5 - 2
GHOSTS
“When confronted with a blank paper what is your first instinct? To rip it up? To write poetry? To draw? To fill it with differential equations? To fold it into an aeroplane? There exists a void; do with it what you will. That is our birthright as peoples of the Red Planet. Ours is a culture unique in that it is not shackled by a past. Not chained to the legacy of a thousand unwritten and unremembered souls. We create something from nothing.” - Saul Tarwitz-Rubenka, The Soul of the Outer Worlds Ch. 11, 8 MIC
Lt. Petrova took a slight pause while changing her socks. She stared for a moment at the only artificial marks on her body. Just six words of faded and crooked cyrillic script. She’d made the marks herself with a charcoal pencil, a needle, and massive amounts of teen angst. Despite how bad it hurt, once she’d started jabbing away at her feet she couldn’t bring herself to stop. Always see things through to the end. Looking at it now it seemed more a prayer for salvation than the declaration of rebellion she’d justified to herself as. CARRY ME; FAR AWAY; FURTHER FASTER. Marked in three lines split between the top of her left and right feet, one of the only places where it wouldn’t be seen.
Looking at it now, it looked stupid; it was stupid. She could hardly comprehend the state of mind she had been in anymore. The anger, the pressure, the frustration, it all seemed so unfair. Yet, life had been so simple and regimented. Really she had no real responsibilities except to appear presentable and study, but at the time it seemed the worst kind of oppression. Now it was laughable; she had legal authority over 48 people and half a million Marks worth of equipment at full strength.
She put on fresh socks and running shoes and snatched up her kit and rifle, strapping it down and slinging the rifle tight. Train like you fight, pretty simple concept. It also had the added benefit of making it more difficult. She wanted it to be hard enough that she’d be forced to stop thinking for a while. A dose of real limit-testing physical exertion to empty her head.
There was also the issue of her stupid right leg. The Docs had pulled out the staples a few days earlier and claimed it was fully healed, but it still sort of ached at night. She had to stop herself the day before while deadlifting. Pulling what she’d considered a modest lift of 180kg Adjusted Earth Weight caused the same straining sensation in her hamstring as pulling SSgt. Karoff up at Pavlov’s. She dumped the weight barely 15cm off the ground. It was humiliating.
The Battalion Medical Officer, Capt. Cho had politely taken another look at it, but even after a close scan couldn’t find anything but tiny and well integrated amounts of scar tissue. “Considering the circumstances,” he claimed it healed remarkably well. The feeling was, “due to newly grown nerve endings or psychosomatic factors,” according to his notes.
It felt like her body was fighting her. She’d battled her own physicality many times before and hadn’t yet been bested. So despite this minor setback, she was determined to beat it into submission by setting out around Smoke House 3’s perimeter.
She tried to ease into the pace over the first 500 meters or so before opening up her gait into the long bounding strides enabled by Martian gravity. Early explorers had called both Mercury and Mars ‘perfect for speed’. Low enough that you could reach and sustain truly impressive speeds by Earth standards, but not so low as to feel truly unnatural or bouncy. To her it was just running; this is how it always felt. If anything felt unnatural, it was being subjected to a simulated Earth gravity in a centrifugal training environment in orbit. Everything was harder, just the extra force required to move blood to your brain was taxing for the infirm. You had to relearn every bit of a lifetime's worth of proprioception. Sam told her that you get used to it after a while of being there. The human body is an adaptable thing. Acclimatizing slowly during travel through exposure, a supplemental course of drugs, and epigenetic therapy had been scientifically proven to prevent the onset of G-exposure related illnesses.
By the 2nd kilometer she’d settled into an even but taxing pace, zipping by holes in the perimeter wall that 1st and 3rd Battalion had made during their breach. They were stuffed with stacks of mem-wire spools and guarded by movement and tamper sensors to prevent intrusion. She snatched a few glances out through the holes as she passed. The city still looked like shit, maybe it always would. That Neo-baroque architecture was off putting to begin with. Rubble had been shoved into semi-organized piles awaiting recycling. Say what you want about Martians, they certainly were an industrious people. It was very much a place still recovering, but order had been restored.
The ‘New’ FRR Army and Tharsis Republican Guard had been conducting aggressive presence patrols and enforcing a strict curfew. If there was any lesson the Martian States had extracted from the wars of foreign adventurism conducted on Earth in the later 20th and early 21st century, it was that when a state capitulated, it was best to keep it intact as much as possible. Programs of ‘De-Ba’athification’ and ideological purges had a tendency to destabilize. Generally speaking most people had enough common sense or at least self-preservation to read the writing on the wall and fall in line. Maintaining the structures of power was important. Mars was built on a decorum of international relations, though they were sometimes violent. War goals were limited; its effects constrained by Law.
A pair of Feds posted at the gate attempted to mean-mug her as she passed while an opposite pair of Noachians stood by indifferently. She didn’t really pay it much mind, her side won after all, and she’d be gone before long. Really, she gave about as much of a fuck about what they thought as she did about the Navy when Army-Central Academy’s Gravball team plastered them. It pays to be a winner. People died, the stakes were real, but no one’s way of life was under threat. It was a war to uphold the status quo rather than to upset it.
If anything, the Feds had started this war. They’d committed two deadly sins: one political, one ideological. Firstly, from a Realist perspective, if the Western-Hemisphere of the planet was a ‘five-polar world’, then always be part of the clique of three, never the clique of two. Tharsis, Amazonia, Cydonia, The FFR and Noachia were all roughly balanced. The smaller Nations scattered in between were of little consequence; they just wanted to trade and be left alone. Among the greater powers, Tharsis was clearly the heavyweight, but it was doubtful if even it could generate the political will let alone the combat power to act unilaterally. However, so long as it was in lock-step with Amazonia and her native Cydonia, they set the rules of the game. Whichever three powers were in concert always held a measurable advantage and sway over the other two. Acting without getting a third power on your side was just bad politics.
