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RELIEF
“The greatest privilege of my life was to lead in combat.” Colonel-General Sergei Petrova, Reflections on The Martian Conflicts Ch. 8, 7 MIC
“Beautiful, stop picking at your nails and go to sleep,” Sam pestered from his side of the bed.
Lucy sighed, making a show of setting her nail file down on the nightstand and laying down flat. Her eyes lost focus as she stared into the beige speckled nothingness of the ceiling. She never felt like a nervous person: the night before the Anode cup game she remembered sleeping like a baby. At Pavlov’s, exhaustion or medication ensured she slept right through what little time could be spared. For the time being, however, sleep evaded her. It felt like somehow everything was at stake even though it was an inevitability. Why did she have to get promoted?
She rolled on her side and pulled open the nightstand drawer, noisily fishing around.
“Lucy, come on.” Sam touched her shoulder and she stopped looking. “Try to get some natural sleep. Take those too often and you won’t be able to knock-out without them.”
She rolled over flat again and resumed staring at the ceiling for another moment before Sam broke her train of thought again by scooching closer to her. He could be so bothersome sometimes, but he did care. “I’m just worried.”
He touched her shoulder again reassuringly. “About what? Listen, that platoon will get along just fine without you. It’s not like you’re never gonna see any of them again. I run into people from King all the time.”
Lucy relented and shifted closer to him while setting an eye-wateringly early alarm.
Rand glanced at his comm for the time while Balachenko danced around him with hair clippers. Maybe waiting until the absolute last second to get a haircut was inadvisable, but Balachenko both owed him a freebie and had been booked out all afternoon. In addition to being an infamous loudmouth, he also really was a school-trained cosmologist and had a nice side-business cutting hair out of his barracks room.
“Dude, can’t thank you enough for the help with my whip,” Balachenko piped up while feathering his clipper near Rand’s temple.
“Well, good thing the Army’s not your only income, because a new PCU is not gonna be cheap. It’s no wonder that dude you bought it off to threw in the towel: probably spent all that time fucking around with the battery not realizing it wasn’t the problem.”
“Well, if it weren’t for you and yer ole’ man, I wouldn’t‘ve figured it out either.” Balachenko chuckled.
It was just as he said; there was nothing wrong with the battery in Ballie’s new-to-him Kolox Sprinter. Mr. Rand was more than skilled enough to figure that out with about twenty minutes of troubleshooting. A fried microcontroller in the Power Distribution Control Unit prevented the battery from storing more than five percent of its normal capacity, no matter how long you let it charge. They’d done a quick bypass which was enough to get it driving its advertised range. This also had the side effect of disabling the airbags, traction control, and most of its automated collision avoidance.
Really, that was fine for Balachenko, but being belted in the vehicle while he nearly spun out ripping around a street corner was more than close enough to a fiery end for Rand. He got enough risk-taking in riding with Priveda, who was similarly enamored with pushing her vehicle's limit, albeit in a much more skillful manner. There was also the matter of getting the vehicle registered. As it stood now, it had about as much chance of passing a safety inspection as Europa did of having liquid rain.
Balachenko turned off the clippers and handed him a mirror. Rand gave himself a thorough inspection; he really had missed his calling.
“Preem or what?” he asked through a grin. “That Pavish harpy’s gonna be smooching you all over come tomorrow with a haircut like that.” Balachenko added in self-congratulations.
“As much as it pains me to admit, you’ve out done yourself.” He did really like the hard part. It was still slightly odd coming to terms with the fact he was allowed to have hair now. When he arrived at the unit up until they left for Greendome he’d been forced to shave his head like all the other boots. Balachenko brushed his shoulders off and then thrust a broom into Rand's hands to finish the clean up.
Rand complied willingly: you had to meet everyone half-way.
“You get the word for PT tomorrow?” Balachenko asked.
“Black and tans, 0530 on the quad for formation. It’s the Princess’s last day, so you better drink some water.” Rand replied.
“Really think she’ll run the dogpiss outta us on her last day.” Balachenko blew off.
“Yeah, actually, that sounds like exactly the kinda thing she’d do. You’ve been warned.” Rand added with a note of finality while he dumped his trimmings into the trash.
“Whatever, see you tomorrow, fuck-face.” Balachenko threw out as Rand made his exit.
“Smoke me!” Rand returned the customary reply as he returned to his own room.
It was still dark when formation began. Harsh white floods mounted on the barracks drew forth an army of tangled shadows from the rectangular boxes of human beings arrayed in front of the building.
“Fall in!” First Sergeant Stout bellowed. The company in its entirety snapped to attention. They were formed by platoon abreast on their area while the other companies held identical formations a bit farther afield.
“Report!” Stout barked again.
“1st Platoon, all present or accounted for.” Senior Sergeant Nihilie responded.
“Very well,” came the First Sergeant’s customary reply as he snapped his head towards the next formation.
“2nd Platoon, all present.” Senior Sergeant Karoff replied.
“Very well.”
“3rd Platoon, all present.” Senior Willcox croaked hoarsely. He wasn’t the only one here who was hung-over. Rand glanced to his right. From where he was standing he could smell the alcohol oozing out from someone’s pores.
“Very well,” Stout continued.
“Weapons Platoon, one UA” Senior Sergeant LeStraum announced. Unauthorized Absence, AWOL, it was all the same thing, and not too uncommon for them in particular. Weapons generally had a penchant for misbehavior and this platoon was no exception.
First Sergeant Stout paused. “Who is it?”
LeStraum sighed. “Derro. RG’s hemmed him up last night; wouldn’t let him link anybody until 10 minutes ago when he told me. They won’t cut him loose until 9, it’s that mandatory holding bullshit.”
“I want a counseling and charge-sheet on my desk for FTR at eight. Then you can go get him.”
“Check rodge, First Sergeant.” LeStraum responded indifferently. This was par from the course and she was too close to either pinning the next rank or retirement to be bothered by the regular hiccups of life in a Rifle Battalion.
First Sergeant Stout moved his eyes to the last and much smaller formation.
“Headquarters, all present or accounted for.” Cannonier Sergeant Ike, the Company Fire-support Team Chief reported.
“Of course you are; there’s only like 8 of you fuckers,” Stout grumbled and then about-faced.
