4 - 3
GRIND
“Discipline, in the military sense, is easy to define: instant willing obedience to orders. The second element of a force’s moral capacity to wage war, it’s Esprit, is far more difficult. It is broadly a sense of pride and cohesion among soldiers both in the individuals to their left and right, and in their collective history. It is a type of confidence in the righteousness of the social order. Discipline is enforced; Esprit must be cultivated.” - Major General Ibrham Kane, Address to Officers of The 3rd Lancer Division, 2 MIC
Sam glanced at his chrono again, 1849. He’d already been here two hours longer than he would’ve liked. The entire Regimental CP was nearly deserted, though he wasn’t really here because he had anything which couldn’t be done tomorrow. Though, if he was sticking around he might as well do some work; this was pushing it though.
He stood up from his desk and Maj. Schulenbacher curiously poked his head out from inside his office. Something about Field-grades and absolutely despising spending time with their spouses just went hand in hand.
“Sam, I didn’t realize you were still here. What’s keeping you?” The Major questioned from the door to his office while sipping at his 13th paper cup of recaff for the day.
“Well sir, I was actually just about to leave.” Sam responded while grabbing his bag and cover out from under his desk.
“Oh well, don’t let me keep you then.” The Major responded while turning back into his office. Sam exhaled a tiny sigh of relief, for once he wasn’t going to be accosted about why he was leaving, all it took was just hanging around until the man himself was satisfied. Schulenbacher stopped in his tracks and pivoted on his toes to face him and jut out of his doorway again. “Actually since you’re here, and I really don’t mean to keep you back, there was something I wanted to talk to you about.”
Sam took a moment to collect himself before turning back around to face him. “And that was sir?”
“A tasker came down from Army Central; you’ve been to Yukatan correct?”
“Yes sir, with 3/5, 40 to 41.” Sam responded.
“Any interest in going back?” The Major queried.
His interest was piqued but it had to be under the right circumstances. He wasn’t going to spend, at best rate, a month and a half stuck in a cramped flying prison and go all the way to the blue-wet-one just to do the same administrative bullshit he was doing now. Even doing “real” work inside of a TOC was somewhat unappetizing; a man could only watch so much ‘kill-tri-d’ ISR footage of bombs going off and guerillas being pasted before they became completely desensitized. That and he had another person to consider now; nine months was a long time to be gone.
“They say what for?”
Major Schulenbacher shook his head. “Not much in the way of details right now, they just put out feelers for Captain and above who are ready to hot fill slots, nothing solid as of yet.”
“I’d have to talk to Lucy about it, if you get any more details about it let me know.” Sam slung his bag to add emphasis that he really was trying to leave.
“Oh right, headed over to pick her up? A mighty patient woman if she’s been waiting this long for you.” The Major chuckled to himself.
Sam mirrored the laugh to appease him, really he had been waiting for her. “I’ll see you tomorrow, sir.”
“Yeah, have a good night Sam.” Schulenbacher announced as he closed the door to his office and finally gave him an opportunity to escape unmolested.
Vaughn Schulenbacker watched the young Captain exit the building through the blinds of his office. The fact he hadn’t lept at the opportunity to escape the garrison life surprised him.
Sam was intelligent and capable, but for the longest time had seemed, to put it plainly: bored. The Major had taken his measure quite quickly after he joined the Fires Cell as a somewhat seasoned Lieutenant, fresh from a rotation to the blue-wet-one. His work was adequate, never exceptional, simply adequate, but he chased every opportunity to exit the office and go to the field, no matter the reason.
While in garrison, whenever he found an opportunity to disappear, he seized it. Vaughn noticed of course, but let it slide. The work he did was good enough and quickly done, more than could be said of his two peers within the section. He seemed more concerned with his rather extensive list of extreme hobbies than sitting in meetings or updating slides. Rock-climbing, camping out-dome, rafting, boxing. The sorts of things that attracted a certain demographic of partner which he cycled through with rather shocking regularity.
When they had deployed to the FFR he shined. Out-dome and confronted with real problems to solve he had proven himself adaptable and quick witted while also being quite the negotiator. He was one of the few people who was able to mediate between the more extreme personalities within the Regimental Staff consistently. Vaughn had come to rely on him more and more and had made that fact known to their parent Artillery Battalion. It was one of the reasons he had jumped so many others in the Command Que; leaving him in staff for much longer would be a waste of an Officer
When he returned to garrison however, the quality of his work declined again though not to the same extent. He could be counted on to accomplish things to standard and in a timely manner, but he never went the extra K. It must’ve all seemed rather unimportant to him. After all it was no matter of life and death.
Now he was staying late at work and had made a habit of it. It must’ve been that woman he’d been seeing, that Captain Petrova. The more senior Rifle Officers in the Regiment seemed to be rather enamored with arguing about her based on what he had seen at Mess and in closed-door meetings. While not personally familiar, she seemed to have a rather polarizing personality which Vaughn’s own Field-Grade peers in The Rifle Corps either loved or loathed.
It clearly wasn’t just another fling. They had been together for some time now, long enough that Vaugn had actually picked up her name. That was the only thing that could’ve justified this shift in his behavior. Perhaps that was why he was in no hurry to leave, both this building and the Regiment. After all this time he had finally captured a measure of contentment.
There was still so much work to be done, but she really only had one or two more things to finish polishing before calling it for tonight. Ever since she’d taken this position it had been nothing but administrative misery. She certainly had a greater appreciation for managing the operations of the battalion. As a Platoon Commander, it seemed like nothing that came out of the S3 office had a modicum of sense to it. They were just random taskings and contradictory guidance that continually fucked over their daily operations. Now it was obvious from her level that while the mission-analysis had been conducted it was a case of choosing the least-bad option.
Between managing troops-to-task and writing and revising a continuous stream of Operations Orders, Fragmentary Orders, CONOPs, Maintenance Trackers, on-top of attending an unending series of meetings and syncs at every echelon from Battalion to Division it had been an agonizing thankless grind.
Lucy shifted her weight slightly to her other foot and minimized the CONOP slided she’d been working on for a moment. With all of this time inside the office, one of the few ways she’d attempted to maintain something of her former life was a standing desk. She hated the idea of sitting all day, if anything it drove her more crazy than being here already did.
Sitting for more than a couple hours also made her leg hurt. Maybe it had gotten better, maybe it hadn’t. The pain lingered and nagged. She wasn’t lame; according to the best of medical science it was just some kind of nerve damage. That seemed to be accurate enough because the damn thing worked fine, it just hurt. She had just gotten used to it and adjusted her habits so it bothered her less, most of the time at least. One simply learns to live with the pain.
Otherwise maintaining, even improving her physical fitness had been rather easy the past few months. Limited field time and a relatively consistent schedule that included a free block during PT-hours meant she could finally scale her routine to her own level. This job did have some advantages. Though, it was rather lonely at times.
She glanced around, she was the only one still in the office. Maybe one of five or six in the entire Battalion Headquarters including the duty desk at the front which was manned around the clock. Maj. Deemo was at a planning conference at Red-Water Crossing in Amazonia. Chief Hawke, the Battalion Master-Rifleman and resident subject matter expert in everything thereto pertaining, had left of his own volition hours ago. She’d sent the three Ensigns along with the Staff-Sergeants and clerks who were under her charge home around the same time. There was really nothing for the enlisted to do inside of their job description.
