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MESSNIGHT I
“Tradition is one of the bedrocks of military discipline. It is never enough to simply hand a civilian a weapon and a uniform. To be effective Soldiers they must first be indoctrinated into a new culture alien to larger society. A great deal of evidence, both experiential and scientific, suggests that the primary factor which motivates humans engaged in War to do things no normally sane individual wants to do, that is killing and dying, is not the force of individual will or self-preservation. It is a strong sense of accountability to their comrades-in-arms. The Army as an institution must be built on foundations of trust: it lives, eats, fights, and dies as a team. Trust within teams from the tank crew to the Division is necessary not only for their success, but basic function.
Tradition builds pride in that institution and esprit-de-corps, it recontextualizes individual actions in light of a larger whole. These rituals connect us to the valiant legacies of our forebearers. From them we have received that eternal spirit which has been the distinguishing mark and animating feature of Martian Soldiers of every generation. So long as that spirit continues to flourish, the Lancer will be found equal to every emergency, and our Nation will consider us worthy of their storied mantle.”
-Col. Ibhram Kane, Birthday Message to the 1st Volunteer Lance Regiment, Martian Colonial Army, -4 MIC
The formation was dismissed without much fanfare while the Company Grade Officers of the Regiment were called to a following meeting inside one of the maintenance bays while the NCO’s and enlisted returned to work. The Field Grade Officers, the Regiment's Majors and its handful of Lieutenant Colonels, were having some kind of ‘pre-meeting’ before the more inclusive meeting with the Colonel. Meetings and formations preceded by other formations and meetings then followed by another series of ‘leaders huddles’ and ‘key-leader engagements’ where slightly different, often duplicative information and guidance was passed. Since time immemorial this was how it had always been done.
This, however, was a much more intimate collection compared to the massive formation that assembled outside. They’d thinned down to a little less than a hundred and fifty from a mass of nearly seven thousand and Lt. Petrova found herself surrounded by the familiar faces of her peers for the first time since before they’d started the operation.
The various Officers inside had already begun mingling and ‘networking’ while they waited inside the mostly empty tent. This one in particular had been nominated because it was one of the only not completely choked with vehicles. Only a single Jaguar sheltered off to one side of the structure with its power-pack removed and resting on a maintenance mount behind it.
She didn’t feel the need to curry favour with her peers and instead occupied herself examining the small silvery divots and craters on the Jaguar's side skirt. They were too big for small arms, perhaps a 12.7mm projectile or maybe a bit larger. She traced her finger along the scroll hand painted along the skirt’s length, jumping over the palm sized crater left by a 40mm grenade roughly in the middle. ‘The strength of the pack is the wolf, the st—gth of the wolf is the pack’. The quotation terminated near the front idler wheel where the tank’s bumper number was blocked out in stenciled letters ‘M13 - 3/1 LNCR’, the vehicle's name however was lovingly hand painted along the length of its maingun in loopy cursive: ‘Mother Dearest’.
“If you like what you see that much Petrova, there’s always a chance to re-corps y’know,” a familiar voice interrupted.
She glanced over her shoulder, Eichmann’s mustache greeted her gaze, it looked even more finely manicured than the last time she’d seen it. In general, he now seemed excellently groomed, perhaps more than normal in the circumstances. His eyebrows had been plucked; his nose hairs trimmed carefully; his hairline was ever so slightly corrected and cleanly edged near his temples, complementing the currently vogue slicked back style. His skin looked well moisturized and impeccably clear; Lancers were all so vain.
“As if,” she dismissed while Eichmann leaned up against the side of the tank next to her. “Lioness is cramped enough, I can't imagine sitting in one as my whole job. I need to be able to move around when someone's shooting at me.”
“Fair enough, but you can’t argue that there’s something about the power that’s enticing right? 1700 horsepower of micro-fusion drive, 130mm Chemrail, 30mm and two 7.6 machine guns. It’s a marvel of human engineering; the height of the technological prowess of our civilization wrapped up in a 65 ton war machine, at your sole command.” Eichmann ran his hand down the side skirt in a way that she might’ve described as loving while he spoke. The fact he’d had chosen some archaic measurement like horsepower simply accentuated the strange custom of his Corps to her.
“I mean it’s certainly impressive, but at the end of the day it’s just a tool, a thing. Humans win wars, not machines.” Petrova responded while picking at one of the tiny broken pieces of its bristling polymer hedgehog stand-off armor.
Eichmann shook his head with a bemused smile. “Man, they really just fill your head with all sorts of wrong thoughts in RPCC don’t they?”
She shrugged, “The Rifleman is the heart and soul of the Army, all other warfighting functions exist to support the Rifleman.” She replied and Eichmann rolled his eyes playfully.
