6 - 2
LEGACY
“Though it was never far from my mind that my enemies sought to deny me something fundamental, my autonomy, my freedom, I held no ill-will against the Soldiers themselves. It was the machine, the thing they fought on behalf of, not the men and women of their armies that was against me. They were, just as I, executing their assigned duty and station. When prisoners came into my care, I saw that they were treated decently and protected from harm.” - Colonel-General Sergei Petrova, Reflections on The Martian Conflicts Ch. 6, 7 MIC
Extra Punitive Duty. The most common and menial punishment for a wide variety of minor disciplinary infractions. It was also among the most humiliating. While Sgt. Dygalo and Cpl. Seevan both might have had plans to relax inside the tented billeting for the next few days, from 1600-2200 they and a bunch of idiot privates and disgruntled Riflemen had work to do. Both during the fighting and after the cease-fire the wall surrounding Smokehouse-3 had been plastered with graffiti. Someone had to take it off before they left.
Seevan hosed down a grease pencil phallus with solvent and set to scrubbing indifferently. It was a slap on the wrist really. That didn’t make this any less degrading. It wasn’t so much the work as it was being shoulder to shoulder with these degenerates. He was a good Rifleman, competent, selected above his peers at the Mess over a year ago to be a Non-Commissioned Officer, AND an Acting Squad Leader at that. He should be the one supervising the dick removal not conducting it. He kept scrubbing while glancing to his left. Dygalo didn’t seem to care in the slightest, it was just another mission he had to accomplish. He even paused to chastise the convicted malingerer next to him for working too slowly. Pinning Sergeant really made him drink the Re:Fresh.
Sgt. Dygalo resumed scrubbing, vigorously removing what an archeologist might consider a poetic if vulgar glimpse into the past. ‘FED HOLES FOR ROTTEN SOULS; 3 RAT-PACKS’, a hastily scribbled Kilroy, and the ever present, ‘WAGNER LOVES COCK’.
“Y’know, kinda funny.” Seevan piped up.
“What?” Dygalo glanced towards him.
“Same Army that’ll drop Arty into an occupied arcology indifferently won’t let you write ‘Fuck’ on the side of your Lioness.”
“Right-o Car-pol, nothin’ civilized ‘bout killin’ people. Dunno why we gotta dress it up.” Riflemen Orlowjski to Seevan’s left agreed in Daedlian drawl.
“Sure about that Rifleman?” Dygalo countered. “Way I see it, what we do here, ‘s about the most civilized thing there is. There’s rules, standards, and regulations. Keeps the violence from eatin’ you; from eatin’ everyone.”
“Wha’ ‘bout in Yukatan?” Orlowjski rejected.
Seevan and Dygalo stared at him. The young Rifleman had seen the violence and destruction unleashed here. He may have been shocked and changed by it but, it was still the impersonal, mechanical type of conflict waged between Nation-States.
In that hot green hell 200 million K away, there were no rules. If it was war, it was the most basal kind. Even Feds had something that could be admired about them: bravery, fidelity to something higher. They were even kin in some sense. Though distant, they had shared history.
The Huertas were just animals. Abhorrent, disgusting murders and rapists with no respect for order, the Rule of Law, or human decency. Slipping across the border to raid and pillage. All on the whim of other Earther powers who wished to see that nascent country perish. There was no plan, no organization or higher mission. Just disorganized cells unleashed to create chaos and destabilize. Even just that name had taken its place alongside Vandal in infamous colloquialism. Being there, fighting that fight, blackened one's heart.
What they had done here was an operation, in every antiseptic sense of the word. By contrast the whole of Yukatan was a festering wound boiling with corruption and the disease of uncertainty.
“No place to be talking about slaughter, kid.” Dygalo resumed working.
The tent was practically empty now. Just her, Dygalo, Seevan, Svertson, Balachenko and Rand were still residing there. It was sort of bitter-sweet seeing the rest of the platoon leave. She’d seen them off; watched them stagger onto the train loaded down with everything they could carry by hand. She passed off the last set of puzzle rings and Doc’s Killpatch to Rybeck with instructions to pass them onto his sibkin. She would’ve liked to do it herself, but to delay that kind of closure for her own sake seemed wrong, selfish even..
She picked over her uniform with a lighter for the nth time in the past few days. Appearances were now suddenly very important and she sort of prided herself on attention to detail when the situation called for it.
Svertson and Balachenko were schooling Rand up on the MAAWS in the center of the tent to kill time. Eventually Rand would rotate to a different billet, just like they all would. The Regimental system intended to keep people within the same units as much as possible to build cohesion and familiarity, but inevitably things were shaken up. People got promoted, put in their Release from Service or even wounded or killed. Everyone had to move on eventually.
A newly promoted Rifleman should move back down to a team and fill a key position: 2nd Gunner in one of the Weapons sections or Automatic Rifleman in one of the Line squads. With the loss of Roshan they needed a second MAAWS gunner and Rand was already well integrated with Weapons. She’d need to scrub the roster with Senior and 1st Sergeant, but the way she saw it, it was a decent fit. She could always find another idiot Private to drag around and throw the rest of the fresh meat into Assistant Gunner and Rifleman billets. That was a problem for when they were all home starting their next work up. Focus on what’s close and fill in the more distant objectives as you gain proximity and fidelity.
She tugged out a loose thread near her shoulder pocket. It took more than one attempt. Holding that stupid sword with two fingers for a whole afternoon made 1.4 kilos seem like 1.4 tons. She dug through her small tin of pins, looking for her least scratched Lieutenant bar and proceeding to polish it with toothpaste. Tomorrow they’d have a dress rehearsal, with all of the participants. The updated CONOP had only confirmed her fears.
Group-Captain Petrova?
He couldn’t really be alive, in Hesperian uniform to boot? The calculus was so odd. Why Hesperia? Why hadn’t she heard anything before? She tried, spent years even. Nothing. If it really was one of them, which one? Was the other still alive? What had they been doing these years?
She had so many questions. As many fears as hopes. She could at least still remember what her siblings looked like. Her eldest brother just from picts, but Artyom, Yuri, and Vladimir weren’t that much older than her and all well implanted in her memory.
Maybe she would feel different about this whole thing if her last memory hadn’t been of Yuri and Vlad screaming at her. Who would’ve guessed the epitome of calm and calculating would’ve spawned a quintet of hot-blooded and bullheaded progeny? His bearing must’ve been a learned behavior.
She knew why they were angry, but those two were in the wrong anyway. What was a 15 year old going to contribute to their plan? Even then she could tell it was a stupid plan, fueled by idealism and entitlement. Even without the spectacles of Realpolitik, it was doomed to failure and she was in no position to help. Many conspiracies are incubated, but few hatch live young, and fewer still take flight. Cyrus’s writings were filled with avian symbology, what a strange affliction.
She was a ward of foreign nation, a duty assigned to her by the Late-Great personally. That was his will, not some testosterone fueled revenge fantasy. Sticking to that was the straw that broke the camel's back. So much for family unity.
Svertson smacked Rand’s hand. “I told you not to fucking touch that yet, Rand. What do you say first?”
Rand swiveled his head over his left shoulder. “Backblast area clear!”