Secondly, from the position of the Pan-Martian ideal, when dealing with off-world powers: Never. Break. Ranks. When Cyrus Sirenium died and the Imperial System collapsed, that was the agreement. The successor nations had internal sovereignty, but must act with unified purpose when dealing with anyone outside of Mars gravity. That was the reason the Imperial Senate transformed into the Worlds Development Forum. Aside from the problems of Martian commons: air, water, and the ongoing climatic engineering of a massive scale, unity against foreign powers had to be maintained. It was the only way Mars could continue to guarantee its place and power in The Solar. It was the only way it could truly choose its own destiny and avoid being pulled back into Earth’s economic and political orbit.
The Federal High-Counsel went behind everyone’s back, even their own peoples, and cut a deal with the Earthers. They’d bargained away some holdings in the Belt for a quick injection of cash. The Earthers wanted to build a Naval Base on Hygeia; it would’ve extended their reach back out into the Jovian moons for the first time since the 2nd Independence War. That alone was unforgivable. Mars stands for the Outer Worlds. They share a common heritage, common indignities at the Earther’s hands. To just bargain that away for something as simple as money? Unforgivable.
That was the official line anyways; one so many people and news outlets had parroted. War is a continuation of politics by other means. It was less known how much its neighbors had been squeezing the FRR economically. That money was needed to keep the state apparatus afloat. They were caught between a rock and a hard place and chose to risk it all. Normally, people backed into a corner don’t make good decisions.
She glanced at her chrono again; 7k in. She wasn’t running fast enough. The whole point was to stop thinking. To go to that blank space in her mind where the only thing that mattered was the next step. She pushed herself harder. Focus on your stride, feel the push and the impact, ignore the mild chafing sensation of your kit bobbing slightly. It was obvious she probably should’ve adjusted it for wear without a CES before starting this run, but was already committed now.
She could feel that band of scar tissue in her hamstring, feel it straining and contracting. Pain is in your mind. She ignored it, pushing through another curve and yanking her sling off to cradle her rifle with one arm for better balance.
She missed this feeling, the sweat stinging her eyes, the cold evening air stabbing her lungs, her feet assaulting the ground with reckless abandon. Fighting her body with every step. The mind is the master; the flesh obeys.
She hadn’t run herself this hard since Raider School. For most people it was hell, and it was, but she enjoyed it. Not so much the long forced marches. Nor did she miss the endless series of sloppy student-planned patrols and platoon attacks, executed equally sloppily by the sleep deprived and starving. Nor did she miss the nights spent freezing inside a tiny survival tent, fearfully huddling around an oxygen candle for warmth. What she missed was the anonymity.
Students were forbidden from wearing rank, unit, or corps insignia. They even went so far as making them sew white strips over their name tapes with dental floss. She was just a roster number, one of a hundred and twenty others. The only thing that mattered was her performance. No one could say 0-4-7 got a passing grade on her patrol eval because of nepotism. No one could snarkily diminish her accomplishments with reference to her descent from the greatest military mind of a generation. When people looked at her, that was all they saw: 0-4-7, another soldier in this shit side-by-side with them.
When she fucked up, it was her fault, she was held accountable and punished. One humiliating recycle during land-navigation was all it took to put her ego back where it should’ve always been. Leave it to the Ensign to get lost. Succeed or fail on your own merit.
Dalia had always extended her that courtesy; they were in the same category after all. The training’s shared hardship brought them closer together, despite being at each other's throats at times. Almost more importantly it brought her closer to the other members of her squad, people who normally wouldn’t have even given her the time-of-day became close allies. It taught her important lessons about the foundations of leadership.
She passed the gate for a third time feeling raw, agonizingly fatigued but alive. Another glance at her chrono: 10k, only 10 more to go. The endorphins were flowing freely now. Before she just wanted to stop thinking, now everything had a new found clarity.
Sam. She supposed that was what she saw in him. When they first met he didn’t even know who she was. They talked and shared a few drinks and he was actually talking to her. Not some imaginary projection of what she was or represented in his own mind. Of course he was charming; charming in the stupid way.
Not really stupid, he was obviously pretty smart, but he didn’t have that posh Junker mentality she’d been surrounded with her whole life and was absolutely rife among the Officer Corps. He wasn’t refined, he didn’t know a fucking thing about Monet or French Expressionism. He didn’t have any ‘strong opinions’ about the latest fashions or socialite gossip. He wasn’t initiated in the cult of Academy ring-knockers. It was refreshing to be confronted with a real person. One who didn’t view a potential relationship as a rung on a ladder to promotion or even worse: a source of clout.
Maybe it was because he didn’t have anyone’s legacy or name to uphold, just space to write what he wanted. Beckett wasn’t a signifier of patrilineal descent. It was a randomly selected label for a small genetically similar subdivision of a larger batch. Sure he had guardians and sibkin, but not a parent or siblings. His family was his friends; his house, the Army.
It seemed so liberating a thought. So liberating in fact, that she thought maybe she was fetishizing the idea for a moment. Even if it was fantasy; fantasy shapes reality. That conception of a tabula rasa civilization was core to the ‘Martian Condition’.
The generations that had lived and died on Mars in those early days had no history, no past. There was no real lineal connection to anywhere on Earth. Sure humanity had come from there but, now that they were separate, now that the idea of a ‘nuclear family’ had evaporated in the face of practical solutions to unique problems. What do you fill that void with? What is family? To what and whom do I belong? How do I conceive of myself in relation to that group? Am I a citizen of a Nation? A member of a party of political mobilization; even just The Party? What even is a Nation; is it the ground where I was born? The stock from which I descend? The language I speak? There must’ve been a thousand different answers to those questions and different ones had been pre-eminent at different times. Even conceiving of the question of self like that was neck-deep in other presuppositions about the way the world worked.