The Ensigns just didn’t have enough experience to be useful yet. Everything they worked on had to be carefully checked by her. She let out an audible groan as she remembered that two of them were nearly due for their Fitness Reports. Writing them meant more work. She scribbled down a reminder on her inknote as someone knocked on the door.
“Enter!”
“Planning on coming home tonight?” Sam asked as he let himself into the office.
Lucy rubbed at her temple. “Yeah… You know you don’t have to wait up for me, Sam. I can just take the tram back.”
“Oh, I know,” Sam acknowledged casually. “So are you coming?”
Lucy sighed and locked her terminal, following him outside into the lot and chucking her bag in the back of his Xpedition. He had his ways. She really wished he wouldn’t worry about her, though she’d come to accept it was just his way of showing affection. At least the ride did more to unwind some of the mental tension than the tram ever did.
They had mostly the same routine every day, some idle chit chat in the first few minutes then silence for the remainder. There was comfort there, but something else was floating at the top of Sam’s mind. She could tell just by the way his eyes flicked at her on occasion.
“You finish land and ammo for the Reg. CALFEX?” She probed.
“Oh yeah, I submitted everything up before lunch today; should have our allocations by next week.”
There was a tinge of guilt as she thought of him sitting up in his own office twiddling his thumbs until she could be convinced to stop slaving away for the night. “Sorry to keep you waiting then, I thought you were working on something too.”
“It’s alright, I finished writing Senior Rueben’s Fitrep while I was. One less thing to do tomorrow.” Sam’s fingers drummed idly on the wheel. “That wasn’t the only thing that happened. You get any WTO’s from Army Central today?”
“From Army Central?” She raised an eyebrow, such a thing was rare. “No, only one I’ve had in the past week was from Division for that Training Exchange detail with the Amazonians. Why?”
He was clearly angling her somewhere, testing his footing.
“I’m sure it’ll come down tomorrow then, Maj. Schulenbacher keyed me in. They’re looking for Officers to go to Yukatan, Captain and above,” Sam relayed.
“Well that sounds interesting. He say what for?” Lucy responded, her own interest piqued.
Sam shook his head. “Not many details, but it sounded like they're looking for people who already have experience on the ground there.”
“Well I’m shit out of luck then,” Lucy huffed. “Though, have you given it any thought?”
“Need a bit more information first I think,” Sam shrugged, trying to play off casually.
“If you want to go, take the opportunity, Sam. I know you’ve been wanting to get out of here for a while now.” She encouraged.
Sam tugged at his calcified earlobe for a second. “Nine months to a year? That’s a long time to be gone; I just want to be sure I know what I’m getting into.”
Lucy softened her expression slightly and touched his knee. “Whatever you want to do, I’ve got your back.”
Sam relaxed ever so slightly, he was either a bad liar or she knew him too well now, but a tiny bit of unease remained.“I wasn’t worried about that- I just want some assurance it won’t be a waste of time. That and I’m next up in the command que.” Sam paused for a moment, another thought quantum tunneling to the front of his mind as they often did. “Did you remember to pick up your whites for Mess?”
Lucy thumped an arm rest with her hand. “Fuck.”
Sam glanced at the time. “I’ll take that as a no. The cleaners close in twenty, might make it still.”
“I was gonna pick them up during chow, but the fucking maintenance meeting ran long.” Lucy’s eyebrow twitched as the details returned.
Sam turned the relief valve. “What happened?”
“The maintenance chief pulled half of the running gear off of Saber 6’s Command Lioness to get an Ocelot up for gunnery. He didn’t even ask; he just did it.”
“Doesn’t the commander have to sign off on that?” Sam asked.
“Yes! She does! And this fucking scumbag thought I wouldn’t fucking notice! I nearly tore his head off. These fucking warrant officers think they run the show when Maj. Deemo’s out of pocket. Oh and Stewart, you know the S4, was defending him too. Like ‘oh, it’s really not that big of a deal Lucy, I don’t know why you’re getting so worked up. We’ll just put it back on.’ and shit like that.”
“Doesn’t sound to me like it wasn’t a big deal,” Sam acknowledged.
“The worst part was they couldn’t even fathom that the real issue had nothing to do with them performing a controlled substitution and everything to do with them circumventing the proper channels. The systems only work if people actually follow the systems. That’s Rifleman shit, that’s some off-the-books back alley trash that junior-enlisted do when something absolutely has to get done right-now. These are Officers and Chief Warrant Officers, we’re not in combat, nothing is that fucking pressing. I, you know, got a little heated and let that be known. They’re going to write up an actual substitution request for the commander to sign and if anything like this happens again, I’m reporting it to Corps Maintenance Control. They can all fry during the investigation for all I care.”
“Not exactly making too many friends up there.” Sam cautioned. Word had begun to spread around, but most people preferred to work with someone competent who could be a bit abrasive at times instead of a tactful idiot like her predecessor.
“I don’t care; I’m just trying to do the job I was asked to do. So what if it doesn’t earn me the affection of my peers? I don’t do it for them,” Lucy huffed again in a contemptuous way. “Stewart came up to me after the meeting too and was all: ‘You need to learn to have some decorum yada yada…I don’t think that was a very professional way to conduct yourself, Lucy.’ I had to stop her right there. Like, first of all Madaline, we’re not friends so don’t call me that. Secondly, I don’t think it’s very professional to act with total disregard for black-and-white regulation, so stay in your fucking lane.”
Sam watched Lucy simmer on another thought for a moment. She didn’t so much gossip as bitch about her counterparts with the expectation he’d confirm her opinions. Most of the time he did; they came from a scorn towards both waste and incompetence. Sam gave her a receptive glance and she spilled some more.
“That- That and her and the supply chief have possibly the least ‘professional’ relationship imaginable. They hate each other and work in the same office. It’s like a failed marriage where the couple just doesn’t even acknowledge each other's existence. I’m not taking advice about ‘decorum’ from someone who can’t keep their own shop in order, let alone control their subordinates. Like all this shit is so ridiculous!” Lucy growled with frustration as language escaped her again for a moment. “It's enough dealing with the Company Commanders breaking down my door anytime I push down a tasker which I had no part in creating without the staff trying to sabotage the battalion with their weaponized incompetence.”
“Speaking of Command,” Sam deftly redirected as they approached their destination, “did you get slotted for ROALC yet?”
Lucy composed herself again, “October 2nd class date. 26 days…” she sighed while they coasted to a stop outside the cleaners. “26 more days and I get to take a 6 week break from this bullshit.” Adding a note of finally while she popped open the door.
It was a sunny early summer morning, with spring well behind them and many more months of summer ahead. It was finally enjoyable to be outside. Things had finally begun to pick up around here as well; the previous few months had been a little slow, but now the big ticket training events were fast approaching signaling an imminent deployment to who knew where. Big training events meant a bunch of smaller ones before, many of which looked like today.