“Now you can disengage the manual safety. Now that the manual safety is off, in normal mode, what is the TCU doing?”
“Combining the networked targeting data from my battletrak and the sight to generate a firing solution.” Rand answered.
“Correct, continue. Remember, you’re not thinking about the launch, just keep the piper on the target. When the killbox comes up, one smooth continuous trigger pull. Round’s smart enough to do the rest if you don’t fuck it up before it leaves the tube.” Svertson instructed.
There was a purr of clicks as the MAAWs launch solenoid fired repeatedly.
“Bam! Round’s out the tube!” Svertson tapped Rand’s head. Rand dove to the prone position. “Good! It’s fire and forget; don’t give into the urge to fuckin’ look at what you just blew up. Out of the line of fire, or you’ll get shot just like I did. Nothin’ against you, but you used up all your luck already. Don’t give ‘em the chance. Questions?”
“What about doing indirect or buddy targeting?” Rand asked.
“Eh, we’ll get to that later. I want you to get confident on normal and degraded mode before we go adding anything fancy.” Svertson cautioned.
“C’mon Sverts, I got the PDL down pat in like a day, this thing’s not even half as complex.” Rand protested.
“Yeah, but you’re not standing up exposed to fire while passing our platoon’s sync or diverting direct view streams either. K34 draws a lot of attention as you’ve fuckin seen. You gotta know this thing inside and out, you ain’t even sim-fired it yet. Crawl-walk-run.” Svertson cautioned again and Rand sort of half nodded.
To him it was just like the Platoon Data Link, he wanted to know everything about it, inside and out. How best to use it; its capabilities and limitations. From a technical perspective there was something beautiful about the MAAWs, about all the weapons and equipment they had. Maybe it was the utility, the abhorrence for anything wasteful or extra in its design. He had forgotten who said it, but that sculptor's quote always sort of stuck with him. The act of carving a piece of stone is reductive, you remove anything extra, unnecessary. Beauty is the result of removing the extraneous. The only sobering aspect was that it was designed to kill. The psychological distance of a weapon made it so easy; they didn’t even look like people through the optics. Silhouettes, just abstractions.
The only time he’d done it and known he’d done it, the machine did all the work. Both the machine he was holding and the one in the root of his mind, programmed by effective training. He acted on a reaction drilled into him just like Svertson was drilling him now. The mess, the look in their eyes was just a by-product. He couldn’t imagine killing like Lt. Petrova, taking a pause to really look at them, to really think about it.
It didn’t seem to bother her at all. He’d think about that mangled face for a long time yet. He couldn’t help but think the wriggling of that split tongue looked like a landed crappie drowning in the air.
They were up before the sun the next day. The sweat coating Rand’s body only made the cold air bite harder. Rand just knew the moment he stopped running he would start freezing. He glanced behind him.
“Hurry up, Balachenko. Let’s go! You fucking moose! You crippled black-lunged fuck, run!” Sgt. Dygalo shouted. Balachenko looked worse than Rand felt, barely holding the pace. He’d already sweat through his long sleeve shirt, probably completely drenched under his kit. Rand didn’t feel right just leaving him there.
Rand slowed down slightly and moved alongside Balachenko snatching the MAAWs off his shoulder by the carry handle.
“Fuuuuck” was the only thanks Balachenko could manage. Lt. Petrova didn’t even look back, completely focused on maintaining the same hellish pace. She didn’t even have the common courtesy to at least look tired. Rand added some uncomfortable length to his strides to catch up to her and hoisted the MAAWs onto his shoulders. It was the least uncomfortable way to carry it for an extended period and they still had another few K to go at this rate.
Seevan and Svertson both looked alright, as they could be expected to given the situation. They had their hands full carrying ammunition cases filled with ruddy Martian sand, rifles slung tight across their backs.
“Catch up, get the fuck up there, Rifleman!” Dygalo ‘encouraged’ again pointing forward with the muzzle of his rifle. “Your fucking buddies are already doing all the hard work; least you can do is keep up!”
“Check, Sarn’t!” Balachenko managed to wheeze and closed the gap in their little formation.
Maybe one day he’d wake up after the sun. Maybe one day he wouldn’t have to kill himself doing this shit every morning. The fantasy of normal life, the leisure of an 830 wake up. The only thing chipping away at his maladaptive daydream was growing fatigue in his shoulders from keeping the MAAW in place. At least everyone was managing to keep up this time, if only barely.
“Rand,” Svertson called out, holding up one of his ammo cases. “Trade me?”
Lt. Petrova thrust one of her hands behind her and snapped repeatedly. “Give ‘em,” she ordered and Svertson gladly obliged, passing over the two cans one at a time to her. She lifted both of them on top of her shoulders while Svertson shook out his fingers.
“Thanks, ma’am.”
“Just keep up.” she scolded, lengthening her strides slightly. This was a good sign, despite the fact his legs were burning it meant they were nearly done; he could even see the tent rapidly approaching. They’d already done eight or nine K. Surely they’d be done.
Except, they kept running. Lt. Petrova just kept on running right past their tent. Everything suddenly felt heavier, every footstep more labored. Balachenko audibly groaned with frustration.
Sgt. Dygalo shoved him forward. “No one said stop. Quit acting weak and run, Balachenko! You weren’t running this fucking slow when the locals were shootin’ at you. Why start now?!”
Balachenko wheezed again in response, but none of it came out as words. Just another mind game. Always be ready to go a little further, to carry a heavier load, to do more than asked. That’s what the White Army was built on. Lt. Petrova mercifully slowed down a K beyond their intended stopping point. They rounded a corner into the regeneration area, now devoid of vehicles.
“Heads up, chest out.” Lt. Petrova ordered. Despite the strain they all complied. No one wanted to look like shit in front of the weekend-warriors. Most of them were still milling around half dressed, getting ready for their first formation. There were mixed looks as they passed: some awe, others pity.
Gallantly I show the world through my conduct, my skill-at-arms, my discipline, my fitness and heart that I am a Rifleman of the White Army. That line never really sunk in until Rand was no longer surrounded by the specially selected and well trained type. He wasn’t really sure what Lt. Petrova’s intentions were showing out like this, but for him at least, it accentuated the difference. He felt like a cut-above as they trotted to a halt at the tent and started cool-downs.
Lt. Petrova dumped the two ammo cans next to the door flap and commenced pecking away at her chrono while catching her frustratingly barely out of tune breath. “Next-time we’ll push the pace but, not bad, not bad. Maybe a few less ZV’s eh Balachenko?”
Balachenko forced himself to wheeze for effect, “What’re y’ talking about ma’am? I’m fit ‘n healthy.”
“Uh-huh… First formation 830 at the Regen area, pins and patches. Make sure you look nice, it’s gonna be the first time with everyone all together so let’s make a decent first impression,” Lt. Petrova instructed while the sun peaked over the horizon.
“Check, rodge ma’am,” they replied in chorus.
“Hey, fall-in Rifleman!” Dygalo shepherded them on-line. “The calf stretch!”
“The calf stretch!” they echoed.
Lt. Petrova followed along from the side, lunging slightly forward and taking a few seconds to stretch then snapped her fingers. “One more saved round: haircuts.”
