7 - 2
CEREMONY I
“The Thartic White Army Soldier is easily distinguished by his generally thuggish, Cro-Magnon and ill-bred appearance. The White Army itself has more in common with a Mercenary force than a legitimate state army. In fact, the Tharsis ‘Republican Guard’ exists primarily to defend the legitimate democratic institution of that nation from its greatest threat: its own regular military. The White Army exists totally isolated from general popular democratic reproach or criticism under their despotic executive’s sole purview. Its 'all volunteer’ model means most Tharsis citizens are generally disinterested in its often illegal and adventurist affairs.
Much like typical mercenaries, the White Army is well equipped and well trained, but recruits from the lowest and most unprivileged strata of society. Its ranks are filled with violent criminals and social isolates sought out for their aggressiveness. They are prone to murder and pillage in the name of acquiring ‘prizes’ through illegitimate Martian Law of Armed Conflict which the Federal Rift Republic no-longer recognizes.
Their Soldiers are freely supplied with drugs, alcohol, and various combat stimulants as well as being totally desensitized to violence through indoctrination and brutal, inhumane training. They should generally be considered extremely dangerous. Their reckless doctrine emphasizing low-level initiative and Junior Officer action without accountability may cause them to maneuver or respond to contact in unpredictable and seemingly random manners. Their contribution to the Neo-Imperialist ‘Western Coalition Army’ is not to be underestimated.”
-Anonymous, Federal Rift Republic Trans-National Army Pamphlet 1A7- Know Your Enemy: White Army of Tharsis, Pg. 2-1, June 41 MIC
The sun had yet to rise once again, but the FOS was buzzing with activity. Rand had made an effort to go to hit the rack at a reasonable time, but he couldn’t help from restlessly tossing for an hour or two before sleep eventually claimed him. There was sort of just a lot on his plate for today.
He dumped his mainpack into a neatly organized line outside of their tent with the rest of 2nd Battalion. As soon as they were done with the ceremony they were heading to meet with it at Gubonya Railyard on the western edge of the city. A train would come supposedly at around 17 and they’d be back at Ridge City late in the night, no one knew exactly when. Some lucky members of STB had been detailed for baggage. They’d be sitting pretty burning a few ZV’s at while the rest of them were locked at attention on the other side of the city.
“Rand!”
He jerked his head around at the call, Sgt. Dygalo was motioning him over into a platoon sized huddle with the rest of the Battalion.
Lt. Petrova glanced around, “Senior Willcox, are we up?”
Senior Willcox double checked his count before responding. “Yes, ma’am 43 enlisted present for duty. Haven’t seen Ens. Yarbrough yet.”
“Don’t worry; she’s coming.” Lt. Petrova nodded and fetched an ammo case off the ground. “Alright, Col. Mallock has authorized me to award these to everyone here before we start the ceremony. They’ve been earned with your blood, sweat, and tears. Treat them with the respect they deserve.” She popped open the lid revealing layers of foam and rows upon rows of golden rifle pins straight from the factory, and quickly set about distributing them with help from Senior Willcox.
Rand popped the rifles off his own collar and dropped them into his pocket quickly replacing them with the brilliantly shining golden set. There were a few more special sets at the bottom of the case. Evidently his leadership had been diligent enough to order exactly what everyone needed. There were a few with expert laurels and additional campaign stars for those who were slightly further along in their career at the bottom. Rand glanced over to his left, Balachenko was smiling while admiring his own.
Svertson seemed less pleased as he replaced his set with one with a single four-pointed campaign star. “Man, I was kinda hoping to avoid getting these,” he mumbled.
“Why’s that?” Balachenko queried.
“I mean my old ones are fine right? They charge an extra fucking 3 Shil to get one with a star. Now I gotta get like 2-3 extra sets for the rest of my uniforms.” Svertson kvetched.
“Better not fuckin’ lose that one then, be out the rest of your prize money.” Seevan quipped while smiling.