The company was scattered around the barracks quad around various stations covering ‘basic Rifleman tasks’. For Rand it was at best refresher training, and at worst it was a monotonous check in the box for something he already knew how to do.
Cpl. Seevan was leading “Individual and buddy movement techniques” which basically amounted to him hazing the new-joins by making them buddy rush in full kit back and forth across the quad between the barracks buildings. An interment shout of “I’m up! He sees me! I’m down!” echoed out every few seconds as the buddy teams alternately sprang up from the prone, sprinted for three seconds, and then dived back into the prone. Sgt. Dygalo was supervising ‘Assemble, disassemble, and perform a functions check on the K17 Light-Machine Gun’, while Sgt. Krieger taught ‘Enter and clear a room’, otherwise known as Battle Drill 6, on white engineer tape laid out on the grass.
2nd Platoon, Weapons Squad had just arrived at “Recognize, Identify, and React to Mines or Improvised Explosive Devices”. Sgt. Santiago was teaching from behind a folding table loaded with training aids. Rand had done this a dozen times or so in the past few years, things changed a little bit between instructors or as new lessons learned were slowly incorporated, but it was always the same structure. First, the attention grabber.
Santiago grabbed a black article off the table and held it out in front of him for them to inspect. “Who knows what this is?” Private Shielbek shot up his hand. He was one of their boots, and now the subject of Balachenko’s corrupting influence as his assistant-gunner. “It’s an IDL-3 Sergeant, part of our individual battletrak systems.”
“Correct answer,” Santiago nodded. “Now, let’s say you’re walking down the road or maybe back seating a Lynx and you see this thing just lying there in the dirt. What would you do?”
“Well, uh, pick it up I guess Sarn’t. It’s uh, serialized equipment, right?” Sheilbek replied.
Santiago nodded again, “a common sense answer.” Santiago flipped the radio around and popped off the normally screwed in back plate to reveal that most of the circuitry had been removed and replaced with a home-made explosive filler, helpfully labeled ‘INERT’ in blue block lettering.
“If you saw this thing sitting on the side of the road in Yukatan or wherever else and picked it up there’s a good chance you’d be missing an arm and most of your face. This is an example of a ‘Victim Operated’ device. It could be triggered in a number of ways: through a motion sensor of some kind. In this case it received a constantly transmitted radio signal that would be interrupted the moment you brought it inside an armored vehicle. This device was relatively advanced, but it could just be as simple as an untampered IDL resting on the spoon of a half-buried grenade. It’s all the same though, through the mildly clever use of social engineering, the planter has tricked you into killing yourself. Really, these are only limited by the bomb-makers skill and imagination which naturally makes them very hard to identify. However, there are a number of indicators which may suggest the presence of an Improvised Explosive Device.” Santaigo explained and then set it back down on the table. Shielbek seemed thoughtful, his attention had been captured at least.
Santiago’s lecture continued on for some time while Rand’s mind wandered. Was he going to Siobhan’s room tonight or was she coming to his? Really it didn’t matter, they were only two floors apart anyways.
Some time later and deep both into Santiago’s lecture and his day-dream Rand watched 1st Sergeant Stout approach from the corner of the quad trailed by Captain Eckartt. He signaled subtle ‘leaders to me’ to the instructors.
Santiago acknowledged the gesture and glanced at his chrono.“Take a ten mike break. We’ll resume when I come back,” then marched off to join the huddle.
The squad immediately set to slacking off. Balachenko slumped back onto the grass behind him and took off his helmet. “Smoke, Rand?”.
Rand shook his head.
Balachenko flicked his attention to a more impressionable subject. “What about you, boot?”
The pejorative had originated from the old name for Basic Military Training: Boot Camp. It implied that one had done Boot Camp and nothing else, though it had been extended long ago to include anyone who was more junior than the insult flinger.
All of their boots were generally in awe of their seniors, those Golden Rifles meant you had done something real, you had seen combat. That imbued you with, from the boot’s perspective at least, some kind of wisdom and authority beyond your years or rank.
Generally, the attitude in the reverse was complete institutionalized disdain. The boot was the one category it was nearly officially sanctioned to discriminate against. The boots were the first picked for every working party, every shit detail, and the butt of every joke. The males were forced to shave their heads; the females were given the most unstylish bob in the solar. All of them were forced to carry around their rebreather and hydration bladder everywhere they went. Notionally, it was for their own safety. They couldn’t yet be trusted to maintain accountability and serviceability of their equipment, including the ‘K1 Flesh Suit’ they now occupied. Practically, it made them trivial to identify from a distance.
They had to address those among them, even those of the same rank by their Rate. Some of Rands peers, particularly Priveda, went so far as to force them to stand at parade rest when spoken to, a courtesy normally reserved for Corporals and Sergeants. A Rifleman of any rank without Rifles on their collar was merely a differently paid Private so the saying went.
The hazing was supposed to stop when one became Corps-Qualified and largely did in most of the rest of the jobs in the Army but here, it continued until one had been blooded.
This was all enforced by the ‘Golden Syndicate’, those who had been there and done that. Oftentimes this was done violently though there were far more creative ways. From the senior’s perspective it was simple. What had been done unto you once upon a time, was done unto others in the name of preserving the unique character of the White Army, of toughening them up and preparing them for combat. How one interpreted that charge depended vastly on the character of the Senior.
Though now a member, Rand didn’t buy into it all that much. Based on his experience, going out of his way to potentially antagonize someone who would likely be watching his back in combat seemed unwise. Some of the boots willingly submitted, others rebelled, but all obeyed eventually.
“Uh, well Rifleman, I don’t think I should.” Shielbek croaked.
Balachenko flicked a death stick in his direction anyways. “No harm in it, best way to kill the time.”
Shielbek fiddled with it, clumsily gripping it with three fingers until being corrected by Balachenko and taking the offered light. Shielbek gave Balachenko what Rand thought he always wanted: someone to admire him. For that service Balachenko had taken him under his wing to an extent, and occasionally protected him from the worst of the hazing.
One of their other boots, Private Kick, had only begun to figure out the game. It looked to Rand like he was trying to calculate if it was worth risking a question by the way his brow had furled. The potential prizes were a nugget of lived experience or more hazing. Rand thought the latter was undeserved, but according to Corporals Seevan and Muchen all boots were deserving of hazing by their mere existence.
Rand thought perhaps only PFC Donphrit, Svertson’s new assistant gunner and one hell of a teacher’s pet, was deserving of torment on that basis. He and his butt-buddy Pvt. Guneaux, who had taken Rand’s previous spot as Platoon RTO, were both far too motivated. Rand considered himself very high in the esprit-de-corps department, but those two totally lacked the ironic distance necessary to mentally endure in the organization long term. Privates and Sergeants Major both suffered from the same affliction, they took all of the pomp and circumstance, the tradition and institutional arrogance of the Army quite literally. Maybe he had been in the same category before; it was hard to tell from his point of view.
Rand continued eying Private Kick while his mental gears turned.. Kick was another of the young and impressionable type, out from some shithole in the middle of the vast expanse of outback known as ‘Klaxx’s Crossing’. Some of his enthusiasm had already been stifled by reality. With a name like ‘Kick’ it must’ve been easy to imagine yourself as ‘Private Kicks-Ass’, but it was much closer to ‘Private Gets His Ass Kicked, Regularly’.