“Yeah, check ma’am; I got clippers.” Balachenko replied.
“Good, you all need one.”
“Got scissors too an’ a whole kit too. Went to cosmetology school if y’ can believe that. I can trim you up too, if y’ want ma’am.” Balachenko added.
“Did you finish?” Cpl. Seevan quipped.
“‘Course, just a tough gig to get into. Once you got a license, you gotta find a place that’ll take you in on probation. Then you gotta join the union, and pay union dues, and get the union certification so on and so forth… Once you’re in, you’re in but, I wasn’t about to do all that shit.” Balachenko continued over-sharing.
“Thanks, but no thanks.” Lt. Petrova touched her braid defensively. “There’s a nice old Pavish lady who would be livid if I let anyone else touch my hair.”
“Suit yourself, ma’am.” Balachenko shrugged while switching legs.
“Say what you want about the Army, but it really is the one place that’ll take a chance on you,” Rand observed.
“Right about that,” Svertson agreed. “Always wanted to leave that fuckin’ rock Arsia. No one’d take me on apprentice to work the rails ‘cause I got a fuckin’ assault charge on my rap. Fucking loser swung on me first.”
Sgt. Dygalo smiled. “Bet that recruiter said y’d fit right in.”
“Shit, he called me damn near overqualified.” Everyone chuckled. “He was Logi or somethin’. Made it sound like I’d be sippin’ Mai Tai’s on a tropical beach. ‘You like fighting? Boy, I got the job for you’.” Svertson motioned back towards Sgt. Dygalo. “What about you Big Sarn’t?”
“Brudder was in 3rd Rifles; got killed on Ganymede. Wasn’t ‘bout to leave that be.” Dygalo snorted almost remorsefully. “War was over before I even finished training. Wouldn’t change it now I guess. The hamstring stretch!” Always business.
“The hamstring stretch!” they echoed again while changing positions.
“My dad was in the Regiment.” Rand offered while sitting down and reaching out to grab the tops of his feet.
“What, like your oldman?” Balachenko asked.
“No, my like, actual dad,” Rand clarified.
Seevan turned his head towards him. “Damn Rand, you’re a Genocrat like ma’am?”
“Natural, but genocrat I am not. We were alright off, but it ain’t like I got a trust fund or an estate. Y’all just never asked,” Rand defended while glancing towards the Princess. She looked mildly perturbed at the implication.
Svertson read the circle and offered an olive branch. “It’s just a word, ma’am—don’t mean anything by it. Proud to be led by one of the greats.”
“Yeah, who else can say their PC’s is one of The Petrova’s. Not any other ones left right? Sorry if that’s uh, sensitive subject.” Seevan apologized for his own thoughtlessness.
“It’s history now, but…” Lt. Petrova stopped herself. “Well, we’ll see today.”
Rand thought that was an extremely unusual way to answer. Uncharacteristically vague. He kept mulling the thought over through the rest of the cooldown while Svertson and Balachenko yammered on about better days. Everyone got like this when it was finally time to head home. At least he guessed. This still really was his first time doing anything real. Real. It still didn’t seem real.
Sgt. Dygalo let them go about getting ready on their own while Lt. Petrova disappeared towards the female-only section of the camp.
Perhaps that was their first mistake; leaving three Rifleman unsupervised. Rand was just about done gathering up his stuff to head towards the shower himself when curiosity finally got the better of Balachenko. He’d been eyeing Lt. Petrova’s kit for a while and now he finally had a moment to look at it.
There was one thing that really captivated his attention. That pistol she carried around, Rand hadn’t really seen anything like it. It wasn’t unusual for officers to carry around personally procured sidearms so long as they were in the Army standard 10mm. He wasn’t really versed in firearms outside of his particular occupation so he hadn’t really given it much thought. Balachenko on the other hand was much more keen to let his fingers do the asking and the telling. He snatched it out of the leather without even a second's hesitation, only pausing to admire the fact that the holster was real leather for half a second before he was finger fucking the weapon throughly.
“Man, fuck this is kinda heavy.” Balachenko thought aloud, turning it over in his hands and tapping his fingernails against the frame. “What is this, metal? Fuckin’ belongs in a museum.”
“Balie you should probably leave that alone. I don’t think Lt. Petrova would like it if she saw you touchin’ her stuff. Corporal Seevan’d probably smoke the dogshit out of us too.” Rand cautioned.
“Eh, what’s the harm? Probably drop this thing from orbit and not break it. Finish is all fucked up already too.” Balachenko dismissed while racking back the slide and inspecting the chamber. It was empty; all of their ammunition had already been turned in. “Oh that’s nice though; very smooth.” Balachenko added racking back the slide a few more times.
Svertson approached and extended a hand. “Lemmie see.” Svertson took it and turned it over in his hands similarly. He ran his fingers along the Cydonian Cyrillic script rollmarked into the slide. “You’re right is kinda heavy.”
Svertson picked up his own sidearm for comparison, an issued P131. It was the same mass-produced 10mm weapon of injection molded polymer and loveless but precise computer controlled milling in service all over the planet. Even putting it in the same sentence as the piece of art in his other hand seemed wrong. Svertson set his issued weapon aside and thumbed the hammer back.
He squeezed the trigger; it broke like glass. “Never thought I’d get to see one in person. Y’know what this is right?”
“Nah, can’t remember seeing anything like it,” Balachenko shook his head.
“Ma’am’s got a fuckin’ genuine Kelter Combat Masterpiece and she’s just… carrying it around. They only made 300 before Green’s leveled Petrograd the first time. Probably worth…” Svertson rubbed his chin. “I dunno, maybe 800 Libra? At least.”
Rand’s eyes bulged at the mere mention of that amount of money. It was worth that much and these two buffoons were just holding it? Putting their grubby hands all over it? The MAAW was only worth about 300, his issued K10 Rifle: 19, 7 shil, and 11 pen with the optic. Svertson turned it upwards slightly.
“Oh shit, probably more than that. Balie, check it. This thing really does belong in a museum.” Svertson indicated a marking in front of the rear sight. Rand had to see it now too and joined the huddle. He had his finger just below a simple hand engraved rose emblem. One any Martian would recognize. After-all, it bore resemblance to the one on a Nation’s flag. A few tiny details indicated that though it looked similar to that unmistakable symbol of Cydonia it was something much more personal than that.
“This is fuckin’ Sergei Petrova’s pistol.” Svertson announced. The three of them stared at the pistol with religious reverence for a few moments.
“Must be fuckin’ priceless,” Balachenko awed.
“It still works too.” Rand added.
“Huh? Of course it does.” Svertson glanced up.
“I mean, I seen it work. Ma’am killed a fuckin’ Fed with it at Pavlov’s.” Rand amplified .
“What? No shit? What happened?” Balachenko questioned.
“On the second day when me ‘n her went out to meet up with 1st Squad during that second fight. Ran into two of ‘em by the west gate. Guess crashed is more accurate. Ma’am fuckin’ smacked helmets with the lead one when she came around the corner. Knocked her and The Fed to the ground. I popped around the corner just after her and dumped most of my cassette into the one still standing up. Wasn’t even really thinking about it. She was still flat on her back and pulled that thing out and shot the one that got knocked down maybe half a dozen times in the pelvis. Finished ‘em off with her rifle.”
