6 - 3
DUTY
“A Rifleman on Duty has no friends.” - Anonymous.
Treisa Volk was just putting the finishing touches on her dress white uniform. She’d picked it up from the cleaners earlier today. This was perhaps a bit later than she would’ve liked considering Mess was tomorrow. She made another attempt to center her rifles on the collar. Regulation did provide an exact measurement for where they should be located on the black patch on the jacket's stand collar, but it usually ended up looking better if applied by eye with a bit of patience. She pressed the device in. Satisfied after a close inspection she set to removing her fingerprints from the highly polished golden device with a lint-free cloth.
The room was drab; she’d lived here for years now but had never found a reason to supplement the interior. Army supplied furniture was good enough, and save for her bed coverings nearly nothing openly displayed was personal. The constant threat of moving everything she owned either into another room or into a storage unit for deployment had dissuaded her from acquiring too many things.
She viewed it sort of the same way she viewed her own appearance. There was no incentive for it to be beautiful except for personal gratification, so while clean and well cared for, accentuation was unnecessary. She usually didn’t bother with make-up and regularly pulled her black hair into a styleless but viciously practical bun. The only reason she didn’t shave it all off anymore was out of fear of being mistaken for a man from the back, or worse yet, a boot. A little shorter than average and about the same height as Krieger, her wide and muscular build did not ease the problem, but it didn’t bother her either. Her unquestioned physical prowess made her appearance a worthy sacrifice. Out of all the girls in the platoon only Volk had been able to match the Princess in the weight room; though no one, man or woman, could compete with her limitless stamina.
That, and she had never felt the pretty-privilege that Priveda or the Princess unknowingly flaunted every day. When she was younger her appearance was complimented, with particular focus on the friendly quality of her brown eyes, but as the years and experience honed her it became less common and more back-handed. Scar tissue had built up around her eyes from innumerable bare-knuckle fights and aggressive sparing. It dragged the outer corners down ever so slightly, leaving them permanently half-lidded and disinterested when not filled with spite. Her nose was similarly damaged. The Battalion Surgeon had corrected her deviated septum, but he had been rushed, and it was still very slightly crooked. They were flaws which could be easily fixed. She simply saw no point in correcting or concealing them.
The only things left out across the room were for ease of access: a weight lifting belt and wrist wraps, a cased mouthguard for combatives, and a few tiny music cassettes that Peblt had given her. They were old technology, the kind of retrotech that hung around as a novelty from the days before Mars had globe spanning communications. Early colonists found it easier to distribute physical media rather than rely on bandwidth restricted communications to share art.
As far as their artistic value, they were okay. It was all Harpy Noise, they had been extremely popular in Pavin for a few years and then fell out of public consciousness nearly as quickly. Peblt had a lingering obsession with them and distributed the music as a way of gathering accomplices to her rabid fan-girling.Volk humored her, but had never gotten around to listening to all of it.
Now was as good a time as any; she snatched up one of the cassettes with the intention of putting it on in the background while she worked. She glanced at the unlocked terminal on her desk as she approached. It was halfway into the much maligned ‘ghost time’, the spare 37 minutes a Martian day had left when a standard 24 had elapsed. She would’ve liked to start much earlier, but that stupid Lioness had kept her and Priveda both at the RAMP long past working hours. Their ‘buddy’, the AI ‘virtual crewmember’ who assisted in situational awareness and target acquisition, was acting up. Even though the vehicle was now mechanically fully capable the problem would hamper them when live-fire Gunnery started next week. Priveda insisted it was caused by Volk’s penchant for slamming the display and controls as well as verbally abusing it when it acted out of turn. This was a disgusting Lancer superstition as far as she was concerned.
A soft rap on the door pulled her focus away from the task at hand. She grumbled, searching for something to throw on to more completely cover herself before answering the door. It was uncomfortably hot in the barracks, climatics were on the fritz as they were more often than not in this rat-hole. As soon as she’d gotten home she’d stripped down to a sportsbra and shorts to make it somewhat bearable. Yanking her Advanced Combatives hoodie off the back of a chair and then on, she approached the door and peered through the peep.
Sean. Of course it was Sean. He had actually bothered to change into civies this time. She fastened the chain and opened the door. Seevan leaned towards the gap bracing one hand on the doorframe to steady himself. He opened his mouth and then hesitated, she didn’t bother waiting.
“What the fuck do you want, Sean.”
Seevan pulled his head away from opening, repulsed by her curtness. “I uh, can I come in?”
“You’re drunk,” she observed, lip curling slightly.
Seevan squinted, swaying slightly then grabbing the doorframe again to steady himself. “Yeah. So what?”
“You have duty in eight hours. You’re gonna be still drunk at PT. Again.”
Seevan rolled his head and his eyes both in intoxicated annoyance. “Can I fuckin’ come in or not Trish? I just wanna talk.”
“Fine.” Volk pushed the door closed in frustration. She was really starting to hate him more and more. It was obvious why he came to her; he didn’t have anyone else left. Even his own sibkin didn’t understand him anymore.
She let out a harsh breath while unfastening the chain and opened the door again while motioning him in. “Get the fuck in here before anyone sees. Last thing I need is anyone getting the idea we’re fucking.”
They did on occasion, finding each other physically pleasant enough. It was only ever a thoroughly mechanical and combative affair, and certainly hadn’t fostered any special emotional connection. The activity was divorced from reproduction, reducing it to, at least to members of their social standing, recreation. Natural Martian fertility was so pitifully low that even without the mandatory contraception they had both been implanted with during enlistment it was a risk free activity. They had already returned samples back to the genepool anyways. Procreation was a function of the state or private enterprise if you were particularly wealthy or influential.