Top Knute’s absence went unacknowledged, he passed the PT test just fine and no one, not even First Sergeant or Capt. Eckartt, wanted to get on the old man’s bad side. Aside from him and the FIST, headquarters was only their two man Signal team, the company clerk slash supply rep, the senior Hospitalmen, and two organic vehicle mechanics, one of whom was also Capt. Eckart’s driver, and the XO who also just so happened to be absent.
Captain Eckartt walked up to assume control of the formation.
“Sir, Company G is formed for the conduct of Physical Training.” Stout reported. All-together and fully manned they were nearly a perfect 200 strong, but with all of their as-of-yet to be replaced losses were more like three quarters of that.
“Thank you, First Sergeant. Take your post.” Eckartt replied and Stout dutifully shuffled around to his side.
“Officers, post!” Eckartt commanded. As instructed the company’s officers marched around to the heads of their respective platoons and took their places. Perfectly on cue, Captain Eckartt did a quarter turn left to face the flag and rendered honors as First Call blasted out of speakers all across Camp Rashkigi and the striped Tharsis flag climbed skyward followed by the Division’s white Colours.
The last note sounded as the flag reached its apex and Capt. Eckartt faced his troops again.
“Ladies and Gents, hope you enjoyed your leave. Good to have most of you back safe and sound but, we’re jumping straight back into it. BC wants all hands on deck at the RAMP cleaning or doing maintenance. Leaders, ensure we’re conducting that to standard. Otherwise, Capt. Petrova’s change of command is at 1500 for those of you wishing to attend.” Captain Eckartt glanced over his shoulder at 1st Sgt. Stout who whispered something in his ear. He nodded thoughtfully.
“Also, the Sergeant board is running today, those attending, 1000 Service Alphas at the CP. The rest of you can wish all our hopeful’s good luck. I’ve got nothing else; conduct PT.” Capt. Eckartt finished.
“Check rodge, sir,” his subordinate officers replied in unison while he walked off with 1st Sgt. Stout toward the ‘One Rifles’ gym.
Capt. Petrova hit a sharp about-face. “At ease.”
2nd Platoon relaxed on que while she continued. “I was thinking pretty hard last night about what I wanted to do for my last day with you all.”
Rand cringed internally, bracing for whatever hellish news came next.
“I was going to take you all for a run since most of you suck at that, but Senior talked me out of it.”
Rand breathed a sigh of relief.
The Princess barely concealed a smirk as she continued. “Squad competition instead and It pays to be a winner. 1st place gets a late-call tomorrow. 4th place gets to clean the Latrines at the RAMP, check?”
They replied with an anguished, “Check rodge, ma’am.”
Rand was livid entering his shower. This bullshit was fucking rigged. He was in Weapons now and Weapons was full of bulky fucks like Balachenko and Tybalt who couldn’t run for shit. Despite smoking everyone on the tire-flipping race and taking first, they were trounced in the other three events because apparently only he, Svertson, and Sergeant Dygalo did any kind of cardio in their free time.
They did a rope-run to tie break with 3rd Squad for last place. It felt like he spent the entire time dragging Balachenko and Tybalt’s sorry asses while Sergeant Dygalo blew out his vocal cords screaming at Malcolm and Neubach to run faster.
They were undermanned anyways. Maybe he was just coping. It didn’t help that 2nd had won and Priveda had made sure to rub his nose in their victory. ‘My squad leader’s drunk and we still managed to beat your ass like a lame mule’. He liked her, a lot, but now she also knew how to really get under his skin. Cpl. Seevan was also most definitely drunk through most of the PT session too. Rand could tell by the way he violently slurred his commands and drifted side to side as he ran. He still could run fucking fast though. By the end he seemed to mostly have sweated it out.
The whole situation still pissed him off and the more he thought about it the more annoying it was. The welcome back was going swimmingly, now all that needed to go wrong was last minute duty and he could complete the trifecta of shitty inconveniences.
So as not to inconvenience Sam too much, she’d brought her utilities with her in a bag along with all of the regular hygiene gear she’d need to get through the day. The Battalion CP had showers and a locker room, and it was fairly common for those that lived far away to clean up and change there after PT was over. It helped that the female Latrine was fairly under utilized.
Her 0830 meeting with the Colonel was still at the front of her mind as she braided her hair and gave herself another careful inspection in the mirror. Your uniform is your business card. A timeless ethic drilled into every White Army soldier enlisted and officer alike at their initial training. She plucked a few loose irish pennants from her shoulder pockets and re-centered her rank and laurel encircled golden rifles before she put her blouse on. Her business card would be impeccable as always.
She gave the Colonel’s hatch the customary two solid knocks before entering. As usual he was seated at his desk. What she hadn’t expected to see was Lt. Col. Corvo, and her Battalion Commander Lt. Col. Balalaika, Major Deemo, and a very nervous looking male Lieutenant also seated across the room.
“Good morning, Sir.” She greeted formally, locked at attention.
“Ah, Lyssa, nice of you to join us. At ease.” Col. Mallock greeted in his trademark rasp while motioning towards a pleather lounge chair in front of his desk. As she moved towards the offered seat the nervous Lieutenant rose to greet her. There was a certain clamminess to his light complexion. Not a full sweat, but a misting of stress induced moisture.
“This is Lt. Nix, he’ll be taking over your platoon.” The Colonel introduced.
Nix stiffly extended his hand and she gave his dead-fish the customary two shakes. “Honored to meet you, Ma’am.” He was evidently of the well-bred variety; symmetrically featured and eye to eye with her in height with the common Thartic black hair, but lighter than the typical skin tone. He must’ve been from up north, Olympus or Edgeport; they never tanned well.
“Yeah, good to meet you. We’ll talk later about turn-over,” She forced an outward smile to veil her disappointment that this was who they were replacing her with.
“You’re dismissed, Lieutenant.” Corvo ordered.
Nix snapped to attention and then marched out of the room leaving her alone with the four field-grades.
“I’ll begin by saying Yvonne has had nothing but good things to say about you, she’s very adamant that you stay in her Battalion.” Col. Mallock acknowledged.
“Harold, you know I’d rather die than give up good people.” Balalaika replied through a wry grin.