Petrova paused glancing towards him, “say, I never did catch your first name, Eichmann.”
“Oh uh, Elias but Eli is fine,” he responded somewhat surprised by the personal change of direction.
She turned, extending her hand. “Lyssa, but everyone’s always just called me Lucy.”
“Bit odd, but nice to be formally introduced I guess.” Eli gave her hand a formal shake.
“Well my old man wanted to name Minerva at first, but I guess that was too on-the-nose even for him.” Lucy responded.
“Since you mention it…” Eli started. She knew she’d accidentally opened perhaps slightly too much. “What was he really like; your old man?” Eichmann finished.
She shook her head. “Honestly? I can’t say. Hardly knew him; these are all he really gave me, though that later not even really of his own accord.” Lucy flicked at her nametape and motioned towards her holstered sidearm.
“Well, figures. Heavy is the head that wears the crown… Mom or?” Eli further questioned.
Lucy shook her head.
“Eh, we got somethin’ in common there,” Eli pointed his thumb at his chest. “Pavonis batch VKX-131C, and two dads for the price a’ one. Not a mother to speak of, adoptive or otherwise,” he relayed almost pridefully.
“That’s gotta be an interesting house to grow up in,” Lucy commented while throwing a glance over towards a figure approaching from behind.
“Eh, it’s not that different I imagine..” Eli trailed off for a moment. “Sir.” he greeted.
Sam blinked for a moment, he still really wasn’t used to being addressed like that by people who only just were the same rank as him. “Morning” he returned the greeting before switching his attention to what'd actually drawn him over here. “Lucy, I’ve been looking for you all morning. Who’s this?”
“Eli Eichmann, CAAT-1 Platoon Commander.” Lucy responded.
“Sam Beckett, Reg. A-Fizz-O.” Sam extended his hand and Eli gave it a polite shake.
“Yeah, nice to meet you.” Eichmann replied.
It was obvious to Lucy from the way his eyes were moving between them he was trying to gauge the nature of their relationship. Sam moved to touch his hand on her back and she shot a not at work glance back and he retracted it.
Eichmann pursed his lips and then nodded his head a few times slightly. “I’ll see you later, Petrova.” Eichmann said while he excused himself. She replied with a polite wave.
Lucy glanced down at his newly applied rank and folded her arms. “Fraternizing with Junior Officers now are we Captain?”
“You’re worth it.” Sam replied with a wink.
“Oh yeah?” She let a slight smile tug at her lips while leaning forward slightly and closing the distance between them. “Just don’t be getting any funny ideas about who’s in charge.” She casually mentioned in a hushed voice while yanking a loose thread from the red patch on his collar and leaned back onto the tank.
“Reg’s holding Mess tonight.” He relayed.
“Yeah, Dalia told me. I’m sure they’ll remind everyone during this. They keeping you busy up there?” she inquired.
“Every hour I’m in there I lose one more measure of sanity. It’s fire after fire and Maj. Schluenbacher just dumps it in my lap. ‘Hey Sam can you brief the Colonel, hey Sam can you gimmie an update on the Firing Batteries, Hey Sam I need someone to sit in the Division Sync for me’ it just. Never. Fuckin’. Ends.” Sam threw his hands up and then posted up next to her.
“Staff work never changes… glad I got out of Ops when I did. Major Jolivac’s real fuckin’ goon, if Straus wasn’t there it’d all fall apart,” she sympathized.
“Eh, they got it even worse. Division already put out a warning order for remobilization, 3rd Brigade, 17th RG is supposed to start relief in place this week.”
“How? No one’s even done a rail survey yet, the RCT’s still consolidating.” She observed
“Yeah, you’re telling me; try telling those fuckers that. Corps made a call, so it’s gonna happen. The stars just go straight to their head.” He replied with an animated pluck at his own collar.
“Like your extra bar hasn’t? You sure did big dick my counterpart.” She teased while making a subtle motion with her head towards Eichmann who was now surrounded by a consoling crowd of his blue-collared peers.
“What’re you mad about it or something?” Sam questioned while studying her expression, “or is it not big?” Sam broke into a grin.
She flicked the small twig of polymer she’d wiggled off the Jaguar’s exterior at his chin and he shot his hand up to block. “Remember, you’re not my boyfriend.” She tapped a finger on his chest and turned her attention back to the crowd.
“Does that mean you don’t want to sneak off after Mess?” He queried.
“I didn’t say that.” She suggested while watching the tent’s airlock open.
“Attention for the Colonel!”
The whole room snapped to attention as soon as the words exited the mouth an Ensign posted near the door and Col. Mallock entered the bay with the rest of the Regiment’s officers in tow.