“I know y’all pasted two ‘em, but I didn’t think it was like that. That’s fuckin’ crazy.” Svertson responded while flicking the safety on and off and repeatedly admired the refined tactile click. “Shit, I guess this thing’s legend just keeps growing.”
“I really think we should put it back though. Not right touching someone’s stuff without asking,” Rand cautioned again.
“Well, you heard ‘em, Balie,” Svertson acknowledged, thrusting the pistol at Rand.
He grabbed it and Svertson and Balachenko immediately made themselves scarce. His hand was now touching the same object as one of the greatest men to ever live. What the fuck am I supposed to do with it now? Just from touching the metal he knew his hands were leaving marks all over the slide and frame. He tried his best to wipe it down with his shirt. Maybe she wouldn’t notice. Who was he kidding; she was gonna notice. He moved back over to replace it. Just as he was touching her belt, the wolf howled.
“Rand, what do you think you’re doing?”
Lt. Petrova was standing in the other entrance to the tent, hair still wet, staring into his soul.
“Uhhh… nothing ma’am.” He stiffened straight up while Svertson and Balachenko both grabbed their stuff and practically sprinted out of the other door. Typical. He tucked the pistol into his forearm discretely and went to parade rest.
“Hmph, you’re all acting mighty suspicious for doing nothing. You can relax.” Lt. Petrova strutted over to her own cot and started digging through her mainpack while he remained locked at parade rest out of fear. She pulled out a clean blouse and glanced over her shoulder. “I said you can relax.”
If anything, he was physically incapable of that at the moment. The fact that he wasn’t responding obviously sparked additional suspicion as she stopped what she was doing and turned around.
“Cut the bullshit; what’s going on?” Lt. Petrova folded her arms the same way his older sister used to when he forgot to feed the dog. “I saw those other two hooligans scamper out of here. I’m only gonna ask one more time: what did you three do? Get caught stealing from the DFAC again?”
I will never of my own volition surrender information that may be harmful to my comrades. What a noble idea. He was surprised her gaze wasn’t burning his skin. He swallowed dryly and presented the pistol. She snatched it out of his hands in a flash of motion and quickly inspected it to make sure it was undamaged.
“You three little fuckers. How hard is it to not touch other people’s things without permission? What happened to respecting the rights and properties of others, huh? I should have Seevan take you three to go play in the sand,” Lt. Petrova hissed.
It was just as he feared. An image of Cpl. Seevan grinning and kicking dust in their faces while they did flutter kicks appeared in his mind.
“It was just me, ma’am,” Of course those two would thrust the responsibility of being honest onto him. If he had to do even a single burpee on their account, he was coming out of that sand pit swinging.
“Don’t lie to me again, Rand,” she remarked while rubbing away a tiny water spot with her shirt.
Rand doubled down. “I’m telling the truth ma’am. I took it without asking.”
“Yeah, and I’m the Queen of Mars. You really think I’d believe that those other two didn’t at least put you up to this?” She scoffed. “You know I’d let you look if you just asked right?”
“No, um. I didn’t know that ma’am.” he paused for a moment. “Did your father give that to you?”
She shook her head while sliding it back into its holster. “Nope. I wasn’t his first choice. My brother left it to me in his will. You can still see the mark where some shrapnel skipped off the butt.”
“It’s uh…” Rand trailed off. If he’d learned anything it’s that courage wasn’t the absence of fear. “It’s not easy living in someone else's shadow.”
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
She looked like she was going to snap at him again for a second, but the glare washed away towards something more mournful. For the first time he really felt like he was looking at another human. Like he was across from Lyssa Petrova, not the Rifle Lieutenant. She looked back to the holstered weapon and nearly laughed.
“I guess you’re one of the few people that might actually understand.” She dismissed him with a few hand waves. “Just go get ready; you’re already behind schedule.”
“Check, rodge ma’am.”
They were all ready to be formed up with fresh haircuts, clean shaves and their best uniforms nearly an hour early. Rand guessed that every echelon of leadership had played the ‘15 minutes prior’ game. At least they were all doing it together this time. He kicked a pebble. All the formations had shrunk by about two echelons now. Their platoon was a section plus; the Regiment about a company. Lt. Petrova even had the honorary promotion to Battalion Commander for the ceremony. Captain Mulleux was filling in for Colonel Mallock at the head of their formation.
Despite how much the squares had shrunk, everyone was here. If the unit had its own Colours and was present for the battle they had some representation. Five different Rifle Regiments, four Lancer Regiments and two from the Cannon Corps all were flying their flags proudly. That was on top of the brilliant white banners of the three divisions, the IV Rifle Corps and 3-17th Republican Guard’s blood red flag.
He didn’t even really try counting all of the multinational representation. The Amazonians, Cydonians, Elysians, Hesperians, Noachians and Feds all had their own boxes arrayed around the now empty regeneration area. Rand had never seen so many different uniforms in one place. The shockingly varied displays of heraldry and tradition arrayed in one place was a sight to behold. He knew all the national flags. The forever unfinished ship of Amazonia, the Rose of Cydonia, The Hesperian Sextant and Hammer, The Elysian Cedar and Anchor, Noachia’s interlocked fists and The Federal Rift Republics simple circle of stars. Practically a thousand years of history between all of them encapsulated in their unique but plainly rendered symbology.
All these soldiers here, just standing around, all to practice formally bring an end to this conflict. This wasn’t even the real spot. The generals and diplomats had mashed their heads together, appearances would be upmost in front of a hundred different news cameras so all of the prior fuck ups had to be hidden from watching eyes. Smokehouse 3 was as good a place as any with a nice high wall and enforced security. Together they had to show everyone, the whole solar, Mars could solve its own issues; run its own internal politics; that there was order and standards of conduct; the law applied equally to all. Ritualized reconciliation. No glory in victory, no shame in defeat. That was the ‘Martian Way’. Whether or not that was how people really felt was another question.
He glanced across the rockcrete plain. Just a few weeks ago those people were trying to kill him and just the same he was trying to kill them. They looked so similar now. Was there any purpose to the violence? The only thing that made sense now was that there was some religious dimension to it all. Just like how they were conducting this ceremony for the benefit of some third observer rather than the participants, the war was the same.
It hadn’t really been for the belligerents; it was on behalf of something ephemeral: the idea of a Martian polity. One which would not tolerate deviance.
A Fed placed the butt of his rifle with bayonet fixed against his crotch, holding it out like some violent metal phallus and then punched his fellow in the shoulder lightly and motioned to it. They both laughed.
He didn’t even need to see their lips to know what they were saying. They were just like him. They had all been coddled and insulated by rigid scholastics, programmed and educated on the heights of human culture, taught to appreciate the beauty of art and poetry. To grasp the iron laws of mathematics and science. Now they were caught up doing the farthest thing possible from all that. And it was funny; it was so abominably funny.
“Any of you see where ma’am went?” Sgt. Dygalo queried, breaking his attention. Rand glanced towards Balachenko and Svertson; they returned equally puzzled looks. All three of them shook their heads.