She passed the gate again, Marshal’s aided by their multinational counter parts were searching and wanding the next shift of engineers sent to put the atmospherics plant back online. It seemed overly zealous. Why would they blow it up? What would attacking this camp even accomplish other than prolonging the pain of occupation for everyone? They were going to have to live here after the foreigners left; why wreck it even more?
In her mind it came into focus for a moment. Despite its attempts at starting from scratch, they were still inspired, influenced by the institutions which came before. Each new system brought forth new horrors and new triumphs. Each successor inherits the ambitions of its forebears. The specters of those that came before haunted Mars; the memory of past inequities strangling the minds of the living. Things changed, sometimes forwards, sometimes backwards.
After the first wave of failed Pan-Martian independence broke and receded, colonization was replaced with colonialism. Systems of social control backed by naked force kept the populace in check. Dissidents were a favorite target for forced conscription. It was more productive to enlist them in one of the many Colonial Regiments and Armies and exile them to Titan, Ganymede or even Venus than to keep them on Mars in chains. Feed them new acclaim and honor in service to the state, but ensure that they know their place. Even if your participation is unwilling, symbolically you are culpable.
Society stratified. The latecomers or those who’d risen to the top inside the great cities, were beneficiaries of advances in scalability of geo-engineering. They were able to establish their own settlements on the fringes of centralized control. They laid claim to the one resource which only became more valuable as the years wore on: land. The first Independence War broke down the systems of corporate control. People could own things, there was limited sovereignty but no one was really free. Gentry, junkers, bourgeois, the mercantilists, the professionals, whatever they desired to be called, differentiated themselves from the proletarian masses, rising to a middle strata within society.
Perhaps, the most important factor was that these successive generations arose without ever tasting the humiliation of defeat. They didn’t consider themselves to be slaves until they reached the end of their chains. People like Ibhram Kane, Bo Xian, Cyrus and her father grew up doing everything that was asked of them by the powers that be, but finding themselves unable to reach the precipice. They were denied fundamental autonomy by a distant and ever weakening Earther authority. Che was a medical student before a revolutionary, George Washington was a surveyor and a militiamen before becoming a President, Cromwell a gentry and parliamentarian before a dictator. Sergie Petrova and Ibhram Kane were Colonels in the Colonial Army denied the right to be Generals; Bo Xian was a Minister of Ecological Development, forever a middling bureaucrat at the beck and call of the administration; Cyrus a colonial representative without a vote. They did what the middle has always done when shackled by the top: convince the bottom to help them switch places. They and many others banded together and co-opted the system to throw off their chains. Their mistake was that even in total victory, the state was never fully disbanded, just subsumed. An attempt at a ‘United Republics of Mars’ proved it rotten to the core. It putrified into civil war once there was no longer a common enemy to unite it.
Cyrus did not win because he was ‘right’. Certainly his programme was attractive to many, but his main source of strength was the fierce personal loyalty he had cultivated among his peers turned subordinates during the 2nd Independence War. Recall that: “Human Will, instilled and maintained through Leadership, is the driving and central factor in War”.
It was only through that loyalty he was able to bend his enemies to his will. It was a cataclysmic conflict, greatly eclipsing those that came before. Total war, total mobilization, total destruction, total victory, and there was a victor. Even if he turned back the clock of development decades in the process, Mars was brought to heel.
He forced compliance to his programme of reconstruction and it succeeded in reclaiming lost time and restructuring society. The cost was complete intolerance towards political plurality. He ensured that all politics revolved around his cult of personality. Those were the ‘rules of the game’ as the man himself would have referred to it. If he had been a worse leader, it would never have been tolerated for so long. It never would have worked to begin with.
How reductive, how trifling to refer to it as a game. So many lives expressed as numbers to be tabulated, resources to be managed.
When he died (or perhaps more likely, was assassinated), the nations which had arisen under his program of ‘accelerated cultural and social development’, split into different states. However they still managed to coalesce into a block. Unity was the only thing that had protected them, given them influence and power. So they huddled around the flames of Empire, facing outward against the watchers in the dark.
Now that unity was cracking. If power abhors a vacuum, it equally abhors balance. After all, a mountain has only one summit. Surely he was to blame? Surely he made the world like this? It seemed far too reductive a conclusion, there were too many agents, too many factors at play which generated the current situation to cleanly extract a unifying narrative. Maybe that was always true; that it could never be boiled down to just one essential conflict. Maybe it was true of the world, but a single person…
She felt herself speed up again as her thoughts returned to well trodden ground; her mind circling the drain of that fundamental loathing.
She had spent her whole life in the hereditary shadow of a man she hardly knew. One who was so vain, so self-aggrandizing, that he could not stand the thought of leaving this world with history alone. He had to make his genetic mark, something to carry on his ‘legacy’, like he was some tribal chief. Despite the fact he had been a product of a pseudo-random algorithm himself, he had no faith in that system. He couldn’t even leave it to biological chance. He never really left anything to chance: “accept no unnecessary risk”.
And how did that work out, Dad? Sergei the Younger, killed on Titan. Laid low by the ignominy of a hand grenade bouncing into a trench which he valiantly threw himself on top of. Artyom? Mutilated, torn to shreds by a friendly ‘Smart’ Bomb during the Battle of Veracruz which misidentified his tank.
The other two, Yuri and Vladimir: disappeared. Likely because of their purportedly rebellious intentions against the now disbanded Throne. Neither of them could stomach service for their Father’s supposed murderers. By all indications, they were lined up and shot with a dozen other co-conspirators. No one could give her any confirmation; they pretended like it never even happened. It was like looking for the grave of Chingis Khan. Dumped into some hole in the ground, far away from the light of civilization.
