this has almost nothing to do with them. Negotiation always means offering something in return, even if only symbolic.” She downed the last portion and glanced at her chrono, 0827.
“Probably about that time.” Dalia remarked.
“Yeah, I’ll catch you at Mess, Dalia.” Lucy replied while dumping her tray into a compost bin.
“Try not to break any more regulations in the meantime. They’ve got enough to talk about already!” Dalia added on just as she was entering the air lock. She always had to get the last lick in.
The understrength 2nd Platoon had finally managed to muster and clean itself up by the time she returned. Rybeck was apparently taking his job rather seriously as he and Kreiger had the platoon in formation outside of their tent and were checking everyone’s uniform and shave. Having good NCOs made her life so much easier. Rybeck glanced over his shoulder and left the rest of the process to Krieger to meet her off to the side, offering a salute on his approach.
It felt weird, no one had saluted her in going on two and a half months, they’d been a ‘field environment’ that long, but she returned it in kind.
“How are they looking? What are the counts?” Lt. Petrova questioned.
“Not too shabby, all things considered.” Sgt. Rybeck responded, while taking his inknote out of his back pocket. “54 assigned, 35 present for duty, including you ma’am,” Rybeck read off.
“35? Who are we missing?” She questioned.
“Rand, uh… Rand went to Sick-Call.” Rybeck responded somewhat apologetically. “He asked me if he could go, and you know… what happened to Doc. He was pretty shaken up.”
Lt. Petrova’s eye involuntarily twitched and for a moment she was somewhere else before shoving every thought, feeling, and sound into that box in the back of her mind.
“Why’re you looking at me like that Sergeant? I care about his health and welfare more than having a good turn out for the BC. It’s fine.” She folded arms and then picked at her thumb cuticle while moving it towards her mask, stopping halfway. “Send Tybalt over there too. He’s not supposed to be back yet anyways, and I don’t want Rand being alone right now. He’s his battle buddy, alright?” She instructed.
“Yeah, smart. Check rodge, ma’am.” Rybeck nodded while turning around and waving Tybalt over, who sprinted over in response.
“Yes Sergeant?” Tybalt questioned.
“How’s your ear?” Rybeck questioned.
“I mean, it’s alright, sarn’t” Tybalt responded while he rubbed at the edges of the wound glue.
Rybeck leaned forward and squinted at it. “Bullshit, go to medical, get someone to redo the glue. While you’re there check on Rand and stay with him alright?” Rybeck instructed.
Tybalt looked confused for a moment and then seemed to understand the nature of his task a second later. “Check rodge, Sarn’t.”
Rybeck jerked his thumb towards the Aid Station. “Well, get moving, Rifleman.”
“Ahee-a, Sarn’t!” Tyblat responded while jogging off, only partially concealing his glee at being excused from a lengthy and gruesome formation.
“I’ll never forgive how dumb that shit sounds.” Rybeck said under his breath.
“It’s twice stolen anyways,” Lt. Petrova commented.
“Really, I thought we got it from the Amerogans after Ritchey gap?” Rybeck responded.
“We did, they stole it from natives a few centuries before.” Lt Petrova said.
The distorted bugle notes of Form Square blared out of a hastily erected speaker and the units began to assemble in the motor pool in a U shape around the star of the show in fractal formations of smaller and smaller size. Everyone had turned out in force, and while there would no doubt be more than a few absentees for this muster everyone that could was attending.
1st, 2nd, and 3rd Battalion formed abreast of each other with 1st Rifles STB, 3/1 Lancers and 1/1 Pioneers to their left while 1/5 FAR, 2/3 TMR and the unloved bastard children of RCT-1, CLB-14 formed on the right. Now that everyone was here, the formalities could actually start.
The Adjutant and the small RCT staff formation marched into the center of the square just next to the gallows. The Adj himself, some extremely unlucky Ensign, was easily identified by the fact he was the only person wearing a black pleather sword belt over his blouse. Marching his way out to the exact center, helpfully marked by a chalk X, he halted and snapped his head to the right toward the laughably small band contingent. There were just three drummers, the Drum Major and an awkwardly positioned Senior Sergeant operating the PA. All of them had been holding rifles just the day prior, this was just a collateral duty.
“Sound, Attention!” the Adjutant shouted, the distorted nature of his voice through his mask causing unusual echoes through the silence.
The short five note call blasted out of the speaker and the whole formation snapped to attention.
“Report!” The Adjutant commanded while snapping his head to the extreme left.
“Combat Logistics Battalion 14, all accounted for!”
The Adjutant and their Sergeant Major exchanged salutes and he continued down the line in kind with each Battalion repeating the same report in slight corps specific variations. The Cannoniers of 2nd Battalion, 3rd Tactical Missile Regiment and 1st Battalion, 5th Field Artillery Regiment reporting “Present for duty,” while the three line Rifle Battalions reported the more specific but suitably nebulous “All present or accounted for”. 1st Rifles, Special Troops Battalion reported by number accountability, while the Lancers reported they were “Present and standing fast.” The Pioneers saw fit only to mention that they were here, sans their detachments, who were currently mingling among the Rifle Battalions.