Svertson had seen to that. As the Acting MAAWs Section Leader discipline fell to him, and while he wasn’t wearing Corporal’s Chevrons yet, he had plenty of authority by reputation and more than enough power by brawn to make up for it. Sverts had always been much less for ‘Corrective Training’ than just actually fighting anyone who didn’t want to fall in line.
Sgt. Dygalo had been more distant since his promotion, He was still their Squad Leader, but he had spent the last two and half months at Raider School. Upon his return he had been so busy with all the sort of collateral duties that only a Sergeant could be trusted with, it left the lot of them under Corporal Muchen when he wasn’t similarly distracted by his vehicle. Tybalt was now the Gun-Section leader in name only as he hadn’t yet really developed the inclination to lead and when he did try Balachenko was more than happy to undermine him. This left them now, as nearly always, in Svertson’s care.
“Say Rifleman Rand,” Kick finally spit out, having settled on the least aggressive of his seniors. “How likely you think it is to run into one of those things?”
“Couldn’t say.” Rand replied honestly. “That’s uh, more of a Yukatan thing. Feds and Noachs more than enough of the factory shit. They didn’t have time or need to improvise anything. Have to ask Svertson.”
Pvt. Kick turned his gaze to the man in question and hesitated, nearly cringing.
Svertson answered the question anyway. “Sarn’t Santiago ain’t wrong. Anything and I mean anything, can be made to blow up if you have the know-how.”
“That’s uh, pretty crazy Rifleman, but like how do you deal with it?” Kick took a cheat card out from his kit and glanced it over. “I mean do you really cordon the area and call EOD every time? When just about anything can turn out to be a bomb?”
Svertson sighed, “Eh, I dunno. When you first get there you’re paranoid as fuck about it. Trash on the side of the road is an indicator of a potential IED right? Well, what Sarn’t Santiago ain’t telling you is that there’s trash on the side of the fuckin’ road everywhere you go. Dead animals too, mysterious holes, it’s all over the fuckin place. After the first or second time haltin’ your convoy, y’know in the middle of nowhere just begging to get attacked, for it to be nothing you don’t even bother. Oh, and they will attack if you hang around anywhere too long. Shit, I can’t even count the number of times we walked or drove past somethin’ no one noticed only to find out later it was a bomb and just didn’t go off for whatever reason. Ninety-nine percent of the time all you’re doing by calling for the Pioneers is announcing to everyone else in your unit ‘I want this bullshit mission to last another 3 hours’. It’s just a numbers game. Sure, follow the procedures or whatever, at least as much as the situation permits. But, why worry?”
Kick was puzzled. “Rifleman, I don’t think I understand what you mean at all. Why wouldn’t I worry about it? That shit could kill or fuckin’ maim me like Sarn’t Santiago said.”
Svertson took a moment, rubbing a temple while trying to put experience to words. “Best way I can explain it, I uh- read in a book once. The Rift Redoubt, it’s about the naval campaign in The Belt War. During a no-shit starship battle there’s basically nothing any of the crewmembers can individually do to increase their chances of survival. If there’s a 50 megaton torpedo or a 20 kg railgun slug headed your way at a percentage of the speed of light it ain’t exactly in your hands. Not everyone’s directly involved with the weapons and shit too. There’s people in the galley making food because these battles last hours, sometimes days and in Engineering making sure your reactor doesn’t overheat and a bunch of other shit. Whether those cats manned their stations or curled up in the corner and cried, it wouldn’t make a fuckin’ difference. Could be paste, in the vacuum of space in the next second, or kept on livin’. All just down to luck. You know what they all did?”
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
Kick shook his head.
“They just kept working,” Svertson answered. “It’s like that.”
The summoned leaders formed a rough horseshoe around 1st Sergeant Stout, who didn’t even bother waiting for the stragglers.
“Ladies and gents, new word, and this is mostly relevant for the Officers but, It just got passed down that The Regent will be the guest of honor at the Officers Mess, The Sergeant Major of Army State-Security Command will be ours. Not sure if anyone is coming with them to visit the Line Mess, but I’d be on your toes. Spotlights on us, which means everyone is on their best fuckin’ behavior. I’m a fair guy am I not?”
There was a grumbled but affirmative ‘Ahee-a’ from his audience.
“But let me be very clear, I can do nothing to protect you or your Riflemen if they fuck this up. The Regimental Sergeant Major made it very clear to me and all of the other 1st Sergeants and Sergeants Major in the Regiment, any incidence of misbehavior, regardless of how minor from now until the Regent is off installation is going to be immediately recommended for a Summary Standing Order 31 hearing. It’s like you’ve heard me say before, The Army only asks you to do one thing on your own time.”
“Don’t be a criminal,” they responded in chorus.
“Glad we’re understood. Keep yours and your Riflemen’s fuckin’ noses clean.”
They gave another ‘Ahee-a’ in acknowledgement, less grumbling and more focused.
“That’s all I have. Skipper did have one other thing.” Stout finished and motioned toward Capt. Eckartt who moved forward to take the floor.
“Hate to say it but, I’m leaving.” Eckartt announced bluntly. There was a vague expression of shock emanating amongst the crowd. “Sorry but, I’ve never been much for sentimentality so I’ll just say this. This is a good unit, good Riflemen, good NCO’s, and good Officers, but everyone’s time comes and mine’s nearly up. Tasker came down a few weeks ago. I’m headed back to Yukatan to support MISAF’s advisor mission. I’ll be around for a few more weeks, and most certainly be around at Mess but, I saw my chance and took it. Not sure who’s taking over just yet, but y’all will know when I know.” Eckartt paused for a moment taking in the expression of concern from his troops. “Make no mistake, I’ll be making damned sure this Company, The Best Company in the Regiment, if not the whole damned Army, is in good hands before I leave. ”
A pitched screeching “Ahee-a!” erupted from the audience in approval. Eckartt smiled, he still had it in him when the need arose.
“Stack the weapons, post a guard and send the Riflemen to chow, check?” 1st Sergeant Stout instructed, his subordinate Platoon Sergeant’s acknowledged with a quick ‘check rodge’ while Capt. Eckartt pulled the Officers to the side for a more lengthy discussion.
Weapons squad laid their tools out carefully, The MAAWS wouldn’t stack easily and the two MMG’s were better off on their tripods than leaning anywhere. They were just staging their kit neatly next to the rifle stack when Cpl. Seevan happened over. He was in some kind of mood today, as he was more often than not as of late. He didn’t even really acknowledge Rand or any of the other Seniors, instead making a beeline straight towards their trio of boots. They were of course, doing as boots do, gathering together for safety, maintaining at a minimum battle-buddy teams as they had been instructed. After-all, in perverse Army logic two is one and one is none.
“Where’s your water-source, boot.” Seevan barked.
“I was just getting it Corporal.” Sheilbek replied while submissively averting his eyes.
“Fuckin’ better be. You know the fuckin’ rules slug. Can’t have you drying out in the summer sun.” Seevan snapped again while Sheilbek begrudgingly slung on his hydration bladder onto his back, something he obviously had wanted to avoid as it attracted attention.