On the enlisted side of the Rifles, having an established relationship and some kind of sexual fidelity, the way Yuel and Gorshkov or Rand and Priveda did, was far more scandalous than occasionally banging out a quick cheap one with one of your peers. Even Milano’s gender agnostic man-whoring was generally tolerable. It earned him the nickname ‘training wheels’: easy to ride; forgiving to beginners. There was nothing habitual about her and Seevan’s occasional coupling. Even within those bounds, neither of them had found an appropriate mood in months.
Seevan bumbled through the door and she stuck her head through the opening, throwing a quick glance down the catwalk and to the quad for prying eyes. The place was dead, it was ghost time on a weeknight. While people would be raging until the sun rose tomorrow, tonight they were at the mercy of a 0530 formation for PT.
She threw one last glance down the cat-walk. Priveda’s lights were still on, visible by the dull glow they cast through the curtain onto the grass. Rand must’ve been there. Little innocent errand-boy Rand just cuddling the night away with Priveda. Not a care in the world, while she had to deal with this ass. They didn’t even realize how lucky they were. She was stuck with Sean. Stuck.
She turned around as he plopped himself into her desk chair, tilting his head to the side to inspect her white uniform jacket.
“You talk to Maude lately?” he asked while thumbing the white cloth of the jacket's sleeve.
“Is that really why you came here?”
She hoped it wasn’t; she had enough rocks in her ruck already without dealing with his problems. They had been together since the very beginning. They had been in the same Basic Military Training platoon, the same squad at Rifle Training Battalion, and in Cutlass for their entire careers, even being in the same section for some time. More than five years they’d known each other and had been to combat together twice now, arriving at something of a mutual and uncomfortably accurate understanding. She’d watched his transition from raw recruit, to combat tested veteran, to the bitter survivor he was now. It burned her seeing how much he’d slipped away over the years.
“Yeah actually.” Seevan said sullenly. “I link’d her earlier in the day just to check up on her and stuff. She seems like she’s doin’ okay over-all. Still having a hard time talking, mostly using signs and that translator. I can see how mad she is when she can’t get her point across.” Seevan continued playing with her jacket. Volk stomped over and pulled it out of his grip and put it back on its hanger and well out of his reach.
“She’ll be fine; she just needs to adjust,” Volk reassured him roughly.
She had intentionally avoided talking to Weiss lately. It hurt so badly seeing what she had been reduced to. Maude Weiss’s road to recovery had been long and agonizing. To Volk at least, it was clear she would never be the same person. The compressed skull fracture that had put her out of the fight initially gave way to a slow cerebral hemorrhage that’d done serious damage to the speech and memory linked portions of her brain before it was tended to. The long delay between her injury and actually receiving higher echelon medical care was no doubt to blame.
Maude was still in there, hidden behind a thin haze and troubled communication. On her good days it was like nothing had ever happened; on her bad days it was like seeing someone trapped inside their own skull. Her condition was improving, but slowly. Volk found it so agonizing she had to stop trying for a while to keep her own sanity. She wasn’t sure which she hated more, her own inability to be there for her mentor, or watching the shattered remnants try to piece itself back together. Maude had lost so much, the person she loved and her identity as a soldier, the things she had dedicated her life to.
Seevan wallowed in the torture. She could see it in every line in his face as he clenched his hands to keep them from shaking. “I’m faster than Toni, shoulda been me carrying her.” He muttered darkly. “He woulda made it across if he’d just been a little faster, definitely would’ve made it if he wasn’t carrying anybody. Hell, shoulda been me who went for Giacomo in the first place. I should be the one with a plate in my head, he was my guy. Nobody would miss-”
“Sean,” Volk paused his mumbled rumination while relaxing her posture. “We can’t go back and do it over again.”
He slumped over and let out the tiniest of choked whimpers while tugging at his red-brown hair, still unwilling to bare himself completely. The disgust she felt just bubbled up as some visceral reaction. It was grief transmogrified. Greif for the man who was now lost to her and himself, for the things they had both lost.
Two more years she had left. Just one last pump to worry about. Hopeful to somewhere uneventful, compensation for the quiet trip to the Belt they had been cheated out of by Rift Republic War. Two more years and she could be done with all of this, never having to see another person so consumed, so used up. She could take the pension and benefits and move on with her life. Forget.
Volk dragged him up from the chair into a hug while her own eyes began to water. Most of all, she hated seeing him like this. All it did was remind her of everything they had both become so accustomed to blocking out with anger. He hunched over to sob into her shoulder while she silently held him and did her best not to lose herself completely to her own tears.
They mercifully slowed down as they approached the barracks. Sgt. Dygalo eased the pace, running backwards parallel to most of the squad to watch Svertson hound Kick and Donphrit some distance away. The pace of the run was positively suicidal, Dygalo’s Raider School adventure had given him a new desire to stress them physically. Even without the Princess, every morning had been new torture.
Rand hated it deeply, but he always kept up. When he was younger and stupider he’d chased some pipe-dream about becoming physically fit enough that this would be easy. It was never easier, one just became accustomed to the strain. Everything seemed to be changing, his habits and out-look, even his body. Svertson accompanied him to the gym after work and Priveda had filled his head with aspirations of getting expert laurels on his rifles which meant plenty of studying and even more physical preparations. It was having an effect, while torturous, these PT sessions didn’t challenge him the same way he had learned to challenge himself. Balachenko commented that he was even losing his boyish good-looks as he leaned out.
The stragglers were at the limit of their abilities as the rest of the squad hastily assembled into a cool-down circle around their leader. Donphrit finished first. He wasn’t particularly out of shape, just a bad runner. He was a big boy, large in every way and dark with hair that would’ve been the same type of curly as Sgt. Rybeck’s if wasn’t all shaved off. He had the kind of tubby athleticism most often found on grav-ball flank defenders, while strong and explosive in short bursts his stamina was limited.