“At ease,” he announced in a sandpaper-like tone. “School circle, pack it in tight, I don’t feel like shouting.” He motioned them forward with his arms. The Ensigns, Lieutenants, and Captains of the Regiment crowded around him in a quickly organized ‘sit-kneel-stand’ half circle to his front with the smaller group of Field-Grades who’d previously been briefed grouped behind him.
“I’d like first to offer congratulations.” Col. Mallock announced, the strain in his voice was evident even at a normal speaking volume. Modern medicine had no problem killing the cancer in his throat, but managing the continued growth of vocal nodules and scar tissue proved much more difficult.
“The initiative, technical skill, and bold leadership of the Officers of 1st Rifles have won our Nation and its allies a great victory. Your Soldiers: your Riflemen, Cannoniers and Lancers displayed the highest of military virtues. Your efforts combined have won this Regiment many honors, both collective and individual. I spoke with Army Central earlier today and learned that the 1st Rifle Regiment has been honored with Two Battle Stars to add to our forthcoming campaign streamer in addition to a Citation for excellence from the Regent himself. Additionally, I’ve signed recommendations and approvals for more than 90 individual awards for Valor just last night and this morning.” Col. Mallock took a pause to survey the assembled officers.
“Many of those individuals are here with us now.” Col. Mallock thrust his finger directly at her. “Individuals like Rifle Lieutenant Petrova here.”
Every eye in the room was suddenly on her. Col. Mallock motioned for her to come forward and the crowd of Ensigns sitting in front of her awkwardly slid themselves out of her way while she proceeded forward.
“And Rifle Captain Mulleux.” Col. Mallock pointed out Captain Mars from the crowd and motioned for him to come forward as well. She felt a tiny measure of relief knowing everyone’s attention wasn’t solely fixed on her as she took up position next to the Colonel and Capt. Mulleux made his way forward.
The Colonel slapped his hand down onto her shoulder. “This one especially lives up to the family name. Faced with a determined combined-arms attack by more than a company of Federal and Noachian forces she held her ground and organized her platoon into a stubborn defense. When things got tough she did what I expect each of you to do: think critically, express initiative and improvise. She was in the thick of the fighting, directing her troops and setting a bold example. Using a personal Comm she called in multiple, effective firemissions which turned the enemy back and set conditions for a devastating counter attack.” Col. Mallock relayed. The story was already distorted, but maybe this sounded better in reports.
“Captain Mulleux here was at the very front of his company during the assault on this very installation. When I scroll into the Reg. Battletrak, that’s what I want to see. Callous 6 was leading the offense, shoulder to shoulder with his troops. He personally attacked and destroyed a machine-gun nest with hand-grenades located not a hundred meters from our present location.” Col. Mallock gave Capt. Mulleux a similarly encouraging shoulder slap. Captain Mars seemed to be absolutely basking in the attention and praise. She was slightly wounded that their actions were being equated. She reviled him both personally and professionally, but he always seemed to be at the right place at the right time.
“Yours and all the other awards are in the works. Let it be known that this Regiment recognizes the achievements of its Soldiers. You have all earned glory in spades and will soon be on a well deserved trip home. We have demonstrated once again, to all observers, that the White Army will attack tenaciously, defend doggedly and possess an unmatched level of skill and fighting spirit. However, for all our successes, it would be foolish to ignore our failings.” Col. Mallock motioned for them to rejoin the formation and they awkwardly proceeded back in.
“Today’s justice was an ugly, but ultimately necessary, exercise of both mine and General Marlborough’s authority. The Law of Armed Conflict exists to control the most damaging and unrestrained excesses of our chosen profession. War is destructive, war is violent and ugly, but it need not be more so than what is absolutely required by military necessity. Justice was done and I’ll leave it at that. Before I go, I’ll leave you with this. As a great poet once wrote: ‘where there is unity, there will always be victory’. Lieutenant Colonel Corvo, you got ‘em” The Colonel handed off control of the meeting to the Regiment’s Executive Officer and exited the building with his aide-de-camp, looking somewhat pleased with himself.
Lt. Col. Corvo, stonefaced as ever, waited patiently for the Colonel to finish exiting before he began.
“I know the Colonel just honeyed your ears with praise, however today’s resolution is a symptom of a deeper problem within this Regiment. I invite all of you sacks of shit to take a hard look at yourselves. Some of you know exited this battle with your lives and limbs intact by the skin of your teeth. Many of your peers and subordinates paid the price of cowardice and timidity on your behalf. If any Man or Woman here can’t hack it, I implore you: Resign. Your. Commission. Here and now.” Lt. Col. Corvo held up a sheet of paper which already bore his and the Colonel’s signatures for effect.