Civilization. It was getting dark, and only a handful of the streetlights and windows over the wall illuminated. Her chrono buzzed excitedly, flashing a congratulatory “Workout Complete! Great Job!” She slowed her pace to a trot to catch her breath and cool down on the way back to the tent to grab a change of clothes. For a moment there she’d gotten what she was looking for. Some peace and escape from herself. One’s burdens are never far away. Her mind bounced back to that name, those characters looked so familiar.
“Rand, what’d you get us into?” Balachenko questioned while observing Lt. Petrova stalk back towards the tent dripping with sweat and a slight hitch in her gate.
“He didn’t get you into anything; you volunteered you fucking idiot.” Svertson chastised while lighting up a ZV.
“Yeah but, what was I supposed to do? Leave him here by himself, what would he do without his Senior Rifleman to guide him?” Balachenko replied.
“I mean, really, I’d’ve been fine with that,” Rand added, almost as if his inclusion was an afterthought to the conversation.
Balachenko ignored him and shook his head while retrieving a ZV from Svertson’s pack. “Geeze bullet-magnet, you really don’t seem to get it. What if the Princess decides to PT us like that? I fucking hate running.”
Rand hadn’t thought of that. He almost wished he hadn’t because he was now dreading the thought of doing a Kit and Rifle run around the FOS’s perimeter. Lt. Petrova had a penchant for taking the Platoon on long runs at a suicidal pace and having the NCO’s conduct ‘remedial PT’ with anyone who fell out of the formation along the way.
“You’re such a baby sometimes, Balachenko. What the fuck did you think you were gonna do in the Army. Sit on your ass? You literally get paid to be in shape,” Svertson countered.
“Hey fucker, I pass the PT test with flying colors. That doesn't mean I want to go on any death runs with her either,” Balachenko replied with a wave of his smoke. Svertson rolled his eyes and took a drag.
“Any idea as to what we’re doing here after everyone leaves?” Rand directed towards Svertson. He was the most senior, he might actually have some idea.
“Some bullshit ceremony and sealing up the container. Hennetto from BAS is doing it too, told me we’re just gonna do a lot of standing in formation and looking pretty.”
“How d’ you know Hennetto? She’s way out your league you ugly fuck.” Balachenko interrogated.
Svertson just grinned. “Eh, you’d think that. Turns out she just likes guys who don’t complain all the time.”
“You’re telling me you shacked up with her? When? You're such a bullshitter.”
Svertson kept smiling, exuding an air of consummate superiority. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”
“Rand, he’s full of shit right?” Balachenko glanced towards him while Svertson retrieved his comm from his pocket
“Luckily, I ain’t a gentleman” Svertson clarified while pulling Rand off to the side and opening a message log. Rand’s jaw dropped. Filth, utter filth, but also an oddly heart warming exchange of messages?
“Hey! Let me see! That ain’t fair!” Balachenko stood up and tried to catch a look.
“I told ya complaining won’t get you anywhere.” Svertson dumped the comm back into his pocket. “Now, am I a liar Rand?”
Still somewhat bewildered by what he’d just read, Rand shook his head in the negative.
“Take me as your sensei, and you too can learn my ways.” Svertson offered with a mismatched grin. If there was a way to get what he’d just seen come out of someone’s mouth. Then he had to know; for curiosity's sake at least.
Their attention was snatched by the faintest of buzzing noises. A familiar sound from over the wall.
“Fuck is that; UAS?” Balachenko questioned while searching with his eyes, fighting for information.
Svertson sat on a crate and took a pull indifferently, doing his best to ignore the sudden stimulus. “Probably ‘nother one of those leaflet drops.”
Rand felt pinpricks on his neck, not fear, but an intimately familiar sensation of arresting hyper awareness. He had to remind himself that he was safe; that this was not a prelude to a barrage of indirect-fire. He spotted the offending object buzzing around a few meters over and beyond the perimeter wall, flying along it completely blacked out in brazen violation of Martial directives.
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The three of them had been stirred, but did their best to ignore it. The drone suddenly made a hard turn and flew directly at them. The instant it passed over the perimeter wall and directly violated the FOS’s airspace it was fried. A burst of microwaves from an automated interdiction system sent it tumbling to the ground with a pitiful plastic cracking noise about thirty meters from them.
“Like moths to a flame.” Svertson mused.
“Sverts, you ever seen a moth?” Rand questioned.
“Sure, every night in Yukatan. There’s creepy crawlies all over the place. Shit like you ain’t never seen in your life. If it bites or stings, you can find it on the blue-wet-one.” He replied.
“Hmph.” was all Rand could muster in response. Bugs were an occasional totally harmless inconvenience at the greenspace or a Zoo curiosity.
The old-hand took another breath recalling an anecdote. “Yeah, my schwester made me a sweater, knitted I guess is more accurate and gave it to me before we left. I dunno why, I guess she didn’t realize it’s fuckin’ hot-as-balls in Yukatan. Anyways, was a nice gesture regardless. I hung it up above my rack. Fuckin’ moths and silverfish n’ shit I never seen before ate holes in it ‘fore I realized. Stupid fuckin’ bugs killed ‘em selves. Fabric was toxic to ‘em or something I guess. Didn’t stop ‘em tryinna eat it and dying on top of my skeeter netting.” Svertson paused indulging his sentimentality to light up another ZV.
A four man section of Republican Guards wearing the full battle-rattle with rifles in hand ran towards them and the fallen drone. Loose straps of poorly adjusted kit dangled freely, the sound of their ammunition rattling around in pouches and of cloth flapping was audible almost before they were in sight. One was still fidgeting with his sling, trying to untangle it from his kit as they approached.
“Hey! You three!” One of them called out. Rand glanced at the red band on the arm of his uniform, trying to count the stripes so he could get an idea of how much respect he should render as the figure approached. He was a Corporal or a Short-Sergeant or something.
“What?” Svertson questioned.
“You Soldiers see that drone come down?” The Non-Comissioned Amatuer questioned as his troops followed closely behind him.
“Yeah, what’s it to you?” Svertson replied again.