Where was he? Was she even looking for the right person? Maybe there was a mix up? How uncommon could the name Petrova be? Maybe, maybe Yarbrough made a mistake even after all those corrections. Maybe-
She stopped dead in her tracks and squeezed the hilt of her sword. A HPAA officer spit something in Hensho to one of his fellows and pointed towards her with his thumb and middle finger pinched together. Her heart was hammering as the figure turned. Bronze skin, sandy hair and eyes just the same shade of hazel as her own, the same spatter of tiny black nevi. That wasn’t what was holding her attention now.
There was a scared divot the size of a farth coin in the cheek bone under his left eye. She guessed it was more or less 10mm. He was inspecting her carefully just the same as she was. There was something off about his eyes now that she was really looking. His right was the same as she remembered but the other, it lacked that touch of handicraft, like a close off-the-shelf match.
“Yuri?”
“It’s me malitka,” He responded warmly, approaching more closely. It took a moment longer than normal for her to process the words. It really had been too long since she’d spoken the language. It was really him as far as memory and senses could discern. The small anglish font above the Hanzi on his name tape added an additional confirmation.
“What happened? What of Vladimir?” She blurted out struggling with the Cydonian vocabulary for a moment.
He put his hands on her shoulders; there was an emptiness behind his new eye. “The old-guard made certain he was dead. I was barely more fortunate, but I’m here now. How you’ve grown, Lyssa.”
They embraced for a moment. There was something off-putting about the warmth, like it was forced. They had never been that close. They were family sure, but only in the hereditary sense of the word. She pushed away, “Then what happened? I spent years looking.”
“Hesperia took me in; saved my life really, after those monarchists tried to kill me. I spent most of the last few years on Titan with the People’s Alliance Army. Strange to say, but it was safer there until the fallout finished settling. Even now there are still many people who want me dead. People who won’t forget the old order.” Yuri explained. His hands twitched subtly as he spoke.
Of course there were people who wanted him dead; there were people who wanted her dead just because of the name.
“You’ve done well for yourself Lyssa, but I can’t help but notice you’re wearing that ingrate’s uniform.” He motioned to her ‘THARSIS ARMY’ nametape.
She motioned to the small heraldic rose pin on his breast pocket. “I execute the duty and station that He assigned to me.”
He shook his head and laughed cynically. His attitude was already starting to wear on her. Just a big brother trying to look out for his little sister; like she couldn’t make her own decisions. The very idea was making her blood boil.
“I see you’ve kept good care of our Father’s legacy in my absence.” He motioned to her holstered sidearm.
“It’s mine if that’s what you're asking. Artyom willed it to me,” she replied indifferently while placing her hand on the butt of the pistol.
“And as His eldest surviving son it is mine by right of succession,” the twitching in his hands increased as he became more agitated. “You would do well to remember that,” he snapped back before stopping himself, evidently he’d at least attempted to learn some self-control since they last met. It was worth testing its limits.
“It’s mine now, and I won’t be parting with it just to satisfy your ego,” she brushed off.
Yuri took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment. “You should go home, Lyssa. To Cydonia. You’d be welcomed there, and you wouldn’t have to cloak yourself in the colors of that hun Kane. Perhaps you might even do our Rödunna some good by preventing them from being goose-stepped into this kind of entanglement again.”
She snorted.“I could say the same to you. I’m sure Hesperia could do without one Officer. Why not bring the Petrova name home if its politics is so important to you,”
Yuri shook his head “To think you’d be wrapped up in persecuting this disgusting war of adventurism. He’s rolling-”
She held up her hand and stopped him. The Arrogance of it all. “After what you did; what you did to all of us. To me. Don’t you dare take his name in vain.”
His facade of composure vanished in an instant. Yuri’s hand movements gave way to animated Outer-World Standard sign language mirroring his speech. “After what I did? To uphold his dream while you sat on the sidelines like a porcelain doll!”
He really must have spent years in the outer worlds; all the time in a vacc-suit had given him a new tic. All that time and hadn’t even considered the collateral damage. What his little vendetta cost everyone else in reprisals. The fire consumed his own brother and he hardly even noticed. People were an obstacle or a resource to be spent to him still and he had the audacity to criticize her?
“He never wanted revenge! It wasn’t about him! It’s about the people, the state, the rule of law and order. The unity of Mars. Arytom could accept that, but you and Vladimir never could! My service guarantees good will and the continued existence of our home. What are you doing? You call this adventurism? What happened to Syrtis, to Titan? Are those people living freely under the Party’s thumb?” She shouted back while death gripping her sword. The animation was drawing the attention of the surrounding Hesperians. She just hoped they never bothered to learn Cydonian.
Yuri wiped at his face in disbelief and resumed signing. “You always had too much respect for authority, Lyssa. The law, The State, all fictions written by and made up of men. Corruptible, fallible. Ones which serve the ends of looters and deviants! This order you so desperately protect only deprives and shackles the Martian people to a cabal of monarchs and dictators. Maggots feasting on the corpse of Empire. Only in Hesperia under the guidance of the People’s Alliance Party does the dream still exist. An order divorced from the legacy of tyranny. Mars forges a new destiny, leading all the Outer Worlds towards a new future for mankind. Those are his words! I live by them. We enact that will. Do you?”
She scoffed. “I see you didn’t learn anything during that time in self-imposed exile after all. Things have changed here. There is collective leadership, a balance of powers, a system of rules-based relations which we uphold.”
“One which is imposed by the naked force your kind provides on behalf of robber-barons and murderers!” He objected.
“Are you so different? What is your Party’s programme? Are their crimes not greater? Its only vision is domination in totality. The disallowance of the liberty of its subjects, of any control or oversight from outside your Party. What happened to the Syndicalists on Titan? Filling in a methane lake with their frozen corpses I imagine? Tharsis is a Republic, not some medieval fief. There are more important things than your petty blood feuds!” She growled.
The notes of Form Square sounded styming his reply for a beat. “You’re still a foolish little girl Lyssa. Perhaps someday you might reform yourself.” Yuri spit while caging most of his anger. She bit her tongue hard and stomped off.
The center piece finally made its arrival and marched onto the field. The grand and gold-fringed red, blue, and green Martian Tri-Color. It’d been recalled from museum retirement just for this event. It was one of the only symbols Rand thought that spoke to them all the same. That common goal, Red Mars, Blue Mars, Green Mars. Maybe one day they’d finish.
They finally did a complete run-through after a half dozen stepping stone evolutions. It didn’t really sink in how long he would just be standing there at the position of attention until he was actually doing it. Once they marched on there really wasn’t much for him to do except render honors and pass in review, eyes right all that normal jazz. Otherwise he was just standing there, looking pretty just like Svertson said. They weren’t even really taking the pauses for all of the dignitaries to give their speeches. Only they knew how much time was worth wasting.