Lt. Petrova summoned their attention again with a raised arm. “I don’t have anything else for you right now. Time is now 0710, go ahead and stack your weapons. Senior and I will watch them while you eat. Be back here, ready to step, at 0805, check?”
“Ahee-a!” they screamed in unified acknowledgment. She seemed satisfied, a tiny hint of a prideful smile tugging at her face.
“Dismissed.” She ordered and her troops set about neatly stacking their weapons in stands of four and then bolted towards the DFAC.
“Excited to be leaving, ma’am?” Senior Willcox asked while the horde of enlisted locusts swarmed away from them.
“Course I am, it’s been nearly five months. Why wouldn’t I be?” Lt. Petrova fiddled with her sword belt, wearing one was always uncomfortable and this one was especially finicky. It was obviously a man’s. The strap that ran across her chest and over her shoulder hadn’t been sized with a female in mind.
Senior Willcox stepped forward slightly closer. “Ma’am, I got you. Turn around.” She obliged, unslinging her rifle and turning around. Willcox undid the tiny buckle in the small of her back and loosened the strap slightly.
Instant relief. “Thanks, Senior.”
“No problem.” He responded while shimmying the belt down slightly and ducktail folding the back of her blouse neatly under it.
“Really haven’t worn one of these since I graduated from RPCC, mine fits better too.” She mentioned while adjusting her scabbard and pistol very slightly.
Senior Willcox took a seat on a crate and fished out a ZV pack. “Eh, if it’s not crushing your hips a little, it’s not tight enough. You know what they say.”
“What, beauty is pain?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. Smoke?” He offered the pack to her.
What the hell, leaving is cause for some celebration. She took one and he passed his lighter over. A quick inhale confirmed it was pretty much the same as last time and every other one before that. Just a slight tingle of stimulation, a tiny feeling of lightheadedness. She passed the lighter back, and he lit himself up, taking a deep relaxing inhale.
Senior Willcox rolled the ZV between his fingers. “Y’know, it’s a real shame. ZV’s are the best we can get here. They’re still kinda shit compared to on the blue-wet-one. Botello’s, the label the reconstruction government owns, man I miss those. They taste like you’re smoking the Earth itself.”
Lt. Petrova flicked some ash off the end of hers. She had absolutely no frame of reference for what that meant.
Ensign Yarbrough approached with the Battalion’s cased Colours tucked under her arm. She looked more tired than usual, having been up late at night painstakingly sewing new battle honors onto the flag. An unfortunate but necessary sacrifice; after all that’s what they meant by ‘Ensign’.
“Ma’am, where did everyone else go? Am I late?” Yarbrough asked while glancing around.
Lt. Petrova shook her head. “I thought you were Intel? They all went to eat. You can too, if you want. Senior and I have gear-watch under control.”
Yarbrough shook her head and took a seat next to Senior Willcox. “I think I’m alright. I really don’t even want to think about eating right now. All this is kinda stressing me out.”
“You’ll be fine. This can’t be any worse than the Feds mortaring the Battalion TOC right?” Lt. Petrova dismissed.
Ens. Yarbrough looked distraught at the mention of that particular night and rubbed her temples. “I don’t really want to think about that either.”
Lt. Petrova dug around the ammo can for a second. “Well, it did earn you this. Here.” She picked out a golden eye emblem and handed it over.
She examined the small pin. “Really? All I did is get shelled and then help blow up a few Mortar teams with the Grey Eagle.”
“Colonel’s directive. I think it’s well deserved, your section and Devil Ear were a big help out there.” Lt. Petrova elaborated.
“Huh. Well, thanks I suppose. Guess it means something coming from you.” Yarbrough took off her left golden bar and replaced it with the emblem. “By the way have you gotten your VS yet? Last time I checked, it was at Corps.”
Lt. Petrova shook her head. “Nope, you’d know better than me where it was.”
“Oh, well. I guess I’ll look into it again when we get back. Hopefully it didn’t get lost.” Ens. Yarbrough suddenly looked tired again. “I really don’t want to make another packet. That thing was thick.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it.” Senior Willcox reassured. “Once things get up that high they tend to end up in the right spot. Smoke?” He offered her the pack.