Kick on the other hand seemed to suffer from a tiny heart. He just didn’t have it in him to push himself past his limits without someone hounding him. Svertson was more than willing to hound his scrawny ass all the way to the finish-line.
“That was fuckin’ hard right?” Sgt. Dygalo asked as Kick pulled his mask onto his forehead and staggered off into the grass to void his stomach contents.
“Ahh, sarn’t” the squad replied between muffled pants.
“Good. It’s supposed to be hard. It’s designed that way ya’ unner-stan?” Dygalo asked rhetorically, unsnapping his own mask as a cue they could now do the same. They gave another truncated ‘Ahee-a’ in acknowledgement.
“Every fucking thing we do is a rehearsal for combat. Little run ain’t no shit when no one’s shooting at you. Rand.” Sgt. Dygalo turned towards him. “Why don’t you tell weak-body Kick over there how fucking hard it is sprinting in full kit while carrying a wounded Rifleman under fire.”
Rand had blocked out that memory, it only ever returned in visceral flashes and couldn’t be summoned on command. Rand flicked his eyes over to Kick as he staggered back over to the group, spittle and snot still running down his face.
“It’s uh, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, Sarn’t.” Rand answered. It seemed to be enough to illustrate the Squad Leader’s point.
“You heard it from the man himself.” Dygalo announced while turning to Kick and Donphrit, pointing to each of them in sequence. “You and you, need to take this shit seriously. If you are not fit, you will die and someone else will get killed trying to save you, check?”
“Check, Sarn’t”, they acknowledged.
Dygalo glanced at his chrono, “Dress white inspection at 0930, formation will be out here on the quad. Take the extra time, fix whatever the fuck is wrong with your uniform and clean up. Rand, remember you’ve got duty today. Service Charlies, 0800, at the CP for change over.”
“Check rodge, Sarn’t. Uh, did you get a chance to look at the duty-roster, Sarn’t? I didn’t see who I was on with.” Rand asked while wiping the sweat away from his face with his sleeve. It was a last minute change. Tybalt had begged him to take the duty on account of him using the Mess as a venue to court some girl he had met out in town. Rand did it out of kindness and the fact Priveda didn’t mind, even turning down Tybalt’s offered 3 libbie bribe. There would be plenty more Messnights to come, and it was better to have someone owe you a favor than money.
“Corporal Seevan’s with you. Senior LeStraum is Senior Duty NCO and Lt. Nix is Officer of the Day.” Dygalo answered. Rand frowned, it was Messnight so it would certainly be an eventful duty, but he had sort of hoped he would be paired up with someone chill. Seevan had been a huge ass ever since they got back, Senior LeStraum had never lost the chip on her shoulder from her time as a BMT Drill Instructor, and Lt. Nix would always err to a Senior NCO’s judgment. Rand found him rather spineless.
Rand arrived at the CP’s atrium precisely fifteen minutes early, the battalion’s off-going duties were already there in the hopes that they would be relieved a few minutes early. Each of the companies supplied an NCO and a Soldier to staff their own barracks building, while a Senior NCO and Officer manned the desk at the Battalion and roved the footprint to make sure everyone was doing what they were supposed to. The Officer of the Day and Staff Duty NCO did change over with the Battalion XO and Sergeant Major respectively so now they were just waiting for them to exit and give them guidance before the on-coming duties assumed their posts.
Cpl. Seevan was the last to arrive, rushing through the door just before Senior LeStraum and Lt. Nix made their way down the stairs. This drew a few spiteful glances from his peers, he was late to being early, but otherwise went unnoticed. He looked tired and hung-over, but was clean shaven and his chucks were well put-together and worn so he didn’t draw any more attention. He took better care of his duties than he did of himself.
“The relief’s posted. Go away.” Senior LeStraum motioned at off-going duties with a dismissive hand wave.
Rand thought she looked old, certainly older than the mid 30’s she actually was. The life of a Rifleman took a particularly hard toll on the body and she had been doing it all of her adult life. It was the same weathered look that Karoff had only taken to a slightly greater extent. Tall and thin, streaks of white ran through her heavily slicked back bun. Obvious crows feet poked out at the corner of her intense eyes. Her service Charlie uniform still had the crispness of the Drill Field although she hadn’t served there in several years. All of the creases in her khaki dress shirt looked stiff and well ironed, the short sleeves were tailored to cling to her arms, the ribbon rack was perfectly assembled and placed. Her dark brown pants were so perfectly fitted and starched they looked painted on. It was everything civilians imagined when they heard the words military precision.
“What the fuck is wrong with all of you. Get to parade rest.” LeStraum snapped.
This was standard procedure, but not one carefully observed in this context. Rand assumed the position while she continued. “All special and general instructions remain the same as in the Duty SOP, with the exception that there will be no sleeping hours tonight. We’re going to need all hands to wrangle the drunk morons. Furthermore, your place of duty is at the desk or roving. No skating out to the shopette, no hiding in your fucking barracks rooms and taking turns at the desk. You may rotate to chow during chow hours. During Mess a steward will come by to bring you food.” LeStraum paused for a moment, scanning her audience for a victim. Her eyes stopped on Falchion’s Duty NCO.
“Nitter, what’s your 9th General Order?”
“To call the Sergeant of the Guard in any case not covered by instructions, Senior.” Cpl. Nitter spit out after some slight waffling.
“Correct. That’s me.” LeStraum resumed scanning their faces for any hint of distraction. “I will have the duty comm on my person at all times. If any of you find yourself in a situation you can’t handle, link me immediately. However, I encourage you to solve issues at the lowest level possible. If I have to come down to the barracks for some kind of contingency, I’m bringing the Marshals and an ass-kicking with me, Check?”
“Check rodge, Senior.” they acknowledged.
LeStraum made a perfunctory gesture to the Officer of the Day. “Lt. Nix, anything for them?”