“And that’s a request I’ve done my best to honor. There were quite a few interested parties at Division and Corps. I even had the Academy Commandant request you by name to come instruct now that you have Captain’s bars. However, much like her, I refuse to surrender young Officers with promise.”
“I take it you’ve already found a position for me then, sir?”
Col. Mallock nodded. “You’re a damned fine officer and will make a damned fine Company Commander one day, but we need to broaden your experience first.”
Here it comes.
“Major Deemo and 2nd Battalion is in need of a new Assistant Operations Officer now that Captain Sloan has command of Cut-throat. Under his tutelage I’m sure you’ll do great work as well as having some time to attend the requisite schools for Command. In fact, I was hoping that as your first task you could take some of the lessons learned from our most recent campaign and help re-write the Regimental TAC-SOP.” The Colonel smiled.
A punch in the face and a plate instantly full of work; they certainly didn’t waste any time around here.
“Check rodge, sir.” she replied, forcing another curt smile. The ability to get fucked and make nice about it was necessary for any success in this line of work.
There was another quick muster at the RAMP before the company turned towards maintenance tasks. It really was just a motorpool, but Army logic insisted that nothing be called by its common name. Instead, the facility was a ‘Rear-Area Maintenance Point’. Cutlass owned the bays on the western edge of the fenced compound and quickly busied themselves with routine maintenance of their vehicles. All of the Red Lionesses were still in relatively sorry shape, sans the ‘new’ Red 4.
Rather than being fresh off the factory floor it’d been pulled out of dilapidation in a storage depot and consequently in need of some love and attention. Weapons would have their hands full for the next several days bringing it up to Full Mission Capable status. Checking seals and fluids, running updates on the various computer systems and doing technical inspections on its sensor and weapons packages. All regular work for a Monday.
Balachenko was doing his part by stenciling its new markings of ‘G24 2/1RFL’ on the exterior while everyone else engaged in more laborious work. Svertson and Sgt. Dygalo went through a Technical Inspection checklist on the turret systems from on top of the vehicle with the help of a bulky ruggedized 'handheld’ diagnostic tool. Rand lent his tangentially related technical expertise to Tybalt, flashing new firmware onto the battletrak system. Red 4’s actual crew were doing another round of inspections on the powerpack. Actually fixing it was outside of their responsibility, but any half-decent crew knew how to at least figure out what was wrong. Malcom and Neubach, being the least savvy, had the undesirable job of lubricating the running gear and replacing worn down track pads.
When he first saw a Lioness with his own two eyes and rode around in one Rand couldn’t help but be enamored by the raw power of it. Thirty-five something tons of sensors, armor, and weapons, who wouldn’t be awestruck?
The reality of maintaining the temperamental piece of shit on the other hand tended to zap the wonder out of most people. It became just another thing, one imbued with all of the mystique of a bureaucrat's preferred stapler. Even holding a weapon, being trusted with live ammunition and its employment had become mundane. To have the literal power of life and death in your hands, only to have any feelings of power evaporate when confronted by the responsibility of carrying the 3 kilo ball and chain around with you everywhere you go, all the time. Mars forbid if you ever left it unattended either. He had personally witnessed Cpl. Seevan physically beat Rifleman Nelson for forgetting his weapon inside their tent during a surprise accountability formation at Talnawakee.
There were plenty in the Rifles who equated respect and fear, especially from new-joins. ‘Pain retains’ after all; a pithy way of justifying induced trauma. The stakes were ultimately life and death so it was perhaps justified to a point, but some still managed to take it too far. This place was so full of contradictions.
What Rand really never understood was why in this day and age you still had to tension the track with a manually operated grease gun. Surely someone had thought of a way around this problem?
The rest of the platoon was similarly engaged, but there were a lot of idle hands bullshitting on the side of the bay or outside huddled smoking around the buttcan. Red 2 was the only vehicle receiving serious attention as it was under the care of Battalion maintenance and had its guts spilled all over. Able Mechanic Carlini and his verbal punching bag, PFC Mills, worked on the final drives while Cpl. Volk and Priveda replaced broken road wheels.
Around 930 Cpl. Seevan and Sergeant Dygalo both excused themselves to change into their service uniforms and head over to the Battalion CP. Weapons was nominally in Cpl. Muchen’s hands, though he was too occupied to provide any real supervision. They continued working at an idle pace for the better part of an hour regardless.
The system was installing updates for now, there wasn’t much to do but wait.
“Say, Sverts.” Rand called out as the ‘Senior’ Rifleman hopped down from the top of the vehicle through a hatch and took a spot on the bench inside the troop compartment.
“Hmm?”
“Didn’t you come in around the same time as Sarn’t Dygalo? How come he’s got two ranks on you.” Rand asked
“Because he can’t stop getting in trouble!” Balachenko shouted from outside the vehicle.
Svertson offered a very non-apologetic shrug of acknowledgement. “He still has quite a bit of time-in-service on me too but, that’s most of it. I was gonna pin Corporal before we left, but that ‘drunk and disorderly’ incident got in the way. Ma’am didn’t charge me, but her and Senior pulled my name from the list. That, and I already have a charge for ‘disrespect to a non-commissioned officer’ in Yukatan. Fuckin’ POG Logi-Sergeant running the DFAC tried to kick me out for having a dirty uniform. Woulda swung on his ass too if it hadn’t of been for Sarn’t Rybeck. Honestly though, not too worried about it.” Svertson tugged at his chevron. “This right here is the best rank in the Army.”
Rand raised a curious eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”
“I got enough seniority that people listen to me but, still just a Rifleman, can’t really be held liable if anything bad happens.” Svertson explained.
Rand nodded thoughtfully. There was a point to what he was saying; extra pay came with extra responsibility.
“And Sarn’t Dygalo’s bit of a special case, fast promoter. Good PT, good Fit-Reps, Sergeant Major likes him.” Svertson paused. “Y’know it’s kinda sad. He’s all gruff now, but when I met him in Yukatan he was a real happy guy: smiled, laughed a lot. I showed up maybe half-way through the deployment as a combat replacement. He’d been with the Reg through the whole work up to come out there. Anyways, that whole VBIED thing happened, been all prickly ever since. Started getting tats around the same time. Ink therapy I guess.”