“Watch your tone, Soldier.” He chastised, evidently trying to show out for his three subordinates behind him. Svertson made a flippant motion with his ZV in response.
The Short-Sergeant made a frustrated grumble, but continued. “Did you see what it was doing before it went down?”
“Yeah, it flew over the wall and got fried; same as every other drone.” Balachenko replied.
“Did… did it look like it was armed?” One of the Guardsman behind piped up, almost excited at the notion of it being a threat to his life.
“Are you… how the fuck are we supposed to see that from here?” Svertson pointed out the stupidity of the question. Rand eyed the Short-Sergeant’s weapon, noting the red chamber-loaded indicator and disengaged manual safety. What did these people think they were responding to? It was just another leaflet drop.
“Sergeant, do you think we should call EOD? It might be armed.” one of the Guardsmen suggested.
The Short-Sergeant nodded, “Hmm, that’s a good idea.”
Svertson drug his hand over his face in disbelief. Just as the Guardsmen was about to key his comm, Svertson lifted his hand in protest. “Listen, man. What makes you think that thing is armed? When has there ever been a UAS attack? When has there been any partisan activity at all here?”
“That thing’s not even big enough for a Frag. Even if it was rigged for detonate-on-drop with some kinda payload it would’ve gone off when it crashed.” Balachenko added
“You don’t know it’s not though! You can’t be too careful; these people are-” The Short-Sergeant protested but stopped when Svertson rose with an eye roll
“If you’re so worried about it, why don’t I go check it out.” Svertson offered
“Are you fucking crazy Soldier? You’re not wearing any PPE, that thing could kill you. Not to mention that’s against the UXO handling guidelines.” He rebuffed.
Svertson tugged at the golden rifles and black square on his collar. “First of all it’s Rifleman. Second, you ever been shot at? Ever seen a real UXO before?”
Silence.
“I thought so. Now why don’t you Guardsmen sit tight,” Svertson spit the word like a curse.
Svertson shoved his ZV in his mouth and sauntered towards the tiny crashed drone. The Guardsmen formed a line behind him with the rifles at the low-ready. Like it was about to spring up and start shooting at any moment.
Svertson took a knee next to the downed drone and leaned down to inspect it carefully, craning his neck side to side theatrically.
“You see anything?” The Short-Sergeant questioned.
“Yeah… yeah there’s something for you.” Svertson tugged a small object off the drone, turned slowly and then suddenly sidearmed it at the Guardsmen.
All of them dove away, one of them tripped and fell flat on their back in terror. The small cylinder burst open when it bounced on the ground. Its lid shot off under spring pressure and spewed a cloud of tiny white paper scraps over the Guardsmen.
Balachenko and Svertson howled with laughter. Rand did his best to suppress his own.
“What the fuck! Who the fuck is your first-line Soldier!” The Short-Sergeant burst out in terror-turned-anger. The rest of the Guardsmen collected themselves slowly, panting as adrenaline dumped into their systems.
“What? You wanna go talk to them lookin’ like that with a hot weapon to boot?” Svertson motioned towards the tent, snatching one of the tiny leaflets off the ground and handing it to him. “Relax, tough guy. Like I said, it’s for you.”
The Sub-Sergeant’s upper lip quivered with suppressed rage as he read it and then tossed it back on the ground. The Guardsmen grouped up to head back in shame while their leader keyed his comm. “CP, Post 3. It was just a leaflet drop.”
Svertson sat back down resuming his giggling as the Republican Guards slinked out of earshot back to their post.
“Man, that was maybe a bit uncalled for. Leading ‘em on like that.” Rand mentioned
“Eh, they wanna be fuckin’ stupid, might as well play some stupid games.” Svertson dismissed while tossing his ZV butt into an empty ammo can. “Watch your tone, Soldier.” he parroted in a mocking tone.
“Fucking tampon.” Balachenko concurred.
“Why do they call ‘em that anyways?” Rand asked.
“They’re red and only get used once a month.” Svertson replied.
Rand picked up one of the fallen leaflets. “OCCUPIER GO HOME”. Pfft, already headed there buddy.
Her mind was still buzzing as she entered the Company TOC, barely registering the Test-Fire Siren and distant crack of rifles discharging into a berm as a final check before their owners went on patrol. Corporal Zavier from Cutlass 1-1 looked like she was barely managing to stay awake when Lt. Petrova entered the tent, but shot up from her chair to report her post the moment she recognized who was coming in.
“Good Evening, ma’am. Rifleman Corporal Zavier repor-” she blurt out while locked in a salute. Lt. Petrova waved off her report. “You can relax. Just the notes, anyone try to link?”
Zavier dropped some of the formality and glanced down trying to collect her thoughts by reviewing the digital log. “Uh, nothing really important, ma’am. Some Cannonier-Captain from Regiment linked but… I think he didn’t got who he was looking for. Dropped the link before I could get any information.”
“He was looking for me.” Lt. Petrova clarified.
Zavier cocked her head, “something for the ceremony, ma’am?”
Lt. Petrova shook her while moving further into the tent. “Nah, nothing official. Zavier you get a chance to talk to anyone at home yet?”
Zavier nodded. “Yeah course, ma’am. It was my batchday two days ago. Got a link-card off one of the locals and talked to all my sibkin. Nice hearing from everyone really,” Zavier smiled. “One of my bruders just got accepted into Tech-Uni, but they said they wanted to wait until I got back to celebrate. So we could all do it together.”
Lt. Petrova returned the smile. “Well, that’s good news. Glad you’ve got something to look forward to.”
“Why d’y ask though ma’am?” Zavier
“Well… if you can keep it just between us, I was planning on using the Duty Comm to make a personal connection, and it just seems doubly wrong to abuse my privilege and not at least extend you the opportunity first.” Lt. Petrova answered. It always seemed a bit easier to be candid with people she wasn’t directly in charge of.