“Nope. I think that covers it, Senior.” Nix answered with a shake of his head. His own uniform looked shockingly unadorned compared to hers. His Rifles were still silver; rather than rows upon rows of ribbons worn in place of medals, above his left breast pocket only a single device was displayed, the Tharsis Defense Medal in white-red ribbon format. It was awarded for serving in the White Army in a time of war. Everyone had it. Mars was always at war.
Rand glanced around. While he didn’t have quite as many as some people here, only two rows, but he certainly had the highest individual award. He didn’t like wearing it; it brought a lot of unwanted attention. Everyone always wanted to hear the story behind the Victory Star.
LeStraum seemed like she was about to release them to go assume their posts before she caught herself. “Oh, and just let me catch one of you poorbirthed sibkin fuckers lacking, sleeping at the desk, or fucking off on your comm instead of paying attention. I will annihilate you.”
Rand swallowed reflexively. It wasn’t a threat, but a promise. Cutlass’s Weapons Platoon felt her wrath on a daily basis and Rand had seen it first hand. “Check, rodge, Senior” Rand spit out reflexively. His was the only acknowledgement to cut the silence.
LeStraum’s brow furrowed with displeasure and she let out a shrieking “Respond!” command as if she had just stepped straight back onto the drill field.
The command cut through the malaise and the group acknowledged in chorus.
They returned to the duty hut without further issue. Seevan immediately drew the blinds closed and then set about opening the log for today. Pausing for a second, he tossed a black brossard labeled “2/1RFL G Co. A-DUTY'' at Rand while he put the Duty NCO’s belt and brossard on.
Rand put the armband on without verbal acknowledgement. It was clear Cpl. Seevan would want to avoid talking for the next several hours. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin had an ashen clamminess about it. He’d clearly been up most of the night, probably shithoused again. How Seevan even managed to function somewhat normally after his nightly binge astonished him.
Every day, as soon as the platoon was released, Seevan went straight to the One Rifles Gym and vigorously exercised for roughly an hour and a half. After that he would eat at the Line Mess and stop at the shoppette on the way back to buy whatever was the cheapest and strongest then lock himself in his room to get plastered. Usually he spent so long drinking in isolation he was still drunk when they showed up to PT formation the next day. Another bout of strenuous exercise at PT mostly straightened him out for the work day and then the cycle would repeat all over again.
Rand doubted he ever slept naturally, only passing out when the drink overtook him. His short fuze seemed to grow shorter every day and he took out his frustrations on the boots. It didn’t matter if they were his or not; he just seemed to have some sort of bottomless hatred for them as a category.
He and Corporal Volk were also in some kind of spat everyday. It was a wonder 2nd Squad actually got any work done at all. He mostly left his Section Leaders, Peblt and Yuel, alone. They were both senior Rifleman acting in a billet above their rank so Seevan granted them some measure of slack but he and Volk were always at eachothers throats over some stupid minutiae.
It had become so regular and such a problem Rand had even overheard Senior, Sgt. Krieger, and Sgt. Dygalo discuss it. They had mentioned potentially trading one of them to another Company, or even forcing Seevan to go to treatment for his problem. The issue was they were both too valuable to lose but also unwilling to admit they had a problem. Volk was completely convinced she was always in the right, and with Seevan until he fucked up, he had to self-enroll in one of the substance abuse programs. The command couldn’t force him to go without a Number 31 verdict to back it up. Everyone wanted to avoid that. His failing would unnecessarily skyline the entire chain of command and deprive them of an otherwise generally competent Squad Leader when the entire Company was hurting for experienced NCO’s.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Everyone needed him to straighten himself out and finally pass the Sergeant’s Board so the platoon could return to some kind of normal manning, but there seemed to be no way to drag him out of his tailspin. Everyone had tried at one point, Kreiger, Dygalo, Verac, even Senior and 1st Sergeant had all had ‘come to the light’ discussions with him. Even Rybeck, when he had been back on the installation to visit his family during a break in his SLI training, stopped by the barracks to attempt to make him see sense. Nothing had worked. Most people simply stopped trying.
Conventional wisdom reasoned there were two types of Rifleman: strong and smart. A smart Rifleman didn’t make mistakes. A strong Rifleman made them all the time and paid the price. Seevan had veered far into one category and what did not kill him, would make him stronger.
Rand fed this line of thought in silence for the first hour and change of their 24 hour posting. Seevan left once for a few minutes to rove his post, only speaking to scold Rand when he tried to eat his breakfast at the duty desk. Apparently the smell of food was making him nauseous.
Rand begrudgingly ate it outside while Cutlass formed in their dress whites on the quad for inspection. Siobhán stopped by the duty hut briefly to ask for assistance in fastening her collar. The metal hook and loop used to keep the stand together was always a bitch to fasten yourself. She promised to bring him back some provisions from the shoppette and hang out at the desk later then switched back into Priveda and left to join the rest of the Platoon.
Watching her walk away, Rand appreciated how good she was at keeping their personal and professional lives separate. It helped that they weren’t in the same squad, but even then they made a conscious effort to keep an appropriate distance in uniform, at least when people were watching anyway, and it had mostly worked. He only heard occasional gossip from his peers, and his leadership had mostly turned a blind eye. So far only Sgt. Dygalo had tried to dissuade him, but Rand couldn’t quite take him seriously. Dygalo was on his second marriage now, and both were to other soldiers. Though neither were in their Battalion, it very much came off as a ‘do as I say, not as I do’ direction.