“Svertson!” Cpl. Muchen called from outside the track.
“This better be important.” Svertson kvetched. Out of everyone here, only he could really get away with talking like that.
Cpl. Muchen crawled down through the VC’s hatch at the front of the vehicle and mimed his desire with two fingers pressed to his lips. “It’s break time.”
Svertson rolled his eyes while fishing a pack out of his shoulder pocket, tossing it to him. Muchen stuck one of the cigarettes in his mouth and threw the pack back. “Senior said split-chow today. Gotta get as much as we can done before the change of command so two of you skedaddle”
Balachenko stepped up the vehicle's lowered rear ramp. “Speaking of that, anyone meet the boot-tenant yet?”
Muchen snapped his fingers expectantly at Svertson. “Lighter.” Svertson surrendered his Flicco while Cpl. Muchen shook his head. “Might as well flip a fuckin’ shil. 50-50 they’re not fuckin’ retarded. Shame we’re losing the best one in the Battalion. All that bullshit they feed ‘em at the academy rots the common sense portion of their brain.”
“Retarded I can handle. What I can’t stand is when they’re all extra and shit,” Tybalt spoke while tossing a worn trackpad into a recoverable part bin then sitting down next to Svertson. “And the Princess is real fuckin’ extra.”
Svertson slapped Tybalt’s still bald head with an open hand. “I won’t stand for Lese-Majeste. ‘specially after everything she did.”
“Stop gossiping fuckers, you heard me.” Cpl. Muchen barked while he forced his way through the troop compartment towards the smoke-pit, completely ignoring the fact that he had inflamed this line of thinking. He stopped again and turned, “two of you go to chow and come back. Ballie, you gotta whip now, right? Bring me and Nik back wraps from the shoppette.”
That was all the encouragement Balachenko needed, firing off a quick “Check rodge, Corporal.” while grabbing Rand and making himself scarce.
Sergeant Rybeck rolled up to the Battalion CP at more or less 1230. Despite the split chow, work wouldn’t really resume until 1300 anyways and he had some somewhat personal business to attend to at the Company office. Cpl. Seevan was milling around outside in his dark brown service uniform sucking down a deathstick.
Rybeck threw him a polite wave while he approached. “Wassup dude, how’d the board go?”
Seevan grumbled, threw his butt into an open ammo can and immediately lit another while shaking his head. “Was goin’ fine really, killed the creeds and was doin’ great with all the questions ‘till Sarn’t Major came in.”
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Rybeck raised an eyebrow. “What happened?”
“Ole Star-Sarge thinks I drink too much.” Seevan chuckled remorsefully. Rybeck stayed silent. Seevan did have something of a problem but it hadn’t affected his work yet.
“Really, I dunno what that geriatric fuck is on about. Maybe I do, but a man’s gotta cope somehow. I dunno how he gets off thinking people that see the kinda shit we’ve seen turn out well-adjusted; he certainly ain’t.”
Rybeck nodded sympathetically while Seevan offered him a drag from his smoke which Rybeck gladly accepted.
“Whatever, doesn’t matter anyways. I’m just a temp until Sarn’t Weiss is back.” Seevan sighed.
“You didn’t hear?” Rybeck asked while passing the cigarette back. “She’s not coming back.”
Concern noted Seevan’s next question “What? What happened she’s alright, right?”
“Physically, yeah, but with what happened? I think this is for the best.” Rybeck explained. “She’s going home to Pavin. We were talking the other day; guess her Schwester works at flower shop. She’s gonna go work there too for a while; get her mind right while they figure out her medical and retirement shit.”
Seevan’s face contorted while he looked down at the sidewalk taking a final long drag then side arming the butt into the can.
“There isn’t any replacement coming as far as I’m tracking.” Rybeck held the up forms he’d brought with him up. “Hell, if this shit goes through I’ll be gone before long too. It’s you, Dygalo, and Kreiger; man, you’re it.”
Seevan grabbed the folder from Rybeck and flipped it open, swiping and scrolling through the e-ink page. “You, an SLI? You’re way too nice to be breaking in kids at RTB.” Seevan scoffed through a thin smile.
Rybeck grabbed the folder back with a grin. “That’s because you never met Corporal Rybeck, but like I said. You’re it from here on. I’m sure you’ll get another Sergeant when I’m gone, but I wouldn’t count on there being a replacement for you. Shape up a little and I’m sure you’ll pass the next board.”
“Well thanks for the vote of confidence. I’ll catch you later Sarn’t.” Seevan bid goodbye while walking towards the barracks.
“Deuces man.” Rybeck replied while he made his way into the CP.
The two story H-shaped building was fairly well divided. The first floor contained all of the offices for the letter companies, each with their own wing. The second floor was split between the offices for H&S, Weapons Company, and the S-Shops with a small annex off the center where Sergeant Major, the BC and XO all had their spaces. Really, Rybeck liked to stay away from there, but the reality was that if this packet was going anywhere he was going to have to talk to all three of them. That was a little further down the road however and Cutlass’s area was friendly territory.
Rybeck politely opened the door to find the place mostly empty, it was chow after all. Just as anticipated however, the person he was looking for was at her desk, clearing it out.
“What’s with the sour face ma’am; they say where you’re going yet?”
She seemed to lighten slightly as she greeted him. “Hey Rybeck, and I’m headed upstairs, to S3” Capt. Petrova replied.
“Ah, well that can’t be too bad. Maybe you’ll be able to speak some sense into the head-shed.” Rybeck reassured.
“That’s the hope anyways. What brings you over here?” Capt. Petrova paused while her mind ticked away trying to guess his aim. “Don’t tell me someone hurt themselves doing maintenance again.”
“Nah, nothing like that ma’am. I actually have a favor to ask you.” Rybeck handed the folder to her. She immediately flipped it open and began digesting its contents.
“This is sudden. What makes you want to go be an instructor? I’m sure you’d do a fine job, but now?” She interrogated.
“It’s kind of a personal thing.” Rybeck fiddled with the words he had practiced in his head before continuing. “My wife and I were talking while I was on leave, about my son, Nilo. I uh, I don’t really expect you to understand ma’am since you don’t have any wards of your own, but I was just hanging out with him the other night. Talking about kid stuff you know. He’s got some new obsession every other month. He’s really into dinosaurs now.”