Rand eyed the interaction with growing concern as Kick and Donphrit both made the same mistake. They turned to leave without being given permission.
“Who said you two could go anywhere!?” Seevan barked again. They both froze for an instant then pivoted around to face Corporal Seevan and assumed the position. Rand stifled a sigh of exasperation and looked towards Svertson, silently urging him to do something. Svertson just shook his head. These things had to run their course; while they had some sway Seevan was still a Corporal and his word was as good as law.
“None of you get chow for free. Boots earn their fucking keep around here, check?”
“Check, rodge, Corporal.”
“So who wants to go first?” Seevan didn’t even bother waiting for a volunteer before he approached uncomfortably close to Shielbek, seeming to lord over him despite their apparent equality in height. He looked down, jabbing his finger repeatedly into Shielbek’s nametape.
“Private Shieldbek, what kind of ammo bitch are you, MAAWS or Machine Gun?” Seevan questioned while he locked eyes and continued rhythmically prodding his first victim in the chest.
“Machine Gun, Corporal.” Shielbek responded while flicking his eyes towards Balachenko in a plea for some kind of protection. Balachenko couldn’t help him now.
“Cool cool,” Seevan responded in a calm yet predatory tone. “What’s the Cyclic rate of fire of the K20 Medium Machine Gun.”
“650 rounds-a-minute, Corporal,” Shielbek responded.
Seevan snorted unimpressed. “Easy question. Sustained and Rapid Rate?”
“100 and 200 rounds a minute, Corporal.”
Seevan had already keyed in on the glance Shielbek had thrown early and looked towards Balachenko feigning an impressed look.
“Alright, Alright.” Seevan continued rhythmically stabbing Shielbek in the chest with his finger. “Two types of fire with respect to the ground.”
“Grazing and Plunging, Corporal.”
“With respect to the gun?”
“Fixed, Searching, Traversing, Searching and Traversing, and Free-Gun, Corporal.”
“And with respect to the target.”
“Frontal, Flanking, Oblique, and Enfilading, Corporal.”
“Alright and Enfilading fire is when…”
“The long axis of the target coincides with the long-axis of the beaten zone, Corporal.” Sheilbek responded and seemingly satisfied Seevan took a step back, ceasing his prodding.
“I guess Riflemen Balachenko over there isn’t filling your head with shit after-all. Go.” Seevan bid him away with a dismissive wave and Sheilbek bolted towards his barracks room. Seevan stepped in front of his next victim, letting out one hateful chuckle as he read his name tape.
“Private Kick!” Seevan announced with caustic excitement. “Who do you belong to?”
“Rifleman Rand, Corporal.”
“Oh Rand! Rand and I are good buddies aren’t we Rand?” Seevan announced with evil glee while looking over.
“Something like that, Corporal.” Rand responded, unsure if he was going to be a victim or an accessory to whatever Seevan had planned.
The warmth instantly disappeared from Seevan’s face as his head snapped back. “Maximum effective range of the N21 84mm High-Explosive Dual-Purpose round.”
Rand cringed, it was a trick question.
Kick sussed it out, the fact that he did seemed to reflate him slightly. “Point or area target, Corporal?”
“Both.” Seevan replied.
“900 point target, 1350 area target.”
Seevan just smiled. In the moment after the words had exited his mouth, Kick knew his folly. Failure to abide by customs and courtesies, grounds for an immediate bout of physical corrective training.
“The Eight-Count Body-Builder!” Seevan shouted.
“The Eight-Count Body-Builder.” Kick echoed with defeat while he began vigorously executing.
“You’re gonna be a smart Rifleman or a strong Rifleman and I sure as fuck don’t care which, but you will give me the respect I’ve earned, check ?”
“Check, Corporal!” Kick replied with labor while he dropped down and executed the push-up portion.
Just as he reached the bottom of the movement, perhaps only a quarter-second later Seevan kicked a tuft of grass clippings into his face, his own special maneuver. “That’s ‘Check, rodge, Corporal!’ I don’t just care if you heard me, I wanna know if you will comply!” Seevan barked, now working himself up into a fervor while Kick continued exercising and Donphrit stood frozen, awaiting his turn at judgment.
“Oh slowing down, are we Kick? Must be mighty fucking tired huh? From doing all of 25 reps? You think you can go to fucking combat when you’re sucking atmo after only 25 Body-builders? You fucking soft thing! You know what? I hope you go. I hope you go and you do us all a favor and die. I hope you die; I hope you fucking die in combat and go back to your sibkin in a fucking zinc box!” Seevan was really leaning into his sadistic side now squatting down next to Kick and continuing to layer on the hate. Svertson just turned away from the scene and shook his head. Rand just continued watching, hoping someone would stop this before it got any worse.
Seevan flicked his eyes to Donphrit, who was, as could be considered natural, not maintaining the appropriate position of parade rest with his head and eyes to the front. Donphrit was of course watching the fate of his comrade. Seevan bolted upright, shoving Donphrit by the shoulder. “Must be very interesting ey’ Donphrit?”
“No, Corporal.”
“No what? It’s not? Because you’re sure were watching like it was. Mars, if you’re so interested, why don’t you join him?”
Donphrit started a protesting reply but Seevan just cut him off “The Eight-Count Body Builder!” Donphrit echoed the command in a grumbling frustration which Cpl. Seevan didn’t like at all.
“Exercise you tube-slime!” Seevan commanded and then snapped his head back to Kick who was still executing but growing more labored with each repetition. “And get in fucking sync!”
Rand hated watching this. Partly because he didn’t like seeing people suffer unjustly, and partly because it was bringing back memories of when Sergeant Weiss and then Rifleman Seevan had done this exact same thing to him.
Seevan had obviously keyed in to how exhausted Kick was becoming and had a quick remedy. “Aw, we're so tired, huh?” He cooed, “then bicycle crunch!”
Rotating through exercises was a time-proven tactic, a smoke session wasn’t over until the smokee was nearly physically unable to move. With the way Seevan continued to plaster on insults it was just as likely he wanted one of them to show some spine and try to fight him. He’d win of course, but it was the principle of the exchange that mattered. Kick and Donphrit continued laboring while Rand watched uncomfortably for several minutes and Cpl. Seevan continued to cycle through exercises.
As their exhaustion finally peaked Seevan flipped them back into push-ups and counted cadence off himself.
“Up!”
“Pain!” Kick and Donphrit both groaned while they inched skyward.
“Down!”
“Discipline!” They inched downwards in sync, arms trembling with effort. Seevan halted them in the down position by refusing to give the next count. Kick was literally quaking with exertion while Seevan squatted down next to him, taking some kind of sadistic pleasure at the display. Rand was still unsure if it was an act or not; if it was, Seevan was the best actor in the Company.
“Have we learned anything, Private Kick?”
“Yes, Corporal.” Kick grunted.
“And what did we learn?”
“To maintain customs and courtesies at all t-times.” Kick stuttered in reply while desperately attempting to keep his chest off the deck.
Seevan pivoted a half-turn right. “What about you Donphrit- Say, you didn’t earn your keep yet did you?”