Master Sergeant Radulovic, the acting Regimental Sergeant Major had made it extremely clear to all of them to drink water. If you feel yourself about to pass out: either step out of the formation or fall backwards. There was a whole detail of Republican Guards hiding off to the side whose sole purpose was to grab anyone who fainted. Rand thought it was ridiculous; how hard was just standing in formation? Just don’t lock your knees. It all seemed really stupid until Riflemen Whelen from Falchion flattened his face on the rockcrete right next to him halfway through Officers Center. Rand didn’t dare move, but everything just fell into place without him. A pair of Guardsmen swept in and drug him out to the back.
Other than that small brush with human involuism, it all went off without a hitch from his perspective. In fact, it went so perfectly that they all did it a second time just for, to quote the Corps Drill Master ‘warm and fuzzies’. His right arm was completely dead from being locked at right-shoulder arms by the time they finished but at least they could all go relax, there was nothing else really on the schedule for today.
The prospect of seeing the ceremony for real was exciting. Maybe there’d be spectators. There’d be a lot of cameras at least. Surely some people at home were watching. That and he hadn’t actually seen much of the city outside the district near Pavlov’s. The Government District was known for its pre-independence architecture. A real world-class tourist attraction or so he’d been told. Who knew how well it had fared in the fighting. Lt. Petrova stormed off to some ‘Regimental Staff meeting’ before he could question her about it.
There hardly was a Regimental staff at this point, and no obvious cause for a meeting. It was just her, Captain Mulleux, Captain Wunder, and Captain Debouis from 3rd Battalion here along with their Acting Sergeant Majors MSgt. Radulovic, Seniors Torni, Willcox and Krell respectively. The RCO really must’ve hated her or at least held her in generally high esteem. Why else would she be the only Lieutenant filling in for a Battalion Command? Even if her ‘Battalion’ was only 41 people it was still far above her normal pay grade.
The three of them waited aimlessly in the now barren Reg TOC. RG was supposed to move in and take over sometime tomorrow after the ceremony. Capt. Wunder rubbed at his bald head. Wunder really was an appropriate name, because it was a wonder someone could’ve been born completely devoid of hair and albino in this day and age. She really thought albinism had gone the way of myopia and male pattern baldness into the genetic dumpster of historical curiosities. There’d been some epigenetic therapy in his youth and he eventually grew up fit and strong but his body still had a strange nakedness to her eyes. The hair he didn’t shave off was impossibly thin and white, his skin was nearly transparent. He made up for the alienness of his appearance with a friendly, generally disarming demeanor. Most people warmed up to him quickly.
Debouis was as Thartic as they come, swarthy and black haired with the same brutish build as Dygalo. About as tall as her but all square and wide, lacking any of the refinement of her or Mulleux’s custom ordered features. From what she’d heard Debouis was single minded and direct but generally competent, unlike the other party they were waiting for.
Capt. Mulleux hadn’t hesitated for even a moment to use his newfound authority to inflate his ego, just the fact that he made the three of them wait on him for five minutes was some kind of power play by her estimation. He called them into a huddle and retrieved an inknote. “Notes from this mornings Corps Commander sync: Step remains unchanged at 0830; the Drill Master paced out the route yesterday. We should enter Tyrant Square at 0920 for a 1000 start if we stick to our Quick-Time. To that end, we’ll form for accountability and inspection at 0730”
Lt. Petrova kept her mouth shut for the moment. This wasn’t in the CONOP she’d helped write. Yarborough couldn’t do anything by herself. It wasn’t entirely her fault, she was a brand new Ensign. She hardly knew left from right, let alone writing and revising a Regimental level Op-Order, but this buffon was shitting all over the carefully crafted time scale she spent hours picking over minute by minute.
“Oliver, question,” Captain Wunder interrupted.
“I have an answer, Thom.” Capt. Mulleux smirked to himself at the wittiness of his own response. Insufferable.
Captain Wunder made a show of thinking aloud, “If we’re forming at 0730 for an 0830 step, how are the Riflemen supposed to get chow? The DFAC starts serving at 0730.”
Thank god someone else had common sense.
Capt. Mulleux ignored his concern. “They’ll just have to skip or we can feed them the left-over ratpacks. We need a buffer to make sure everyone’s present and accounted for. I want to conduct an inspection before we step too.”
Captain Debouis stepped up to the plate. “Why don’t we just have the first-echelon leaders conduct an inspection before we muster, even just 15 minutes gives us plenty of time to get complete accountability and form for march. Then there’ll be plenty of time for everyone to get something to eat. I know Capt. Cho’s not here but, eh, I think it’d mitigate some of the risk of people passing out.” Captain Debouis offered.
“No, absolutely not. It’s my responsibility to ensure this Regiment is fit and ready for parade and I won’t be embarrassed by someone else’s laxity in front of the Regent.” Capt. Mulleux rejected.
MSgt. Radulovic’s ears perked at their conversation and he immediately pulled all of the enlisted off to the side to have some sort of ‘private’ non-stupid discussion on what the actual plan of the day would be tomorrow. Debouis and Wunder looked at eachother again and then went for an immediate re-attack. “Oliver, you can’t just deny the soldiers chow so you can inspect them personally. What do you think we’re arriving 40 minutes early for? General Marlborough and his Staff are gonna look over the whole Division when we link up with them. This was all in the CONOP, right Lucy?” Capt. Wunder motioning towards her, a hint of pleading in his eyes.
“Yes, it was. I don’t see a reason to stray from the COA that Colonel Mallock approved for your own sake.” She added.
“Well, of course you wouldn’t think outside of the box, Lieutenant. Doctrine is the last refuge of the unimaginative. To meet the commander's intent I have decided to conduct a Regimental inspection before we step,” Captain Mulleux condescended.
She was fed up being patronized today. “Is that how you talk to your Platoon Commanders, Captain?” She rebuffed.
He blinked “Excuse me?”
Must be startled by the concept of your orders not being met with instant begrudging obedience.
She took a step forward and uncrossed her arms “Don’t talk to me like an I’m a fucking idiot. I’m not the one who got stuck in the middle of the breach on Larnig Strasse and had to use two entire days worth of his Battalion’s smoke allocation to unfuck his company. I’m not the one who got not one, but two of his RTO’s killed running into the thick of the fighting while my Platoon Commanders couldn’t pass or receive mission update syncs.”
Captain Debouis was obviously startled by her directness and attempted to intervene with a hand on her shoulder. “Lt. Petrova, he accomplished the mission.”
She shrugged off his hand. “Accomplished the mission? Don’t get offended because I’m willing to say what you’ve been thinking this whole time.” She declared and Capt. Debois buttoned his mouth. She thrust her finger back towards Capt. Mulleux. “I’m not letting every Soldier in the Regiment still present get fucked because Captain Mars here didn’t write the fucking CONOP.”
She could see a slot machine of responses ticking behind Captain Mulleux’s eyes while she stared him down. The slots stopped rolling. “I should have you charged for insubordination,” he growled.
She laughed in his face. “You’re only the Acting Regimental CO, you don’t have the authority without a secondary charge review. You think anyone else will have your back after they review the facts? You think Capt. Eckartt and Lt. Colonel Balalaika will submit ascentia against me? 2nd Battalion will muster at 0810 for accountability and order of march, as stated in the approved CONOP”
Capt. Wunder scratched at his temple and shrugged. “I think 1st Battalion will be forming at 0810 as well.”