“I’ve already taken the liberty of filling out the form letter. Just sign your name. Get the hell out. We can and always will afford to be selective, you will not be needed or missed. This Army is and always has been made of the best and the most dedicated. Why don’t the poorbirthed relegates among you save myself and the Colonel the time and effort of building an ‘Incompetent to Command’ packet and see yourself out. We can and will as you all saw this morning. Transfer to the Republican Guard if you want an organization which will tolerate mediocrity, I on the other hand, will trim the fat.” The room was dead silent upon his pronouncement, even more so than before.
“Anyone here willing to recuse themselves honorably?” Lt. Col. Corvo waved the paper around. A hand suddenly shot up from one of the seated Ensigns and seized the paper. The seizer shot upwards, ripping a pen out his pocket and scribbling his signature at the bottom.
“Ah, Ensign Quatrich, perhaps you do have a spine after all. Your rank, civilian.” Lt. Col. Corvo commanded while snatching the paper back and holding out his hand. Quatrich practically yanked his bars off his collar and dropped them into Corvo’s hand then stormed out of the building.
“Anyone else? I have these forms in triplicate.” Corvo exchanged the completed letter for two more blanks with the Regiment’s Personnel Officer and held them aloft, pausing for another few beats for effect.
“No? Very well.” he returned the papers. “There will be an Ops-Sync at the RCT TOC where transport, relief-in-place and re-mobe home will he hashed out at 17; I expect all key-leaders in attendance with fully updated per-stats and equipment trackers. With that out of the way, as I am sure you’ve all heard already, the Colonel has directed that Mess be held tonight in honor of our Victory. The Sergeant’s and Line Mess will also be held concurrently. Attendance, with the small exception of already identified for operational requirements, is expected. Supper chimes will sound at 1900. As Vice-President of the Officer’s Mess, I feel it shouldn’t be necessary to remind you, but I will: you can wait to drink the fucking town dry. Victory Sherry and drinks will be served; do not embarrass yourselves.” Lt. Col. Corvo announced. He then assumed attention while, knowing what was coming, everyone scrambled to their feet.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
“Regiment, Attention!” Everyone smartly straightened. “Carry out the plan of the day, dismissed!” The assembled group immediately dispersed into four smaller ones as the Battalions awaited their commanders and Lt. Col. Corvo and the rest of the Regimental Staff in attendance filed out.
The Officers of Second Battalion huddled in the west corner of the tent around Sabre 6: Lt. Col. Balalaika. She seemed generally nonplussed but held her bearing admirably. It was evident that even before they’d arrived she and the other Battalion Commanders had received an earful of condemnation from bigger fish for any number of the tiny catastrophes which had arisen between last night and this morning.
While the victory was all well and good and would be duly celebrated tonight, the wheels of the Army kept turning. It was always a question of what next, what task remained.
“First of all, well done. You kicked their teeth in and I couldn’t be prouder. That being said, the Colonel wants all hands engaged in maintenance. I’m sure the First Sergeants are beating it into our NCO’s heads right now. Keep the Soldiers occupied. They need rest, and I’m sure all of you do as well so don’t work ‘em too hard. Corps and Army Central dropped another load of taskers on our plate with our re-mobe back home coming so soon. Get as many of these vehicles running again and account for all our propert–” Lt. Col. Balaliaka stopped herself upon seeing Capt. Eckartt’s hand slowly raise.
“Ma’am, do we really need to waste any more of the juniors' time? I’m sure myself and the other company commanders can hash this shit out while they handle the line-taskers.”
“Point taken, Fritz. Platoon Commanders, go; Staff, stay,” she ordered with a wave of her hand.
Lt. Petrova suppressed a sigh of relief. If there was one thing she couldn’t stand it was all this garrison bureaucracy infecting everything. It was just meeting after meeting of seemingly unimportant minutia which would be used to pad certain individuals Fitness Reports. She rubbed her temple on the way to the airlock, there was still a mountain of paperwork waiting for her. She might as well get a head start before anyone was gnawing on her ass about it.
Rybeck tossed his mask onto his cot while Krieger shook his head in disbelief.
“This is fucking retarded,” Cpl. Seevan groaned.
“Yeah, it is, and you know what? We’re gonna do it anyway,” Sgt. Rybeck countered. Krieger stomped over towards his own squad’s line of cots and began rousing them while digging through his mainpack.
“Everyone, get the fuck up, all hands on deck!” Rybeck announced. Sleepy and still battle fatigued faces sat upwards. Rifleman Stockton ceased picking at the bandage on his arm and stood up from his cot.