Captain Petrova stared at him quizzically.
“You know, the extinct scaly birds” he paused and she continued the same stare. “He asked me what his favorite was, and I said Archaeopteryx. Got it wrong; since I’ve been gone he loves Dilophosaurus now.”
Her rapid blinking signaled he needed to wrap this tangent back around quickly.
“He laughed it off like all kids do, but it really hit me. Felt like I hardly even knew him.” Capt. Petrova’s skeptical expression shifted to something more thoughtful as he continued.
“I got to thinking, I’ve been gone a lot of his life. He came to us from the dev-center when he was five. He’s nearly nine now, and I’ve just been gone so much between training, deployments and everything. Rifle Training Battalion’s a non-deployable unit. I’ll actually have some time to actually go home and be with my family for a few years. No rotations or deployments to worry about.”
Rybeck hoped that she really did have something like a heart. “Between him and my wife- next time… next time I’m gone I want to make sure I still have a family to come back to. Like I said, I don’t expect you to understand really but, if you’d just-”
“No, I understand,” Capt. Petrova cut him off. “What do you need from me?”
Rybeck was startled. He’d expected this to be a much more difficult sell. “I just need an endorsement from a Captain not in my chain of command and a letter of recommendation. That’ll get me a slot at the instructor school. Once I’m trained up the Regiment will have to chop me over.”
Capt. Petrova set the page down and scribbled her loopy signature, hovering her wrist over the document for a moment after so her bondchip could authenticate it. “I hope you know the BC’s probably gonna gnaw my ass about this.”
“Little asschewing never hurt anybody.” Rybeck dismissed with a smile. “But, thank you. This means a lot for my family.”
“It’s the least I can do. I’ll have something for you on letterhead by the end of the week.” She replied while handing the folder back.
Rand and Balachenko returned to the RAMP after a short trip to the shoppette. No one had given them a specific time to be back so they spent an extra few minutes sitting in Balachenko’s Sprinter wolfing down what food they’d purchased. Roughly half the platoon was still out getting something to eat and the other half was sitting around the butt can outside of their bays bullshitting and smoking. There ultimately wasn’t much for them to do. They were expected to perform ‘routine maintenance’ on the Lionesses, not actually fix them and they were all some kind of broken now.
The life of a Riflemen in garrison was mostly one of monotony with a significant amount of downtime. With the exception of maintaining their equipment there wasn’t much they could do when they weren’t actually training.
That was one of the great cultural divides within the Army, those in Combat Arms: Riflemen, Lancers, Pioneers and Cannoneers; and everyone else who existed to support them. Outside of that life focused on combat there was a relatively consistent schedule of work performing predominantly administrative and logistical functions. Ordering parts, adjusting pay allotments, budgeting a unit's titanic expenditures, all of the uninteresting minutiae that made any large organization function. Their world was structured around consistent daily taskings and cycles. They enjoyed the luxury of a 0800-1630 work day, whereas someone on the other more violent end of the bureaucracy may be in the field performing 24 hour operations for weeks at a time. The caveat was that when Riflemen and the like weren’t training, they were doing this: nearly nothing.
Balachenko glanced at his chrono and guesstimated they had some more time before they had to resume looking busy. He scrolled quickly through a playlist on his comm.
“You like Peña Scribe?” he asked nearly rhetorically before starting the song.
“He’s alright,” Rand replied, mostly indifferent.
“I love his shit. You know he was in the same RTB company as me?”
Rand shot him an incredulous glance.
“Well, same company but like three cycles before. The SLI’s told us all about him.” Balachenko clarified.
That made more sense, Rand had already become intimately familiar with Ballie’s tendency to exaggerate via omission. “I knew he was in the Army, I didn’t know he was one of us though.”
“Yeah, was in 3/3 went to Yukatan with them. Got RFS’d a couple years ago, though I don’t think he’s doing too bad for himself.” Balachenko elaborated.
Release for Standards, code for being booted out for any number of reasons but distinct from a generally honorable ‘CSO’ or completion of service obligation. Rand glanced at the album art on the Sprinters console trideo display while its instrumental introduction finished playing:‘Mic Check Insurgency’ featuring a grainy still of the man himself wearing a filthy looking CES inside of some shitty hooch in that far-away land evidently trying to perfect his lyrical craft despite his situation. The man wore his influences openly and with tracks like Improvised Explosive [Beats] there was a lack of subtlety that even Rand’s distinctly uncultured ear could detect.
It was alright enough; Scribe’s talent as a producer carried some of the weaker elements though barely two minutes into the third track its content started to bother Rand. There was something a bit too raw in it. The tugging feeling of obligation to return to work pulled him out of the vehicle and back towards the bays.
Balachenko followed after him with a sigh, Rand never really understood the art of skating, he was always so busy trying to do something. On a day like this the most important task was avoiding work.
Rand fished through his paper bag from the shoppette while he approached Red 2. Priveda, clad in greasy tan coveralls, was one of the only people actually attempting to make themselves useful. She was squatting down in front of a track return roller which was weeping lubricant from a broken hub, cranking away at it with a socket wrench to tighten the seal.
Rand ambushed her with a pat on the ass and she whipped her head and the socket wrench around ready to strike but stopped when she saw it was him.
“Hey” was all Rand could muster.
“Hey back.” she replied standing up straight and leaning onto the side of the vehicle with that same vaguely predatory expression.
“Ballie and I went to the shoppette, I got you some stuff.” Rand offered her a can of her preferred nicotine pouch and a wrap.
She accepted them with a smile, “thanks, Theo. Say, are we still going out to the reservoir today?”
Rand paused for a moment making a mental check to see if he hadn’t double booked his recently rather full social calendar. “Isn’t it field day today?”
Priveda snorted. “Who cares, I’ll clean in the morning.”
“Eh, seems a little irresponsible to not like, go to the formation and shit,” Rand suggested.
Priveda looked away, puffing at her bangs.
“But… I mean, couldn't hurt missing one right?” Rand redirected, she seemed much more satisfied with that answer.
Cpl. Volk craned her stocky neck around Red 2’s side “Priveda.”
“Yes, Corporal?” Priveda responded, shoving the Siobhán half of her personality back into its box.