Capt. Mulleux stood speechless while Debouis nodded. “I suppose that seems appropriate.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t call me with this bullshit again.” She turned and snapped her fingers. “Senior Willcox! We’re leaving.”
“Check, ma’am.” He responded and followed her out the door.
“The fucking jumped up Cydonian can’t talk to me like that.” Capt. Mulleux moved to follow her out the tent. Captain Wunder intercepted him with a hand to the chest.
Capt. Wunder patted his hand a few times to distract him.“Oliver, to be frank. Maybe she could be a little more tactful but…” Wunder stared directly into Mulleux’s eyes .“She’s right; that’s was a fucking stupid ass idea, and I’m not about to fuck that goat either.” Capt. Wunder switched his tone back as if nothing had happened. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Oliver.”
Mulleux jerked his head around while Capt. Wunder motioned towards Senior Torni made his exit. “Top!”
“Sir?” MSgt. Radulovic glanced upwards disinterested. “What’s the matter, not used to dealing with spines?”
Capt. Mulleux threw up his arms in frustration and stormed into the next room while muttering something about making some important links.
Everything was getting on her nerves since that incident. A trip to the gymnasium was the only thing she could muster to relieve some stress. Apparently killing more senior officers was distasteful, even if they were complete fucking idiots. She was just suffocating being surrounded by these arrogant incompetent fools who had somehow stumbled their way into positions of power and authority. She turned all of that anger into throwing weights around for the better part of two hours.
Her brother, not only alive but still the exact same conceited ass as before. He was still determined to conflagrate anything which he considered to be against him. Still bent on the single minded destruction of anything associated with the status quo, even if it meant wrapping himself that flag. They must have been more than happy to have him, probably a big hit at the last Party Congress.
Even if he brought out the anima in her, he did have something of a charismatic streak in others’ eyes. He had always been able to produce a measure of that magnetic energy that drew people to their father. Without it, there never would’ve been an attempted coup d'etat and her other brother would still be alive.
She dropped the pair of dumbbells she’d been holding. Could she even trust that Vlad was really dead? They obviously shot Yuri in the face, though there was a gross oversight on their part not to check their work. What if he was still alive as well? She dismissed the thought. If he was, more than likely would’ve been right in his brother's footsteps, worshiping the very ground he walked on.
It was driving her mad. She just wanted to go home, be rid of all this politics, all this Army for a moment. She picked at a callus on her hand. It was obvious now where she meant when that thought arose, and it certainly was not of wandering the botanical gardens in Klyenska admiring the tyrian purple roses for which it was known.
She didn’t even know a single person there who didn’t have intentions to use her for something anymore. The only bonds she trusted now were ones she built herself. Oh, blood of the covenant.
After cleaning up she shoved down some thoroughly unappetizing Army slop and used the rest of her final night in this godforsaken city to give her most trusted ally a link while her troops laid out and packed their gear for the return trip home.
“Lucy, you will not believe what happened to me today.” Dalia exasped while spinning in her living room chair. Somehow, she didn’t think anything more ridiculous could have happened to Dalia in the past 24 hours.
“What?” she replied half-interestedly.
“So Mark messaged me earlier and asked me to go to his hearthblock to grab some stuff from his apartment since he’s leaving the hospital tomorrow. I think ‘whatever, no big deal. I’ll just go after I finish at the gym’ right?”
Lucy played with her bangs absentmindedly “Right.”
“So I shower and change into this not thinking about it really.” Dalia stood up and displayed her lazy and uncoordinated fit of unlabeled midthigh black army trunks and a loose electric green pump cover traced all over by bright orange and expressively stylized Sirenese jainjo Onomatopoeia. It was more than out of place in Ridge City, far too trendy. Dalia sat back down.
“So I checked the magnet under his box for the spare key. Gone. ‘huh, that’s weird, maybe his tenant manager grabbed it or something’. So I go talk to this guy. Real skeevie looking dude, I really don’t know why Mark still lives there but, he doesn’t know anything about the spare key at all. Definitely didn’t take it. So like I sit there for a while in the hearthblock lobby for a while thinking about what I’m gonna do. Actually I was thinking about that time at RPCC. Y’know when we got locked out of the Bricks after that night out with Gillette, Cillian, and Rubenka.”
Lucy knew exactly where this was going. “I only did that because I was drunk.” She groaned.
“Well that’s exactly what I did. ‘no mission too difficult, no sacrifice too great’, y’know?’” Dalia grinned
“Dalia you can’t do that shit in the city, what if one of the Marshals or a Guard patrol saw you,” Lucy chided.
Dalia held up her hand “Ah-ah, but they didn’t. Mark’s only on the third floor so I used my Raider skills to scurry up the gutter onto the balcony and let myself in through the window into his bedroom and start going through his drawers. I’m like, totally code white, not really paying attention. I actually had headphones on this whole time. So there I am, going through his underwear drawer and the fucking door to his bedroom flies open.”
“What!?” Lucy exclaimed, now fully invested in the story.
“In comes like not one, not two, but seven people piling into the room. This oldlady actually has the gaul to fucking break his shitty broom over my forearm while I’m hunched over. Look.” Dalia exposed a long thin purple mark on her forearm to the ocular.
“Who were they?” Lucy questioned leaning slightly forward to inspect it.
“Well that question kinda answered itself. One of the younger ones, about our age fucking grabs a flower pot off one of the desks. The flower pot I got him. Hucks it at me, misses, breaks it against the wall while screaming ‘thief!” Dalia emphasized the animated arm swing while acting out the line. “I duck and actually get a chance to look at them, all five of them are about our age, all blond, all like 1.6 or below’”
“Oh no…” Lucy groaned.
“Oh yes. All his schwesters, all five of them, his monna, and his granna were in his apartment cleaning it up and decorating for a fucking homecoming suprise party, and I just happened to bumble in through the window. I’m still a little caught off guard, so of course I stand up thinking I might have to fight my way out, and oh Mars. I have never seen so many people shrink so fast.”
“Well, what else were they gonna do, Dalia? Mark’s how tall? 179? They can’t be any bigger than that, I think terror was probably pretty sensible really.”
“Well, his granna is this tiny old Biblian probably not more than 45kg. I thought she was about to have a coronary from the look on her face. I take a step forward and try to explain and they fucking bolt out the door again and throw a chair under the nob. Totally locked in, now I’m scared they’re gonna actually summon the Marshals on me based on what I hear coming through the door. ‘Sirenese burglar on the loose’ if you can believe it.”
“So what’d you do? Just leave?” Lucy queried.
“I thought about it, but then I thought about having to explain it to my Battalion Commander if I really did get locked up, so I just bit the bullet and link'd Mark. I did my best to explain this batshit situation and then put him on speaker and slid the comm under the door. Absolute most awkward 10 minutes of my life listening to him trying to talk down a bunch of irate civilians. ‘No monna, she is not a criminal, that is my girlfriend.’” Dalia groaned at the remembered embarrassment.
“Well, I don’t think most people expect to 194cm of twisted Sirenese steel to just sneak into a third floor apartment from the balcony.” Lucy observed.