The only other nominally ‘in charge’ person who voiced any caution was Cpl. Shimpachi, their new Hospitalman. All she did was give Rand a long and uncomfortable class on sexual hygiene. Rand thought the graphic slides depicting various types of venereal infection were both revolting and wholly unnecessary to get her point across.The portions about the consequences of action in a particularly in a field environment were particularly unsettling. Who exactly would want to fuck after being sweaty and dirty for days on end with no chance to bathe? He thought it was inherently disgusting, and doubly so after Shimpachi explained some people were actually into that. Priveda wasn’t into that was she? It hadn’t come up yet. He really hoped not.
Once duty hours ended and the slave suits came off he and Siobhán were free to enjoy themselves and enjoying himself he was. Their time together cut into his other social obligations, something which Balachenko complained about relentlessly, but it was well spent. She’d drug him out to do a whole litany of things he would never have thought to do by himself. Some of them were risky and borderline illegal, like taking their bikes on a particularly challenging off-road trek through the lesser used sections of Fort Fortune’s training area. He swallowed his apprehensions and went along anyway, claiming a ‘Warning: Unexploded Ordnance - Enter at Own Risk’ sign from around one of the 1st Independence War battlefields the Military Reservation enclosed as a prize for their efforts. In general, she seemed to have a thing for danger and he was beginning to think he did as well. Though she’d shown equal interest in his own hobbies, fishing in particular, and had even become a regular guest at his childhood home.
Mr. and Mrs. Rand both seemed rather pleased after his mother got over her appearance. She was of Tyrehnian stock and they considered tattoos and piercings vulgar insults to the purity of the human form. Rand made sure to wear long sleeves at home, convinced seeing any of the growing number of marks on his body would put her into a manic episode. Siobhán had kept adding to her collection. Some large and spindly spider on the back of her right hand with its legs extending down her fingers and up her wrist being the newest addition. Given the impossibility of concealing them, Siobhán simply turned up the charm and helped with a few chores which was enough to win mom over.
His father was much less skeptical, simply pleased that he had brought a nice girl home, while carefully avoiding asking either of them about work. Siobhán had noticed all of the White Army memorabilia posted around his shop. It was awkward explaining to her that he and his own father had never much spoken about his time in the Rifles. She didn’t quite understand why a family wouldn’t tell each other everything. Siobhán had three quarters of a dozen sibkin with which she stayed in fairly regular contact; they shared every detail. All of them being born on the same day made them peers in some sense. Explaining to her the strange power dynamic of the reified nuclear-family was difficult, but mostly understandable once he put it into military terms. She was curious, but it was so alien to her own experience growing up entirely within the Pavin City development system she just didn’t grasp it intuitively. He mostly placated her with the vague details he knew.
Mr. Rand had retired after 14 years as a Senior Rifleman Sergeant, right around the time his older sister was assigned to them from the dev-center. Rand initially never questioned it out of ignorance. Since he had returned from Greendome, he did not ask out of respect. Priveda understood that well enough.
Rand finished the last of his hashbrowns right as the formation began to disperse. He headed over to the lot to toss his paper trash into one of the composting bins. As he was making his way back he picked out a figure still in dress whites making a beeline toward the duty hut. Just as he got back inside and was about to warn Cpl. Seevan, Volk ripped open the window and blinds.
“Seevan!”
Seevan gave an angry grumble and shaded his eyes from the sunlight with his hand. “What!”
Volk, scowling viciously, stood on her toes and leaned through the open window. “Did you fucking tell Buchet to go to sick call this morning!?”
Seevan scowled even harder at the unpleasant volume of her accusation. “Yeah, I fucking did!”
“Why didn’t you tell me?!” She demanded.
“He’s been complaining about his stupid fucking knee all week. I told him to either suck it the fuck up, or go to BAS and take care of it. I’m the fucking Squad Leader; I don’t need to ask for your fucking permission everytime I make a decision about MY fucking Squad!” Seevan growled.
Volk leaned even further through the window, like she was trying to get her hands on him. “You dumb fuck, I just took a fucking asschewing from Senior and 1st Sergeant on your account because he wasn’t at the inspection and I didn’t know where he was. Stop hoarding information you lab-experiment!”
“Get the fuck down from there womanlet; you’re gonna scratch up your belt buckle,” Seevan hissed back.
Volk looked down at herself, the highly polished golden buckle fastening the belt around her coat waist was in fact resting on the window’s frame. She jumped down with a frustrated grunt and stormed around to the duty hut’s entrance farther down the building. Rand stood in awkward silence in the entrance to the room as the clacking footfalls of her corfams and soft jingle of her medals grew in volume.
“Fucking bitch.” Seevan mumbled under his breath.
Volk reappeared behind Rand and shoved him out the doorway, barely registering his presence while she picked up right where she left off. “What the fuck is your problem, you never tell me shit! You just do! It’s always the same garbage. I’m the only other fucking NCO. I need to know this shit because there’s no one else to manage the chaos when you’re gone!”
“You never ask!” Seevan shot up from his seat at the desk “I was sitting here all fucking morning, you could’ve strolled up at any time or messaged me and asked for notes. Maybe if you’d actually been at PT you would’ve know the fucking plan for the day!”
Volk laughed angrily while approaching him closer. “Be at PT? I was at the RAMP with Priveda at zero-five working on the fucking Lioness you don’t seem to give a shit about. When are you going to take some responsibility!”
Rand cleared his throat. Volk and Seevan both snapped their eyes to him.
“Get out!” Volk screamed.
“No, you get the fuck outside!” Seevan countered. “Don’t drag Rand into this; the only thing he’s doing is his job.”
Volk’s scowl deepened again and she pivoted around and exited the Duty hut while Seevan leveled a finger at him. “Stay the fuck here, watch the comm, watch the desk. I’ll be back.”
“Check rodge, Corporal.” Rand acknowledged while Seevan followed her outside and the shouting resumed and then died down as they evidently disappeared into another room for more privacy.