“If you’re done fratting over there I need the torque-wrench.” Volk motioned towards the toolbox.
Rand took the hint and waved while he moved back towards his section of the bay. Siobhán waved back while digging through the toolbox.
“Ballie, what the fuck is this?” Cpl. Muchen interrogated while stuffing his mouth with the wrap the subject in question had gotten for him.
“Uhh, what you asked for Corporal?” Balachenko responded confused.
“Oh if it’s what I asked for why the FUCK does it have god damn red onions in it!” Cpl. Munchen responded while swallowing and shoving the half-eaten wrap in his face.
“Yeah who the fuck gets the one with red onions in it?!” Nikolaev added equally frustrated while stomping towards him.
“Oh, I bought those.” Rand interjected innocently while walking towards the Lioness.
Munchen and Nikolaev both snapped their burning gaze towards him. “To be fair, you didn’t say which ones to get. I like that one,” Rand dismissed with a shrug while checking the battletrak system’s status with a few keystrokes.
The two crewmen simmered for a few moments before letting it go and begrudgingly resuming eating. Balachenko let out a stymied sigh of relief and flicked him a thankful look. Those two would get eachother worked up over the smallest shit. It was best to dive on this grenade before Balachenko caught any more heat.
The door to the bay’s office opened, everyone knew that sound. Cpl. Munchen paused what he was doing for a moment.
“Leaders, in the office!” SSgt. Karoff announced. Munchen moved to take another bite. “Time now!” Karoff added and Munchen set down his food with a grumble and stepped out of the Lioness towards the door.
The concrete floored and corrugated metal walled office looked decrepit, but exceedingly clean. The few wheelie chairs in here had all been subjected to more than a lifetime's worth of abuse. They were missing wheels, the arm rests were torn to shreds, one of the mesh backings was gashed and poorly repaired with zip ties. Rather than the antiseptic and bureaucratic atmosphere of the CP, it reflected the rough and tumble nature of the enlisted lifestyle. There were a few terminals, one reserved for SSgt. Karoff which sat on his desk surrounded by an assortment of his personal knicknacks: a collection of challenge coins, the Battalion’s Best Rifleman trophy and an Amerogan M34A1 fragmentation grenade, painted with a blue stripe to signify its status as an inert training aid.
The other two desks were shared by the squad leaders and in much worse shape. Both of them were missing the wood grain veneer in sections and had been thoroughly gouged and vandalized by writing utensils and knives. One of them was covered with a sheet of clear acetate plastic which curled up and split at the edges, the result of a prank where Krieger had coated the surface with spray adhesive in hopes of getting Rybeck to accidentally glue his keyfob and inknote to the surface.
Karoff took a quick mental role while the section leaders and Vehicle Commanders were finishing filing in. Sgt. Kreiger closed the door behind them.
“Just got out of that meeting with 1st Sergeant and Top Knute, a few notes. First of all, there’s a boot drop. Tonight. We’re getting 10 new bodies and Hospitalman Corporal Shimpachi from BAS.”
There were already evil grins growing among the Corporals in the room. The prospect of fresh meat was all too enticing.
“You all get what I fucking give you, check? No draft, no fucking trades and keep the field day shenanagins to a fuckin’ minium.”
“Check, senior” they acknowledged, some of the excitement already stifled.
“Second order of business, while I was up there I met with Lt. Nix, our new Platoon Commander, and hashed a few things out. He'll be in and out a bit this week doing property and turn-over with Capt. Petrova, but expect to see him around. At 1500 he’s your new daddy, check?”
“Check, senior.” they acknowledged again.
“Krieger, did you pick up the Princess’s plaque?”
“Yes, Senior. Got it right here.” Krieger held up the large plaque still wrapped in biodegradable packing material.
Karoff motioned for him to unwrap it. “Well, let’s fuckin’ see it then.”
Krieger ripped off its claddings revealing the lacquered and engraved hardwood underneath and held it aloft. An embossed plate across the top read: “From the members of 2nd Platoon Cutlass to Rifle Captain Lyssa O. Petrova, Sovereign of Battle.” Below the header inscription was a large inset pict the platoon had taken together before stepping off from Camp Talnawakee and crossing the border into the FFR, posed in front of their Lionesses in full kit. A final inscription added at the bottom had been Karoff’s contribution. “There is no hunting like the hunting of a man.”
Everyone spent a moment admiring it and SSgt. Karoff gave an approving nod, which is just about the only congratulations that Krieger ever expected to receive from the man. Karoff tossed an inkstick at Cpl. Verac.
“Everyone’s welcome to sign it but, put any fuckin’ stupid shit on there and I’ll drag this whole platoon through the rocks out back ‘tell Phobos crashes into the surface. This might be hanging in her office or house years from now; engage your brains for once.” SSgt. Karoff instructed. Everyone took turns passing it around, writing short messages and signing the object while Senior gave the last bit of information.
“That’s open to the Juniors as well, make sure they get a chance to sign. Have everyone in formation in front of the CP at 1445; no fucking coveralls.” Karoff added while glaring at Cpl. Volk’s grease covered set.
Volk glanced down at herself defensively and then shot an accusatory look at Cpl. Seevan. “My bad, some of us actually do work around here.”
Seevan flashed a glare back but ignored the comment looking back towards Karoff. “Senior, who’s gonna hand it off?”
Everyone was milling around in front of the CP by 1430 or so. Capt. Petrova stood idly watching as Top Knute directed the stooges from headquarters to set up the stand for the Company Guidon and the Battalion Colours while Ens. Yarbrough went and fetched them from inside the building. Spectators kept arriving and it felt rather unnerving as she had never felt popular, particularly amongst her peers, but most of the battalion staff along with more than half of the rest of the Battalion’s officers were assembling to watch.
Sam’s silver Xpedition backed into the tiny lot and he jumped out along with Dalia and Mark flashing that dumb smile as he approached. The presence of a grenadier within the regiment’s footprint drew some suspicious glances as the trio approached.
“You know you didn’t have to come, Sam.”
Sam blew it off with a casual wave, “I missed your promotion. This is another important moment and there’s no place I’d rather be.”