Yarbrough recoiled with disgust. “Those things are terrible for you.”
“When’s the last time you heard of somebody dying of cancer?” Senior Willcox tucked the pack back into his cargo pocket.
“So what? They smell gross too. Something about burning plants is really just- yuck,” Yarbrough added. Lt. Petrova and Senior Willcox kept puffing indifferently.
Lt. Petrova motioned towards the cased standard while stamping out her cigarette. “Let’s see the Colours. I want to make sure that scroll is straight.”
“Oh right, It took me a few tries, but it's just about perfect.” Yarbrough stood and pulled off the casing, multi-colored campaign streamers and the white and black cloth spilled out. Lt. Petrova grabbed the far corner and pulled it taught.
The hand embroidered coat of arms consisted of a saber, longsword, falchion, cutlass, halberd, claymore and rapier all crossed behind the simple Thartic Fasces. It was a unique take on the White Army’s traditional ‘sword and fasces’ symbology. Just as with all White Army units there were two scrolls one above and one below which read the unit’s moniker and motto ‘THE CUTTING EDGE’ and ‘IN BELLO, PAX’. Lt. Petrova pulled away a tiny loose thread and turned her attention to the rolls of smaller scrolls sewn on either side staring intently at the two most recent and least faded ones: THE WARRENS and GREENDOME.
Lt. Petrova ran her finger along the seam gently. “Looks pretty good, but make sure to lock-stitch the corners when we get back. Remember this thing’s might have to hold up another hundred years.”
“Check, ma’am.” Yarbrough nodded. Lt. Petrova let the flag hang free and turned her attention towards the streamers picking through them carefully and gently pulling out one of pure white silk marked “REGENCY SUPERIOR UNIT CITATION” studded with four shining diamond pins.
“Oh shit, I almost forgot.” Yarbrough opened her breast pocket and pulled out a single brilliant Ruby pin.
Lt. Petrova plucked off the four diamonds and dropped them into Yarbrough’s open hand. “Don’t fucking lose those. They may be made in a factory, but they’re not fucking cheap either.”
Ens. Yarbrough cringed slightly. “Yeah, sorry about that ma’am. I most certainly will not. I made sure to add the new Campaign streamer and battle stars though.”
Lt. Petrova pinned the single ruby in place and smoothed out the fabric and let it hang again gently. Her hand sifted and pulled out a predominantly green streamer split with a broad white stripe and red seam through the center. Carefully inspecting the two silver stars pinned near the top above the OPERATION ARES SWORD inscription, she adjusted one’s orientation slightly.
“Looks good. At least they didn’t fuck this one up.” Lt. Petrova let the streamers hang. “When I was the Adj, the ‘Operation Yukatan Resolve’ streamer was misspelled. Was a nightmare trying to get a new one made because no one checked before they signed for it.”
“That sounds very Army,” Yarbrough let the word hang for a bit.
The Small TCO station had mostly cleared out. There hadn’t been more than thirty of officers on ground to begin with and now it had thinned to just 15. Yuri Petrova adjusted his field-grau uniform slightly in front of the mirror, paying close attention to the rose pin on his breast pocket. Two solid knocks on the door broke his focus.
“Enter!”
A Junior-Grade Lieutenant stepped in apologetically and locked himself at attention and gave his report. “Vongzhi-Captain, there’s a problem at the gate. The Federals detained a saboteur.”
A saboteur? At least something interesting had broken the monotony.
“Show me,” he instructed. The Junior-Lieutenant stomped his foot and strutted out the door at the characteristic brisk pace of all junior-party members. There was never time to waste. He led the way outside to the small, fenced-in courtyard. Though not sovereign ground, the Hesperian Consulate had served as an ideal shelter for their Observer Party during the fighting. It was isolated from its surroundings by high perimeter walls, and all of the diplomats had been kind enough to clear out once things became even mildly dangerous
Three Federal Army Regulars and two of his own men, other Junior-Lieutenant Observers, were circled around a man lying in the fetal position on the cobblestone just in front of the barred gate. Republican Guards glared from the other side of their tall wrought iron fence.