Rand took Seevan’s previous place at the desk. There was weird tension between those two. Weird because of the regularity with which they got red in the face, white-knuckle mad at each other over seemingly nothing. There was some other else he couldn’t quite identify. He stood there for the entire opening of their argument and he still wasn’t sure what either of them were so worked up over. So she got her ass chewed, what of it? And why did he react with such venom? And where did they even disappear to? That animal passion, it was almost- lustful. They weren't, were they? No, they hated each other; they’d never, Rand assured himself.
“Not on the face.” Volk said tersely as she stripped off her dress white jacket and then quickly adjusted her undershirt. “I need to look presentable tonight.”
“Fine,” Seevan agreed while locking the door to his barracks room. Volk couldn’t wait a moment longer and threw her jacket onto the bed, rushing towards him and smashing her fist into his liver with a vicious punch.
Rand spent a few minutes imagining, it was scandalous, disgusting, yet oh so intriguing. He drummed his fingers on the table and stared at the open log. He could at least cover for Seevan, regardless of what he was actually doing. It’d been some time since the last entry, he hammered something out to fill the log. ‘DNCO ROVES, A-DUTY ASSUMES POST- 1037 LOCAL’. Rand authenticated the entry with his bond chip and then spent another few minutes uncomfortably twiddling his thumbs until curiosity got the better of him.
Seevan’s room was only two doors down from the duty hut, they probably went there. He snatched up the portable log and duty comm to make his roving look official and slinked down the catwalk. The blinds were closed. He threw a few cursory glances around before he leaned closer to the door. Without even getting too close, the sounds of crashing furniture and two people tussling, grunting, and moaning were clearly audible. Rand felt his face flush. It sounded incredibly violent; he’d never done or even imagined doing anything like that with Priveda.
“You like that, bitch?” Seevan asked while repeatedly kneeing her from a Thai clinch. Volk let out a series of pained grunts as they connected with her abdomen, only able to partially block the blows with her arms, but then caught the next knee. Using it as a lever, she swept his other foot out from under him and threw him to the ground with a hard thud. Seevan executed a partial breakfall and then scrambled up to three points.
Volk dove onto him dragging him back down. “Maybe if you did it like a man!” she responded while smashing a horizontal elbow into one of his kidneys.
Rand suppressed a gasp. The way they were talking to each other. In the middle of the act? Sure it made some kind of sense given their emotional state, but it was so utterly deviant to his sensibilities. He never imagined himself a voyeur, but here it was, happening right in front of him, and he was completely entranced.
“Rand is that you?”
He stiffened and jerked his head over his shoulder. It was Cpl. Lachenski in camouflage utilities, with another Cannonier in tow. Rand pressed his finger up to his lips and motioned him over. Lachenski returned a confused look, motioned for the Canoneer following him to fuck off for a moment, then walked over. Lachenski’s eyes widened with shock as he matched Rand’s posture next to the door.
“Is that Volk and Seevo in there?” Lachenski asked under his breath.
Rand nodded vigorously.
“Holy Mons, they didn’t used to do it like that,” Lachenski whispered.
Seevan fell back onto all fours with an agonized groan. “What, are you finished?” Volk asked between labored pants. She dropped another thumping elbow onto Seevan’s right kidney and he yelped in agony again. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got? You're so fucking pathetic.”
Seevan recovered and steadied himself while she caught her breath. “I’m not finished until you’re finished!” He kicked out to one side and spun around her into a hasty butterfly guard.
Volk let out a squeal of shock as she felt herself being lifted off the ground by his legs. She attempted to post with one hand to halt the reversal, but Seevan caught and isolated the limb as he rolled on top and reversed the position anyways, throwing it into a hasty armbar. Out of respect, he didn’t yank on it, just slowly applied building pressure as she squirmed and contorted in an attempt to escape the submission. Her whimpers of pain and exertion grew more intense and desperate as he continued torquing the joint.
“Come on, I know you’re close. Give in already, damn it! I’ll break it!” He demanded.
With one final triumphant gasp Volk yanked her wrist out of Seevan’s grip and through his legs, breaking the submission and initiating another desperate scramble.
Lachenski bit at his lip and then shook it off. He placed his hand on Rand’s shoulder and leaned to whisper in his ear. “Hey big-shot, let's give them some privacy at least.”
The suggestion broke Rand’s spell of fascination and he nodded, following Lachenski over to the smoking Gazebo on the quad.
“Wanna smoke?” Lachenski offered.
Rand rubbed at his chin for a moment. “Uh, sure I guess.” He needed some kind of distraction.
Lachenski passed off a deathstick to Rand and lit one for himself while motioning the Cannonier who had been accompanying him back over.
“What’re you doing around here Corporal? Haven’t seen you in a while.” Rand asked while receiving the lighter.
Lachenski smiled. “Glad to see I’m missed. We’re about to re-attach here in about a week. You’ll be seeing me, Sarn’t Ike, and all the other Observers around here again pretty soon.” Lachenski pointed to the much shorter and younger Cannonier he’d brought with him. “That’s actually why I came over here. This is Schwartz, he’s my new apprentice. Just kinda showing him around introducing him to everybody.”
“Ah that makes sense.” Rand nodded while extending his hand toward Schwartz. “Rifleman Rand, I’m the #2 MAAWS Gunner in Weapons Squad.”
Scwartz was staring at the ribbon rack on his chest. Another thrust of his hand broke the trance and Schwartz shook it roughly. “Nice to meet you.”
Lachenski took a long pull from his cigarette and leaned back onto the railing. “Man, I am glad to be back here. Can’t wait to take this fucking thing off.” Lachenski pulled at the 5th Field Artillery Regimental flash pinned above his breast pocket. “They treat us like shit over there. It’s ‘guns guns guns’ all the time. Not a hint of love for the observers.”
“It’ll be good to have you back.” Rand took a fake pull from his, he didn’t really inhale and mostly took it out of politeness, but even his short drags were already making him a bit light headed.