Donphrit side eyed him without response, clearly concerned the effort of speaking would break the flex that was holding him up right.
“Oh, so we haven’t learned anything clearly. The Army lives, fights, and dies as a team!”
Kick’s shaking only increased while Seevan continued his diatribe. As if prompted, Seevan commanded “Up!” then continued ranting. “Kick, if your Battle here doesn’t know to respond when addressed by an NCO, which he clearly doesn’t, that seems to reflect mighty poorly on you! Seems to me like both of you need some more training.”
“Recover!” came as a commanding bolt of relief for both of the boots who collapsed in exhaustion. Seevan turned, somehow looking more miffed that his playtime had ended prematurely than he had been during the execution.
Rand nearly didn’t recognize him at first; Sgt. Dygalo’s time at Raider School had stripped nearly every ounce of fat off his already lean frame and some of the muscle with it. He was stern before, but the new gaunt character of his face made him look deathly serious at all times.
“I said ‘recover’ that means get the fuck up you two.” Dygalo didn’t shout, there was hardly ever a need for him to scream commands. If the boots were scared of Svertson they were terrified of Sgt. Dygalo.
Kick and Donphrit acknowledged with a sharp “Check, rodge, Sergeant!” and scrambled to their feet.
“Go to chow, be back at 1300. Fly.” Dygalo dismissed them with a quick wave and they both complied, trotting away as fast as they could manage. Dygalo turned to Seevan who rose to face him. “What the fuck was that about?”
“Failure to render custom to a Non-Commissioned Officer,” Seevan replied tersely.
Dygalo smelled it instantly. “Bullshit. You just saw two of my bodies standing there lookin’ vulnerable. They’re mine Seevan, you know that! They do something, you talk to me and I’ll drag ‘em through the fucking sand. Smoke your own fuckin’ squad.”
Rand felt like he was seeing something he wasn’t supposed to see and intentionally turned away from the sight, but remained in the general vicinity of their equipment. He was still on gear guard and wasn’t about to abandon his post.
Dygalo seized the drinking tube of Seevan’s hydration bladder and waved it under his nose. Dygalo’s face contracted as grain alcohol stung his sinuses.
“This?” Dygalo held the tube up in front of Seevan’s face and then tossed it away, sending it limply whipping around his back. Seevan’s eyes flicked away but his scowled remained unchanged while Dygalo continued.“This shit has got to fucking stop. There is way too much riding on you to be acting this fucking stupid. This is the last time. You heard 1st Sergeant. There ain't a rug to brush it under anymore, check?”
“Check” Seevan replied with the same curtness.
Dygalo paused for another moment changing his tone from vicious condemnation to counsel “Look at me.”
Seevan compiled again silently.
“That shit ain’t gonna solve your problems anyways. Trust me.”
Seevan nodded prefunctorially and then stomped off towards his own squad's gear.
Priveda approached Rand from her barracks, curiously watching Cpl. Seevan stomp off while she handed him a container with a sandwich in it.
Rand smiled and accepted it, taking a seat on the ground next to his post. “Thanks.”
“What was that all about?”
“What, the smoke-sesh or-” Rand queried while lifting the food to his mouth.
“You know I don’t care about that; they’re barely worth the air they sucked up exercising. What’d Sarn’t Dygalo get into my Squad Leader about?”
Just as Rand was about to relay what little he’d gleaned from listening in, Svertson interrupted.
“None for me?” He announced with a grin while clapping his hands down on Rand's shoulders. Priveda narrowed her eyes at him, but let him continue to pester Rand.
Their relatively separate friend groups were still getting used to mingling. Everyone knew each other inside the platoon, quite well at that, but it wasn’t the same level of closeness, or revulsion in some cases, that members of the same Squad or Section shared. Svertson was okay in her book, but Priveda absolutely loathed Balachenko. Rand didn’t imagine he would bridge that gap anytime soon, from either side of the span. He dismissed the thought while handing Svertson the other half of the sandwich Priveda had so painstakingly assembled over his shoulder.
“As far as your question.” Svertson shoveled in a third of the sandwich then mimed a drinking motion while swallowing. He glanced down at the sandwich for a moment, clearly impressed before continuing “‘Ole Seevo’s little use problem is catching up to him.”
“Use problem? He doesn’t seem to have any problem using it every day, all the time.” Priveda announced in the sort of sarcastically catty way Rand had become so accustomed to while retrieving her own food.
Lucy felt a buzz against her leg then glanced at her chrono.
Puppy 🐶:’Lunch?’
She frowned, quickly slid her comm out of her pocket and tapped a reply.
Lucy 💎: ‘Can’t sorry 🙁’
Lucy 💎: ‘Mess meeting. I'll see you tonight’
“Miss Petrova, may we proceed?” Corvo was staring at her from across the dining table expectantly, clearly annoyed that anything was getting in the way of the agenda for today’s bi-monthly Mess Planning meeting.
Lucy stowed her comm again quickly, “Yes, Mr. Vice, my apologies.” She couched both her tone and language in formality to appease him. If there was one place she truly hated on this installation it was here: The 1st Rifles Regimental Officers Mess. A fanciful dining facility and ornately decorated heritage room where the Regiment stored all of its looted memorabilia and hosted the monthly occasion. For now, there were only a half-dozen people not including her participating in this formality. Just those specific key billets, like Lucy’s as 2nd Battalion’s Corps Standards and Heritage Officer, which were involved in the planning and conducting of the event were required to be in attendance. There were a few dozen other Officers taking their lunch here scattered across the room, but the formality was centered on this table and Lieutenant-Colonel Corvo, the Mess’s Vice-President.
This place reminded her of both the Regent’s court and The Academy and for that reason she had initially disliked it. There were scores of rules regarding proper behavior, seating arrangements, which order the silverware was to be used and what could be used for which dishes. As a young Ensign she had found other reasons. In addition to being a dining facility for the officers it was meant to be a social space for any Officer, at any time, to come relax and unwind. This was of course, bait.
As an Ensign or Junior Lieutenant, it was more often a place to be harassed by Seniors or accosted by one’s peers for any number of reasons. While formally the only ranks that counted once one had entered the Mess were President and Vice-President a Junior Officer could expect to find no sanctuary here.
After a few instances of her trying to mind her own business and eat here during lunch and then being rudely interrupted, she had avoided it. More than once she’d been confronted and quizzed by some Staff-Captain in another Battalion about the content of DP 3-0: ‘Operations’. 1st Battalion’s Executive Officer, who clearly had nothing better to do with his own lunch hour than harass her, had made her stand at attention and recite from memory the Rifleman’s Creed in the middle of her main course. Even the one time she’d chanced by as a Platoon Commander for a drink after-hours all it led to was ‘Mr. Blackwell’ and ‘Mr. Sullivan’ taking turns persistently hitting on her, then both of them becoming confrontational after being rejected. The ultimate result being both her knuckles and wallet hurting from the ensuing scuffle and fine.
“Scribe, the outstandings, if you please.” Corvo nodded towards the newly promoted Lt. Yarbrough expectantly. She dutifully retrieved two leather bound paper logbooks, one marked “FINES” and the other “WAGERS”.