“Uh, what’s goin’ on Sarn’t?” Stockton questioned while he and the rest of the Platoon huddled around Sgt. Rybeck.
“Maintenance, Maintenance, Maintenance boys. I know our Drivers and VC’s are already out there workin’ on our Lionesses, but First Sergeant put out he wants everyone out there turning wrenches today until 1700.” Rybeck’s pronouncement was met with a chorus of bellyaching. “No one said fuckin’ whine about it either,” he corrected. “Just ‘cause Senior and the Princess aren’t here doesn’t mean we’re just gonna sit on our hands.” Rybeck searched the faces surrounding him.
“Everyone wants to go home right? This ‘s gotta get done to make that happen. Full PM of the vehicles and help our crewmen and the mechanics out with whatever they need… Section leaders, supervise!” Rybeck added to his previous instructions.
“Aaaahha, Sarn’t!” They moaned in disjointed response, apparently no-one was feeling motivated enough to say the whole thing. Rybeck motioned to the squad leaders to rally around him for further instructions.
“Where’s the Princess at?” Dygalo questioned while he approached.
“She’s in some fucking nightmare officer planning circlejerk from now until like 1500ish.” Krieger responded while flipping through his notebook.
“Dygalo, take 3 trustworthy Rifleman and start going through our gear. I don’t need any paperwork just yet, but just start going through the hand receipt for the end items, I know we lost and broke some shit, we need to figure out exactly what. Lt. Petrova’s gonna want that.” Rybeck paused, turning to Krieger. “Gus, I need you out there running interference between us and the mechanics alright? That Senior Sergeant, from Battalion Maintenance, Jhuva I think? He’s your man.” Rybeck read off his notes while flipping through the e-ink pages and gesturing at them with his stylus.
“Man, First Sergeant really fucked up your head in the meeting didn’t he? You’re about to sprout a fuckin’ rocker at this rate.” Kreiger responded, while motioning flippantly.
“Yeah well, last I checked Ma’am made me the Platoon Sergeant; not you. Either way this shit’s gotta get done. Remember First Sergeant’s gonna be in my asshole not yours if it doesn’t, so count your blessings Gus.” Rybeck snapped back and Kreiger retracted slightly.
“Relax Dan, just a joke. I’ll take care of this shit, not to worry.” Kreiger responded half-sincerely.
“Uh, Sarn’t you hear anything about Mess?” Dygalo questioned.
“Ah, fuck I knew I forgot something…” Rybeck paged through his inknote. “Dinner chimes for the Line mess at 1800 inside the stack bay of the Atmo-station. I think actually…” Rybeck swiped downwards on a page while glancing through his own scrawlings. “Dygalo, you're on the farewell list, you got chevrons?” Rybeck questioned.
“Yeah, and I been fuckin’ waiting for it too.” Dygalo responded while flipping up his left breast pocket revealing a set of thoroughly scratched Sergeant chevrons pinned under the flap.
Krieger leaned down to inspect them more closely. “Whose are those?”
“Senior’s, he gave ‘em to me at Pavlov’s.” Dygalo responded pridefully.
“Hmm, well after they finish ejecting you then you can join us at the Sergeant’s Mess at 1830. #3 Maintenance inflatable, the big one. You want someone to come down and pin you?” Rybeck asked.
“I’s gonna ask Ma’am and Senior t’ do it, but they both seem a bit, uh, busy. Gus and a buddy I got in Falchion already offered,” Dygalo confessed.
“I’ll ask Ma’am about it, you only get kicked out of the Line and drummed into ours once y’know.” Rybeck responded.
“Uh, thanks Sarn’t,” Dygalo responded coyly.
“Rand’s on here too, make sure he’s got rank and rifles alright?” Rybeck added paging through a mental checklist.
“Check rodge, Sarn’t” Dygalo nodded.
“Questions? No?” Rybeck glanced around. “Alright, let’s fuck this goat.”
The day proceeded quicker than she would’ve expected. She wasn’t sure if it was despite or because of the fact she’d been buried in a mountain of work suddenly. It was just more and more officer bullshit. Adjust these AAR slides, complete the fine-summary report she already started drafting, attend the company maintenance meeting, attend the Battalion re-mobo planning meeting, start building a turn-over packet for her as-of-yet to arrive Republican Guard replacement.
She was sort of surprised to see any of them so soon. They began to trickle in platoon-by-platoon around midday. Apparently the railyard was up and running thanks to the diligent work of Combat Logistics Regiment 17, and they’d already started taking in arrivals while the outgoing trains were stuffed with equipment to be sent home.