“Speaking of love hints.” Lachenski motioned back towards the barracks.
Cpl. Seevan exited his room shortly followed by Cpl. Volk, both looking particularly disheveled. Seevan spent a few moments fixing his gig-line and then re-fastened Cpl. Volk’s dress jacket collar while she straightened out her hair. Rand thought he was being awfully cordial considering. They must have blown it all off. He shivered involuntarily; it was a weird solution and not one he had ever considered. They both spotted the trio under the gazebo and moved across the grass to join them.
Volk rubbed at her lower abdomen tenderly while she approached, glancing at Seevan. “Mars, it feels like you rearranged my guts.”
“You got what you asked for. Keep running your mouth and I’ll do it again,” Seevan warned.
“Oh please,” Volk snorted. “I had you finished like three times over.”
Lachenski and Rand both stared at them wordlessly for a few beats. A long section of ash broke off of Rand’s ZV as he held it motionless a few centimeters from his mouth.
“Why the fuck are you looking at me like that, cannon-cocker.” Volk sneered at Lachenski while pointing at her foot. “I’ll put this dress shoe so far up your ass you’ll taste the polish.”
Lachenski smiled while offering them the pack. “I’m glad nothing around here changes.”
Seevan waved it off for a moment, extracting his own pack from his pocket and then grimacing with annoyance upon discovering it had been crushed in the tussle. “Rand, I thought I told you to stay at the desk.”
“Yeah sorry, Corporal. Cpl. Lachenski just came by and I thought it’d be okay if I stepped out for a few minutes.” Rand braced for a hellish rebuke, surely Seevan wouldn’t make him exercise while he was wearing his chucks, but there were plenty of other degrading things he was sure the man could dream up.
Seevan glanced at his chrono, he had been gone for nearly twenty minutes; Volk could still fight with the best of them. “Hmph, whatever, at least you took the Duty shit with you. Anyone come by?” Rand shook his head and offered him the log and comm back. He took both and then motioned towards the building. “Just finish your smoke and head back inside.”
Rand took a final pull off his smoke and flicked it into the buttcan. “Check, rodge, Corporal.”
Volk extracted a metal tin from her back pocket, taking a small pouch out and stuffing it under her upper lip. “Shouldn’t you be skating somewhere else Lachenski?”
“We reattach next week; just showing this guy around.” Lanchenski explained again motioning to Schwartz with an unlit ZV and then passing it to Seevan.
Volk and Seevan both looked him up and down intensely, eyes snapping to the silver cannons on his collar, evidently annoyed the gaze didn’t immediately send him to parade rest. “No combat experience, huh?” Volk questioned him.
“Uh, n-no.” Schwartz responded, taken aback slightly.
“No, Corporal.” Volk corrected aggressively.
“Stop stuttering, boot. Is she making you nervous?” Seevan added in a mocking addendum.
“No, Corporal.” Schwartz repeated while fidgeting slightly as he assumed parade rest, instinctively sensing something bad brewing.
Volk smirked at his discomfort. “You’ll get some soon enough; just try to make yourself useful before you die.”
“Check, Corporal”
Seevan’s face twitched as Schwartz unknowingly prodded his pet peeve. “That’s check rodge, Corporal! She wants to know if you heard and will comply! I oughta put this ZV out on your fucking eyeball.” Seevan shouted while thrusting the still burning cigarette in his direction.
Lachenski took a few steps back to conceal his chuckling. This was something of a tradition. Cannoniers, Forward Observers in particular, had a much more relaxed understanding of customs and courtesies than Rifleman did. This shock-therapy in cultural exchange was an important part of getting them to integrate with the maneuver element they’d be spending the next several months part of.
Volk held her arm out and pointed downwards. “Push, bitch.”
Schwartz threw a look at Lachenski for aid. Lachenski put on his best poker face and folded his arms. Completely bewildered by how the situation had escalated so rapidly, Schwartz began doing push-ups while Volk gave more degrading verbal encouragement. Seevan joined in briefly, but Volk simply held her hand up in the universal I got this signal and he respectfully let her take charge.
Lachenski moved a few meters away with Seevan to continue their conversation. “Anything new around here?”
“Same old shit; the new Platoon Commander is wet behind the ears, but Senior’s got everything under control.” Seevan explained.
“Can’t get lucky every time,” Lachenski sighed. “Definitely not two of the Princess anywhere in the Solar. We’ll just have to get on without her.”
“Yeah. Say, I was looking at the inbound roster for the company. We're getting a new XO here soon. Didn’t you say you worked with a Lt. Rinwell before?” Seevan asked.
Lachenski perked up. “Oh yeah, I know him from when I was in Three-Five King. Good dude, smart, pretty relaxed too. Little guy, but don’t let that fool ya’ he’s a fighter, good instincts, and can actually lead unlike half these el-tees.”
“Hmph. Never heard of the Grenadiers sending one our way or vice versa.” Seevan acknowledged. “Maybe he’ll be able to get these mechanics to actually fix my Lioness. Fuckers keep giving Volk the run-around.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Buddy won’t take the gun unless she screams at it. Her and Priveda are more than good enough to run all the engagements at Gunnery manually, but I don’t wanna take anything to war that’s not FMC.”
“They try flashing it back to stock? Our FIST Lioness had a similar issue when I was back in King. Sarn’t Quellen did that and it seemed to fix the issue for the most part.”
“Her and Priveda both got that thing set up exactly how they like. I got the impression they were tryna avoid having to do a reconfig from scratch. Might be worth a shot though, talk to her about it.” Seevan motioned to Volk. She had Schwartz completely spent and unceremoniously left him lying in the grass huffing and puffing to rejoin them.
“I’m gonna change and drop by the shopette real quick. You want anything?” Volk asked Seevan. “No booze,” she further restricted with a small frown.