Yarbrough flipped one of the logs to the appropriate page and began reading. “Outstanding fines: Mr. Eckartt, absence from the Mess during a Commander’s meeting, one half Libra. Mr. Kulivaki, drunkenness, 1 Ginney. Ms. Stewart, impropriety at the dinner table, one Shil and fourteen Pen. Mrs. Knite, improper use of silverware, five Penn. And, Mr. Mulluex, boasting at the table, seven Shil.” Yarbrough glanced upwards. “Mr. Vice, that covers outstanding fines.”
“Hmm, I feel no need to discuss wagers, unless any of you disagree.” Corvo glanced around only to be met with silence before he continued.
“Mr. Nix, have you finished the seating chart and guest list?”
Lt. Nix looked as Lucy thought he nearly always did in situations like this, slightly nervous and moist. “Yes, si- Mr. Vice. I sent them to you earlier today for review.”
Corvo made an incredulous noise and then checked his inknote while a pair of stewards arrived and began serving the first course.
If this place had any saving grace, it was the food. Even then she would’ve expected it to be at least half decent the way she was paying through the nose in mandatory fees. It seemed at times half of being an Officer was earning your keep through hard work and the other half was paying it back for the privilege. A Messman set a portion of fairly artfully plated provencal vegetable gratin in front of her as Corvo finished his inspection.
“It seems you have, Mr. Nix. It looks acceptable. I’ll have this signed by the President and published by the end of the day.”
“Mr. Vice, if I may.” Corvo glanced down the length of the table towards Dalia who had just received her own food.
“You may, Ms. Tiamen, but please, keep short. The agenda today is quite long.”
Dalia didn’t seem pleased by the preemptive censure but continued. “Mr. Vice, I’d like to submit an addendum to the guest list before it’s finalized. I know it’s late, but my fiance would like to attend now that he no-longer has duty on the night of the mess.”
Corvo raised an eyebrow. “And who was he again?”
“Grenadier-Lieute-” Dalia started.
Corvo’s face soured as soon as the first word exited her mouth, rudely cutting her off with a chopping hand motion. “Denied.”
Dalia tightened her expression in frustration at the offhand dismissal for a split second before she regained her bearing. “Mr. Vice, it seems to me wholly inappropriate for you to reject my request solely on the basis that my guest is not a member of this Regiment.”
“And, might I remind you Ms. Tiamen, it would be wholly inappropriate for you to question my decision. Let alone for me to allow a Grenadier to disgrace this room during the Regent’s visit. The Guest list is already quite bloated, what with all the former members of the mess and dignitaries in attendance. I don’t believe it necessary or prudent to extend it any more.” Corvo replied curtly while moving his fork and a portion of tomato and zucchini toward his mouth.
Dalia pressed the issue. “As I recall, Mr. Vice, the guest list is ultimately at the President’s discretion.”
Corvo frowned, only Lt. Tiamen could be counted on to shroud her displeasure in procedure. It was a very Sirenese way of doing things, very Imperial. “Ms. Tiamen, if you continue to disrupt the order of this meeting I’ll be forced to fine you.”
Dalia ignored the threat. “Mr. Vice, I’m well within my privilege to request that The President of the mess approve my amendment to the guest list.”
Rubbing at his eyes with one hand Corvo motioned at Yarbrough with the other. “Scribe, fine Ms. Tiamen two Shil for stalling the agenda.”
Yarbrough began scribbling into the fine book and without missing an instant Dalia tossed two one Shil coins onto the table.
Looking down at the coins and then back up at Dalia, who appeared ready to fight this battle to the last round and the last man, Corvo made a quick mental measure of whether it was worth the trouble of solving this issue now or later. The Rift-Guard could be very stubborn, it was in her nature. “Very well, I will submit the request to the President and advise him not to grant it. Scribe, fine Ms. Tiamen another 5 shil for impropriety.”
Dalia nearly smiled as she forked over another handful of coins to Yarbrough.
Corvo proceeded through the agenda at a steady pace and Lucy respectfully followed along as he ensured each of their assigned tasks had been completed satisfactorily. He questioned Dalia at length about the state and pace of the rehearsals for the Colours exchange with the Sergeants. Now that she had replaced Capt. Mulleux as the Regiment’s standard bearer, things seemed to be proceeding more smoothly. Lucy had nearly tuned Corvo out by the time it was her turn; she was lost in consideration of if it was worth tanking her macros for the rest of the day by eating the bernaise sauce drenching the Sea-Trout filet in front of her. She settled and scraped most of it off with her fork as he turned his attention toward her.
“Ms. Petrova,” Corvo paused for a half-second, his left eye twitching in a characteristic display of annoyance as he watched her nearly play with her food. “Ms. Petrova, do you have the print?”
Lucy swallowed quickly and nodded, setting down her utensils to retrieve the metal can from the backpack stored under her chair.
“As requested Mr. Vice, one 35mm print with Anglish subtitles.” She set the can on the table and slid it over towards him.
“Hmm.” Corvo only glanced at the can for a second to confirm the label was correct, ‘Bridge on the River Kwai - 1957 ECE’, then motioned for a Steward to shepard it away with a “Very well.”
Lucy seethed internally. ‘Hmm’? ‘Very well’? That’s all? Not a word of praise for achieving the next to impossible task of having a nearly ancient analogue film printed on a week’s notice? Ungrateful stravak son-of-a-’
“I believe that will suffice Ms. Petrova. However, following this meeting I need to speak to you privately.”
“Regarding?” She suspiciously queried.
Corvo hummed again, disapproving her lack of custom and obviously considering fining her for the infraction before letting it slide. “Regarding your attendance at ROALC.”
“Mr. Vice, I have a Battalion Training meeting to attend immediately following this.”
“I’m sure no one will mind your absence for a few minutes, Ms. Petrova. This is regarding your own career after all.”
Of course he would dangle that carrot over her head, neglecting to even consider that the Training meeting was her specific responsibility to lead until Maj. Deemo returned. Whatever, one of the Ensigns would have to cover for her and wrangle the Commanders. Wilczec would do, he was capable enough. “Very well then Mr. Vice.”
She doubted he even noticed the hoity tone of her sly shot but, Dalia and Yarbrough both smirked subtly out of the corner of her eye.
The rest of the meeting proceeded quickly enough, with only slight pauses while Corvo interrogated the rest of the Officers on their progress. He mulled over the status of the menu and culinary preparations and nitpicked previous band rehearsals. He even inspected the by-name roster of cleaning details for the Regiment’s footprint. This left Corvo largely satisfied, but not satisfied enough for him to end the meeting without a lengthy diatribe about how important it was that they have a ‘good showing for The Regent’, and how crispy he would fry any Officer who fucked it up.
The Enlisted had taken to calling her Princess; Nigel Corvo thought this was very apt. Not in the way they meant it, they were invoking it as a kind of nobility, as if she was heir and the rebirth of all things that name entailed. A great reclaimer, bred and fated to carry the legacy of The Great into the next generation.
He thought it was more fitting because it was how she came off to him: spoiled. He wondered if she was even fully cognisant of how much that name alone had privileged her.