Zavier dismissed the admission with another easy smile. “Eh, really ma’am, don’t even worry about it. You want some privacy?”
“You can go take a smoke-break if that’s what you're asking, Corporal.” Lt. Petrova responded while digging through her bag for some isotonic beverage powder.
“You are a lifesaver, ma’am.” Zavier fished around her shoulder pocket for a rumpled ZV pack and a lighter and waved over her shoulder while exiting to the smoke-pit.
Lt. Petrova immediately took over Zavier’s spot at the duty desk and scrolled through the inknote log looking for the Mil-to-Civ link instructions. Alpha-Alpha-Echo-Zero-Nine….What were his digits again? She paused while dumping powder into her water bottle.
Eight-Six-Seven-Five-Three-O-Nine. She punched in the extension and digits. There was a tick of apprehension while it attempted connection which she eased by vigorously mixing her beverage. It seemed less prevalent as time went on, but that hint of anxiety hadn’t gone away. She supposed it was telling. He couldn’t be that upset she’d missed their time by over an hour could he? What the hell would he be doing on a Wednesday at this time anyways? Wednesday.
The link finally went through and apprehension gave way to excitement. “Puppy, who’s winning!”
“Not even a ‘hello handsome’ first?” Sam teased from out of the trideo’s view. This wasn’t his apartment, he was somewhere else. The scene shifted somewhat jarringly as the ocular tilted down. A hospital bed and two more familiar faces.
“Hey Mark!” Lucy waved at the projection in the hospital bed. The figure sat up and leaned towards the ocular slightly.
“Well goddamn sunuva-bitch and fuck, if it isn’t the defender of Pavlov’s House actually deciding to make an appearance!” Mark greeted while rubbing at his stubbly hint of a hospital beard.
“I got caught up, but that’s not important right now. Who is winning!” Lucy demanded while logging into the duty workstation.
Dalia took a drink from a smuggled can of Kroner and then gestured at an out of shot screen. “Calypso’s already up one. Yeungblud’s ruining my fantasy team right now.”
Sam walked into the shot and took a seat next to the bed. She felt a tinge of jealousy. Beer and civilian attire; they couldn’t at least pretend they were waiting for her?
“Cheers by the way,” Sam announced while raising his can.
“Yeah, cheers to the bravest soul in the RBE.” Mark added raising his own can and clinking it against his partner’s.
“They letting you drink that soon after a reattach?” Lucy questioned while remorsefully sipping at her water.
“No.” Mark admitted flatly. “Not gonna stop me enjoying life though. Check it out; already full-range ankle.” Mark yanked back the sheet and exposed his foot and shin as well as the seam-like squiggly scar circling it and demonstrated.
“Doc says another week and he’s full duty.” Dalia added before her attention was suddenly snatched away. “No! No! What the fuck are you doing!” she shouted impotently at the screen.
“What’s happening!” Lucy frantically questioned while trying to bypass the net-security on the duty work-station to open a cracked stream.
“Tlbitsie just crossed up Heuring… He’s not getting up” Sam relayed. Lucy halfway shot up from her seat. “Ha! I fucking told you! I told you Tlbitsie’s not washed!” She announced triumphantly.
Sam and Mark both made incredulous looks. Mark waved a cautionary finger. “We’re only in first period, don’t go wavin’ your flag just yet.”
“You fucking gutless worm! It’s a cracked Ulna; just regen, glue and get the fuck back out there!” Dalia shouted at the projection again.
Mark tugged at the frilly end of her blouse. “Sweet-thing, you’re gonna wake the whole ward up.” Dalia sat back down, loudly drumming her fingers on an end table to excise some of the frustration.
“Pros are so babied. I played with a torn bicep and won the goddamn Anode cup; they’re taking him out of play for a crack?” Dalia miffed.
The stream finally opened on Lucy’s workstation. Deimos, having resoundingly defeated Phobos, had advanced up the losers side of the double-elimination playoff bracket and were presently battling Calypso to stay in the tournament. The gov net couldn’t handle the bandwidth of loading more than two dimensions so she begrudgingly suffused with a low-quality video.
Though she didn’t have any money riding on this, her own fantasy team was doing quite well. She was sort of partial to Deimos; who didn’t like an underdog? Heuring was escorted off the field by two officials while the rest of them assembled for the next action and Calpyso sent out a sub.
“Mark, I don’t think your team’s gonna be doing so hot without their star player.” She teased.
“Shut it Lucy, there’s still plenty of game to be played. Just ‘cause you called Deimos’s last match to a T doesn’t mean you’re gonna be right this time.” Mark leveled again while taking another quick drink.
“They better not win; I’ll never hear the end of it when she gets back…” Sam quetched. “They keeping you busy, beautiful?”
“Hardly. It’s pretty clear everyone’s just trying to get the fuck out of here as soon as possible. Might be ‘remain behind element’ but, no one is really tasking us with anything. Most of Cutlass is dipping out the day after tomorrow.” Lucy explained while keeping most of her attention focused on the game. “Been a lot of hurry up and wait until it’s our turn to go home.”
“If it makes you feel any better you’re not missing anything.” Dalia offered while taking another sip. “There was a big shitstorm because half of Attitude showed up drunk to first formation yesterday.”
“What? what’ve they even got you doing right now?”
Dalia rolled her eyes at the stupidity of the situation. “We’re trying to speed through that redeployment checklist because the Colonel wants to send everyone on Leave after the parade. It’s just nonsense maintenance shit and mandatory decompression time. Worst part is the head-shed acting like this behavior is unprecedented. Like, of course they’re gonna go wild. You know what the fuck they’ve been doing for the last four months?”
Sam smiled faintly and interjected “Hey it’s not all bad. If you’re coming back on Friday we might actually make the tickets I got for next week. Ridge City’s playing.”
Lucy picked at her nails again while directing her attention back to the game. Obviously now she had to be honest about the situation but breaking bad news is never fun.