“ZV red and 2 cans of the lemon Voltzade.” Seevan relayed while tossing his crushed pack into a waste paper basket in the gazebo. He paused briefly, looking around his feet at the plethora of butts that had either flown out of the can in the artificial wind or missed it entirely in the first place. “And round up all the smokers to pick this shit up when you get back.”
Volk nodded and headed to her room while Lachenski collected his protege.
Seevan entered the hut and sat back down while rubbing at his back. Had she scratched him up? Rand shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought, and Seevan evidently noticed his discomfort.
“What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing Corporal. I just uh-.”
“Say it with your chest,” Seevan interrupted. “I fucking hate stuh-stuh-stammering.”
Rand fixed his mouth closed for a second and formulated a cover. “I just can’t believe you and Cpl. Volk dropped a guy you just met for the first time, Corporal.”
“Well believe it, Rand. He’s gotta learn, and fast is the best way. Better us than Senior too, he’d fuck all of us up for letting some one slack off on the basics.”
“Still I mean, didn’t any of that seem unnecessary to you, Corporal? Put your ZV out in his eye?” Rand added, now fully invested in pursuing this discussion.
“You’re such a fucking shiner, Rand. I didn’t do it, did I? I ain’t never put hands on a junior who didn’t deserve it and even then only one. Besides, we’re going to war not on fucking vacation. If he can’t handle it, he shouldn’t be here.” Seevan explained.
Rand was surprised his questions were being indulged. It was a welcome feeling to be taken seriously, one that he had not entirely gotten used to since he put the Golden Rifles on. “Aren’t you worried though about them hating you, Corporal? I mean I don’t really like ‘em you know, but it just doesn't feel right going out of my way to be a dick. Like, Kick, my guy, he means well I think. He just doesn’t know any better. Kinda wish Sarn’t Dygalo gave me Shielbek; he seems to catch on a lot quicker.”
Seevan laughed, amused by what he perceived as Rand’s naivete. “It’s called leadership, not friendership. You’re gonna have to learn that. As far as why Sarn’t Dygalo put Kick with you and not Balachenko, I think it’s pretty obvious. Shielbek’s a lot like you were when you first got here. He knows what right looks like and will square himself away without much intervention, putting him under Balachenko isn’t gonna fuck him up. Kick’s gonna need his little boot hand held for a while, and you’re trustworthy. You do the right thing when no one’s lookin’; Balachenko certainly ain't in the same category.”
Rand’s eyes widened, the depth of responsibility he had been entrusted with only now beginning to dawn on him. Sure he helped Kick with just about everything, checked his gear before the field or range, helped him study his job and learn the trade but, he’d done all those things because he felt like helping. He liked helping people. Now the scope of what he was entrusted to actually do was becoming clear, and it made him nervous. He wondered briefly if Capt. Petrova ever felt the same weight he was feeling now.
“Focus on keeping him alive, not on being his friend. If you’re hard all the time, it makes it easier for ‘em to stomach, gives ‘em something to focus their discontent on. They aren’t gonna understand the gravity of what they’re getting into until they see it first hand. You gotta give ‘em the next best thing. Volk, me, and another guy from the same RTB squad, Kellie, we all got here at the same time and got put in the same Section. Our first Section Leader, Rifleman Lelik, man I fucking hated that prick’s guts. He made our lives a living hell, smoked the dogshit out of me every day, even knocked out one of Kellie’s teeth.”
Rand raised his eyebrows and Seevan noticed his interest.
“Kellie didn’t have his pouches fastened and dropped one of his nade’s while we were bounding during a section live-fire. Still remember that shit, we get to the bunker and he looks at Lelik with his big ass boot eyes and says ‘Rifleman, I think I lost my frag somewhere over there’.” Seevan mimed the pointing while recounting the line with a distant smile.
Seevan grew more serious again. “Point is, Lelik took me to task and I despised him for it, but I fucking learned. When he CSO’d and Weiss took over we were already sharp and ready to fight. I didn’t appreciate what he’d done until people were shooting at me. So what if they hate me? Good. The more they hate me the more they’ll learn. Better chance they’ll survive to tell their own boots about how ole’ Corporal Seevan was so nasty and they had it way harder back in their day.”
It wasn’t an unfamiliar line of reasoning. Rand had heard it many times before, but it was evident that Seevan believed it deeply. “I’d just rather try to help ‘em as best I can in my own way, Corporal.”
“I used to be like you Rand, really.” Seevan became sullen.
“When we were clearing Japala in Yukatan we took some bad losses. People I knew. Friends. Kellie was one of them; Volk and I were both kinda sweet on him, certainly more ‘n we ever liked each other.”
Seevan pivoted in his chair to look out the window. Rand felt himself shrink slightly, reminded of the pieces of himself that were missing.
“After that things calmed down a bit and we started getting combat replacements, completely raw, straight out of RTB. Sverts was one of the first crops of ‘em but he’s a hard man to kill as you’ve seen. Rest of ‘em just didn’t have the experience or temperament, we’d lose one or two killed or wounded every few weeks to dumb shit. Hanging out of the air-guard hatches begging to get shot instead of staying buttoned up. Stepping on obvious ass IEDs. Not checking corners when entering a room. Dumb shit. Then the next crop would show up and make the exact same mistakes. Meet ‘em, get to know ‘em, swaps some stories, maybe fuck. Bam. Dead just a couple weeks later. I still had an open wound. Every time we lost one I got even a little close with, it ripped that hole Kellie made right open.”
Seevan slumped in his chair and his face shifted away from the gloom into an unreadable stone mask. “After the first couple, I just decided I wasn’t gonna be friends with any of ‘em.”
A new fear crawled into the back of Rand’s mind watching Seevan’s iron facade return. Was this the kind of man he would become?