The Republican Guard never seemed right to her, evidently this was now squarely in their wheelhouse, but even the way they wore their uniforms just seemed wrong. To her eyes they looked rough around the edges and the Red band sewn around their left sleeves looked off.
Whatever, it was their job now. The White Army was headed home and the reservists and gendarmerie which made up the real vastness of Tharsis’s manpower was mobilized to pick up the pieces after they just finished smashing the place.
It was a more than welcome change of hands for their as-of-yesterday enemies. The smaller fully professional and highly ready White Army was under the sole command of the Regent, the Republican Guard, just as their name implied were under the authority of the Republican Diet. It was a system that kept each of the factions in check and was a cornerstone of Tharsis’s version of the grand Martian ‘Peoples Alliance’. The turncoat security forces on one side and the rest of the population on the other.
She glanced at her chrono. Nearly 1800 already, she was gonna be late at this rate and this report could wait until tomorrow. Right now, she had a sequence of appointments which culminated in her ultimate ambition for tonight: getting drunk.
By the time she arrived at the Line Mess things were already getting started and most of the junior soldiers of the regiment had packed into the cavernous stack annex of Smokehouse 3 and were now seated at tables impatiently awaiting dinner to be served and the night’s entertainment to begin.
She and all the other higher ranks weren’t permitted to enter without permission from the President and Vice President of the Line Mess, the most junior Private and most senior Corporal in the Regiment respectively. She and Senior were waiting out in the hallway while Mr. Vice began the mess in earnest. Mr. Vice stood from his position at the end of the ‘head table’, two looted plastic collapsible affairs, and silenced the mess by clanging a polymer mug against his helmet.
“Comrades, oh ye gutter-scum of Soldiery! Stand fast! It has been brought to my attention that there is a Spy among the both esteemed and notorious members of this mess!” Mr. Vice spoke while mounting one of his boots on the table.
“Say it ain’t so!” The mess screamed in chorus loud enough to shake the windows.
“Comrades, it is so! I have in my possession, a warrant, signed by one of our despicable leaders, Lt. Col. Balalaika, for the promotion of, until now, one of the most esteemed and well respected members of this mess!” Mr. Vice continued.
“Mr. Vice, these are serious charges.” The President, who looked younger than Rand, advised.
“Madame President, they are, but aye, I have this warrant for all to see!” Mr. Vice climbed ontop of the head table and yanked the now appropriately crumpled parchment sheet from his cargo pocket and waved it around.
“Mr. Vice, if you would be so kind, present the evidence.” Madame President announced with a particularly magnanimous hand-wave.
Mr. Vice cleared his throat for effect. “This document reads: ‘To all who shall see these presents, greetings! Know ye, that reposing special trust and confidence in the fidelity and ability of ARSENY M. DYGALO, I do appoint this RIFLEMAN to the rank of SERGEANT!’ need I read the rest of the document, Madame President?” Mr. Vice questioned dramatically.
“No Mr. Vice, that won’t be necessary. Corporal Dygalo! Report to the head table!” Madame President announced while slamming the makeshift gavel of her own helmet against the head table sending the Guest of Honor’s and her own drinks flying off. Cpl. Dygalo smartly stood from his place among the rest of 2nd Platoon and marched to the front of the head table to the boos and jeers of his peers.
Dygalo stopped squarely in front and snapped to attention. “Rifleman Corporal Dygalo reporting as ordered, Madam President.”
She inspected the crumpled parchment carefully. “Cpl. Dygalo these are very serious charges levied against you with damning evidence!”
Lt. Petrova knew this was her and Senior’s cue. As was tradition they had to formally extract him, and it was best to do so before the head table had time to think of any crude, disgusting or downright cruel methods to extract the painfully obvious ‘truth’ from him. She glanced behind her. Senior had his leg bound up in a brace for the next 48 but he’d forgone bedrest when Rybeck told him about this. He was actually smiling, fond memories of this occasion she supposed.
“Ready, Senior?” she questioned.
“Check, ma’am. Your first time doing this?” he replied. She nodded.
“Loud, proud, and persistent. They know you don’t have any power in there.” Karoff advised.
Lt. Petrova nodded again and squared herself at attention next to the door before hammering her fist into a preposition real wooden board mounted on a plastic stand for just such a purpose with a thunderous report.
“Mr. Vice!” She shouted, “Rifle Lieutenant Petrova and Senior Rifle-”
“Try again El-Tee! Not loud enough!” Mr. Vice shouted with cupped hands across the room.
“Mr. Vice! Rifle Lieutenant Petrova and Senior R-”
“Not loud enough!” He cut her off again.
She was already getting sort of frustrated.