“What happened?” he queried.
Both of the other junior officers straightened at his address and one spoke up. “Vongzhi-Captain, this man was detained by the Huns at the checkpoint just outside of the gate. They were beating him with rifle butts. I believe they would have killed him had we not intervened.”
Yuri stooped down to examine the whimpering figure. His face was smashed in, both of his lips were split and there were cuts above both of his eyes painting the cobblestone a bold crimson as they bled. Yuri looked towards the three Federals. “What exactly makes him a saboteur?”
The most senior looked slightly taken back. Obviously he hadn’t expected a Hesperian to speak Anglish with that kind of accent or nearly that well.
“Uh, Group-Captain is it?” the Federal started.
“Stand at attention when you address your better, Soldier!” One of his Junior-Lieutenants barked in crude Anglish on his behalf.
The Federals were taken back but quickly complied. “Sir, he was carrying these.” One of them presented a backpack. Inside were three handgrenades. Yuri pulled one out. An N39. definitely Noachian, judging by the yellow ring around the electronic fuze and Cisteran numeral lot number. Despite numerous sweeps for ID-tagged weapons, the city was still rife with misappropriated arms.
Yuri toyed with it for a moment, tossing it between his hands while he squatted back down. “And what did you have planned with these, huh?”
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The Saboteur rolled over, still squinting through the blood in his eyes. “Come on, speak!” Yuri encouraged, prodding one of his clearly broken ribs with his hand. The Saboteur yelped and his eyes opened wider.
“You're still alive. Now plead your case, one revolutionary to another.” Yuri instructed again.
The Saboteurs glazed eyes traced over his uniform. “Revolutionary? Petrova- You’re just another occupier.” He managed to spit. Yuri frowned.
“I’ll excuse your impropriety, you must be delirious, but I admire your spirit,” Yuri tossed the hand grenade up and down. “Interesting choice of weapon, I might add. Tough to throw more than sixty meters with any great accuracy here on Mars. It sort of begs a question. Were you willing to die to use these?”
He let his eyes finish the interrogation. There was anger and resentment, but also fear. Far too much fear. The saboteur broke the stare, glancing into the rising sun on the horizon.
“Disappointing.” Yuri scoffed and stood up. He passed the grenade back to the Federals and turned away. “Give him anti-shock and turn him back over to the huns. He wasn’t going to do anything worthwhile anyways.” He instructed in Hensho.
The three Junior-Lieutenants seemed uncomfortable. “Vongzhi-Captain, they’re going to kill him. Aren’t we charged to provide protection to non-combatants? Who’s to say he had intent to use those?”
“He’s not a civilian. The moment he picked up that bag he became a combatant and should be treated as such,” Yuri clarified.
“Vongzhi-Captain, even-so MLAC is very clear. Once he’s been disarmed and detained, he’s not to be harmed until he’s stood trial.” another Junior-Lieutenant added.
“So they’ll kill him later. What difference does it make? We’re just observers here anyways,” Yuri dismissed It no-longer was a subject of debate, it was an order.
“Yes, sir!” they acknowledged with a unified foot-stomp and drug the saboteur to his feet, slapping him with an auto-injector of anti-shock in one arm. They drug him out the gate and threw him onto the ground into the clutches of grinning Republican Guards. The saboteur was quickly cuffed and blindfolded. The RGs made a point to smack his head against the edge of the Lynx’s rear hatch while they roughly stuffed him inside.
“Vongzhi-Petrova, what’s the delay?” Group-Captain Zhou, his political officer, called out while appearing from the consulate’s entryway.
“Not to worry, I was about done here anyway.” Yuri snapped at the three Junior Lieutenants to fetch the Group-Army West Command banner posted near the door and then form for march to Tyrant Square. They had plenty of time. He glanced at the blood on his hands. What a little worm.