She couldn’t help but return the smile. It was this sort of thing she had always deeply appreciated from him. Both still being in uniform she mostly restrained herself but still touched at his neck while feigning fixing his collar.
“Lucy don’t get all gooey now, he forgot the part about skipping the Fires Sync at Reg,” Dalia deflated with a smirk.
“Hey, that’s Maj. Schluenbacher’s fucking meeting anyways.” Sam deflected over his shoulder before turning back towards her. “This way he actually has to run it for once.”
Ens. Yarbrough reappeared through the building's front hatch with the Battalion Colours in hand and a pair of white folios tucked under her arm. Lt. Col. Balalaika and Maj. Deemo trailed after her at a rather leisurely pace while conversing quietly.
Stout motioned the Ensign over with haste while SSgt. Karoff formed the platoon and quickly hit an aboutface.
Lucy tilted her head toward her assigned spot. “We’ll talk after, puppy.”
Sam nodded and moved off to the side to join the rest of the spectators.
It was only now as she was marching up towards Karoff that it really started to sink in. This was it, the last time.
SSgt. Karoff offered a sharp salute as she halted in front of him. “Ma’am, 2nd Platoon is formed for Change of Command.”
“Very well,” she offered in customary reply while returning the salute. She faced towards the Colours while Karoff dutifully marched around to his post at her side.
Capt. Eckartt motioned towards Ens. Yarbrough “Ensign, publish the order.”
She cleared her throat while flipping open one of the two white folios in her stack.
“Attention to Orders, HEADQUARTERS, 2nd Battalion, 1st Rifle Regiment, Camp Rashkigi, Fort Fortune Military Reservation, Tharsis Regent Republic. 3 June 42 MIC
The Officer of the Day today is: Rifle Lieutenant Halverson
The Officer of the Day tomorrow is: Quartermaster Lieutenant Pastuer
Rifle Captain Lyssa O. Petrova, 2nd Platoon, Company G, 2nd Battalion, 1st Rifle Regiment, you are to relinquish your duties as Platoon Commander to Rifle Lieutenant James L. Nix and report to Headquarters and Service Company for assignment as the Battalion Assistant Operations Officer.
Rifle Lieutenant James L. Nix you are hereby assigned as Platoon Commander, 2nd Platoon, Company G, 2nd Battalion, 1st Rifle Regiment.
These orders are given under my hand, on behalf of the Regent Protector of Tharsis, this 3rd Day of June, in the Forty-Second Year of Martian Independence.
—Signed, YVONNE P. BALALAIKA, LIEUTENANT COLONEL, White Army of Tharsis, 2nd Battalion, 1st Rifle Regiment, COMMANDING.” Ens. Yarbrough finished, closing the white folio, quickly shuffling another on top.
“Post the relief!” Capt. Eckartt ordered.
Lt. Nix marched directly in front of her and they quickly exchanged salutes. She locked eyes with him for a fleeting moment, searching every corner for something she could trust. They were his; their lives were in his hands. There was a momentary feeling of relief. They were good Riflemen with competent and dedicated NCOs. Whatever happened they would come out alright. Officers come and go, but so long as they have each other they’d be alright. One Lieutenant was as good as another to them she told herself.
“March!” Capt. Eckartt commanded, snapping her back to reality. She stepped off to her right and marched to the side while Nix stepped forward and about faced assuming her prior position at the front of the formation.
It was over; it was finally over.
Capt. Eckartt broke from the position of attention slightly to make an expectant motion at Yarbrough who flipped the second folio open. Lt. Col. Balalaika made her way from the crowd of spectators towards her with one of those distinctive little white boxes in her hand. Yarbrough began reading again.
“The Regent of Tharsis takes pleasure in awarding the Superior Service Cross with Dagger, to Rifle Captain Lyssa O. Petrova, 2nd Battalion, 1st Rifle Regiment for SERVICE from 2 February 41 MIC to 3 June 42 MIC.
While serving as the Commander of 2nd Platoon, Golf Company Capt. Petrova distinguished herself by leading her platoon to Regimental high scores in Physical Fitness, Marksmanship, and overall readiness…”
She felt… confused. Balalaika pinned the medal onto her breast pocket flap and followed it up with a handshake and an encouraging ‘at-a-girl’ shoulder smack. Sure Yarbrough was reading off a bunch of things she had done; all that garbage administrative work she did to the best of her ability but absolutely loathed. And, sure, it tended to be much harder for officers to accumulate personal awards compared to the enlisted, but what happened to all of those things she’d done in combat. The SSC was two grades below the Victory Star 1st Class she’d written for Rand. It still had the tiny gleaming golden dagger device pinned through the suspension to denote for service in combat but-
She let it go, it was just a scrap of cloth and stamped metal anyways.
“...Capt. Petrova also distinguished herself by her inspiring leadership and personal ingenuity during Operation Ares Sword. Her conduct was in keeping with the highest traditions of military virtue, reflecting great credit upon herself and the White Army of Tharsis
—SIGNED, On behalf of the Regent Protector of Tharsis, Gerard L. Mulleux, BRIGADIER, White Army of Tharsis, IV Rifle Corps, DEPUTY-COMMANDER”
Suddenly it all made sense. She turned to face the crowd, of course to bask a little bit in the congratulations, but also just to see Captain Mars’ face. It twisted into a smug grin while he golf-clapped; generally he seemed extremely pleased. Obviously it was with himself rather than with her performance. She smiled brightly in return. She was sure they were all thinking it was because of the award, but really it was all she could do to contain the laughter. This was his revenge? This was all he could muster as retaliation? Who gave a fuck about Medals?
She suppressed a few chuckles as some of his smugness disappeared, quickly banishing him from her mind as Lt. Nix gave his first order.
“Platoon, fall out!”
“Ahee-a!” they replied.
Major Deemo was the first person to approach her, offering another congratulatory hand-shake. “Well done Lyssa, I’m actually quite glad to have you back in Ops. Take the rest of the day and just be in the office ready to work tomorrow.”
“Thank you, sir. S3 still forms up over here in the morning?”
“For what PT?” Maj. Deemo questioned. “I let the Sergeants handle that; just come in at eight-thirty, you’re a big girl.” He chuckled to himself while walking away.
Sam was right behind him, jingling his keys while he approached. “I hear you’re cut for the day. Ready to go?”