“MR. VICE, RIFLE LIEUTENANT PETROVA AND-” She screamed. Mr. Vice started to say something but she kept going. “-SENIOR RIFLEMAN SERGEANT KAROFF REQUEST PERMISSION TO ENTER THE LINE!”
“Mr. Vice, silence that infernal racket and let them in!” Madame President announced.
“Aye Madame President. ENTER!” Mr. Vice commanded. She quick marched as fast as Senior could hobble across the makeshift dining hall to another chorus of boos and jeers, some even from her own Riflemen and stopped on either side of Dygalo who was still locked at the position of attention.
“State your business!” Mr. Vice commanded.
“We are here to retrieve our compatriot!” Senior Sergeant Karoff announced to gasps from the crowd.
“Aye, it is true!” Lt. Petrova added as she ripped open Dygalo’s pocket flap and retrieved his new chevrons and held them aloft for all to see. The revelation in the inquiry was met with overplayed gasps from the crowd while she passed one chevron over to Karoff. They plucked his Corporal rank off his collar and unceremoniously tossed it onto the floor which was met with even more admonishments of fake shock while they pinned his new rank on.
“Mr. Vice there are trespassers and spies in our midst, eject them this instant!” Madame President announced. This was their cue to get the fuck out as everyone in the mess stood from there seats and began hurling random, mostly harmless, objects at them. Luckily the line mess never had silver like the Officers mess did or she’d be much more concerned by the hail of plastic forks and spoons pelting the three of them as they bumbled out of the door on the opposite end of the room as fast as Karoff could hop.
“Sergeant Dygalo you are hereby banished from the Line Mess so long as you remain a Sergeant!” Mr. Vice shouted as they retreated. A pre-positioned Rifleman slammed the door behind them as they ran out as fast as they could on still injured legs, and then immediately opened it again while the next two leaders lined up outside to retrieve there soon to be promoted Sergeant.
“Congratulations Sergeant!” Karoff shouted as he hammerfisted both of Dygalo’s new chevrons driving the pins on the back into his collar bones. Dygalo grunted and forced a contorted smile as Senior shook his hand vigorously.
“Well done, and congrats Dygalo, you’ve had this coming for a while.” Lt. Petrova added while yanking up his collar flaps and then pounding them back down less forcefully in a slightly different location.
Dygalo winced again “Thanks Ma’am, you and Senior coming out means a lot to me.”
“Just remember the Sergeant’s Creed, I know you’ve got it memorized by now. More than ever you represent the spine of this institution. Follow the principles laid out there and you’ll do fine.” Karoff counseled while Dygalo nodded. Karoff motioned with his head and he and Dygalo set off towards the Sergeant’s mess.
Lt. Petrova checked her chrono again, she still had some time before the Officer’s Mess convened. They were offset intentionally, both to abide by the ancient custom that ‘leaders eat last’, and to account for all of the other traditions which they were obligated to participate in.
Now that the Line Mess was done ejecting any ‘spies’ they had to take care of the business of internal promotions and the Rifleman manning the door unceremoniously slammed it in her face. After all, deciding the pecking order at the line was very much their own business.
Even with the door shut she could hear the commotion of perhaps two dozen Privates First Class screaming the Rifleman’s Creed, in the hopes they’d be found worthy. In reality who had both earned promotion and been found worthy of donning the illustrious crossed Baker-pattern Rifles had already been decided.
She would know, having been assigned collateral duty as the Battalion’s Corps Standards and Heritage Officer. An overly long title for what basically amounted to organizing the Quarterly qualification event and then signing off on the packets themselves. It was a nice bullet point on her Fitrep that no one else really wanted to do since it required so much planning, coordination, and paperwork on top of already lengthy duties.
While anyone who’d seen combat was entitled to wear the golden Corps insignia, actually earning your place in the Regiment and the fully qualified rate of ‘Rifleman’ required passing an initiation rite which she was responsible for organizing.
While she didn’t think any of the tests were particularly hard by her measure, they all required a certain degree of mental fortitude that not everyone had and there were always a few people who voluntarily withdrew during the event.
It was a simple three day exercise in hiking in circles around the outback with little sleep and even less food or water. There were perhaps half a dozen other stations which actually verified an individual's knowledge of their Corps specific skills scattered around the circular and hilly 20 kilometer course. All basic things they’d be expected to know: Land Navigation, Marksmanship, First Aid, and so on. What always was a surprise was the final event in which one’s already Corps qualified peers sprung out just before the finish line and took turns trying to beat you senseless.