Rand thought it was a sort of pleasant march for once. He wasn’t weighed down by kit or a full mainpack, just him and his rifle. The brisk and invigorating tune of With Rifle, Cannon, and Lance blaring from the band at the back of their column keeping them all in step. It all seemed still somewhat out of place. The ‘peacekeepers’, mostly Republican Guards and Federals, in full kit escorted the column on either side. There were a few watchers on the street, people leering through second and third story windows. Security had been tight the past few days and especially so today. No doubt most of the rabble-rousers were warming the inside of detention cells until this event was over.
It wasn’t a terribly long march, only about 6K and everyone was in good spirits. The streets had been swept clean of rubble and the city general got better in condition as they marched up the steady rise toward Government Hill. It was sort of funny now: it had taken the Division days to crawl the same distance he was just sauntering with relative ease.
They column-left onto the city’s main thoroughfare, now completely devoid of vehicles, roped off on either side and fell in behind 5th Grenadiers, who had been marching the opposite direction from Smoke House 2. To their front half a kilometer, the boulevard spilled into a large open square paved with cobblestones and dotted with only-slightly mangled isles of greenery. Several large formations which he just recently became acquainted with yesterday were already arrayed neatly around the roughly 700 by 500 meter ‘square’. It certainly was an impressive sight. Ridge City didn’t have anything nearly this big. It was a lot trickier to factor ‘open-space’ into urban planning when the city was more of an amalgamation of smaller habitats than one huge unitary structure.
The sides of the square were lined on two sides with various baroque three-story buildings, all offices of government, some now gutted by fire. The notable exception to the damage was the Museum of Martian Culture on the down hill western edge. Despite a few broken windows, it had remarkably escaped mostly intact. Its status as an important heritage site had protected it and most of the immediately surrounding structures from harm. Many civilians had sheltered in lower archives during the fighting. At the opposite up-hill and east end of the square at the terminus of a broad set of stairs which separated the last third of the square stood the monument from which it took its name.
A statue of black Martian basalt stood nearly 20 meters tall on another 2 meter labradorite pedestal. It was a man, though in whose likeness it had been constructed had been intentionally obfuscated. Its head had been pulled off and now rested by its feet; all of its features were erased by explosives. Its outstretched right arm, which once pointed towards Earth on the eve of some now forgotten anniversary, had similarly been pulled off and now lay on the ground at the statue’s base. Even the inscription has been chiseled and defaced beyond recognition.
Rand had learned in school that it was made in the likeness of one of the first Earther industrialists who’d taken up residence on the red planet. His company and its subsidiaries were some of the most abusive. His dying wish was apparently to be buried on Mars. During the First Independence War his body was exhumed and blasted on a collision course with the sun in cold revenge.
The Earthers built the statue in the aftermath of the war at Martian expense. It was as much a symbol of subjugation as it harkened back to the cradle of humanity. As 1st Rifles approached their starting position Rand could finally resolve the ring of life sized bronze statues arrayed around the deposed head. It was a recreation of a famous pict that everyone knew. He really hoped he get a chance to get some touristing in and look at them closely before they left.
Lt. Petrova put the Battalion at rest with instructions to stay in a somewhat organized gaggle while they waited on the rest of the arrivals. The rest of the Rifle Regiments would take a while yet to arrive. Federal and Noachian Army columns streamed in from the opposite direction while the Amazonian and Cydonian contingent found their assigned places. Working parties were still busy setting up podiums and Republican Guard security details were putting the final touches on their cordon of the area. Spectators had begun to mass while reporters and news crews were sheparded into their assigned pens.
The dignitaries had apparently already been here for some time, several government and military branded VTOL vehicles were parked behind the statue in front of the High-Counsel building which was in turn surrounded by another inner-cordon of Army State-Security personnel. Rand wondered what discussions were going on in there. He recognized the seven official participants. It was easy; they were all plastered with official symbology. There were a few more, tucked on the outside with more discrete markings. The law of the land was obviously being rewritten to account for the new reality inside those walls.
A Lance-Captain, from Army-Central Staff based on the patch on his shoulder, approached the front of their formation and whispered something into Lt. Petrova’s ear. She nodded.