She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you have some kind of work to be doing?”
Sam shook his head. “Actually not at all. I know you probably don’t know this about staff but, when us Captains don’t have anything to do, we just go home. If they need me, they can link me.” Sam explained magnanimously.
“Oh really now?” she replied dripping with sarcasm. “I actually just need to grab a few things from the Company Office and then we can bounce.”
“I’ll be waiting.” he winked while wandering off towards his vehicle.
She turned around again, accepting a few more congratulatory handshakes as she made her way towards the Company Office. There was really only one thing she still needed to grab, the rest of it was already sitting in a box waiting to be carried upstairs. Adjacent to Cutlass’s specific hatch was a wall lined with their command picts and official biographies, short blurbs about all of the Company’s leadership. She paused for a moment in front of her own pict and yanked out the ‘(R) Lt. L.O. Petrova’ name plate. Her official pict, a bladed and now more than slightly out of date headshot of her in her service uniform disappeared as the nameplate detached.
She sauntered into the office, grabbed her bag out from under her desk and chucked the name plate inside and slung it, exiting the way she came. She paused for a moment in front of Capt. Eckartt’s pict. Skimming over his biography while indulging a tiny fantasy about what her photo would look like in that spot.
Rifle Captain Francis I. Eckartt is a graduate of The Raider School, The Amazonian Army Military Advisor-Leader Course, The Rifle Officer Advanced Leader Course, and The Rifle Platoon Commanders Course. He holds a Bachelors of Science in Hydrologic Engineering from John Mapleton University and a Masters Degree in International Relations from the Western Coalition Army War College. He is a Veteran of Operation Yukatan Resolve 37-1 and 40-2, Operation Twilight Ray, and Operation Ares Sword.
She indulged herself further for a moment. Rifle Captain Lyssa O. Petrova is a graduate of The Raider School, an Honor Graduate of The Rifle Platoon Commanders Course and is a 2nd Degree Combative Martial Arts Instructor. She holds a Bachelors of Arts in Military History from White Army Central Academy… Clearly she needed to pad her resume some more.
“Oh, there you are, ma’am!” She turned; it was Kreiger standing in the entryway to the building. “Everyone was wondering where you ran off to.”
“I was actually about to head out, what’s up?” She queried.
“Oh well, the platoon’s still outside waiting for you.” Kreiger mentioned coyly.
“For me? For what?”
“Oh y’know, send you off and everything.” Kreiger deflected while motioning towards the door.
“Kreiger, I work right upstairs now. If any of you need anything just come look for me,” she replied while walking out that same way.
Her former charge was in fact, still waiting for her with Dalia and Mark both standing slightly farther afield.
“Don’t you goons have anything better to be doing?” She barked. Some people chuckled as they formed into a rough horseshoe around her on the building’s steps. Rybeck turned slightly from his position at the front of the crowd and motioned someone forward. Rand slinked through the platoon shyly holding what looked like a large wooden board and then continued forward, pausing at the requisite 10 paces to salute which she returned quickly.
Rand spoke softly, offering the object to her. “Ma’am, we uh- The Platoon got you something. So you don’t forget and all that.”
“This is unexpected.” She took it from his hands. It was wood, real wood at that. Oak or maple, something hard and dense with dark staining lacquer. She glanced upwards for a moment “Sovereign of battle huh? Not letting that one die are we?”. More smiles.
Her gaze returned to the inset still in the center. She remembered that day well, the excitement as well as the fear festering in her gut. Not fear of death or injury, that seemed all too impossible then; but, of failure. Fail to uphold the name. That somehow she would blunder catastrophically.
In some sense, she did. Her eyes wandered to the faces of those who did not return and to others who would not return the same. She couldn’t imagine ever forgetting. She glanced upward again, hiding the sadness from the man in front of her. Scanning the crowd she knew everyone left something of themselves behind, some more than others. She examined the plaque again.
Hemingway. She was curious how many arrayed before her knew the full quotation. Karoff had that same stoic look as always. There was nothing new under the sun to him and he knew what made her tick well enough.
She let the plaque rest against her hips while looking towards them. “I really don’t know what to say,” words eluded her thoughts for another moment. “It’s uh, beautiful thank you.”
Rand cleared his throat quietly motioning towards the object. “Everybody signed it and wrote stuff on the back.”
“Oh.” she flipped it over. The back was scrawled over its entirety with ink stick signatures and personal messages.
You got us through alive.
Her hand trembled slightly. “I-” she choked, then cleared her throat much the same way Rand had done. “I wouldn’t have been able to do anything without all of you. You are the people who make it happen.” A hit of self-frustration flared. The words to explain how instrumental they had all been, how much she appreciated their work and their sacrifice. How everything she had done felt like it paled in comparison to what they contributed. How much she appreciated their simple companionship and trust. How nothing she would ever do could compare to the actions of those who gave that full measure of devotion to their cause. It wouldn’t assemble into language.
“We all know all that ma’am. Hell, would’a been a heck of a lot easier if you hadn’t gone pickin’ fights.” Kreiger’s comment hit like a bolt of lightning. She would never be able to forgive herself. She whipped her head over her shoulder. Krieger had a jesting smile rather than a scowl of condemnation as he continued. “Though I don’t think anyone else could’ve gotten us out either.”
“Like Gus said ma’am. No one else I’d rather have leading the way and it's sad seeing you go. We’re all sure you’re gonna go on to do great things, just don’t forget about us” Rybeck added.
Rather than judging, all the faces around her comforted. Smiling admiration and appreciation, they saw the thing in herself she so often could not find. The lumps in her throat multiplied. It felt so sweet and so, so bitter.
“Why don’t we grab a pict and let Captain Petrova go on her way, I’m sure she’s got more important things to be doing right now.” Karoff suggested.
The Platoon piled in around her and she held the plaque in front of her while Mark snapped a few picts for posterity She tried desperately to maintain her bearing for another few moments, rushing away towards that silver Xpedition as soon as Mark announced he was done.
She threw her bag in the back seat and then climbed into the front without a word, still clutching the plaque. Sam glanced up from his comm with a jesting, “What took so long?”
She stayed silent for another moment, then hunched over the memento, breaking into a hacking ugly sob.