“Puppy, you might want to try to refund those or take someone else.” Lucy started.
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Why is that?”
“I got extended. They needed someone for that reconciliation ceremony. I’m here another week at least,” she explained.
Sam frowned and shook his head, “What? I’ll talk to the Colonel about it tomorrow. There's no reaso-”.
“Sam,” Lucy interjected, “it’s not that important, just a few more days. We can always go do something later.” There really was no reason to put their relationship on the radar by having Sam use his Captain’s bars on her behalf. As much as she wanted to go see a game live, she abhorred the idea of special treatment.
“Why’d they put you up for that anyways there’s what, ten other Lieutenants still back there? They could’ve picked anyone.” Mark added.
Sam’s eyes narrowed while he thumbed his jaw, “Who drew your name; Eckartt?”
“Sam. It’s alright really. Colonel Mallock is the one who asked for me” She deflected.
Sam shook his head again. “No, it’s not fair. They keep shoving every collateral duty onto you because you won’t make a stink about it.”
Mark nodded in agreement. “Really, you gotta learn to put your foot down. Army ‘ll run you ragged if you don’t set boundaries. The other do-nothings in your Battalion need to figure out how to get on without you anyways. Think of it as… peer development? It ain’t like everything’s gonna fall apart without you on ground.” Mark gestured to his foot again. “Bam! Lost this sucker to a mine on the second day. Three-Five got along just fine minus one Grenadier Lieutenant.”
“Boys, I don’t think I can teach anyone conversational Cydonian in two days,” she pointed out.
“That’s why they’re saying they picked you? C’mon bit thin of a smoke screen, no? They coulda picked anyone, a foreign language is a basic requirement for commission. Doesn’t that Steiner jerk-off in your company speak Granat? Coulda pulled him.” Mark pushed further.
She rubbed her temple. It was always so simple to these two. Sure, solutions were nice, but they were acting like she and another half-dozen people hadn’t already thought through a number of different Courses-of-Action and then decided on what they determined to be the optimal one. Maybe they did have a point, at least half of one, but she also had her own reputation to worry about. Stop trying to fix everything. Some things just are.
“Eh, if it’s just a few days it's really not worth stirring the pot in my opinion. There’ll be more games” Dalia spoke up. “Might be easy for you two to go in there and pound on your boss’s desk, but really, we’re a bit more under the microscope. You know how that saying goes: build a thousand bridges but suck one…” Dalia trailed off.
“You were all, ‘that clown doesn’t write my fitreps’ about Corvo last week. Where’s the problem with asking? I can talk to the Colonel tomorrow; we’ll clear it up.” Sam offered again.
“It’s not that big of a deal. It’s just how it is; let it go, Sam. I’ll be back before long,” she dismissed again.
She wasn’t really in the mood to be lectured about something she didn’t really have any real control over. Certainly not while insinuating it was partially her fault. He really was only upset because it was spoiling his stupid plans anyways. She tried to focus on the game and ignore him for a second. Prick.
“C’mon, why’re you making that face.” Sam prodded her through the link.
Dalia shot daggers at Sam ,“You know why, you lunk.” she protested on her friend’s behalf. “It must be so easy, not having a billion eyes on you, waiting for you to slip up.” Sam and Mark were both bewildered by her sudden animation.
Cpl. Zavier poked her head in through the tent flap. “You need some more time, ma’am?”
Lt. Petrova glanced up toward the door knowing full well everything was in plain view. “Hmm? No, I think I was about done.”
“Oh, alright then… Oh, is that the Deimos-Calypso game?” Zavier asked inquisitively while approaching her desk, ignoring the chaos on the other end of the line.
“Yeah, it is. Wanna watch?” Lt. Petrova asked while making a show of slowly moving her hand towards the drop-link button.
Sam bolted up from his seat and rushed toward the ocular from her perspective. “Lucy, wait!”
She hovered her hand just above it for another beat, keeping her attention fixed on Cpl. Zavier whose eyes were dancing between Lt. Petrova and the open trideo front of her.
“You sure I’m not… interrupting anything ma’am? I can just leave.” She asked awkwardly. Lt. Petrova moved her hand over a few centimeters and mashed the Mute/Deafen key. “Is that your man? He’s pretty cute,” Cpl. Zavier observed.
“Pretty good at pissing me off too,” Lt. Petrova relayed while observing Dalia tell him off through the muted link.
“Ugh, boy problems?” Zavier dropped herself down into an open seat next to her while Lt. Petrova chewed on a fingernail. “C’mon, let it out girl.” she added encouragingly.
Lt. Petrova kicked her chair back into a recline away from the comm, surrendering to the situation. “He’s always trying to show out on my behalf, even when I ask him to stay out of it. It’s like he’s hearing but not listening to me.” Lt. Petrova released while Dalia continued to scold Sam on the other end. He picked up the Comm while Dalia continued and the projection cut out while the link shifted to voice-only.
Cpl. Zavier thought for a few moments, making an expressive show with contorting facial movements before proceeding. “They’re kinda oblivious, y’know, as a general rule.”
“You’re telling me… I’m in charge of like 30 of them that need constant mothering,” Lt. Petrova bemoaned.
Zavier nodded. “But, I guess, I don’t think they always realize what they’re doing as they’re doing it. You’re like, involved with this one right?”
Lt. Petrova sighed. “Something like that...”
“Forgive me when I say I was eavesdropping a bit earlier, sounds like he’s trying to help, at least in his own way. It’s worth at least discussing it some more, no? ” Zavier advised.
Lucy turned over the counsel in her mind for a few moments. Maybe he was owed his day in court.
“I mean, I dunno how much effort you intend to invest in this one but, I’d at least try spelling the situation out. Y’know establish some boundaries and ground rules.” Zavier added.