Lt. Petrova straightened her uniform slightly and motioned towards their Ensign. “Yarbrough, give Senior Willcox the Colours and take the formation. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
This wasn’t like anything in their rehearsals, but based on the time-table it didn’t really conflict with anything either.
“Check, rodge ma’am” Yarbrough chirped and quickly complied, handing their Colours off to Senior Willcox who fell into the designated spot next to their fearless leader. “Do you want me to take your rifle too?”
Lt. Petrova shook her head and adjusted it slightly. She had it strapped across her back parade style. “What kind of Rifle Lieutenant would I be without it?”
Ens. Yarbrough and Lt. Petrova exchanged salutes and she relinquished her post to the junior. The Captain motioned subtly for haste and Lt. Petrova followed him across the square and up towards the feet of the statue.
“Vongzhi-Petrova!”
Yuri craned his neck over the formation. Another one of those slugs from the consulate. Secretary Nō, from the Greendome detachment of the Foreign Affairs Commission. He had been something like an ambassador to the old government, Martian States didn’t grant formal diplomatic immunity. Now that the FRR’s President and its entire High Counsel had resigned in disgrace, Secretary Nō’s position was equally precarious.
The transitional government had been accommodating, but his inability to prevent or at least mitigate this abject disaster had soured his name in the mouth of the Central Committee. By Yuri’s estimation his star was fading. The fighting’s end had brought much bigger fish and he had been reduced to an errand boy rather than a trusted advisor. Yuri didn’t even bother with honorifics, it was clear who held all the cards.
“Yes, Secretary?”
“The Chairman is requesting your presence.” Nō motioned towards the statue’s base as a few figures ringed by additional security had already begun gathering around the real monument. Yuri glanced at his chrono, surely this meant something interesting. He motioned for Group-Captain Zhou to accompany him as they made their way across the square.
Lt. Petrova climbed the final few steps having been let through the ring of security with little issue. Hushed Anglish notes discussing ‘security guarantees’, ‘mutual benefit’ and various articles of the Worlds Development Forum Charter quieted as she stepped onto the plateau.
There they all were, the great leaders of Mars, some rendered in eternal bronze, and others in the flesh, all familiar faces gathered in conspiratorial collusion around the man of the hour.
Ibhram Kane, stood opposite his own lifeless rendition. A tall man of just over two meters wrapped in his trademark calf-skin duster. He had stiff but scholarly features and unnaturally even gray hair. Rejuvenate treatments had locked him at an outwardly unaging 57, but inside he was now an old man. Just an old man admiring his younger self, eternally rendered bronze, dusty, resplendent in nearly antique combat equipment surrounded by his peers. All of the statues circled around the statue’s severed and defaced head. Just to his left, her own father ‘The Great’ Sergei Petrova stood static in all of his ‘greatness’, one boot propped on the severed basalt nose, an eternal personification of all things heroic and uniquely Cydonian.
Ibhram glanced towards her and smiled a warm smile banishing the chattering of his attendants with a hand motion. It was the kind of look which could only have been produced and replicated within a laboratory.
“Lyssa, it’s so good to see you. You look well.” He greeted while deftly ignoring the Tyhrenian consul’s attempts to regain his attention.
Lt. Petrova drew her sword and offered a salute. The Regent Protector was entitled ‘honors with arms’ when able. He returned a two-penn salute, always making a show of leaving his military ways behind.
“Regent, you look well as always,” she replied, quickly applying the mask of dignity she’d spent so much of her life wearing.
“Ah, Lyssa, no need for formality. We’ve known each other too long,” he dismissed magnanimously. Her eye twitched ever so slightly. Not by choice.
More soldiers from all parties began to arrive, mostly junior officers like her, but a smattering of enlisted who had been decorated for actions during the battle, perhaps no more than twenty in total.
The Regent glanced behind her beaming with that same manufactured look of consummate superiority. “Yuri, so good of you to join us as well.”
“The Chairman requested my presence.” Yuri dismissed gruffly with a few hand twitches. Chairman Diaz-Hidalgo made a subtle, slightly apologetic nod towards the Regent on behalf of his subordinate.