Lt. Petrova glanced around from her spot at the back of her Platoon’s formation while waiting for her cue. There were close to seven thousand soldiers of various types assembled here just for this politically expedient pantomime. Out of the corner of her eye she could even spot some members of the Division Public Affairs office scurrying around with cameras behind the formations.
“Officers, post!”
She hit a cross over step with her left foot and smartly marched around to the front of the formation to take her post next to Sergeant Rybeck, while every other Commanding Officer save for the big man himself did the same. Now that she didn’t have a formation in front of her, she could actually spot Sam in the second row of the Regimental Staff facing towards her. He was maybe 75 meters away, but she could feel their eyes meet.
“Provost Marshal, march forward the accused!” The band beat the odd notes of Slowtime to Justice while three Soldiers, chained together by handcuffs and leg-irons, and flanked by Marshals shuffled to their place of ignominy at the foot of the gallows.
The Adjutant hit an about face and preemptively saluted while their Regimental Commander marched out accompanied by some Fed Sub-Colonel wearing that disgusting brush-stroke and trailed by a few civilian hangers-on in suits.
Colonel Mallock returned the Adjutant’s salute.
“Sir, the Regiment is formed for the Regent’s justice,” the Adjutant reported.
Col. Mallock didn’t waste any time. “Very well, publish the order.”
The Adjutant saluted again and faced the formation, retrieving a simple folded letter sealed with wax from his belt. The Adj broke the seal with his thumb and held the letter out in front of him, arms fully extended and parallel to the ground.
“Attention to Orders: HEADQUARTERS, 1st Rifle Division, Forward. Greendome, Federal Rift Republic. 24 April, 42 MIC
The Officer of the Day today is: Lance Captain Neller.
The Officer of the Day tomorrow is: Pioneer Major Hillger
Rifleman Corporal Simon Uvande Peng, Rifleman Joseph Edward Shue, and Private First Class Norman Wilfred Bluecher, you stand accused of: Rape, Larceny, Pillage, and Murder of a Non-Combatant.
You have been charged with these crimes under Standing Order Number 31 - ‘Governing the Discipline of the White Army of Tharsis in accordance with the Martian Law of Armed Conflict’ issued by Regent Protector of Tharsis, the Right-Honorable Ibrham Kane, and ratified by the Tharsis Republican Diet.
After a thorough and expedient Board of Inquiry and Courts Martial formed at my command, a court of Lady and Gentlemen Officers appointed over you have, by unanimous ascentia, found you: GUILTY, ON ALL COUNTS.
You are hereby sentenced to: reduction to the rank of Private; the surrender of all pay, entitlements, and prize monies accrued; to be stricken from the roles of service of our honorable White Army; and, to be hung by the neck until dead.
This sentence is to be expeditiously enacted by Colonel Harold M. Mallock, 1st Rifle Regiment.
Rifle Lieutenant Norman B. Blackwell 3rd Platoon, Company I, 3rd Battalion, 1st Rifle Regiment and Rifle Captain Maeve H. Byrne Company I, 3rd Battalion, 1st Rifle Regiment, you stand Relieved of Command, effective immediately. Reassignment to be forthcoming.
Judgment is given under my hand, on behalf of the Regent Protector of Tharsis, this Twenty-Fourth day of April, in the Forty Second Year of Martian Independence.
—Signed, THOMAS Z. MARLBOROUGH, MAJOR-GENERAL, White Army of Tharsis, 1st Rifle Division, COMMANDING.”
Upon the conclusion of his formal reading of the order, the Adjutant tucked the letter back into his sword belt about-faced and surrendered the formation to Colonel Mallock. He again wasted no time, not even waiting for the recently relieved officers to finish marching off their posts.
“Provost Marshal, carry out the sentence!” The Colonel’s raspy voice strained for volume.
The Marshals, overseen by the officer in question, stripped off the criminals rank insignia while each of them reached into their pockets and retrieved a single silver, and entirely symbolic, one Shilling coin. The Provost marshal collected the three coins and then signaled for them to proceed removing all insignia from their uniforms until only their name tapes remained, even cutting off the ‘THARSIS ARMY’ sewn above their left breast pockets.
The two leftmost stood stoic and tall, disciplined to the very end, but the other figure’s leg quivered with fear.
“Left turn, March!” The Provost Marshal ordered. The now trailing figure nearly tripped but was hauled up to his feet by Marshal’s on either side and then up the stairs to the platform. The Marshal’s fixed nooses around each of their next before the final declaration.
“Any last words?” The Provost Marshal questioned.
The youngest, eyes now fixed tight and choked with tears, shook his head vigorously. The other two, veterans, friends of death, started singing. Everyone here knew the song. It was an out of tune, but stirring and disturbing rendition.
“Oh, Arise ye who refuse to be slaves! Oh Arise ye Brave Sons of Mars!” They screamed in defiance.
The Provost Marshal had no patience for this either bold display or twisted mockery of patriotism and signaled with a vertical stroke of his arm. The trap door opened and the three of them fell a precisely measured distance. The ropes snapped taught with an audible crack. They swung limply, urine from voided bladders running down their legs.