Lt. Petrova could vividly remember one of her Rifle Platoon Commander’s Course instructors, now serving as 2/1’s Senior Intelligence Officer, rushing out from behind a rock while she was throwing her mainpack down. With no prior instruction except ‘defend yourself at all times’ she slammed a knee into his chin when he dove for a takedown and chipped one of his teeth. Dalia, who’d finished ahead of her, wouldn’t stop laughing from the sidelines. Apparently the mixture of exhaustion and sleep deprivation made the display especially funny.
Dalia and a few other selected officers from across the Regiment milled about in front of the building with the Regiments Colours in hand, awaiting the arrival of the quartering party from the Sergeant’s Mess while the sun hung low over the horizon.When the Regiment held mess like this, the Sergeants were entitled to take possession of the unit's Colours, march them to their Mess and ‘gaze upon their majesty’ until First Call sounded the next morning.
Always being on the detail itself was quite a drag, she knew why, she was one of the tallest officers in the Regiment, but it was just an unwelcome and permanent inconvenience. She would’ve much rather been pregaming inside her tent.
She glanced at her chrono again and let out a frustrated sigh. “They’re always fucking late.”
“Yeah, ‘course they’re late. This is the one opportunity they have to make us wait on them.” Lt. Sullivan commented while he leaned on 2nd Battalion’s standard.
“Okay yeah, maybe one or two minutes, it’s been eleven.” She added while kicking a rock and adjusting her mask. Sullivan shrugged again indifferently.
“Say, Tiamen, you’re always hanging out with Petrova right?” Lt. Yates questioned while flipping one of 3rd Battalion’s Campaign streamers out of her face as a thin breeze slipped past.
“Yeah, we went through the Academy, RPCC, Raider School, pretty much everything together,” Dalia recounted, “what’s it to you?”
Yates leaned slightly closer. “Well, I heard she’s frating with some Cannonier”
“That stuck up bitch? As if,” Sullivan cut in.
“What makes you say that?” Dalia asked, seeing a prime opportunity to inflame some of the more exciting gossip. This kind of thing was fun, though she knew if Lucy was here right now she’d already be swinging. Signal Lieutenant Borrera from STB ceased scrolling through his comm to listen as the conversation continued in a more stimulating direction.
“Well she told off every fuckin’ male Rifle in the Battalion that made a pass at her, including me. That and you two harpies seem inseparable, mighty suspicious” Sullivan complained.
“Sully, have you ever considered that you and your peers just have absolutely no play?” Yates smirked.
“You boys are all the same. ‘Oh this one time at RPCC my chief instructor was sooooo hard on me, he made me do like 600 Iron Mikes, I swear!’” Dalia mocked.
“‘In Yukatan a local threw some rocks at my patrol! Oh, I’m so seasoned!’ You can’t impress us like that y’know slick sleeve.” Yates added practically flaunting her Raider tab while Sullivan’s face soured even more.
“You crazy bitches are hardly women anyways.” Sullivan added.
“Hear that? Sully can’t handle a real woman” Dalia gloated, standing up a bit straighter to accentuate her very slight, but still evident advantage in height. The trick always seemed to make them even more mad while she turned her attention back towards Yates. “Where’d you hear that from anyways?”
“Well, Verro from Cut-throat told me. He knows Lt. Luvlan in 2nd Battalion CAAT and he said Eichmann was trying to chat Petrova up before that little officer’s huddle earlier, but then he stormed off and was lookin all pissed about it when this Red-leg showed up.”
“Huh, really…” Dalia mused.
“Sounds like bullshit to me.” Sullivan interjected again.
“You know her, can you confirm or deny?” Yates implored shooting a dismissive glance toward Sullivan.
“Well this is all news to me, can’t really say for sure…” Dalia feigned ignorance again. “Though—”
“If you knew what’s best for you, you’d stay away from her.” Capt. Mulleux cut in while he slotted the Regimental colors into his sling. “She’s got a lot of eyes on her. On top of that she’s a Cydonian, even if she wears our uniform and talks like us, she’ll never really be.”
“Sir, I think you’re forgetting something.” Dalia tapped on one of the tattoos on her cheek.
“Well, well, uh, you’re different, Tiamen…” Capt. Mulleux snapped his head back to the front, somewhat flustered. Yates rolled her eyes and the four Lieutenants exchanged disappointed looks.
The Sergeant’s Quartering Party marched in a swaggering slow time, feet beating a steady rhythm as they sang that old chorus while they approached. Dalia lifted her Battalion’s colors into its sling and shifted to attention in preparation.
“...There’s forty Shillings on the Drum
For those who’ll Volunteer to come
List and fight the foe today
Over the Hills and Far Away
O’er the Hills and O’er the Main;
to Vesta, Petrograd and Glaine.
The Regent commands and we Obey;
Over the hills and far away.”