Regent Kane switched to Anglish before he proceeded first addressing his one-time enemies as the delegates gathered around him.
“To the Citizen-Soldiers of this noble Republic, I extend my most solemn condolences; your own leaders betrayed the integrity of the very thing you swore to defend. To their brave allies who offered their services within the purview of Martian Law, you fought well and valiantly. I along with the rest of the Western-Coalition hold no ill will against you. This city will be rebuilt at our expense, its industry restored, its residents rightly compensated for their undue suffering. Your nation and its people will flourish and prosper as is right and as is just. Everyone here must understand, we embarked on this punitive expedition out of necessity. ”
The Regent’s face hardened.
“I will remind you, to step outside of the boundaries of statute, to form secret alliances, and to exchange our diplomatic integrity for material gain, is to attack the very foundation of our civilization. Mars cannot, will not, tolerate deviance! We remain free because we remain united against the outsiders who had stripped us of our very human autonomy.”
Regent Kane thrust an accusatory finger towards the sky mirroring what the megalith behind him had once done. “The sons and daughters of Terra took away our rights to the fruits of our labor, to the security of our posterity, to the ground under our feet, and to the very gasses we breathe.”
The Regent lowered his arm and returned his attention to the group gathered around him. “That can never! Never be forgiven! Any Martian who furthers their ends is a traitor and attacks the very blood and soil from which he rose! That most recent attack has been repulsed. Its perpetrators have been apprehended and charged in accordance with Law. That work is done, but there still remain challenges ahead.” The Regent gave a few calculated looks to the statues beside him returning to a composed reverence for his surroundings.
“I must say returning here gives me pause. Forty-One years ago I stood in this very spot in the aftermath of a great battle, just as you all do now. We have lost many great individuals since then. Our eternal leader and guardian, Cyrus Sirenium; The visionary who restored our world, Chairman Xian; and our hero and my dear friend, Sergei Petrova.” The Regent paused to motion to each of the statues as he spoke.
“When we gathered here, we recognized that we had embarked on a project which was much greater than ourselves. The War on behalf of that project was far from over and there were many difficult battles to come. As a man who was there, I will dispel rumors; there were doubts, there was dissent, there was also fear. Yet in spite of our fears, we knew failure would not only mean our certain deaths, but another century of humiliation for our peoples at the Earthers’ hands. This was our Rubicon. After our victory here, there could be no begging our former masters forgiveness, for a life of peace in servile chains. Our actions here forever welded us to the rebellion which would change the very destiny of humanity.”
The Regent thrust his hand toward the decapitated stone head. “We swore a blood oath upon the severed Tyrant’s head to see that struggle to the bitter end! In victory or defeat!” There were a few solemn nods especially from those leaders who had also been present.
“And we fought, and we struggled, and we bled just as you all have.” The Regent continued while pacing slightly. “Millions of brave Martians gave the ultimate measure of their devotion to our cause, on your behalf. They died for a Free Mars, one liberated from Earther chains and beyond their meddling. I would gladly lay down my life alongside theirs to ensure that dream would continue even one more day, just as you all should. But, my kind is growing old even though our faces don’t show it. ” The Regent let another pregnant pause hang while he studied the assembled faces.
The Regent then motioned to his assembled peers. The Princeps of Amazonia, The Proconsul of Noachia-Minor, Senate-President of the Cydonian Assembly, The Deido of Elysium, First Speaker of Tyrrhenia, The Chairman of the Hesperian People’s Alliance Party, and half a dozen others. All of them were heads of state or senior members of government, all of them united behind the Regent of Tharsis.
“What I, what each of us, asks of you as the future of this Red Planet, of all the Outer-Worlds, is that you continue to uphold that dream. That each and every one of you renews that oath of allegiance to our people and our dream.”
Yuri tilted his head to the side slightly while attempting to conceal his sneer silently. The Regent locked eyes with him.“You’ve something to say, Son of Petrova?”