She paused again for another moment. Communication is the foundation of effective warfighting. She smashed the Mute/Deafen key again
“Oh thank- You’re still there, I was worried you dropped me. I’m sorry.” Sam blurted out through the handset. It was obvious he was holding his breath while measuring how to proceed. “I’m just so tired of seeing everyone run you ragged and then sit on their hands. It’s not fair.”
“I can take care of myself, I have duties and responsibilities, and I definitely don’t need a Captain trying to throw his rank around for my benefit. That was our deal; we weren’t going to let this affect our professional lives.”
Zavier nodded her head in agreement silently. She felt oddly supported having someone else listening in, but at the same time strangely exposed.
“I know that… I know that, beautiful. Maybe it is selfish of me, but is it wrong for me to want to spend time with you?” Sam relayed in a softer tones.
Her entire train of thought derailed and the current image of him in her mind crumbled while he continued. “It’s like I’m constantly fucking fighting for your time and attention with everyone else in this damned Regiment, people that abuse your work ethic. It’s always work, work, work. You say you don’t want it to affect our professional lives, but when are you going to let yourself have a personal one? I just- I don’t want to be your third or fourth order priority.”
That tone of voice; don’t play with my heart you fucking bastard. Her mind raced round possible responses while suppressed feelings boiled up. What was he even saying?
“I-is that how you really feel?” She stammered.
“What? Of course it's how I feel! I-” He stopped himself and she could feel every muscle in her jaw tense. Cpl. Zavier clasped her hands over her mouth to suppress a gasp, drinking it in like some daytime trideo-drama.
Why did it always happen like this? Try to keep people away, at a healthy distance even, and despite that one day you wake up realizing there’s this terrible vulnerability, terrible exposure to another human. It’s all fun and games, just play, until it’s not. Just damning openness and longing for that-.
“I care about you.” Sam finished. Tightness in her chest. A terrible monstrous tenderness. Her hand trembled and she balled it into a fist to regain control. I told you not to play with my heart! A horrible awareness of herself crept in. She kicked the edge of the desk forcefully; hating how powerless she felt before this all-consuming disease of human connection crawling around her chest. What was she even thinking? Was it so bad, so awful to really care? Now her fucking foot hurt.
Out of the corner of her eye it was obvious how intently Cpl. Zavier was watching her. Absolutely focused, awaiting new developments with baited breath. Only that sensation of being observed and judged brought her a moment of composure.
“I know Sam.” she had to take another pause to steady herself. Expressing herself in words never came naturally. It was just so much easier to leave things bottled up; to leave those things unsaid, implied, or hinted at.
“I care about you too…” Lucy finally worked up the courage to reply and then trailed off. She meant it. Just admitting it fully in words brought another wave of apprehension. There was an exhale through the line like a terrible weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Like he’d just exercised some demon that’d been tormenting him and unleashed it on her.
He laughed even, chuckled with relief. She hoped he had an understanding of both what he’d just done to her, and what they’d both just gotten themselves into. Somehow, you never really get to pick which mess you become entangled in. Now they were both stuck, together.
“I don’t mean to meddle,” Sam suggested.
“I know, but I need you to listen to me.” She cut in.
“I’ll refund the tickets or sell them. If you want me to stay out of it I will. I just want the best for you, for us.”
The ease with which he spit that line; the sincerity of it all.
“I know; Sam. I… can you just give me a second?” she replied, pecking the mute/deafen key again before he even finished consenting. Lucy buried her head in her hands and tried to suppress a scream.
Zavier clasped her hands together again, absolutely beaming with excitement on her behalf. “Ma’am this is so great! I’m so happy you worked it out!” She twittered while patting her shoulders encouragingly.
It must have been so easy from the outside looking in. Everything must have made so much sense.
Lt. Petrova collected herself and slipped on her mask of command before addressing Cpl. Zavier again. “Not a word outside this room!”
Zavier nodded vigorously in response, placing her hand over her heart. “You have my honor, loyalty, and utmost discretion ma’am!”
How long would that last? It wasn’t enough that she was just fucking this guy, now she L-
She didn’t even want to think about that word. She felt like a slave to her emotions while she unmuted the comm again.
“Sorry,” she mirrored his apology from earlier.
“It’s alright, can we just go back to having a good time?” He requested.
“..Yeah.”
The Comm’s trideo eventually reactivated in the hospital room. Mark and Dalia were giving each other knowing looks; they must’ve heard everything. She tried to keep her attention on the game for the most part, it was at least an enjoyable match, but she still caught him looking at her every now and again, smiling. It flustered her, why did it matter if he was looking at her? He’d already seen everything and more. What had she done to deserve this torture, was it even really torture? God, he really was like a puppy sometimes.
Calypso rallied in the 2nd and 3rd periods after Deimos staged a brief comeback and closed the game with a narrow 2-1 victory. She was sort of disappointed with the result, but that was the nature of the game. Moreover, the nature of that eternal dynamic of human competition.
Cpl. Zavier made her exit for another smoke not long after the end whistle sounded. Sam and Dalia were packing up their things and preparing to leave Mark and head home for the night when that other thing finally crawled back into her mind. She paged through her workstation trying to find it.
“Sam.” she called out while he was picking up his jacket and stuffing empty cans back into a daypack.
“Yeah Lucy?”
She quickly traced her findings and then held the characters up to the display. “I know this is Hensho, but I can’t for the life of me remember what it says.”
“You’re kidding right?” He asked while approaching the display.
“What? No. I just can’t remember shit from that class.”
“Pe-tro-va” he sounded out. “It’s your name, silly.”
“Don’t call me silly”, she hated the very idea, “but you’re sure?”
He spit some Hensho proverb back to her that she actually recognized. ‘Sure as a seed knows that it is a flower’ or something incomprehensible like that and resumed packing.
“Hey.” She called out again, snatching his attention away quietly. “About what we talked about earlier”
“Yeah?”
“I’m holding you to that.”