As the Regimental Executive Officer it was his duty to maintain the police of the Officer Corps, to enforce standards and discipline in much the same way Sergeant Major looked after the Enlisted. On occasion, that meant knocking down a particularly proud individual down a few pegs of self-importance. To say he took no pleasure in the practice would’ve been a bold-faced lie.
She followed him into his office two flights of stairs above the Mess on the Command deck where he, the Regimental Sergeant Major and the Colonel had their spaces. In the moment before the blinds automatically opened and the lights blinked on he saw the resemblance through the darkness.
He had met the man himself many years ago as a young Lieutenant and the impression The Great had left on him had not faded in that time. The way he walked and carried himself, that rock solid foundation of self-efficacy and confidence evident in every look and hand motion. His greatness was rooted in some kind of unshakeable knowledge that he could will himself to do anything, overcome any challenge. Even in the later and darker moments of his life he had never lost it. That same posture, that same gait was still there, cast in shadow and light in front of him. It unnerved him.
Light streamed through as the blinds slowly opened and the specter disappeared but the resemblance remained, albeit in cheaper form. She looked like him, not quite in the way a child most often resembles a parent, but as an idealized projection of that relationship. It seemed more that she had been born of what Narcissus might’ve seen in the pool rather than true inheritance. It was not an uncommon affliction among people of her social background; what parent would not give their child what they considered the best of themselves when given the option? Its result showed in every square centimeter of her body.
Her complexion was more even, a smooth golden-brown sheen where the man himself had been marked by roughness and few tiny blotches of vitiligo brought on by a mixture of poor luck in the Petrograd gene-lottery and stress. The unifying feature between father and daughter were the tiny black beauty marks scattered over her face, though hers were so small and uniform in shape as to look more like a conscious artistic choice than any product of chance.
She looked rather nonplussed to be here, to have her routine so rudely interrupted by a superior. None of the displeasure was flattering to her features. Some gene-sculpter was crying in his lab. She had been born to smile, blessed with the angular and perfectly proportioned features to frame it just so, though that expression rarely crossed her face in his experience. He inspected her for something else to nitpick. Unfortunately, the rest of her appearance was immaculate. Her uniform was clean, straight, and well fitting with all of its devices not one millimeter out of place. Her sandy hair, now lacking the sunbleach from extensive time spent out-dome, was tied away in a professional braid yet artful braid. That resting look of disapproving superiority on her face however did bring his mind back to that man.
“Sir, what exactly did you need to speak to me about?”
Business, always business.
“Take a seat Lyssa.” He motioned towards a chair.
“Actually sir, I’d prefer to stand.” Lyssa Petrova merely slid the seat clearly positioned for her aside slightly
Not intending to be here for long are we? We’ll see, brat. “Lyssa, the Colonel and I have spoken extensively about the current command que and your place in it.” Her eyes narrowed as he continued, dark hazel tracking him carefully as he paced behind his desk. “With the waitlist being so long for ROALC as it is, the Colonel and I have made the decision to prioritize Officers who are already projected for command.”
The slight downward twitch of her lips signaled that she just wanted him to out with it, to know her fate. In his experience an upstart, especially one as cantankerous as her, would need a particularly explicit crushing.
“Given the relative seniority and aptitude of all of the pre-command Captains in the Regiment, we have notified Rifle Training Battalion that your reservation has been rescinded and Captain Stewart will be going in your place.”
Her court mask held for a moment longer. Lyssa took a step back, walked over to his open office door and then closed it carefully. She turned back to face him and then instantly exploded in a fury.
“You’re sending Stewart? Stewart! Over me!”
He had to suppress his own satisfaction at the reaction, though he had become much more skilled than she was at concealing his emotions in age. “Yes, you do know Madaline has been a Captain for far longer for you and has served the Regiment well in collateral billets while patiently waiting her turn for Command. In the interests of fairness and the needs of the Army to appropriately develop its Officers. I’ve suggested that she should replace Captain Eckartt after his detachment to MISAM-Y.”
“You know damn well there’s a reason she’s been rotting as the Logistics Officer for over a year now! I thought this was a talent based organization, not a place where the deficient are sheparded and handheld along in the name of fairness.” She spit the final word as a curse.
He raised his voice slightly “Are you questioning my lawful authority Captain Petrova?”
“Regardless of disparity in grades, relations among all ranks, from Corporal to General, should be based on honesty and frankness. Until the Senior has made a stated decision the Junior should consider it their duty to provide the Senior with valid criticism. Seniors must encourage candor and not hide behind their rank insignia. Ready compliance for the purpose of personal advancement, the behavior of ‘yes-men’, will not be tolerated.”
Lyssa quoted flatly and directly from CADP-1. Her own fathers words and a foundational document for every Martian Army.
“And when the Senior has reached a stated decision, it is the Junior’s duty to execute as if it were their own.” He completed the quotation. It seemed to shut her up. She stood there silently fuming with anger. Her eyes tracked his every movement with the kind of intensity that could occasionally light small scraps of paper on fire as he continued pacing. “The Army does not need Ensigns; it barely needs Lieutenants. As you may have noticed, your Platoon Sergeant was more than capable of doing both your job and his. These ranks and billets are in effect, an apprenticeship. What the Army needs are Captains. Capable, independent, and creative Officers who can both lead and perhaps more importantly develop and mentor Junior Officers under their charge. Your apprenticeship was cut short, and consequently you need more time to gain experience.”
“Is that what this is,” Lyssa scoffed scornfully. “Development?”
Her comment was rather annoying. He restrained himself again; playing into her provocation would undermine his authority. She seemed to have a talent for not only frustrating herself but also antagonizing others. Though, strictly speaking she wasn’t wrong.
“I don’t know what The Regent sees in you and it’s not for me to question his wisdom; however it is my charge to develop you appropriately so that you may eventually fill that role. In my opinion you have the capability to lead. You certainly have the potential, but not the maturity or inclination to mentor. That, unfortunately, is something which can only be gained with time. I believe it would be appropriate to revisit this issue in six months to a year.”
He relished this moment. Only once in a two-moon alignment did he have an opportunity to correct someone so persistently obstinate. Perhaps she might reform herself and shelve the child-like routine of a temper tantrum that she was currently executing. In his experience molding Officers they did more often than not. And if not, he had as he always did commission resignation forms prepared in advance. Now all that was left was the final symbolic capitulation.
“If you’ve nothing else to say, stand before me at attention, Captain.” He motioned to the slightly worn down section of carpet in front of his desk. She complied, still projecting every ounce of her displeasure.
He assumed his position in front of her.
“Dismissed.”
She acknowledged with a “Check rodge, sir.” Hitting a sharp about-face she marched out of the room, closing the door behind her.
She needed time, just as they all did; just he did. To cook, to stew, to do thankless work, to grind away late into the night, rotting so uncomfortably in Staff as every Officer must at one point. Any Officer who was not crying and begging for the opportunity to Command was not fit to be one in his assessment, but only some can lead and others must advise. Staff-time broadened their experience and humbled them. How unfortunate that she had been promoted so soon, an adequately performing Lieutenant shackled with too much responsibility and expectations in too little time he thought.