“Your words seem sincere Regent, but I can’t help but think this gesture is cold comfort for all those people without homes or running water, Regent. Symbolism does little to heal the wounds you’ve caused.”
Regent Kane took a few steps forward to confront him. “As you’ve so astutely observed, Yuri Petrova, this is no game. The consequences of our actions or lack thereof are real. They are as real as your life and mine. What is done cannot be undone. I bear responsibility and accept that. As is my duty. What remains to be seen is: will you shirk yours?”
Yuri didn’t budge a centimeter as The Regent loomed over him. “My scars are proof enough that I am willing to give the full measure of devotion to the Martian people.”
“Then what is one more?” The Regent unsheathed his own sword, a gleaming white Mamaluk saber. He turned it over in his hands for a moment. “The prince of weapons. It has no use in labor. It cannot reap crops or hew a log.” The Regent offered it to Yuri with both hands “The sword's only utility is in War. Will you put it to good use in upholding the legacy of Sergei Petrova?”
Yuri sneered again, shaking his head dismissively while he mirrored his speech with signs. “Plenty of my own blood has already been spilt on their behalf. I feel no need to participate in this formality, Regent.”
Regent Kane sighed in an utmost fatherly way and then turned to the other member of that bloodline still present and offered it to her. Lyssa slowly extended her arm and placed her hand on the ivory hilt and lifted it. It was surprisingly light, she held it up to eye level inspecting the flawless and mirror like finish and tested the edge with her index finger. She didn’t even feel the edge bite as it effortlessly slipped through her skin. A single drop of blood ran along the blade and down the hilt.
She took a single step forward and held her right hand over the severed statue’s head opposite the frozen metal visage of her own father.
Plibt.
Her blood pooled in the head’s massive temple. She knew the oath by heart already; everyone here did.
“I, Lyssa Petrova, swear to defend the righteous blood of the Martian Peoples, and to protect the sovereignty of every measure of Mars’ soil.”
She returned the sword to Regent Kane who looked supremely satisfied while others assembled behind her followed suit. Yuri’s sneer had shifted to a disapproving scowl while he watched. A few others abstained but, his own second Group-Captain Zhou, swore the oath.
She pinched her fingers together and stepped off to the side in an uncomfortable effort to stop the bleeding while the rest participated. The Regent motioned and an attendant appeared who quickly sealed the wound shut with an exceedingly perfect application of bleedstop.
“I knew you could be trusted, Lyssa. Sergei would be proud.” The Regent beamed while he motioned to another attendant. “I do have one more thing for you.” The Regent took a small cloth case from his aid and opened it. A single set of silver Captain’s bars. There was a moment of surprise, then sudden apprehension as the Regent plucked her Lieutenant bar off and replaced it. He shook her hand and posed for a pict. She could hardly digest what was happening while he handed her a letter sealed with his wax monogram. It was obviously her promotion orders, hand written and signed by the Right-Honorable Ibhram Kane himself.
The assembled figures dispersed back to their formations and assigned places while she clutched the letter. What about her command? Her platoon? She couldn’t lead them as a Captain. She thought she had more time. There was something like dread bubbling at the thought of surrendering her charge to someone else as she slipped the parchment decree into her pocket. At least she’d get the opportunity to gloat in front of Captain Mulluex. She didn’t even owe him that anymore; Oliver sounded much more degrading.
Ens. Yarbrough’s eye’s bugged as Captain Petrova approached. “Ma’am!” Yarbrough plucked at her own collar. “What the fuck?”
“The Regent promoted me.” Petrova relayed, still bewildered.
“He can just do that?” Yarbrough asked.
“He’s the Regent isn’t he?” She responded.
“Well. Congratulations! That must feel great; what year-group are you in? I thought you weren’t eligible for another year.”
“CY-37 and yeah, I wasn’t. I guess it doesn’t matter when you are the Army.” Capt. Petrova responded while taking her position at the head of the formation back from Yarbrough.
There were excited whispers from the formation behind her. At least someone could appreciate good fortune. The bands finished massing and Form Square sounded snapping them all to attention.