“Yeah ugh, I must’ve looked like a total ogre. Anyways, they were real apologetic about the whole thing after. His one schwester, Maeve, who organized the whole thing I guess. She was really nice actually. She gave a little, like, hand crostata she made.”
Lucy leaned slightly closer. The thought of eating something made with love and not the contempt of army cookery was too enticing. “Was it good?”
“I only had like a little bit because I said I would split it with Mark, but oh Mars, I almost ate the whole thing in front of her. Guess I'm in with the whole family now.” Dalia tugged at her sweatshirt. “His Monna saw this and offered to make me something new as compensation. I guess she runs that boutique off Mannerheim square.”
“The one next to that tarot and jewelry shop? I actually kinda like that place.” Lucy mentioned.
“Yeah that’s the one, I actually got this there the other day,” Dalia turned her head to show off a branch of silver metal circling her ear and growing through it at several points.
“That’s cute.” Lucy admired.
Dalia brushed her hair back over it. “Yeah, cheap too because it’s fake as hell.”
“God I can’t wait to get the fuck out of here,” Lucy moaned while setting her head down on the desk.
“Well, that was my day pretty much. You're still coming back tomorrow right?” Dalia asked while resuming a more comfortable position.
“Yeah, but Captain Mars certainly isn’t making things around here any less stupid. He wanted everyone to form up an hour before we step tomorrow so he could do an inspection.” Lucy relayed only half-paying attention again.
“So are you?” Dalia questioned.
Lucy glanced up. “What? No, of course not.” Lucy was suddenly agitated by the recollection. “I told him to fuck off actually. He fucking threatened to number 31 me too. Called his bluff. God I fucking hate him.”
Dalia connected some dots. “I guess you took Mark’s advice after all. I guess that’s what Capt. Wunder messaged me about. He said, ‘now I see why you two are friends’”
Lucy raised an eyebrow. “Well what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
Dalia ignored the question. “Knowing Mulleux, that’s probably not the last you’ll hear of it. ‘He knows people.’” Dalia made exaggerated air quotes. “Anything else happening there, how’d that rehearsal go?”
Should she tell her? What difference did it make if she did or didn’t know? Did she really have anyone else she could really talk with this about, who might even have a modicum of understanding? Sure, Sam would have her side, but he lacked context.
Dalia studied her through the ocular, “So something did happen.”
Lucy sighed. “My brother’s alive.”
Dalia jumped up from her seat. “What! You save that one until now! W-well which one? When did you find this out?”
“Yuri, and today, but I had suspicions, or hopes I guess. He’s a Hespo now. Was part of the TCO mission I guess.”
Dalia was still exasperated “Well, that’s great right? I’m sure that must’ve been a relief.”
Lucy tugged at her bangs. “I really wish it was. I’m kind of disgusted with the whole affair to be honest. I’m supposed to be happy and relieved, but it doesn’t feel like that at all. It’s been nine years and he still gets under my skin. Stupid bastard would’ve made a lot of things easier if he’d just stayed dead.”
“I take it the family reunion wasn’t too cordial then.”
“We had about ten seconds of bonding before we were shouting again. It’s like we picked up right where we left off. It pisses me off just thinking about it.” Lucy pounded the desk.
“He at least explain what happened?” Dalia questioned while settling down.
Lucy unclenched her fist and leaned back in her chair. “Your people shot him in the face, and he lived. I guess Hesperia took him in.”
Dalia held up her finger. “Not my people, Takavar more likely. The Rift-Guards didn’t deal with political stuff.”
“Wouldn’t make a difference to him. I bet it’d drive him crazy if he knew you and I were friends. He’s still in that old-Mars mindset.” Lucy shook her head.
“There’s a lot of people who have a bone to pick with the status-quo, some who couldn’t handle the change and some who didn’t think it changed enough.” Dalia lamented.
“Where do you think you fall?” Lucy questioned.
“I dunno, I was born into this same as you. Still just trying to figure out where I fit in. I mean, this isn’t bad. This White Army stuff I mean. Decent living, decent place to live. It’s not like I really know how to or could imagine myself doing anything else.”
Dalia’s sentiment was all too familiar, but it did spark another question. “I always meant to ask, but what happened to the rest of the Rift-Guards? I know there was never exactly a lot, but I thought there’d be more than just you floating around.”
“I’m not the only one in the White Army but, there weren’t a lot of us who could let it go when it all came tumbling down.” Dalia replied.
“So what happened? Did they all just stay in Sirenium?”
Dalia spoke more softly. “Most of them killed themselves; ‘passed themselves over to the fire’. We were supposed to.”
“You were just supposed to throw your lives away?”
Dalia shook her head. “I don’t really expect you to understand. Empire, that whole thing was all we knew. We didn’t have family’s or structure outside our units. Sirenium’s not like Tharsis, there was no sibkin or hearths or anything like that. Tiamen means throne-servant. That purple banner was everything to us. Like the book says: Not to forget one’s master is the most fundamental thing for a retainer,” she rattled off in perfect quotation.
“So what stopped you then?” Lucy questioned.
“I don’t really know. I came into the whole thing at the end I guess. When I left for Yukatan you could sort of already see the writing on the wall. The way people were talking, not openly really, but there were questions. What will happen to us? Who will take over? Who will carry the flame? Stuff like that. It seems so narrow looking at it now. They were trying to make the calculus work without the one thing that sustained it. The one’s who’d been with him from the beginning were the most scared. They really couldn’t imagine a world without Cyrus leading them. I was on Calypso when he kicked the bucket. It all just stopped.” Dalia twirled her finger around a strand of hair.
“Everyone was so confused, lost like I’d never seen before. I just felt like it would be wrong for me to get sucked down with this sinking ship despite everything I’d been told. I still had a lot more to do with my life. Still think about it sometimes, all the people who couldn’t deal with their world, everything they’d fought for, crumbling right before their eyes. I try to live for their sake I guess, at least on their behalf. Make sure at least one person made it out, moved on y’know.”
Lucy pursed her lips. “That’s a lot of responsibility to put on yourself.”
Dalia smiled and then laughed, banishing the gloom in an instant. “That’s rich coming from you.”
Lucy pouted. “I’m trying to be supportive.”
Dalia continued smiling reassuringly. “I hardly think about ‘His Imperial Majesty’ anymore. That stuff was a lifetime ago. Besides, I’ve got you to worry about now. Where would you be without me, huh?”
“I have no idea, honestly.” Lucy replied.
“Oh, that reminds me. I know Sam’s at that state dinner tonight, but he asked me to relay to you a proposal.”
“A proposal? What the fuck is he on about?”
Dalia grinned. “Well, that’s the exact word he used. I think your little spat the other night had an effect on him. Something about a trip to the racetrack in Lvonia sound?”
Lucy raised an eyebrow. “Racetrack? What, like cycles?”
“No, I think it’s with animals. It's like a gambling thing I guess. What’s the tall hairy one with the long face? You know, a hakwajh.”
Lucy stared into the projection for a moment trying to bridge the language gap. They both had a habit of falling back to their native for uncommonly used terms. “What, horses?” She offered.
Dalia snapped. “Yeah! That’s the one.”
“That sounds… fun I guess?” Lucy replied.